Confessions of a Peepaholic

This post is from last Easter, but oddly enough, it still applies. Have a very Blessed Easter everyone!

They call to me from behind their cellophane wall. Little confectionary animals beg to jump into my watering mouth. What other time of year is such a struggle, healthfully speaking, than the Easter season; the time of the Peeps? Little pieces of brightly colored marshmallow delicacy delivered only in the spring. I know you can buy them other times of the year but this is a marketing ploy unsuccessful in my opinion. Peeps just don’t taste the same at Christmas. They are the bonne bouche of my Easter basket.

There’s something about sinking your teeth through the sugary skin into the lifeless animal bodies, ripping them apart with bare teeth or even swallowing them whole that makes the extra workouts so worthwhile. I would never intentionally turn down a bunny shaped Peep but I prefer the little birdies. There’s something about the bunnies-maybe it’s the limbs. Some have arms and legs-who wants to eat an anatomically correct Peep?

I know some don’t have the refined palate required to appreciate the taste of the mass produced pure sugar delicacy. In fact, after the first Peep, I don’t recall a particular taste at all. It’s just the anticipated nectar high and zest for sugar coated birds that trigger the Pavlovian reaction.

I have been known to secretly eat an entire package of Peeps at one time. My family refused to speak to me after that incident on account of my drastic sugar high. I not only spoke loudly and at mach speed but I actually launched into Urdu at one point.

Now I pace myself. One Peep at a time. Slow and steady. Keep the blood sugar levels out of six digits. But of course, like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, I know that the manna from heaven will one day be gone, so I’m tempted to horde the billowy desserts.

In a few days they will be gone, wiped from the store shelves, remembered only by my too tight jeans. To stem the tide of desire until next season, my obsession will turn to other dainty indulgences, like Milk Duds.

For Women Only 2

Not so favorite Word of the Day

delectation \dee-lek-TAY-shun\, noun:

Great pleasure; delight, enjoyment.

If you look at the pronunciation of this word, it sounds remarkably like lactation. Lactation, at least for me, is not a great pleasure, delight or enjoyment. And when you're a lactating mom with twins, everything is double. EVERYTHING. And eventually a lot lower.

How can it be enjoyable to walk around with two large napkins stuffed into your bra, just in case you spring a leak? Who wants to wear a bra with a trap door? That whole lactation, nursing bra thing is like a homeopathic solution to birth control. Forget Lybrel, hold on to your nursing bra.

No, I won't be using this word.

It might go right into the same category as the S---M word.

For Women Only

The FDA has approved use of the drug Lybrel, the no period promising birth control pill. After reading some of the press releases about this miracle drug, I'm still left with a couple questions.

1. Did a man invent this? If so, I'm automatically skeptical. It's like a male OB trying to describe what giving birth should feel like. The Wyeth PR statement used Dr. Ginger Constantine to speak on behalf of the drug maker. In a breezy, non sales pitchy voice, she states,

"For those women seeking contraceptive options and who are interested in putting their period on hold," says Constantine, M.D., Vice President, Women's Health Care, Wyeth Pharmaceuticals, Lybrel may be an appropriate choice."

What? endorsed by a woman who's probably making more money that I ever could even if I auctioned my own liver on ebay? Who's not interested in putting their period on hold? It sounds so easy, like everyone has a giant, programmable uterus and they've just discovered the motherboard. Solid marketing ploy. Solid.

2. Later in the article, it says, "Of those who took Lybrel for a full year, about 40 percent still had intermittent spotting and 20 percent had bleeding heavy enough to require the use of a sanitary napkin or tampon." Isn't that kinda like a period with a surprise attack?

Maybe someday we'll all be period free, but we have to consider the consequences: No period=No PMS=No chocolate binges.
Is it really worth it?

Melinda Doolittle and The Necklace

I don't have loads of time to read as voraciously as I would like, but I enjoy reading short stories. When I re-read The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant, he used this intriguing line I hadn't caught before: "for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving for them birth or family. Their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, nimbleness of wit, are their only mark or rank..."

Is that true today that women have no caste or class and it's the beauty and charm that categorizes and places us according to such?

I usually watch American Idol. This season has been pretty ho-hum so I haven't been as loyal as when say, Bo Bice was singing. I did listen to LaKeesha and Melinda belt out song after song with talents unrivaled.

Did these two women ever have a chance at winning such a contest when they're competing against a 17 year old beauty? If we're actually judging by lyrical talent, shouldn't the better singers be higher up in the caste system and therefore still be in the contest?

I'm just pondering...and, quite frankly, I can't sing at all. Not at all. (I have to lip sync in church). So maybe Jordin is just as good and I can't tell. Pffft. Who knows. Ain't none of them Bo Bice.



And yes, I know. I should read more and watch less reality TV. Got it.

Word of the Day

My favorite word for today:


Nonpareil \non-puh-REL\, adjective:

1. Having no equal; peerless.
2. Something of unequaled excellence; a peerless thing or person.
3. A flat disk of chocolate covered with beads of colored sugar

Perfection and chocolaty, sugary candy in the same definition? Clearly this is a woman's doing.

There's Nothing "little" about Little Debbie

I don't know why I do it. I work out and squat and lunge and crunch, only to ruin it at the end of the day. Sure I've eaten rice cakes and spinach and lots of things green. But when the kids go to bed, I'm starving. I've eaten nothing but styrofoam and fiber all day.

I know they're in there, those Little Debbie snack cakes. They're for the occasional dessert for the kids' lunches. I don't even really like them, but somehow I need to have one, or six. Last night was oatmeal creme pies. I don't even like oatmeal creme pies that much. But I have no power over the pre-packaged desserts. I hate her, Little Debbie, harlot of the snack world.

Aagh. What's a girl to do?

I will do anything if you buy me Peeps

They call to me from behind their cellophane wall. Little confectionary animals beg to jump into my watering mouth. What other time of year is such a struggle, healthfully speaking, than the Easter season; the time of the Peeps? Little pieces of brightly colored marshmallow delicacy delivered only in the spring. I know you can buy them other times of the year but this is a marketing ploy unsuccessful in my opinion. Peeps just don’t taste the same at Christmas. They are the bonne bouche of my Easter basket.

There’s something about sinking your teeth through the sugary skin into the lifeless animal bodies, ripping them apart with bare teeth or even swallowing them whole that makes the extra workouts so worthwhile. I would never intentionally turn down a bunny shaped Peep but I prefer the little birdies. There’s something about the bunnies-maybe it’s the limbs. Some have arms and legs-who wants to eat an anatomically correct Peep?

I know some don’t have the refined palate required to appreciate the taste of the mass produced pure sugar delicacy. In fact, after the first Peep, I don’t recall a particular taste at all. It’s just the anticipated nectar high and zest for sugar coated birds that trigger the Pavlovian reaction.

I have been known to secretly eat an entire package of Peeps at one time. My family refused to speak to me after that incident on account of my drastic sugar high. I not only spoke loudly and at mach speed but I actually launched into Urdu at one point.

Now I pace myself. One Peep at a time. Slow and steady. Keep the blood sugar levels out of triple digits. But of course, like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, I know that the manna from heaven will one day be gone, so I’m tempted to horde the billowy desserts. But I don’t. I don’t want to risk being caught with a stash and convicted of a misdemeanor.

In a few days they will be gone, wiped from the store shelves, remembered only by my too tight jeans. To stem the tide of desire until next season, my obsession will turn to other dainty indulgences, like Milk Duds.

Romancepation Proclamation

Maybe it’s my age, but I’m tired of the Valentine holiday. In my 34 years of living and celebrating the aortic tradition, I can only remember really enjoying a few. As a kid, I never won any “valentine box decorating contests” so I’m scarred for life. I’m a little more perterbured this year because now that all five kids are in school, I get to make valentines for each child and their classmates. That’s 140 valentines! ONE-HUNDRED-AND-FORTY. If I pace myself I can do 30 a day and make my goal by nightfall. No stickers, no candy attachments, just straight ‘tines.

When you stop and think about it, the whole concept of Valentines Day is almost Huxley- an. The ‘state’ mandates when we should recognize those that we “love.” We should do it this day, every year. It should involve hearts, roses and candy. (Oh, but I do love those little conversational hearts; yeah, I like those). When the day is over, if you haven’t done something for your loved one, you’re a LOUT! You have a time limit for cryin’ out loud. Don’t do it on Feb. 13, because that ruins the anticipation. Don’t do it on Feb. 15, because everyone knows that you’re just waiting to scour the clearance racks for a good deal, cheap skate.

Why must there be roses? I know, some people like roses. But why? I don’t like the pressure put on my husband to buy me roses on Valentine’s Day. Roses come to my house and begin wilting as soon as they cross the threshold. The little buds have already said their good-byes and made peace with the fact that their end is near. My house is like a botanical gas chamber. I kill flowers. If I can’t wear it, eat it, or drive it, then it just isn’t practical.

Frankly, I’d rather him spend the same $60 on something I could really use. Like cheesecake.

I declare from now on Valentine’s Day should be proclaimed as the day we were set free from the state ordained passion holidays. No Valentine’s Day, no Sweetest Day, no Groundhog Day, wait, that’s not related. If you’re guilted into gifting, then it’s not worth celebrating.

If you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you, it got lost. Let it go again.

The Funniest Thing Happened at a Funeral the Other Day…

There is a song that fits my actions perfectly. “I’m the kind of guy who laughs at funerals. Don’t understand what I mean but you soon will.” Before we departed for the funeral, I warned my friend of my embarrassingly immature habit of laughing at funerals. She looked at me in doubt. Oh yes, I tried to explain. I don’t ever cry, ever. So when I get to emotional situations, I do the next best thing-I laugh.

As deaths go, one doesn’t plan in advance and so it was when a friend and I decided to attend the funeral service of a man whom we didn’t know. We did know quite well, the man’s sister, so we thought it appropriate to attend to show our support of her.

On a hot July evening, we traveled to rural Morrow County with no address in mind; just on the look out for the only church we thought might be hosting a funeral. We found seats near the back of the cinder block built room, filled quite to capacity. Several Army veterans were on hand to lay to rest a fellow soldier in the customary military fashion.

We just had time to take our seats, right next to a school family whom I’d seen but didn’t know by name. As the solemn organ music preclude, I heard a female voice speaking near the front of the room. It sounded quite like a eulogy, but I could see no human form. Dear God, where was the voice coming from? Was the casket speaking? Why can’t I see the person speaking? Why is no one else curious? I looked around to see if anyone else was alarmed at the bodiless voice stemming from the gardenia arrangement. I’m sure I must have had a quizzical look on my face as I craned my neck around to scan the front of the room without trying to appear morbid.

I caught the eye of my friend, who through years of friendship precisely read my demented mind. This caused a snicker. This was detrimental to maintaining decorum.

Finally, I saw a little women rise, dressed in a poofy black dress that looked like an opened umbrella. Her head perched and lolled on the umbrella dress where the point of the umbrella should be. Someone brought her a stool. As I watched her scamper up the stool, I felt relived that I hadn’t accidentally walked into a séance, but also delightfully mesmerized by the munchkin type person who commanded the word of the Lord with authority, yet didn’t seem able to see past the third row. I don’t know what came over me, but I was illuminated with comic genius. Everything I whispered seemed hilarious. I was on a roll and couldn’t stop.

To make a long story longer, that’s when the giggles began. The problem with laughter prohibition is the more you try not to laugh, the worse it becomes. I began to shake with silent laughter, feigning mild sobbing action.

This, of course, was contagious. My friend, trying not to laugh, tried the biting of the lip routine, which only served to make the inside of her mouth bleed.

There were several different events throughout the funeral which caused the laughing fits to wax and wane but the pinnacle of my outlandish outburst occurred at the end of the funeral. I knew it was a military funeral. I knew they were doing a 21 gun salute. However, there was such an awkward delay awaiting the guns to fire, I had nearly forgotten they were coming. They should really warn someone when there are going to be loud, very loud, guns being fired quite near the back of one’s head.

I had made the unfortunate choice to wear a long skirt with a slit up the middle. This detail is only significant because of what happened next. With a dull murmur of conversation beginning to creep over the congregation, those old soldiers fired those ol’ guns. It sounded like someone had misfired and shot directly into the church.

The burst of fire power so startled me that I flew back in my metal folding chair, legs all akimbo, feet flying in a most unlady like manner, all while yelping a most inappropriate “whoa!”

Thankfully, the chair did not fall completely backward, but that action was enough to start the laughing. Then the trying-not-to-laugh stifles which turned into snorts. And more shaking. I tried painfully pinching myself to keep from bursting. It hurt but it didn’t help.

After the service, my friend and I spoke briefly with our mourning friend, declined the invitation to stay for ham sandwiches and potato salad, and got out of that building as fast as we could. We waited a good three blocks from the church to really burst with obnoxious laughter. We didn’t want anyone to see us all upbeat so close to the funeral (how inappropriate). We laughed so long that my stomach hurt the whole next day.

Yep. I’m the kind of person who laughs at funerals. She didn’t understand what I meant, but now she does.