Thursday, January 30, 2014

Little Cookie Crackhead

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Life: far too short to bake the cookie dough.

Don't look at me like that. You know it's true. Why, why, WHY do people insist on turning soft, sugary lumps of heaven into hard, dry, sandy desert-discs? It's an outrage.

Salmonella? Pffftt. Salmonella that doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

Oh, cookie dough. I love you so. I can taste all your ingredients individually - butter, brown sugar, white sugar, salmonella. You dance on my tongue, you make me smile, you release serotonin . . .

Excuse me. I need a cigarette. And I don't even smoke.

You people call it cookie dough.

I call it crack.

Because psstt . . . come over here. I'll tell you a secret. When I was a kid? I stole stuff. Oh yes, I did. I stole cookie dough, cake mix, icing, and maybe Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs shut up right out from under my mother's and grandmother's noses.

Little cookie crackhead.

It all started with the cookie dough that I stole from the fridge. Even little thieving-thug-crackheads know that cookie dough spoils, so I snarfed it down immediately after lifting it. A few times, I got away with it. But eventually, my mother caught on. I have no idea why.

So I had to get a little more diabolical with my crime. I turned to cake mix. Straight, no chaser, out of the box, with a spoon. This too I lifted from Mom and Grandma. They didn't make cakes often, so they never seemed to remember if they had any on hand, allowing me ample opportunity to grab a box, a spoon and run to my room. Wonderful child.

Do not judge me.

Cake mix was fantastic, because cake mix? Doesn't spoil. Even little thieving-thug-crackheads know that. And after eating the quarter of a box it took to place me in a diabetic coma happy sugar high, I could close the package and keep the rest of it under my bed. For future diabetic comas sugar highs.

Verily, I shall burn in hell. For Duncan Hines yellow cake.

Little sugar crackhead.

Cocky from cake mix success, I started eyeing the box of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs my Grandma bought for Easter each year. These were the EGGS, people. Far larger, far more awesome than the measly little Reese's cups, and I drooled and begged each year when she brought home the orange and yellow carton. Grandma knew I was a little sugar crackhead addict, and she hid the box on the steps leading to the attic.

Methinks you underestimate me, Gran.

I waited until she was on the phone, snuck up the attic steps, and loaded my pockets with Reese's eggs. I crept back down, parked myself on the floor in front of the couch and commenced snarfing. Then, I stuffed the wrappers under the sofa.

Gran: "Dawn, what happened to all the Reese's eggs?"
My plan seemed foolproof - disappearing candy, no wrappers in the trash.

It was a gott-dang Scooby Doo mystery! Clearly, I was a genius.

But unlike my mom, Gran was anal about her spring cleaning. Gran pulled out her couch a few weeks later.

Gran busted me. Methinks I underestimated Gran.

And so, lo those many years ago, my life of crime came to an end. I mended my ways, confessed in church, tried to live a good life.

Until I had kids. Kids who want cookies. Little cookie crackhead kids.

Now I have to buy cookie dough, which comes with this warning:

Do not consume raw cookie dough?

Yeah, right. Just you try and stop me.

Methinks you underestimate me, Pillsbury.


Hope you didn't mind a little re-post, as I try to think of a subject for the 50th essay of my book. 
I'm so close to my goal!  And blocked. And panicked. Send cookie dough. Or cake mix. I mean, I am not picky!
Here's an untitled excerpt, one about life with a teenage daughter:

"Princess!" I yell up the stairs.
*More crickets*
She's not here right now, of course. She's seldom here. She's 16 - and a half. I really haven't seen her for six months.
When she is home, she's in her room almost constantly, very busy with her social life, her iPhone, her three-hour grooming process. Only yesterday, she was this raggedy little monkey who had to be bribed into the tub with candy, but now she drains Lake Erie with her showers. If you hear the blow dryer, you know she's home, and you'll find her upstairs, waving a Conair around her head in an urgent, determined fashion.
I don't hear a blow dryer today, and I don't feel like yelling to an empty room anymore. So I give up and decide to send her a text - our main method of communication these days.
"Exactly where the hell is my GOOD BLUSH?" I write, in a patient, motherly way.
"Oh sorry!" she texts back. "I borrowed it. It's in my room. Sorry!"
Imagine that. I figured it was up there, right beside, no doubt, my powder, my hairspray and my eyeliner . . .
Stay tuned!