I've been wondering, amidst the flurry of excitement surrounding my recent engagement to Barack Obama, what on earth I would write about next. What could possibly distract me from our courtship?
You're thinking, tender reflections of motherhood, perhaps?
That's right. Brach's Chicks and Rabbits. I have been obsessed with these since I was six years old, and my grandmother made sure my Easter basket was bursting with them, as well as their obese, FAS cousins, Peeps, whose blank stare never changes, even as you bite their stomachs off. Creepy. But delicious. Still though, it's the Chicks and Rabbits that transport me straight to my grandma's house 24 years ago, where I would find a corner, and hork out until my hippie mama came to offer something sensible like sprouts or the dreaded falafel. I couldn't tell you why this queer confection has won my heart over such obvious contenders as Lindt chocolate and Reese's peanut butter eggs. After all, they're just a shriveled old circus peanut dressed up for Easter. But I love them. I do.
Most of you know that yadda yadd yadda, we don't celebrate Easter with the kids. This isn't particularly difficult for any of us. That is, until I find myself unexpectedly roaming the candy aisle like a lioness, waiting to devour the weakest specimen. Believe it or not, I always hold strong, resisting jelly beans, chocolate carrots, even Peeps. But then I spot the Chicks and Rabbits. They're always in the ghetto of the aisle, far away from Reese's, Lindt, Hershey's, and Cadbury, and there are seldom more than five bags, because I am, apparently, the only wretch alive who wants to eat them. Every year I weave some bullshit story in my mind about how it is an homage to my grandma to consume them, and every goddamned year I get so sick on them that I pray, with my head in the toilet, to join her in the afterlife. I should mention I have always had really bad luck with Easter candy. I have eaten crates of Peeps until I threw them up out of my nose, and become so sick thinking that the inside of a Cadbury creme egg was like mucus, it makes me gag to this day. But somehow I will always find it in my heart to give the Chicks and Rabbits another chance. I'm nothing if not a good glutton.
Cut to tonight. I spent some time fondling the 50% off candy at Fred Meyer today, texting B furiously, begging for justification to buy a bag. No, she lovingly reminded me, we're fat, and trying to do something about it. Have fruit. Obviously that answer sucked really bad. I tried bribery, bringing her down with me, everything, to get her endorsement, but she wasn't budging. I had even inspected the bags to see which had the most yellows, in case she relented, but she ordered me out of the store, and I slumped out, knowing she was right. Then tonight, when she picked me up to go to the gym, what did I behold on the car seat? This:
She and Adam had conspired to bring me some! I squeezed the bag like it was a long lost relative, and decided to eat them after our work out. They were all I could think about during our mile hike, weight training, sauna, and showers, and when we got back in the car I ripped them open like the lioness I am and began mangling their carcasses.
But it didn't stop there. I kept eating them long after they stopped tasting good, which is only ever the first one, until they were a knotted cluster in my mouth. I couldn't get enough saliva going to break the mass down, so I started to choke. B asked if I was okay and I managed to gulp it down the way a python eats a rabbit. When she suggested she take the bag, I snatched it away like Gollum, and immediately ate more. She dropped me off feeling disbelief, pity, and disgust, but I didn't care. I staggered inside, on the brink of a coma, and sat down to answer email. At one point I started to cry because I felt so sick. The next thing I knew, Reilly had spirited away the bag and hid them in recesses unknown. I begged her for them, and she just smiled. Later, when my head is in the toilet, she will bring me a washcloth and remind me that this has happened every year of her life. I will moan some flimsy excuse between heaves, and thank her for being there, like a heroin addict in withdrawal. Then she will tuck me into bed, and heat up my rice bag-thing, and kiss me goodnight. Quinn will kiss me too, and refrain from asking what the fuck is wrong with me, lol.
Then I will drift off, and dream of Barack Obama, serving me Chicks and Rabbits on a silver platter.
(Followed by Michelle Obama kicking my ass. Yeah, I'm a realist.)