Easter bunnying is a thankless job

When I joined Fredonia Grange four years ago, I was eager to please and willing to do whatever it took to fit in with this active group.  Opportunity came in the form of the annual Easter egg hunt, an event so large it had to be held at the Calhoun County Fairgrounds.

I knew Gail Morgan’s Easter Bunny act the previous year would be a hard one to follow.  Cute and petite, she looked simply darling in all the photos of the occasion.  I figured I would be a more athleticized version of the Easter Bunny, substituting enthusiasm where I lacked cuteness.

What I didn’t know is that the wearing of the bunny suit had become a hazing ritual for new members of the grange who didn’t know any better. 

Gail gave me her blessing, a pep talk, and reassurance Easter Bunnying would be an easier than usual gig that year, as the new bunny costume had a full-head covering.  The one she had worn had been headless, with just a set of strap-on ears.  She’d had to paint her uncovered face to disguise her human features.  Despite doing a good job of it, people had expected her Easter Bunny character to talk.  That had left her hoarse for days.  I allegedly would have it much better with a full head covering.  I could remain silent.

Within five minutes of donning the bunny suit, I discovered the trade-off for being able to save my voice:  Lack of ventilation. 

The outdoor temperature that Saturday was cool enough that my body didn’t overheat in the bunny costume, even with the added warmth of the jeans and sweater I wore underneath.  But the head of the costume was a different story – one with a much less happy ending.

Had I opted not to breathe at all for the three hours I played rabbit, I think I might have been okay.  But as a lifelong fan of oxygen, I felt the selfish need for periodic indulgences of the stuff. 

I started out perky, dancing around to entertain the egg hunters.  I had choreographed a special bunny hop with wildly animated gestures, but I quickly realized the extra activity only hastened the burning of what little oxygen was trickling in through the pin-hole eye slits through which I was supposed to be breathing.

My bunny soon became a more laid-back character, more relaxed and comatose than Perry Como.  Even then, I needed to inhale deeply every few seconds in order to maximize what little oxygen was available.  It required me tugging the base of the mask away from my face, which made it appear the Easter Bunny was constantly picking his nose.  It was also a pretty noisy process, as gasping for air usually is.

I must have sounded like Darth Vader to the kids who came up to meet me.  Visibility was extremely limited in the suit, so I came to fear their ambushes.  Especially the running hugs that came out of nowhere and threatened to knock the wind out of me, had there been any wind to knock out.  I observed some mighty interesting behavior through my oxygen-deprived haze that I can only hope was hallucinatory.  Mostly involving the parents.

Many parents seemed more intent on getting the right photo or video footage than with letting their kids have a good time.  Some foisted their infants into my surprised paws for photographs and got meltdowns instead.  Others coached their toddlers on strategy for out egg hunting the other children, encouraging violence if necessary.  Still others forced screaming preschoolers to confront their fear of rabbits by shoving them, startled, in my direction.

I got the usual bunch of older kids remarks, “Easter Bunny, why are you wearing running shoes?” and “If you’re supposedly a real bunny, why do you have human hair sticking out under the back of your mask?”  Some hit and pinched me to prove I wasn’t real.  The whole experience was unreal.  “Ouch” was the only word that broke my silence that day.  I was barely able to get out of bed the next.

Gloria Steinem had it far easier with her stint as a Playboy Bunny.  Plus she received tips.

Dirty car serves as a character reference

You know an easy way a landlord can tell if he wants to rent to you?  By following you to your car and checking out the condition of it.  I know this is true because Terry Knowles says it is.  And he heard it from the brother of one of my former landlords, who is also a successful landlord.  Three reputable sources.  That’s good enough for me.

When Terry broke the news to me, the first thought that came to mind was how could the parents of small children expect to ever find housing?  They and their garbage barge of a vehicle would simply float from rental to rental unit forever, never finding a permanent place to dock.

My second thought was to be grateful that I’m already a homeowner, safely under the radar of landlord scrutiny.  If I had to pass the car character reference test today, I’d be homeless.

Like most people, I would sooner talk about sex or finances than the condition of my car.  However, this is a family publication.

Let me state up front that I don’t believe judging a person’s housekeeping by the condition of his car is foolproof.  While my car may be a mobile sty, my home is a different story.  My house remains relatively well maintained, mostly because we’re rarely there except to sleep.  The real hub of our family life has hubcaps.  Our car is where we actually live. 

It’s a combination wheeled file cabinet for work stuff, toy box, sports equipment storage locker, pharmacy, jukebox, and restaurant.  It serves as the catch-all for everything the kids haul out of their pockets and often the things we’re not sure where to put elsewhere.  I’m thinking of the huge pudding stone fossil we found last fall at Lake Michigan that still resides on the floor of the backseat.

In my case, “compact car” really means trash compacter.

I view the current condition of my car as symptomatic of this phase in life.  I have young children, multiple responsibilities, and many places I need to be.  There’s not always the time or the daylight at the end of my day to clean out the car.  And it’s hard to pull the car into the lighted garage I don’t have, using the energy I don’t have, to tackle the problem.  I tell myself I’ll get to it first thing the next morning, but then something more pressing supersedes.  Always.  Before you know it I’ve got zero visibility and no room for passengers.

My fiancé recalls negotiating that same stage in life.  Only he faced it with six kids, driving a Suburban.  When work required him to take important out of town clients to lunch, imagine how impressed they were by French fries rolling out as they were getting in. 

On a brighter note, my dirty car has served as a source of inspiration.  Not for others, but for me.  Last spring I won the Jackson area Toastmasters International speech contest with a seven-minute rationalization called, “Why I Never, Ever Clean My Car.”  At the regional competition in Lansing, one audience member told me I should be ashamed, while another tried to follow me to my car for a glimpse.  Made me realize I’d achieved a new low:  I’d become a good, bad example for others. 

Although my car was not always like this, it’s likely to remain this way for some time.  So I’ve done what any self-respecting person would do when he discovers change is impossible:  I found someone worse than me.

There’s a older lady in Jackson who has so much crap in her car that there’s barely room for her to get behind the wheel.  She has to bungee-cord her walker to the hood of the car.  Really.  Rumor has it she got stopped by police last year for erratic driving.  Drunkenness was not the cause.  Rather, she had been to a farm market and the area under her feet was the only place she had room to transport the watermelon she bought.

I’m not there quite yet, but I’d better avoid roadside fruit stands just to be safe.

Thermostat wars provide diplomacy training

The Cold War with the former USSR may have ended years ago, but a different kind of cold war continues across the heartland of the United States.  It’s more apparent here in Michigan where people have more time on their hands during the winter months.  Typically waged between family members, this stealth affront can result in diminished health and perhaps lead to financial devastation.  I’ll call it as I see it:  Temperature Wars. 

Growing up in a big, old, drafty farmhouse, one of the first things my older sister and I learned following learning our numbers was how to adjust the thermostat dial upwardly.  Of course that was before we realized the wires from the control ran directly to our parents’ checkbook.  You have to be old enough to have a checkbook to understand that mechanism.

I remember being cold and in kindergarten and reasoning that since the year was 1970, our thermostat should also be set at 70.  My dad was born in 1933 and favored aligning with that number.  He was also a lot hairier than the rest of us, so we suffered accordingly.

When my parents married in June of 1959, someone bought them a dual-control electric blanket as a wedding gift.  I’m pretty sure that model was considered state of the art back then.  At the first sign of cold weather, Mom proudly put their new status symbol on the bed. 

Now, as anyone who is married knows, there is an unwritten rule that you and your spouse cannot have the same core body temperature.  It just isn’t allowed.  One partner must always be too warm while the other is never warm enough.  It’s one of God’s many little jokes that keep life interesting. 

My parents kept the dueling temperatures faith for years.

One would think a dual-control electric blanket would have the power to actually bridge the gap between a couple’s body temperatures, but you’d have to factor in my mom and her considerable talent as a well-intentioned saboteur.  She accidentally reversed the control boxes when putting the blanket on the bed.

About an hour before she and Dad were to retire for the night, Mom went to the bedroom and set both electric blanket controls on “5,” the middle setting.  Within minutes of retiring, my father was already feeling the cold, so he raised his setting to “7,” which started her doing a slow burn.  She responded by reducing her control to a “3.”  This froze Dad into dialing up to a “9,” which mom answered with a “1.”

I’d like to be able to report my folks discovered this problem immediately upon waking.  But in truth, it took several days and the assistance of a neighbor for them to get to the bottom of things.  I recount this story here because it explains two things:  My parents’ style of communication for 33 years of marriage and where I got my ironic sense of humor. 

I was conceived in that bed.

When I lived in Kalamazoo, I worked Saturday nights at huge banquet facility that specialized in wedding receptions.  No two guests seemed able to agree on what the temperature should be.  “Oh miss,” they would flag me down.  “Could you please turn the heat up a little?  It’s cold in here.”  Then on my way back from the thermostat dial, another guest would detain me with, “Hey, could you turn down the darned heat?  I’m roasting.”

Trying to please everyone frustrated me at first, until I discovered I didn’t have to please anyone.  From then on, whenever one of our guests said it was too hot or too cold in the room, I would murmur words of agreement, thank the person for his/her concern, then march over to the thermostat and pretend to adjust the temperature.  I’d look back at the guest as I faked moving the dial.  We’d meet eyes, exchange nods, and that would be the end of it.

Everybody was happy.

That was my first paid foray into the art of diplomacy and I owe it all to Michigan winters.  If I can resolve thermostat wars that handily, just think of what I could accomplish in Congress.

Winter’s the only topic of conversation

Don’t know about you, but I’ve had about as much winter as I can stand for one year.  Normally, I remain true to my Michigan roots and am a real trooper with anything the season throws my way.  Toss another blanket on the bed, wrap the scarf a little tighter around the neck, drive a little slower.  But this winter’s unending snow and sunless days are starting to take their toll.  While I’m not getting seasonal affective disorder (SAD), I am getting MAD.

I’m tired of stuffing kids into snow pants.  I’m tired of mitten disappearances.  I’m tired of shoveling off my car and wasting precious gas warming it up.  I’m tired of calling for fuel oil fill-ups and selling things to pay for them.  I’m tired of snow brooming the dog following potty breaks.  I’m tired of washing salt off my boots and carrying my shoes to work.  I’m tired of hat hair.  I’m tired of finding tracked-in snow with my stocking feet.  I’m tired of paying extra for childcare on snow days.  I’m tired of driving like a drunk to avoid the potholes I know about and then hitting the ones I don’t.

I sometimes think Michigan should be called the Dysfunctional State, because you’ve got to be pretty screwed up to live here and keep tolerating the ever-changing winter weather conditions.  Heck, we don’t just tolerate them, we embrace them.  Probably because they provide important fodder for our winter conversations.  Michiganders are never tongue-tied as long as we have winter as a discussion starter:

“I heard the temperature’s supposed to drop down another 30 degrees by nightfall.”

“Well, the windchill they’re talking about is gonna make it feel 30 below.”

Like a soprano warming up by singing scales, our banter is just a prelude to the real act.

‘You hear about Chet’s pipes freezing?  When Chet and Carol came back from their weekend at the casino their kitchen was completely flooded.”

“That’s nothing.  When my mom was in the hospital having surgery, we brought her home to eight inches of water in the basement and three squirrels in the attic.  Roof had caved in from an ice dam build-up.”

It’s important to note the use of numbers.  Michigan winter one-upmanship requires quantification.  Self-worth is directly proportionate to the level of hardship endured. And while it’s not necessary to actually get out and measure the size of the pothole while you’re waiting for the wrecker to arrive, you should at least come up with a good guesstimate for storytelling purposes.

Once the weather and winter disasters conversation veins are played out, the topic automatically switches to fuel.  Like a hypochondriac on top of his vital signs, native Michiganders can recite the total cost and per gallon price of their last vehicle and/or home heating fill-up.  Those who heat with wood can report with amazing accuracy how many cords they’ve cut and the number of trips they’ve made to fill the furnace.  Mysteriously, no one seems to register snowmobile fuel cost complaints. 

Send someone from Michigan to a more temperate climate and we have nothing to talk about.  Case in point: When I was in Georgia one sunny March attending a wedding reception, a local guest asked me how it was going.  Without winter as a focal point, I had no idea.  Politely excused myself to find a guest from Michigan to whom I could complain about Georgians not being able to drive on even slightly snowy roads.

This brings me to a longtime observation I’ve got about Michigan snowbirds:  Folks who wouldn’t give each other the time of day in Michigan become best buddies once they cross the state line.  They hang out together in the trailer parks of Florida and condos of Arizona, only to ignore one another upon return to Michigan.  Their bonding down south is because they have lost the ability to talk about anything other than winter from November through March. The southerners just don’t want to hear it.

As much as I’d like to keep complaining about winter, I’ve got to end here.  Oil guy is waiting for a check for my $3.479 per gallon fill-up.