Sometimes Rabbit says, “Another day, another dollar,” which always makes people laugh at work.
Sometimes Rabbit needs a little something to take the edge off.
Sometimes Rabbit likes to keep up on current events.
Sometimes Rabbit thinks everything will be all right.
Consider this fair warning: the follow photo may contain rabbits and/or plastic cats. Management cannot be held responsible for night terrors. You know who you are.
Sometimes Rabbit makes turkey tacos and invites friends over to watch America’s Next Top Model. Pickles is still in the running.
WARNING: The entry you are about to read may cause dizziness, fatigue, night terrors, claustrophobia, unusual weakness, numbness or tingling of the hands/feet, rash, loss of vision, difficulty breathing, or headache. If you experience more serious symptoms such as uncontrollable crying, vomiting, or strong desire to rock yourself to sleep in a corner, discontinue reading immediately and contact your physician.
Sometimes Rabbit can’t stand to look at Evil.
Sometimes Rabbit just won’t listen to Evil.
Sometimes Rabbit and Evil are not on speaking terms.
When I stopped at my parents’ house last Sunday to celebrate mother’s day, in addition to a bag full of leftovers from dinner, I also brought back my beloved rabbit head.
“Now, what exactly are you going to do with that rabbit head?” my mother asked, eyebrow raised.
The question is, what aren’t I going to do with this rabbit head?
[Sometimes Rabbit does weekend chores]
[Sometimes Rabbit catches up on celebrity gossip]
[Sometimes Rabbit spends quality time with her cats]
[Sometimes Rabbit says, Who’s a big boy? Who’s my pretty boy?]
God, I’ve missed the rabbit head. I’ll never let us be separated this long again.
Spring 2007, Chicago, Illinois. An email arrives from my mother.
I’m on a spring cleaning rampage – do you want that black sweater with the hood back? Otherwise I’ll give it to the Goodwill.
What about your prom dress, bridesmaids dresses, shoes, etc? Your cap and gown?
Do you want that Easter Bunny head back?
Let me know.
You cannot be serious. How can you even ask me that? Do I want that Easter Bunny head back?
How long have you known me? Were you actually considering throwing it out like yesterday’s trash? OF COURSE I WANT THAT EASTER BUNNY HEAD BACK!
Okay? Cool. I’ll pick it up next time I’m in town. Have fun with the spring cleaning!
PS – I never went to prom. That was my 8th grade formal dress, but it’s never too late to rub some salt on an old wound, so thanks.
Spring 1996, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Local costume shop has its annual clearance sale. Racks upon racks of pit-stained Superman costumes, frayed fairy dresses, and balding princess wigs cover every square inch of the store. The odor is reminiscent of an estate sale basement.
Dee-Dee and Vivian are elbowing their way through the Renaissance section when I see it – the mother lode of all mother lodes – an enormous dumpster overflowing with Easter Bunny heads. Taped to the side is a bright yellow hand-written sign that said, “Rabbit heads. $5 each.”
“Dee! Viv! I’m over here! Rabbit heads are $5!”
They set down their pointy cone hats and breastplates to join me as I struggle to crawl into the bin. There are no rabbit bodies, only heads. All shapes and sizes of heads. Some are dirt-stained furry ones, others are the hard plastic kind that make you inhale your own hot breath until the inside drips, but the ones we choose are glorious. Ours are all slightly irregular, handmade, papier-maché and tempera paint over chicken wire rabbit heads.
We have no idea what we are going to do with them, but we know without question that we need them.
As we sort through the bin, we quickly discover that these rabbits have seen better days. Some are missing an ear. Many have dented eyes. Most have teeth that look more like fangs than big square rabbit incisors. We find what we believe to be the best of the lot, pay our $5, and each walk out with a giant rabbit head tucked underneath our arms.
Spring 1998, Allentown, Pennsylvania. My sister-in-law gives birth to my first nephew. The nose on my rabbit head glows bright pink. “Patience, little one. Patience,” I say. I would have to wait another few years before I could fulfill my destiny, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
Spring 2001, Bristol, Wisconsin. The Easter Bunny makes his first public appearance. My youngest nephew, then only 1, is alternately terrified and thrilled. He reaches out to touch the giant rabbit ears, white paint cracked and chipped with age. He squeals. I, too, am alternately terrified and thrilled.
Spring 2003, Bristol, Wisconsin. My father crafts wooden muskets for my nephews so they can shoot the deer that keep eating grandma’s plants. Instead, they hunt the Easter Bunny. This will be the last year the Easter Bunny makes an appearance, mainly because my older nephew now understands that the real Easter Bunny does not wear a grey sweat suit and the same Reeboks his aunt was wearing earlier. Also, the real Easter Bunny’s head does not accidentally rotate a full 180˚ while he is hiding eggs. We all squeal.
Spring 2007, Bristol, Wisconsin. Toss out the emerald green bridesmaid dress and the dyed-to-match shoes. Set fire to the black hooded sweater. Use my cap and gown to polish shoes for all I care. But that giant Easter Bunny head is my heart, and it’s time for him to come home.