Peeps hateration, pranks and other things I won’t stand for

As with many things in my life, my obsession with Peeps is known far and wide. And it probably doesn’t hurt that I recently wrote a column about my love of the sugary candy in the newspaper for which I work. In an unexpected twist of fate, turns out people actually read my articles, which run twice a week in our local papers.

And you guys will love this: my column is called “Right, Meg?” Not to be confused with write meg!, my blog, but . . . right/write, ?/!

Cute, right? …Right?

Ahem.

So Peeps. Yes. I dig them. So much so that some people who shall remain anonymous — probably because I still don’t know who it is — decided to put this little gem of a paper in my work mailbox, pictured at right.

Did I get angry, friends? No. No, I didn’t. Anger would be a wasted emotion, and I’m most definitely not getting mad at a Peeps hater. Because Peeps? They’re awesome. Delicious. Light and airy. Covered in sugar. They turn your tongue weird colors. They’re indicative of spring. And what’s wrong with any of those things?

So I love Peeps so much that I actually went to the only Peeps store in the world last weekend with Spencer, where we took photos of candy-shaped things and I generally wandered around like a lunatic. Located in National Harbor just outside Washington, D.C., Peeps & Company is a shrine of magnificence. When one of the sales clerks asked me if I needed any help, I grinned like a homicidal maniac and practically shouted, “No, I’m just really, really happy to be in this Peeps store!”

Yep.

Spencer was a good sport about the whole thing. He totally humored me as I wandered to all sorts of Peeps-shaped things and quickly bought a ton of the chocolate-covered varieties. And then I posed with stuff. A lot of stuff. And my boyfriend, dear heart that he is, took photos of this entire adventure.



While at this wondrous shop, I went ahead and bought myself a little souvenir, too: a yellow chick Peeps mousepad. Which I brought to work. And proudly showed everyone. And giggled and petted lovingly, feeling so happy and satisfied to have a Peeps-shaped mousepad.

And then it got stolen.

Yes, friends, the Peeps hateration just continues. It’s not enough to leave me “PEEPS SUCKS” notes, is it? Now my coworkers* have to delight in pranking me and pilfering my beloved Peeps mousepad.

When I got back from my lunch break last week and noticed it was missing, I genuinely had no clue who was at fault here. My cheeks started to burn as I grilled Sandy over who had swiped it — just before I considered sending out a mass email demanding my chick’s return. Was I seriously angry about it? No. It was obviously a joke. But let’s just say I wanted that mousepad back quickly.

After an hour or so, Kelly called me from the front desk. “You have an urgent package up here,” she said cryptically.

So I mosied myself on out there and was handed a thick manila envelope. Inside? My mousepad. With instructions to check Facebook for details on a little adventure he had made.



Yes, it seems my Peep got into a little trouble with the popo. I’m glad he’s safe, but I hope he learned his lesson. I mean, honestly… I thought his father and I raised him better than this. And it’s a good thing he had ID on him, because I was totally not bailing his marshmellowy behind out of jail.

Again.



*Gretchen, I’m on to you. Watch your own mousepad’s back — that’s all I’m sayin’. Not a threat, just . . . a helpful suggestion, friend.

Why I haven’t been reading

So I haven’t read any books, friends. I’ve been making my way through Juliet Gael’s Romancing Miss Bronte for, oh, two weeks and can barely get my little eyes to focus on the little words.

Because reading? That would require me to quiet the “SPENCER! SPENCER! SPENCER!” chorus in my brain. And considering there’s a full-scale Spencer Marching Band playing at full volume up there, it’s been completely impossible for me to get a thought in edgewise. 

I’ve become that really annoying girl in a new relationship who sees rainbows, puppies and cotton candy everywhere she looks — and can’t stop smiling and generally acting like a crazy person. I haven’t had time to create my all-new, super-sappy love playlist yet (but it’s coming, Rebecca!) but you can bet that once I do, I’ll have that puppy on repeat. My favorite tune of the moment is Colbie Caillat’s “Magic,” and just because I’m in this sort of a mood, here are some select lyrics for you, my fine friends:

All I see is your face

All I feel is your touch

Wake me up with your kiss

Come at me from up above

I typed those lyrics by hand — while listening to the song for the five millionth time this morning. I didn’t even want to look them up; I just wanted to listen to the song over and over and then type them.

I’m losing my mind. Because I just want to look at him. All. The. Time.

Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever looked at anyone so much in my life. I’ve memorized his facial features and live in breathless anticipation of when he’ll offer me one of his slow smiles. I love talking to him and holding him and laughing with him and walking with him and being with him. I don’t care what we do or where we go, as long as I can hold his hand. As long as he smiles at me. As long as we’re together.

This is dangerous.

I know it’s crazy and ridiculous and I feel like I’m losing my mind, but I’m staring into a deep and sparkly well and want to just fall straight in without thinking. Without hesitation. Without fear. All those little parts of my brain that usually yell, “Meg, don’t fall too quickly. Don’t let him know how much you care. Don’t let him hurt you,” have packed up their dark, pessimistic little suitcases and gone on vacation. Hopefully forever.

I’m not even superstitious, afraid to talk about it, because I trust it. I trust him — I trust him with my heart.

Last night we spent hours making macaroons — literally, hours — and I felt like I’d blinked only to realize we were pulling trays of them from the oven. Carefully sliding them from the parchment paper, Spencer piled them high on a plate before we began crafting the little cookie sandwiches. I don’t think I did much but stand there and look like a lovesick lunatic, reaching out to kiss him any time he glanced in my direction. If I could have stood in that kitchen forever, looking into his eyes and waiting for those cookies to bake, I probably would have. I was barefoot. He was smiling as I held on to him, my cheek against his cool neck.

It was perfect.

I’m scared and happy and so excited that I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve barely eaten this week.

I didn’t think it would be this easy.

Color me surprised . . . and thrilled — thrilled! — for the rest of my life.