Betsy’s Cookies, Part Deux
Come on, people. This is crazy. And annoying. And… impossible to escape.
The lure of Betsy’s cookies, that is. We thought we were done with this chapter, right? I’m off desserts for 40 days, blah blah blah, Betsy brought cookies to my house over a week ago and last week I was tempted but didn’t eat one, blah blah blah…
But that one freakin cookie that is left? The one – just one! – that has sat in that plastic bag for the entirety of these nine days since she brought them all over, and made it through not one, but two day trips to the beach, one yesterday and one today with my entire family and friends, and you are telling me that my husband and my kids and my friends are eating the hummus sandwiches and the tuna sandwiches and the Z Bars and the chips and the popcorn and the seaweed and the figs and the melon and the grapes and just about every mother f**ing other thing we bought EXCEPT the last homemade chocolate chip cookie that Betsy made us???
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?????
I realize now that I am a chocolate chip/desertaholic. Because no one else seems to care. Seems to mind. Seems to NOTICE, that – HELLO!?? – a CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE IS LITERALLY STARING YOU WHEN YOU OPEN THE SNACK BAG, ITS CRISPY GOLDEN EYE WITH ITS GOOEY CHOCOLATE PUPIL(S) AND ITS FUZZY, CRUMBY LASHES, BATTING AT YOU, SEDUCING YOU, PRACTICALLY OFFERING YOU MONEY JUST TO PICK THE DARN THING UP AND EAT IT???????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Shit. I have a problem.
You know how, when you don’t like your drink or you already drank enough to get a buzz, and you leave some wine or half a beer or a few fingers left in your cup, and as you take your cup back to the bar or the counter or to the trash, that guy or girl comes up to you, and is like, “You’re going to finish that right? You’re not throwing that away, are you?”
That guy/girl. Who cannot BEAR to see an ounce of alcohol not be poured down someone’s throat, if it has already been served to that someone. Maybe you are that guy (or girl). If you are, I say to you: Chill out, dude. It’s just wine/beer/a martini. I had enough. You have your own drink. Go focus on something that matters, like getting our Congress to take its head out of its collective ass.
But now, I realize… I am that guy. Or rather, that (grownup) girl. I cannot fathom how anyone related to me by marriage or blood, or anyone who calls me their friend, could NOT have already eaten that cookie that was swimming around the snack bag for two days and counting.
I really hope at the end of forty days I don’t even notice things like that. Things like – sniff!! – the last Betsy cookie in the bag.
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)