the pieces of my life

Note to self: If someone asks, “It there a temperature that’s too cold for you to run?” the answer is not “I’ll run in anything!” but “Screw the run! I’m taking a bubble bath!” Actually the running part is fine. Is the after-run part. Running in “12 degrees, feels like 2” is actually fairly invigorating. Walking home (with coffee) in “12 degrees, feels like 2,” as the body cools off and the sweat on you begins to freeze is miserable. Stupid New England. Luckily the weather has warmed, so no longer do I fear the cold; merely the melting slush that freezes into sheets of ice just in time for my morning run.

And my son isn’t helping things. He gets little rewards at viola lessons for practicing five days a week. This week, Adam went to pick him up, and overheard the boy telling his viola teacher, “I can’t have Peeps. My mom will eat them.” Uh, yeah! Let me tell you there was hell to pay when he got home and I confronted him. “Uh, well, uh…” I just waited. “Well, she was giving them out from the box so they would have gotten yucky in my hand on the ride home.” Excuse me? Have you not seen me eat five-day-old gummy bears that I found on the floor under the counter trim? You think a little boy sweat is going to scare me off? He did give me a big hug and lots of apologies. He’s very lucky that literally the next day, Lilith came to pick her daughter up from our Girl Scout meeting, and she brought me a pack of Peeps. Before this, I might have considered sharing them (note, I wouldn’t share them; but I might have considered it). Now that boy can cry himself Peep-less tears when he goes to bed at night.

Speaking of crazy children, Pie has this thing she’s been doing for about six months now. When she “sees, smells, or hears of anything gross,” her butt hurts. Her butt has been hurting a lot lately. She’s a sensitive kid, that Pie.

In the meantime, I’m sick as a dog because with our impending winter vacation, I’ve had to do laundry, and we all know that doing laundry makes me violently ill. In fact, I think it’s making my butt hurt. Stupid laundry. Stupid butts. Time for Peeps.

My son has officially learned the meaning of “addiction.” He’s having a hard time quitting the finger habit (the boy has been sucking on his finger since he was practically in utero).

The boy. His finger. At eight months.

We paint his fingernails with this really nasty stuff, which is supposed to serve as a reminder to take his finger out of his mouth. But instead, he’s learned that if he just sucks long enough, the nasty taste goes away.

Me: But, Doodles, it’s supposed to just be a trigger to tell you take your finger out of your mouth.

Boy: I know. I put my finger in my mouth, and I taste it and I remember I should take my finger out. But it feels so good! So I don’t take it out.

Of course, we all have our crosses to bear. Pie has a close friend who knows my love of Peeps. She had a box of Peeps left over from her Easter stash and she wrote me a lovely card and gave me the Peeps! And she even knew they were in my favorite color (green! I didn’t even know they made green Peeps!). My children were threatened when it seemed that I suddenly preferred another child to them (hey, they’ve never given me Peeps!), but I assured them that no matter how many Peeps anyone else gave me, they’d still always be my favorite children. But Peeps in May. I was in heaven!

I took the box, punched a hole in it, and let it sit for a few days, because, as everyone knows, no Peep is a bad Peep, but a stale Peep is the very best kind of Peep in the world.

And, now, the Peeps are gone. I’m so sad. I IM’d Adam that very sentiment. “I’m so sad. The Peeps are gone.”

And he wrote back, “Already?”

But in my mind, I was extremely impressed with myself. Because it was a box of 10 Peeps. And I made it last TWO WHOLE DAYS! I don’t think I’ve ever shown such restraint in my life.

That said, I may not be the best one to guide Doodles on his finger-free journey. Because clearly I’m not good at stopping when “it feels so good!” Peeps and fingers all around!

Treat your body like a temple. Let me tell you: I’ve been doing this. It doesn’t work.

But I had an epiphany. When they (whoever the great Gods of “they” are) say, “like a temple,” they mean something along the lines of a Buddhist temple or even a Jewish temple or a church.

And see, all these years, when I thought temple, I was thinking more along the lines of those pagan temples. You know the ones. Temples where virgins were sacrificed, where the priests drank copious amounts of alcohol, where animals were sodomized. I mean, right? Now we’re talking!

I think this epiphany struck when I read in my comments that Angela toasts her Peeps. This comment sent me into a fervor. Toasted peeps! That. Is. Freaking. Brilliant.

I went on a frenzy. I hit every drugstore in a five-mile radius. I checked the supermarket clearance aisles. I searched every nook and cranny in the house in case I had some Peeps I had forgotten about.

Alas. There are no more Peeps to be had. And then it hit me. If I spent even half the time planning out healthy meals as I did on my Peep hunt, I’d be living in that Buddhist temple instead of my pagan den of iniquity. I wouldn’t have to suck in my gut whenever I got on the scale (anyone else notice how that doesn’t change the needle on the scale one iota? And yet I do it faithfully every time I stand on the scale).

It’s time. Time to convert. I need a new temple. One that doesn’t allow you to yell at your children to leave the kitchen because you need to get another spoonful of raw cookie dough. One that doesn’t think, “Eh, cooking those veggies is going to take too long, but I’ve got a nice loaf of bread I can make into lunch.” One that doesn’t include children peering in the garbage in wonder at all the candy wrappers. (Hey! No judging allowed! You try writing a novel without copious amounts of gummy bears!)

Healthy food. Eating all the fruits and veggies in our Boston Organics delivery, even the funny ones like black radishes. Pasta no more than once a week (okay, maybe twice; we don’t want to be insane about this.). Trying new grains. Not making four different meals for four different family members but finding foods that we’ll all eat. This could happen, right?

My body will be a temple. Of the most pious sort.

Of course that doesn’t mean come October, I’m not hunting me down some Halloween Peeps. Because even though my temple doesn’t have virgin sacrifices, the Peeps are going to be most definitely burned at the stake!

It’s a sad day in Brownville. The Easter candy is all done. What? How does a house of Jews have Easter candy? Well, that’s the point. We don’t. At least not anymore. I dutifully went to the after-Easter sales and loaded up. I will say that I didn’t eat a single bite of it until Passover ended, but when the holiday was over, I embraced the one that starts after: The Festival of Peeps.

I had planned on telling all of you about our spring break and how Adam and I just celebrated a wonderful 10th anniversary together–an elegant, exquisite dinner and lovely gifts. But then yesterday he annoyed me, so I won’t be telling you about that. I IM’d him yesterday:

Me: We are officially out of Easter candy.
Him: Officially? Has this been certified?
Me: Yes.
Him: Maybe I stashed some emergency Peeps.

Which made me the happiest person in the world. My husband loved me enough to know to stash Peeps for when I ran out! Joy! Happiness!! Elation! Only…

Me: Are you serious?!?
Him: No, I’m not serious. But I could have.

So now I’m here to blog to tell you what an ass my husband is. Maybe later I’ll write something nice. But don’t hold your breath.