It’s the day after Easter, and my craving for a See’s Bunny from California has passed. Oh, those milk chocolate, creamy, solid ears make my mouth water. I grabbed a fistful of Ghirarrdeli Semi-sweet chocolate chips out of my fridge, through my head back, and tossed them in. Even though there was some crunch to them, it just wasn’t the same.
To take my mind off the chocolate bunny ears, I started thinking about just plain bunny ears. The Playboy Club popped into my mind! I nearly forgot about the time, so many years ago when I got hired in Chicago as a cocktail server.
At first it was fun; stuffing myself into that satin suit that cinched the waist down to a Scarlett O’Hara eighteen inches. The high-cut legs on the suit made even my little legs look really, really long. Add the six inch stilettos, and now you got somethin’! The final placement of the round, fuzzy tail and the pink satin-lined ears were done, and off I went to strut my stuff.
I had the “Bunny-dip” down. My twenty-something year old thighs were rock-solid from my years of dancing, running, and gym work-outs. I spilled nary a drop as I hustled Martinis and Manhattans “up”. The tips were enormous; It was the late 60s, Hugh Hefner was every man’s idol, and the patrons thought if they tipped extra, they might get ‘extra’? Ha! We let them think that! It’s all about the fantasy. In reality, many of the “bunnies” were doing the job to put themselves through college. Once the bunny suit came off, the make-up removed, and the glasses put back on it was time to hit the books for the next day’s classes.
Feeling proud of my first day on the job, when the “Head Bunny” summoned me to her office at the end of my shift, I was certain I was going to receive praise. Unlike some of the new girls, I had cocktailing experience; at seventeen, I got a job in an Italian restaurant on Long Island during the summer as I worked hard all summer to earn college money. At that time, the drinking age was eighteen. My boss, Mario said: “Eh, anybody asks ya, say yer eighteen.” And that’s how it was in those days; no I.D. checking, no scrutinization – if Mario says it’s O.K., it’s O.K.!
So, the Bunny Mother leads me to her office, shuts the door, stands back with a leering grin and reaches over to pinch my flesh bulging over the top of the bunny suit. “Gonna have to drop a few, Missy.” My jaw clenched; my lips tightened and curled in. I was speechless.
Then her long arm reached out and slapped me on the rump: “Got a little extra here, too, don’tcha?”
Before she could go on, I snatched the stupid bunny tail off my butt (it was held on by snaps), ripped the ears off my head and handed them to her: “Here ya go. See ya!”
I showed her, huh? I then went on to get hired by Trans International Airlines which had, ahhh, weight restrictions. At my initial interview, I was told to lose five pounds. The job was mine, but I had to fulfill the weight requirement of 112 pounds, the designated maximum for my height. The interview was on a Friday; I told the interviewer I would be back Monday for the weigh-in (I wanted the job!)
“Impossible”, said she.
“See you Monday”, said I.
On Monday, I weighed 112. By Tuesday, I was back to 118 and being fitted for my uniform. I remembered the weigh-in tricks from my high school wrestler friends.
My, how things have changed. Well, some things – Hugh Hefner is still around. I don’t know about the Bunnies – the Playboy Bunnies. I don’t think there are any in Costa Rica, but I heard there is one in Macau.
I still want the See’s Bunny Ears; guess I’ll bake a chocolate cake, maybe in the shape of bunny ears. Adaptability is key; life is good!