If you know me at all and not even like the back of your hand, but like the edge of a hangnail you know that I am prone to anthropomorphism. If you know me well, you know that I am not only prone to it but driven by it. And if you know me very well, you know that I am often overwhelmed by it and may even be considered, in some circles, spheres, or trapezoids, to be consumed by it to such a degree that I’m not quite sure whether the “voices” I ascribe to inanimate objects are merely made up or if they do, indeed, exist inside my head and are cause for more than just a soupçon of concern.
In the late ’90s, I had a boyfriend who shared this affliction, and everything around us was given a voice. However, since every object had the same voice, this made identifying them quite challenging when they would call out, vying for our attention. But much like I suspect is the case of mothers of multiple-birth offspring, over time we managed to distinguish certain nuances in their voices and thus were able to communicate more effectively with our charges.
So, it was with this in mind that I had great difficulty deciding whether or not to do some damage to a milk chocolate trophy I had won at Matt’s premature Easter dinner party this past Saturday night. There, fueled only by a single Bellini, I beat all the gentiles in the first annual “Jesus Idol” competition, thanks, I’m sure, to my brilliant pantomime/spoken-word performance of a line from “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” and my declaration that if Jesus were to come back as a Hollywood actor, he would be Mickey Rourke as he appears in “The Wrestler”. (The runner-up selected Burt Lancaster, a noble assignment, but a losing proposition nonetheless.)
Here is the trophy, known to fine chocolatiers around the globe as “Diva Da’ Bunny”:
Before, in happier moments … and Now
I trust these images make my decision clear.
Please note that before my ruthless amputation, she proudly displayed her heart-shaped “Diva” pendant. And now, that heart shuns the spotlight. Had I planned a bit better, I would have had someone bite off my ears first, so I wouldn’t have to hear the bunny’s screams in the distorted Marlee Matlin tone imposed on her by my gluttony.