“There is peanut butter in my wedding ring.”
If I were to write a book about motherhood, this would be the title.
I have to admit, however, that although Kellan is to blame for the current peanut butter placement (or misplacement, rather), I have been known to find it caked elsewhere on my person from my own doings. Case in point: I once went an entire day with a glob of peanut butter in my bra. (There I go talking about my underwear again. What is this site, soft porn?!)
The day started out like any other, with a hot slice of wheat toast slathered generously with Smuckers All Natural Peanut Butter (creamy, not crunchy) sliding down my gullet, of course.
(Side note: An onlooker might think I’m eating a peanut butter square, but I assure you, there is toast under there. If I didn’t need it to deliver the peanut butter, I’d eliminate the toast from the equation. More taste bud real estate for the peanut butter.)
I was living in San Francisco at the time. Working at Lacoste, “slinging polos” as my fellow retail friends and I would say (“selling shirts” just doesn’t have the same ring or appeal, as it turns out), and going to school full time to earn my Masters in writing. (BAM, that came in handy, no?) Anyway, I was chomping away on my PB toast in my bathrobe while multitasking, hurriedly getting dressed and ready for the day. I didn’t seem to notice when a particularly slippery glop of peanut butter escaped the toast and hopped the crusty fence into my brazier. (SUCH a weird word. Brazier. Gonna have to look up the origin on that one later. I’ll let you know if it’s anything worth knowing. Otherwise I’ll spare your brain space.)
Back to the story.
I continued dressing and slipped my Lacoste polo over my head, creating a nice little barrier for the peanut butter to be sheltered there in my bosom (another fun word to say) for the entirety of the day. A peanut butter boob camp of sorts. I then went on to work for seven hours and then to class for another three, and then, who knows, maybe even to happy hour with some of my classmates after that, returning home approximately 12-15 hours later with the PB mound still in tact.
I will say that although I had no idea where it was emanating from, I did at least pick up on the fact that something, someone, around me smelled of peanuts all day. I would jog up and down the stairs to and from the stock room at Lacoste and work up just enough of a sweat to “activate” my new scent. Who the hell is eating a PB&J in the stock room? No one’s even down here! Pack your crap in the fridge, people! How rude to leave it lying about. Must be here somewhere.
I didn’t solve the mystery of the peanut butter smoke-out until I finally de-robed for bed. Ahh, ok. That explains the parade of pigeons on my trail (and on my shoulder, all cozy, pirate’s-best-friend-parrot-like) during my home-to-work-to-school-(to-booze?)-and-back commute. Not to mention the gang of kindergartners cornering me at the bus stop with saltines in their pudgy fingers, looking to scrape up the gooey goodness under my polo.* (That didn’t come out right at all.)
What did I learn from this incident? Ralph Lauren Blue may be my all-time favorite fragrance, but the runner up? Definitely l’eau de peanut. (Or, l’eau de cacahuète, en français.)
This crusty chunk casting a shadow over my pretty diamond ring isn’t my first time wearing peanut butter and I can assure you it won’t be my last.
*While the pigeons are extremely aggressive in SF – I’ve seen them snatch up a sourdough bread bowl, New England Clam Chowder (the white) and all, right off an unsuspecting luncher’s plastic lunch tray before at Cafe Boudin – they did not actually catch onto my new perfume. Neither did the children of SF.