Chillin' With My Peeps

When you want to buy your favorite person
a special Easter gift-
and can't afford the gourmet chocolates,
expensive stuffed toys,
or a variety of DVD's and books,
it's time to seek out some Peeps.

Beautifully colored,
but dirt cheap,
these sugary marshmallow treats
grace the shelves of every store in town.
Chick shaped, bunny shaped,
and even the new tulip shaped
always seem to bring a smile
to the recipients face.

Yeah.
Fun to look at.

Weird to eat.

To me they are like
biting into a crunchy Nerf ball.

But being so pretty and so cheap
got me to thinking that surely
there are other uses for these
little sweet animals
besides edible consumption.

Here are a few ideas:

Peeps are great substitutions
for badminton birdies.
Light-weight and versatile,
these marshmallow treats
light up the net area like rainbows
in flight.
Once their eyes begin to be
annihilated by the racket, however,
it's time to replace them with a fresh Peep.

Peeps make great packing material for
those fragile articles that you must ship.
Not only do they make a fantastic artistic
display in place of bubble wrap,
they will not harm the environment, either.

Thread a few Peeps on a string
and they instantly become
a retro-style necklace,
an Easter tree ornament,
or a innovative cat toy.

Peeps make a great antenna topper for your car.
So much classier than a Jack in The Box head,
more colorful than a Nascar miniature,
and more durable than a stupid smiley face.

I found out that they make great
art projects by gluing and pasting them
to old picture frames,
wooden boxes
and tin cans.
Just a thick coat of polyurethane
will protect your Peep masterpieces
from rodents and insects.
With a little extra TLC,
they will last forever.

Peeps can be the poor person's
action-figure doll.
Miniature clothing and a few select props,
and you've got a day's worth of fun!

So, you won't find me eating my Peeps.
Instead, I'm dreaming of new ways
to introduce them to society.

You'll find us...
just chillin'.

Easy Rider

It's almost time in my part of the country
to start cutting the grass.
It's time to tune up the lawnmowers
and rig up the weed eaters
and be prepared for a yard that
will never stop growing
until October.

I like to mow.

There is something quite empowering
about calmly sitting back
on a moving machine
that has deadly blades swirling
beneath it.

There's a sense of adventure-
of being out in the air and sunshine.

It's an opportunity for artistic expression-
of whether you will keep the
rows straight
or divert them into
a maze of emerald wonder.

My yard takes about two hours
to mow and trim.
That gives me two hours
of empty brain time
that I can fill with anything I want.

The only distraction is
the hum of the engine-
and sometimes the chunk-ka-chunk
as I speed over a pile
of sweetgum balls and they
propel like bullets from
the grass chute.

I sing.
I recite quotes.
I plan supper.
I pray.

But mostly sing.
It always sounds good
because you can't really hear it.

There is no other time on earth
like the time spent on a lawnmower.

I will admit I have had my share
of mower mishaps.
No matter how safe I try to be,
I nearly always slice the
roots of the maple tree out front.
Their thick gnarly roots
must be taken in slow motion,
at a delicate speed,
with careful, attentive
lawnmower love.

Don't tell my husband,
but I've hit the house before.
I mean- nothing major-
just scraped the front tires
across the foundation,
leaving a black scuff of rubber
on the gray block.

There are several occasions
that I was sure I'd slide into the pond-
mowing at an angle only
meant for mountain goats.

I've been slapped by branches
and stabbed by limbs
and attacked by more insects
than a rain forest.
I've been sunburned,
palm-blistered,
and butt-numbed.

But yet- I go back.

Each week I climb up
on that big red grass-chewing monster
and rule the yard.

And for two hours,
I am Queen.
I am invincible.
I am in charge.
I am an American Idol.

"Like a true nature's child I was born,
born to be wild
I can mow so high-
It's nev-er gon-na diiiiiie..."

Lifestyles Of The Poor and Panicky

It is difficult for me to imagine
what it would be like to be rich.

Really rich.

I grew up sharing a house
with eight siblings
and wore hand me downs till they
were thread bare.

It didn't bother me then.

It's before I became aware
of how other people lived.
In nice ranch homes
with a station wagon
and a den-
taking vacations to see
national forests and
sandy beaches-
wearing clothes from
a store that
didn't sell popcorn
while you shopped.

Today's rich people go all out
when planning their homes.
Gone is the groovy den
and taking its place is
the chic media room that
can hold 50 or more people.
A personal cinema.

Then there are bowling alleys,
tennis courts,
saunas, exercise rooms,
putting greens
and heated driveways.

Some rich women even have
"wrapping rooms" where they
just wrap presents.
With rows and rows of ribbon
and wrap and tape
and colorful bows.
And a giant table with
where they can lay out the
cut crystal vases
and flat screen TV's to
tie up into presents for their
servants.

Or something.

One luxurious home in Lake Tahoe
has a wine cellar that holds
3500 bottles of wine.
And I can almost guarantee
it is not Boone's Farm!

Yes, they certainly know how to live...

I'm not sure if I'd really want all that.

But one room that I would like to
incorporate into my home
would be the Panic Room.

Not exactly because I'm afraid
of terrorists
or evil intruders, mind you.

But so I could go hide inside
my personal panic room-
(whenever panic sets in)
like, daily, maybe-
and no one could bother me
and I'd have enough food
and entertainment for a few days.

If I was lucky,
maybe somebody
would take out the trash.
Or do laundry.
Or buy groceries.
Or scrub the toilet.
Or bathe the dog.
Or set the mouse traps.
Or mow the lawn.

And then-
maybe I might win the
lottery, too.

Yeah, right.