6:27 pm April 14, 2009:
Mom: Get more peeps.
Me: I think you've had enough peeps.
Mom: And?
*15 minutes later*
Mom: Peeeeps.
*5 minutes later*
Mom: Peeeps.
Me: No more peeps now. Going to yoga.
Mom: Nooo. Once a year.
Me: Yoga now.
Was that the end of it? Oh hells no. This woman is on a freaking mission.
3:45 pm the following day:
Mom: Nutz wants peeps.
Me: You're obsessed.
Mom: Peeps season is short.
Me: They have them all the freaking time.
Mom: R u sure?
Me: Omg yes.
Mom: Life is good.
5:54 pm April 22, 2009:
Mom: Peeps.
Mom, I didn't teach you how to text so you could badger me about fake marshmallow that explodes in the microwave. Also, does anyone else find that link distressing from a psychosis standpoint?
2 comments:
Your mother is suffering from a far more common affliction than most people would like to admit. Peeps addiction, because of the debilitating shame and saccharine cuteness associated with it, continues to be a largely unacknowledged public health hazard. But a cursory search of the World Wide Web will reveal a startlingly broad underworld of silently suffering addicts, viz. this video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fhox5903DhY) and this forum (http://www.marshmallowpeeps.org/visitors.html),
where the symptomatology of the disorder has progressed from classic withdrawal, delirium tremens and psychotic break to the composition of awful poetry (this site is not for the faint of heart). On the other hand, there is this post from a private Blog (http://coupledumb.com/2009/03/10/790/), which is so amateurishly over-the-top in its oversimplified view of all comforting stimuli as nascent addiction that it nearly makes the practitioner in the field think it necessary to renounce the entire concept of addiction as debased and clinically useless. This counterexample should serve as a reminder that however real and tragic the horrors of Peeps addiction, the condition's diagnosis (to say nothing of the supervision of treatment) must be left to a trained professional.
At least your mom's text messages have some variety to them. My mom has mastered text messaging to a level that will only allow her to send me a text message when the moon is full, and the subject of the message merely implores me to go outside and see how pretty it is. The ancient Mayans could have predicted the frequency of my mother's text messages.
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