Real rabbit rotten luck

There were plenty of lessons my mother taught me as I was growing up. Some of the most important were:

Be kind. (check)

Be clean. (check)

Be prepared. (double check)

Be on time. (screeeech  … okay, this one was put in purely for the enjoyment of anyone who knows my mother so we could all have a hearty belly laugh and exercise our eyes skyward.)

Let’s just cross off that last one and get one with it.

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My son showed me a diagram a couple of days ago where he made a triangle and inserted three words—one by each point. The topic was food and his first word said CHEAP, the second one written said HEALTHY and the final one was DELICIOUS. His argument was that you could currently have two, but never three of each word working in harmony and available altogether.

Well I disagreed, and wrote the word GARDEN in the middle of his triangle—which did nothing to further the precarious goodwill I occasionally see from my fifteen-year old. Ah well.

But it got me thinking about that list of things my mother taught me. And although I have spent a lifetime striving to showcase the first three learned behaviors in concert with one another, there was one time where attempting to do so probably left an indelible scar upon my soul. For to this day, I have regrets as to how I acted.

I was five—or six. Old enough to remember, but young enough to now find the memory foggy. It was Easter morning and I was in bed. The doorbell rang, and as my room was located directly above the front door, the chimes were crystal clear, as was the boisterous greeting to follow. Knowing what day it was, I sprung out of bed as only a six-year old with shiny, new and undamaged joints can. In front of me though was my brother, whose reflexes were a year fresher than mine, so he zipped out the door first. And that tiny delay was enough to see the blurred reflection of myself in the mirror as I lurched for the door.

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All I really cared about was an Easter basket full of unnaturally colored, sugar-laden, cavity causing oral amusements. This was one of the greatest feast days of the year on the calendar of all things sacred to children. But at precisely the same time that I saw my mirrored likeness, I also heard my dad’s voice raised to an abnormally loud pitch … GREETING THE EASTER BUNNY!

As I was already marinating in the female messages surreptitiously sent by my girl gang of Barbies, there was no way in hell the Easter Bunny was going to see me with bed head.

One hundred strokes—and hurry!

I heard the eager footfalls of my siblings racing down the steps. I heard the squeals of delight below me. I heard my Dad speaking to a creature standing at the entrance to my house that I could only envision through Beatrix Potter illustrations and elementary school coloring books.

There was a talking animal at my front door!

One last pull of my pink, bristly brush through my toe head-colored hair and I was off.

I flew down the steps—clean and prepared—ready to kindly greet the bringer of bountiful baskets, a Disney cartoon come alive, the stuff of afternoon matinees and bedtime tales.

Except just as I skidded to a halt in the foyer, my dad shouted through the crack of the front door, “Okay, thanks buddy. Buh bye!”

The devastation produced by a somewhat overly dramatic six-year old can, if gone unchecked, reach unprecedented proportions. It might be noted here that allowing the all-consuming anguish to flow freely and expire of its own accord might have saved the now fully grown woman years of psychotherapy. But emotion was stifled in lieu of acting “kindly” by accepting the bunny’s hand-delivered tokens of affection.

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To this day I suffer.

To this day, the years of grief, outrage and bitter displeasure at missing out have festered away in the back of my mind and the pit of my belly.

To this day I seek revenge.

And since spring is busting out all over in my neck of the woods, and since the garden is blooming beautifully, I shall use my cheap, healthy and delicious veggie patch as my tasty trap.

I shall be KIND—and offer the most flavorsome of micro greens. I shall be CLEAN—with a quick aim and one sharp shot between the eyes. And I shall be PREPARED—with the stewpot eager and ready.

Finally, the trio works en masse. Thank you, Mom.

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Eegads! Sorry ‘bout that. No worries. I’ve got it all under control. I’ve found my medication.

Jellybean, anybody?

~Shelley

 

Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all talked about down in the pub. Plus, you can see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone.

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38 thoughts on “Real rabbit rotten luck

  1. Ha ha. As a kid, we never had an Easter Bunny show up at our door. The eggs would be sitting on the mantle though, and I remember we used to get a fair amount, so our intake was limited.
    Note: bought (and hid) Egg for Hubby. If he gets a whiff of chocolate in the house, it doesn’t stand a chance!

  2. Such trauma from childhood vanity. I hope you’ve had extra eggs one year to make up for it so you can stop enticing the poor bunnies to come for dinner…Yours dinner !
    xxx Huge Hugs xxx

    • I’m fairly well-adjusted now, David. I’ve got the therapy, the meds and I’ve ditched all the mirrors in the house. It’s a good plan, although seeing that big ol stew pot can occasionally set me back. I’m working on it. Happy Easter to you! xx :D

  3. Thanks for the much needed laugh!!! I just found the Easter Bunny and he was a bit disgruntled but is cheering up as the sun hovers over the horizon. (Thanks to a little fermented encouragement of course.) Cheers and Happy Easter!

    • I’m guessing you’ve found where the Easter Bunny sleeps. What luck! And I had no idea he was a bit of a boozer before breakfast. That totally changes my perspective on the guy.

      I may have to rethink my traps. :D
      (and a happy, hoppy day to you and yours!)

    • Indeed, I get it. And I know it’s so true for a great many things. But keep your voice down about it, ok? If my son gets wind of the fact that at some point he can be right, then it’s ‘game over’ for me. I’m trying to keep the knowledgeable facade going for as long as possible. o_O

  4. What a story! I remember feeling inferior to Barbie at an early age. That nagging voice of ‘not pretty enough’ followed me around for years.

    I loved your story, though I wish I could dust you off, send you back in time, and let you have a do-over.

    Great piece, Shelley. Happy Easter.

  5. Darling, never apologize for good hair. That your 6-year old self knew enough to not approach the door with bad hair makes her a bad-ass in my books. :-)

    Happy chocolate-egg day!

  6. First off, rabbit stew isn’t as good as you’d think but it’s the best way to eat the bunny. Second, did that really happen and your parents didn’t make sure you got to see the bunny? Cause, I think I’d have some issues there, too! LOL

  7. How does the old English song go? ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit run! Run! Run! Don’t give the farmer his fun! Fun! Fun! He’ll get by without his rabbit pie. So, run rabbit, run rabbit, run! Run! Run!’ The others verses mentioned guns etc etc. My 9 year old woke up Easter Sunday, very sure he heard giant bunny feet outside, the poor kid said he felt so scared he was ‘paralysed’. So the bunny continues to scar the young.

  8. Now see? Moms are always right! You realize your mom was right, and your son will come to his senses and realize that you’re always right. :) (I know you’re not holding your breath.) As for me, there is no way I would have missed that Easter bunny visit! There are pictures of me as a little kid on Christmas morning with eyes half open and what looks like a rat’s nest on my head. I might not have been coherent, but by golly, I was ready for my presents!

    • You are too funny, Miranda. Although from past exchanges I’m guessing Old Saint Nick must have botched up somehow to make you transform from a sweet little Who into Jim Carey’s stand-in. Shall I look for a recipe for sauteed Santa? :P

      • We can’t sauté Santa–he’s the only reason I don’t get coal in my stocking every year! :P And I can just hear the howls of laughter from my parents at your description of me as a one-time sweet little Who. My first nickname was “Ornery.” I didn’t know what it meant, but I answered to it anyway. :D

    • I have found that this is the best way to drive one’s mother batty. Locate her words of wisdom, diabolically twist them, scatter the ashes to the four winds, frost the experience with maniacal laughter. Great formula.

      Sadly, my kids have found my recipe.

    • A mighty big thanks for the kind comment, Lance.
      Living in my house is not so much like living in a family, but rather like living within a cabaret. There’s the wielding of sharp weaponry, juggling of a mass of balls, more makeup than your average drugstore shelves, and most every communication is sung. Although some could interpret the dialogue of my teenagers as “shouting,” I prefer to see them as using their stage voices. The higher pitch makes it almost musical. :P

  9. That was hilarious, and I can totally relate. I still regret missing my sixth grade social studies fair.

    I spent weeks preparing the material, reading bigger books than I had ever read (nonfiction!) on Geronimo and the Trail of Tears, and had prepared an essay and everything. My fold-out board was rocking. When I did my test run in class (before the actual fair), everyone was super impressed.

    But, my parents used to have really big fights when I was younger, and it went without saying, usually, that us kids were to skip school the next day if there had been a “knock-down-drag-out” in the house.

    Well, a KDDA happened the night before the fair. In obstinance, I think, I skipped school the next day. I think I was just upset and doing what I had control over (missing my bus) to combat whatever else was going on in a situation I couldn’t influence.

    So I never got to present my presentation. My classmate, a nice kid who did his project on war tanks, won first place. When I went to school the next day, everyone in my class was so, SOOOO disappointed that I hadn’t gone to school, and he looked at me and said, “If you’d showed up, you totally would have won. Sucks. :-/”

    …And really, that’s a pretty good life lesson from a twelve year old.

    • Oh, Alex, my heart twisted with your story. I’m so sorry. There are so many situations in life–not just mine, but nearly everywhere I look about–where I wish I could press the “do-over” button. Missing a rabbit hardly compares.
      The more I study science (and with each episode of Cosmos with Neil Degrasse Tyson), the more I become a little bit more hopeful that somewhere there’s a parallel universe. And if one day we could be so lucky as to peek into that (or those) universe(s), we might find that we’re a helluva lot smarter than the one we plod through currently.
      Thank you for sharing a pivotal moment, Alex. I’m sending your twelve-year old self a huge hug. ;)

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