I ate the cookies again.
I have to stop.
And it's nothing against the cookies themselves–I'm sure they're very nice. Probably they have lots of little niece and nephew graham crackers that they buy gifts for every Christmas and Hanukka and Ball Point Pen Day. Probably they donate to the Girl Scouts of America whenever they can. Probably they even remember to write home to the bakery and go on and on about all of their adventures in cheesecake crusts.
So it's nothing personal. They just have to go.
This time it's little maple leaf-shaped sandwich cookies from Canada: nice crispy yet dense shortbread cut in the shape of leaves and sandwiched around a decadent layer of maple cream filling. Probably made with B-grade maple because it's that dark and spectacular. (I know, I know. All you A-Grade enthusiast are rolling over in your pancakes right now. But seriously? I can't taste A-grade. It's like someone waved a brown crayon over a bowl of corn syrup.)
I'm feeling kind of rhapsodic about these cookies, so it's clear I must throw them out. Because, see, the problem is I stay up late at night working on all the things I didn't get done during the day. And when I have to stay up late I feel a little neurotic and OCD and start thinking of all the things I didn't get right, on top of all the things I didn't get done. And then I feel stressed and my self-esteem takes a hit. And the only way to calm it down it is with cookies. Or cupcakes with cream cheese filling and buttercream frosting, and cinnamon sugar on top and a name that is spelled Snickerdoodle Cupcake. Or something.
But I'm well into my forties younger than a lot of people in Hollywood who only look young because they use Botox and they clothespin their extra skin to their ears. I can't eat the cookies any more. Even if I'm super über stressed. Because I am starting to get little maple leaf-shaped cellulite globules on my thighs. I know I'm not imagining it. Also, I'm starting to say "Eh" at the end of every sentence, and that's just not acceptable. I'll do that automatically when I turn 90 years old. I don't need to practice now.
Problem is? I haven't been able to stop eating them. And I can't get myself to throw them out. I mean, I'd like to. I just haven't been able to.
It's okay, though. I've just formulated a plan. I know exactly how to stop eating these cookies now. First, I'll read "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People"–which will, of course, make me highly effective. Then I'll read, "Who Moved My Cheese," bringing about habits of adaptability and flexibility. And Finally I will read "The Prisoner of Azkaban," because I like it.
After all of that I'll order 47 pounds of Samoa's and Thin Mints from the Girl Scouts, and drown out the flavor of the Maples.
Woohah! Success!
Heh. I so get this. My problem….OK, one of my problems… is that I don’t slow down enough to eat a real meal, so I snack. And it’s just soooo easy to snack on one more little tiny piece of brownie, or cheesecake bars, or whatever that isn’t a carrot.
What I wanna know is why they’ll make a corn plant that is resistant to weed killer, but they won’t make a carrot that tastes like candy. Somebody needs to get his priorities straight.
Ah! Did they save you a cheesecake bar then? Most excellent. And yes. Priorities are all screwed up. Although until I can grow carrots that don’t all turn left at the bottom, I won’t worry too much about growing candy carrots.