On Friday, we order fast food. It’s Good Friday, after all, we have a long weekend. There are a lot of reasons that justify ordering fast food. It’s 9 pm. All is well – for the last time this weekend.

Around 11 pm, Burke complains of feeling too full. Since we’ve just eaten the better part of a cow and forty potatoes’ worth of French fries, ‘too full’ is not out of the realm of possibility.

Nature decides to take care of Burke’s too full problem by engaging in the most viscous and violent vomiting campaign a body has known since The Plague. The dog and I wince and listen and wince some more. I am the bringer of water and buckets. Someone in the hallway must think we’re putting on an off-off-off Broadway production of The Exorcist. Her last visit to the toilet is at 4 am. After that, mercifully, she sleeps.

Effen Easter. Easter around my house never goes well. I don’t know what it is about this particular spring festival, but a quick scan of Easter memories calls to mind illnesses, ER visits, personal issues, and work troubles. Easter always finds me sick, unhappy, or stressed. Based on the entire brochure Easter puts out there, it should be quite the opposite. But, alas, no.