I’m Not Paranoid, But They’re Out to Get Me

Cookies are like my crack. (Heh, I said cookies are like my crack.) Ahem, as in junkies can’t resist crack, and I can’t resist cookies. In fact, they should not be called cookies at all. They should be called crackies.

I have been known to tuck a fresh new box of Nutter Butters under my arm and scurry off to some secluded corner for a covert crackie high. (Plus, it's just not safe to share Nutters, people.) One bite, and the warmth flows all through me. My greatest fear over the holidays was that my family would find me in the bakery aisle, slumped beneath a display case with my zipper down and belly protruding, dried crumbs freckling the lower half of my face, and my head lolling to one side in a crackies-infused trance. My nanababies would place a sign over my head that read: Just Say No to Dough.

Call me paranoid, but people, guess who's driving the crackies train? None other than my daughter, Notorious T.M.G., who recently received a brand-spankin' new Kitchen Aid from her G-ma and G-pa. To think, my own parents are behind this conspiracy. The horror! Even though the holidays have passed, I face an onslaught of temptations that clearly spell my doom via my expanding waistline. TG has labored relentlessly in her mix lab, whipping up home-made batches of crackies, laced with the most potent ingredient known to man: toffee bits.

I also take issue with angelic-looking, but no less notorious, imps outside Wally World who are crackie dealers in disguise. I have been held up at charity point, people, while Children of the Crackies implore oh-so-innocently, “We don't have enough money to go to Paris, France. Boo-hoo, it sucks to be us. Can we interest you in some crackies?” And you know they always tack on a “ma’am” at the end. Despicable!

Equally disturbing are my co-workers—enablers unconstrained by even one shred of human decency—who partake of crackies right in front of me, even moaning sensually when they swallow. Oh yes! Just yesterday at lunch, having witnessed one of them inhaling a line of chocolate chip, I could not stop myself. After scarfing an entire panini, I returned to the display case and bought not one, not two, but THREE gargantuan crackies (you can't put just one on your Visa). Though I kept telling myself, "Don't do it!" once I had those crackies in my hands (what a rush!), I was destined for rehab.

It's so bad that I'm afraid one day you'll find me begging on street corners, waving a sign at passing motorists that says: Will do stuff for crackies.

Hey, I smell . . . [sniff, sniff] . . . OMFG, she's in the kitchen AGAIN! People, I’m gonna need an intervention.

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