The Brain, Mouth, Hand Conundrum

Believe it or not, but I do not have what some refer to as the gift of gab. I can't wax poetically. I will never be the person helping others pick up dates by feeding them perfect lines. Unfortunately, I really like to talk. A lot.

My mom and I have discussed my speaking deficiencies at length, and we have come to two different explanation- one as likely as the next.

The first explanation is: When I keep my mouth shut for extended periods of time the words, which form on a continuous cycle, get stored up in my mouth. Then, inevitably, someone will direct a question my way.

I am forced to open my mouth where these words have been stored all kinds of willy-nilly and poof!

This is what we refer to as puppy mouth syndrome. I open my mouth and the words come spilling out like excited little puppies. Some holding on to tails, some running around in circles, some trying to scratch with stumpy, stubby little legs, and not one of them making much sense. Lucky for me after I release the hounds, as it were, I am a little better equipped for forming coherent thought.

Unfortunately this is where the second explanation comes into play. My brain and my mouth do not communicate well with each other. In fact on more than one occasion my brain has seen my mouth open and said to itself - oh dear god- or some other phrase as it buries its imaginary head in its imaginary hands.

My brain also spends a lot of time watching my mouth and thinking 'well, let's see where it's going this time.' I don't think my brain hates my mouth, I just think it has washed its imaginary hands clean of it and no longer takes responsibility for the words, phrases etc that come out of my mouth.

So, I write, and by no means do I think I am any better at writing than speaking, but at least I have the opportunity to go back through and read something before it goes out there. My mouth doesn't give me that chance. It sees my brain slacking and takes the chance to let the puppy dog-esque words come spilling out. Generally that just leaves me with a sheepish mouth, an exasperated brain and me caught in the middle.

Yep, I prefer writing because it comes with deleting, editing, proofing and the ilk. Sure, there are still mistakes, but at least for now, my hands and my brain get along well.

So I have PEEPS... Now what?

I have a lot of collections. Most I understand. Bears. Penguins. Laser-guided guard dogs. Then there are the Peeps. I don't really like to collect food. However, that being said, I have packages of Peeps loitering all around my house.

My husband says he eats them. I have seen no proof. A couple of weeks ago, I threw away a package of black cat Peeps that had to be 10 years old. I know some people treasure a Peep aged to perfection, but at my house they just gather dust bunnies.

I don't eat Peeps.

I know I currently have a set of yellow Peep bunnies in my living room, a package of pumpkins and ghosts in a cabinet, and somewhere in my house lurks the most heinous of all food items: the blue Peep. Well, the Peep isn't so much heinous but the blue... just picture a shudder of revulsion.

Sure I love a good marketing campaign. I'm all for all the cute Peep novelty trinketry. I own some and enjoy it as well. But I'm OK with being a fair-weather fan. I'm content enjoying the fruits with out all of that labor stuff. I can support the makers of Peeps without having sugar-coated marshmallow animals in my house.

Now is when you cue the picture of a blow-torch wielding Peep exterminator. See, that's how horrible I am. I have all the ammo to jump on the Peep photo scenario band wagon and I can't even bring myself to release the sticky critters from their cellophane confines.

Every year I know I will get new Peeps around Easter and Halloween. And I know each year I will set them aside to join the ranks of others waiting in nervous anticipation for my husband to consume them. Maybe they would rest a little easier if they knew there was no fear of that.