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?


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!”


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.


*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.

Ask for my firstborn, but not one of my Peeps

My obsessions are infamous. Whether we’re talking places (oh, London!), people (John Mayer, le sigh), colors (PINK!) or beverages (pumpkin spice lattes — you can’t ever have enough!), the items over which I lust and discuss endlessly are the things that really make up my days. Friends and family know me as much for the phases I pass through — some healthy, some not so much — as anything, and I’m always thrilled to find a new item upon which to pour my never-ending devotion!

The latest in my string of bizarre but serious infatuations is nothing new to my mother, who has the (almost) thankless job of finding this item every holiday and making sure plenty of it winds up in our stockings at Christmas. I’m talking Peeps, friends — those delicious, smooshy and melt-in-your-mouth fantastic confections that appear in a variety of seasonal shapes and colors several times a year!

But not just any Peeps. Because anyone can find the typical, generic green Christmas trees or white snowmen at Wal-Mart or Target and toss them under the tree. Those are for sissies. What I want isn’t quite so easy to come by, but when they’re discovered? That’s PURE and UNADULTERATED JOY you’ll see etched on my face. Something no first kiss, iPod or book deal could achieve! (Well, maybe the book deal. But I’m still waiting to test that theory.)

They’re Gingerbread Peeps — and they’re sugar cookie flavored. They come in packages of six. They give me a reason to get up in the morning and keep living my life. Think I’m being dramatic? Allow me a moment of your time to recount this little scenario:

It’s a Thursday evening in November. My sister, a busy college senior, has just gotten home from a particularly grueling day. Judging by the fact that she’s barely uttered two words since walking in the door, I know not to make any sudden moves — like trying to have a conversation with her. In any capacity. Earlier in the day I’d made a stop at a local supermarket where I discovered — OMG OMG — that holiday Peeps were out for the season. I bought two packages and placed one where I knew she would find it.

As Kate wandered into the living room, eyes glazed over with exhaustion, there was no way I could miss that quick intake of breath as she realized — OMG OMG — she has the greatest sister in the universe. She stumbled to where I was sitting with a smug look on my mug, her own face totally morphed as she clutched the Peeps, utterly speechless. You’d have thought I gave her a one-way ticket to Hollywood — and marrying Zac Efron. That’s the power of the Peep, folks. Making sucky Thursdays pure magic.

My coworkers were intrigued by my own package of Peeps last week. I’d opened and quickly devoured two, then set the box aside in an attempt to ration myself. My gut instinct was to gobble them up before anyone would have a chance to ask me for one, because who am I kidding? I’m not sharing my Peeps. Need to borrow a pen, want some change for the vending machine, need me to spell an oddball word for you? No worries. But my Peeps? I apologized to Sandy after she expressed interest in them, but could only offer her a gingerbread foot — parting with a full Peep is simply too much to ask. You’d have better luck asking for my firstborn.

Just, you know, food for thought. Literally.