FRESH YARN presents: The Truth About Peeps... by Deborah Stoll

FRESH YARN presents:

The Truth About Peeps
By Deborah Stoll

We're standing in the aisle of the Sav-on when I see them. "Oh, look! There are the Peeps I've been looking for." The bright, yellow packaging stands out among all the other candies as I race down the aisle towards them. Grabbing a box, I nestle it gently in between a ten-pack of toilet paper and the sundries already loaded into my basket. "These are the original ones too," I continue. "You almost never see them anymore."

My boyfriend walks up behind me, "Those aren't the original Peeps."

"Yes, they are."

"No, they're not--the bunnies are the originals."

"No, the chicks are the originals."

"No they're not."

"Why would they call bunnies 'Peeps'? I mean, originally, wouldn't they have called them something like, 'Pffts Pffts' instead?" I retort, making the universal bunny motion -- fingers cutely curled under, hopping a bit in front of chest.

My boyfriend rolls his eyes at me, which usually means I've said something stupid. Conversely, it's His way of getting out of something He knows He's wrong about without having to concede His wrongness.

He turns the corner and starts down the next aisle. I pause for a second and then, with a surprisingly sudden anger, turn and walk quickly past the rows of sweets and hustle up behind him. He stands in front of the Budweiser display. They're on sale, and his face has that particular glaze to it that only happens when something he really loves is within sight.

"I hate when you roll your eyes at me."

"What?"

I point to the docile yellow marshmallows resting innocently in their box inside the cart. "Those are the original Peeps."

He rolls his eyes. AGAIN.

"Jesus Christ! Think about it. Look at how old-skool they look."

I instantly feel stupid for using the term "old-skool," but it's true. "See? The chicks have a totally vintage feel that the bunnies…" here I hold up a box of the offending non-vintage bunnies for emphasis "…just don't. And look at the colors! The yellow of the chicks compared to the blue, pink and purple bunnies -- I mean, how much more modern a color can you get than purple?"

He squints his eyes at me with a look that says this is the stupidest conversation I've ever had. Then he says, "This is the stupidest conversation I've ever had. Are you really intent on ruining a perfectly nice day? You did wake up kind of crabby, you know."

"I DID NOT WAKE UP CRABBY!" I yell. Then I bring my voice down a notch. "You always do this--you're wrong about something, or you don't know something but you can't just admit it, even if it's totally meaningless!"

"So I'm wrong."

"Yes!"

"About what?"

"The Peeps! THE FUCKING PEEPS!" I'm gesticulating wildly now, using the Peeps for emphasis. "You're wrong about the bunnies--" (pushing the bunnies into his face) "--being the first Peeps when it's obvious that the chicks--" (grabbing the chicks out of the hand cart before he can crush them with the case of Budweiser) "--are the first Peeps!"

"And you're not in a bad mood?"

"No! I'm in a great fucking mood, I mean, I was until you started acting like --"

"Can we not do this here?"

I realize that some of our fellow shoppers are starting to take notice, but I've always hated being shushed just because someone might hear, so I start hissing instead. "You're just saying I woke up in a bad mood because you don't want to admit that you know NOTHING about Peeps."

He looks at me, for all the world, like he's sorry I'm so confused about my life. "I think we have everything we need," he says, and walks up to the checkout counter. I have no recourse but to join him.

We stand at the counter. And wait. We wait on what must be the SLOWEST MOVING LINE IN THE HISTORY OF SLOW-MOVING LINES AT SAV-ON, which is to say it's really fucking slow. In the silence, my mind reels with all the times we've disagreed about things: There was the brown recluse spider argument (they do not, in fact, kill people) and the idea that fencing is an acceptable major in college. After boiling spaghetti you DO NOT run hot water over it to get rid of the starch. And pizza bagels are just not considered gourmet. By anyone.

It all gets me thinking: Maybe these arguments have a deeper meaning. Maybe we've got nothing in common. Maybe I'm just fooling myself that we're totally in love. And then I hear my mother's voice: You've never learned to compromise. EVER. In anything. Relationships are a give. And a take. (She says it just like that, too -- "A give. And a take.") You're looking for perfection, and you're never going to find it. And I wonder, for the first time in my life, if she actually knows what she's talking about.

I look over and notice that my boyfriend is standing in line. Totally content. Just standing there. He's not thinking about anything -- he's not even reading a magazine. He clearly DOES NOT love me, or he'd be feeling as distraught as I am right now. COMPROMISE MY ASS! Couldn't he at least seem upset? He should be worrying that I hate him, that this is the end, the last straw, the coup de grace, as it were. He could be losing me forever, RIGHT NOW, THIS VERY INSTANT. The fact that he CLEARLY doesn't care AT ALL throws me into AN EVEN GREATER RAGE than before. Also, I feel sad.

The Checkout Boy completes his first transaction. We inch forward in line.

There's a difference between waiting in line in Los Angeles and waiting in line in New York. In New York, the lines are long. For everything. It's a matter of course: you wait for the movies, you wait for your dinner reservation, you wait at the Korean Deli. Fairway, Dean and Deluca might take a half-hour out of your day, and that's not counting shopping and perusing time. You wait for the bus, the subway, hailing a taxi. You wait on line at H&M for the cheapest clothes that will only last one single season before falling apart, but what a season that will be! You wait for elevators, for secretaries a hot pastrami on rye, Novi at Russ and Daughters, a slice of Original Ray's. And you don't mind, because in New York City, waiting in line is half the fun. The Checkout People are not actors. They are JUST WHAT THEY ARE; they're a Waiter, or a Sales Clerk, a Subway Conductor, a Bus Driver, a Purveyor of Fine Fish, a Connoisseur of Jewish Deli Meats. They take pride in what they do, and if, by chance, you bring something unmarked up to the counter, they know how much it costs -- price tag or no. And behold -- the lines snake beautifully around in loops, gracing the very spaces filled with stinky cheeses, fresh breads, vintage movie posters, the distinctive scent of a deal. But here in Los Angeles, everyone in the service industry is a malcontent, wishing that they were somewhere else, feeling that they deserve better and making it known to all. It's enough to make you want to scream: For God's Sake, JUST TRY. PLEASE, JUST TRY.

I creep closer to my boyfriend, now sincerely believing this might be the last time we're in such close proximity to each other. "I guess this is it then. I mean, I guess this is goodbye. "

"Babe, seriously, can we talk about this when we get outside?"

"Why?"

"Because I can't stand fighting in public."

"Outside will still be public."

"So wait until we get in the car."

"You're gonna drive and fight?"

"You can drive. I'll fight."

"I can't drive and fight. I can barely drive and listen to music." We move another inch forward. We're next in line.

When we finally get outside, it's started to rain. Running to the car, one of my bags gives way. Sundries fly across the pavement. An aerosol can skitters over the parking lot with impressive velocity before rolling to a stop in a puddle of water. I don't care. Let it roll. Let them all roll! I continue on. Behind me, I hear my boyfriend walking across the parking lot to retrieve the fugitive items. That's sweet, I think. I would've let them go. I turn and watch as he waves at a car to stop before it hits an errant bottle of Jergens body lotion. He picks up the bottle and waves again, this time, in thanks.

Jeez, maybe he IS a nice guy. Maybe I'M the bad one. Maybe I'M the asshole. Maybe I'm pushy and mean, and it's all my fault such a fine day has been ruined and sure, while we're at it, I'll take the blame for this being the 14th day in a row of rain. He's walking back towards me now, cradling the rescued goods in his arms like infant children. Our children. THE CHILDREN WE WILL NEVER HAVE. The rain's coming down in sheets. I wonder if he's fucking my best friend. God I'm in a bad mood. We get in the car. I clear my throat. He turns on the blower. Subaru's make good blowers, I think, as the frost on the front windshield begins to melt.

By the time we've made it up the stairs to the front door with our packages, I'm exhausted. I sit down on the couch and wrap my arms around my legs while he unpacks the bags. I've lost all desire to talk. I just want to drop the Whole Damn Thing, whatever It is, and crawl back into bed.

But then I see my laptop. And after a brief silence, broken only by the tapping of the keyboard, I read aloud:

"In 1917, Sam Born opens a small retail candy store in New York, marketing its freshness with a sign that declares, 'Just Born.' Blah blah blah, blah blah blah..." My boyfriend has stopped unpacking and stares at me through the peek-thru in the kitchen wall. I continue.

"In 1953, Just Born acquires Rodda Candy Company of Lancaster, PA who, although known for their jellybean technology, also make a small line of marshmallow Easter Peeps which are made by hand-squeezing marshmallow through a pastry tube."

I turn the laptop around, so he can see the accompanying image. There, on peepsworld.com, in all their brilliant yellow, white, and pink hand-squeezed glory, are the Original Peeps. They are perhaps somewhat crude by today's standards, but they are unquestionably chicks.

I cruise through the timeline, salivating over the prospect of dating the bunnies' appearance: it now seems imperative that they be as modern as possible. "1960s -- Just Born produces marshmallow trees and snowmen for the holiday season. 1978 -- The sons take over as co-presidents of the company. And -- oh, look: In 1980, Peeps Giant Bunnies become available." I stop reading and stare at the screen.

Over my shoulder, I hear the sound of a Budweiser popping open. "What are Giant Bunnies?"

"I guess that's what they're called."

"Well, when did they become purple?"

"Lemme see here..." I page through some irrelevant information, looking. "Uh... 'In 1995, Lavender Peeps are added to the Easter line-up.' And then it looks like they did blue in 1998 to commemorate their 75th anniversary."

We both consider this.

"Hunh. Purple before blue then," he says.

"Yeah. Purple before blue."

"I thought you said purple was the most modern of all colors."

"Chicks before bunnies, though."

"Well..." my boyfriend sidles over to where I sit on the couch. "I guess that makes both of us right."

"Yeah," I say, totally bushed, "I guess it also makes both of us wrong."

And then we sit there on the couch, sleepy-eyed from shopping, done with our stupid fight, knowing that just as we can annoy the hell out of each other, we also have the ability to fill each other with the greatest elation either of us has ever felt and that sometimes, on a rainy Saturday morning, it's hard to tell the difference.