Peeps: A History and Gallery

I always received Peeps in my Mom's lovingly-crafted Easter baskets. (Seriously, they were great and continued all the way through college and afterwards. Bags-I-still-use-they're-so-cute instead of baskets, Godspell on CD, headbands, no white chocolate -- heaven!)

I always liked them just fine, somewhere in between a Cadbury egg (creme filled, NOT caramel, what an abomination) and a hollow chocolate bunny. But it wasn't until my high school chemistry teacher, Mr...Mr...?? Help, Michaela?? What was his name?! Old age has officially set in. Moving on while I weep.

It wasn't until Mr. Cute But Dull Chemistry Teacher Man dedicated a class to the Peep and its chemical makeup that I truly fell in love. How had I missed all its glorious virtues? Why had I forsaken it for the more easily loveable egg?

His finale consisted of a solitary Peep, placed on a plate into the microwave. Time set to thirty seconds. We all watched in silent horror and amazement as the Peep blew up to enormous, yellow, sugary proportions. All the while, Mr. Teacher is kneeling down, looking inside, squeaking: "Peep. Peeeep. Peeeeeeeeeep. Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep."

It was life changing.

And ever since, it's been important for me to shove as many of these chick shaped confections in my mouth as possible. I've gotten cheap, as well as senile, in my old years and make myself wait until the day after Easter to purchase because the sales are too good to be true. (A box of Peeps for 25 cents?! Build me a Peep swimming pool!)

Usually there are rows and oodles of my tiny friends left after the big day, but something happened this year! Could it be the Recession that's forced Moms into buying Peeps instead of chocolate? Because my neighborhood Walgreens was completely devoid of yellow Peeps. (Other colors, anything made with red dye, is unacceptable to my palate.)

I panicked. Could this be the year I experience the bitter heartache of a Peepless spring?

But just in time I recalled another Walgreens, placed in a shady neighborhood I would only visit in an emergency. Obviously this was one.

The result? I'll let the following tell my triumph:

Weekend photo album or: The making of a domestic

I did quite well on my weekend checklist, thanks.

While I played many a Rockband drum solo Saturday morning, Clay played basketball down at the Y. On his way home he stopped at the Farmer's Market and picked me up that scrumpshy olive bread along with a bundle of tulips. And a chocolate croissant. Yes please times ten.

Later in the day, down in the Castro, we watched some college people play their own round of basketball on the big screen. Zzz. But oh my, what accidental luck! Our friends live right next door to Imagiknit! At halftime, I picked out some yummy green yarn and bamboo needles.

On Sunday, we scooted down to the Marina and picked out herbs and flowers and new self-draining pots and soil and fertilizer. And then I got to planting and windowsill-arranging and serious-face-making. Plants are no joke, people.

We watched a Law and Order per my request, then I started knitting lessons with my new, made-for-the-elderly DVD. The lady on there talks to me like I'm five. Honestly, I wouldn't mind if it were three.

Fotos below:

you know that old adage

(may or may not be the correct usage of this word) about boiling a frog slowly? as in, if you put a frog in lukewarm water and very slowly increase the heat he’ll just sort of hang there until he dies of boil-dom? many times i = frog.

like my sophomore year of high school. every morning I’d wake up and hop into the shower (not entirely true – I’ve always been an every-other-day type of gal, but you understand the use of hyperbole in narrative, don't you?) and soap up before beginning another day of algebra 2 and eating ice cream sandwiches from the vending machine.

at the beginning of the school year, the water pressure in said shower was fine. I didn’t really notice it one way or the other. hop in, hop out, put on my l.e.i. bell bottoms. as the year progressed, the water pressure very slowly, slowly, almost imperceptibly, became weaker. again – I just went with the flow. since my dad used the downstairs shower, and my mom takes baths (is this too much information on my family’s former bathing habits? apologies) and I have no idea what my little brother at age 11 was doing, there wasn’t much intra-family discussion on the water situation.

one morning I woke up, tho, and holy s*%t. one small drip of water was exiting from one of the shower head holes. one small drip. one hole. and it was cold. the scary thing is this seriously didn’t happen overnight, it had taken like six months to boil me.

eventually the plumber came in, checked out our situation, turned to my mom and said:

“you weren't living.” amen.

I bring this up, because I’ve had a slow simmer going in my lower back and right leg (simply put: b/c of the way I’m built and I move, my pelvis gets out of alignment, making one leg longer than the other, making everything along the way from knee to hip flexor to feet go into excrutiating spasms) for a long, long time. I was just starting to get it fixed 4.5 years ago before a trip to india. I thought the physical therapist would be able to fix it in a few visits, but after her assessment – come in once a week for lots of months, you’ve got lots of damage to reverse – I just got discouraged/bored. she’d made me feel better in the short term and in my just-graduated-from-college mindset, that was good enough.

but over the past 4.5 years, it’s gotten worse and worse, making me squirm on the couch and live with an electric heating pad down my pants. and since I almost popped a leftover-from-an-ear-infection vicodin before heading to work today and my name is not gregory house – it’s time to get some help. I’ve got an appointment lined up in two weeks and I’m looking forward to it more than christmas. (I kind of wanted to make a tiny tim joke there, but I couldn’t figure it out nor did it seem very nice.) the end.