Confession

Cookie day happened! All of the cookies that were planned came to fruition. The kitchen smelled heavenly. We finished just before ten p.m. All went according to plan - even down to the new story that will live on in infamy.

I wear reading glasses. Not because I'm aging, mind you, just because I like the fashion statement. My favorite pair was given to me as a gift from a very special friend who doesn't mind pointing out my weaknesses and tending to them when I refuse to do so myself. The glasses are lightweight, made out of some kind of bendable plastic so I can sit on them, drop them at the bottom of my purse and throw my wallet and camera on top of them, and still have them there to use when I can't pretend my way into understanding words on a page by osmosis. The glasses are red. Not my favorite color, but, in the world of glasses fashion they step out.

I was wearing them on cookie day. Because, uh, they matched my Santa shirt. (Really. I have the recipies memorized!) I bent to put a tray of cookies in the oven and the darn things slid right off my head, on to the inside of the oven door where they then slid down the partially closed door and because they are so lightweight, just continued their journey all the way to the far back of the oven where, because they are so lightweight, they proceeded to melt.

In horror I had a flash of two full trays of cookies being contaminated by the fumes and whatever unknown gases might erupt from the unplanned chemistry experiment. Without further consideration I quickly grabbed the bottom, unusued oven rack, yanked it out and threw it on top of the stove. (Thankfully I was already wearing an oven mit before this entire debacle began.) I grabbed the second rack just as quickly and within seconds had my body in the oven and retrieved the remainder of the glasses - which are now and forever more hanging on my Christmas tree.

I did all of this without glasses. Which just goes to show that I don't need them! The only other mishap of the day was also mine. And also involved hot cookie trays. I got a little ahead of myself as I was switching out trays and somehow managed to lean up against one fresh out of the oven and now have a nice little burn on my stomach to show for it. My fault for wearing a short shirt that left skin exposed while I cooked. Next year I'll remember to dress more appropriately.

Now for the confession. All went according to plan until the next day. You know, the time I have that first taste of sugar cookie that I spoke about last week? Well, I don't know what happened to me, but things went a little awry Sunday. I went to church like a good little girl. I came home with full intentions to wrap gifts - with that little snack of sugar cookies beside me. But somehow time - or good sense - got completely away from me. I stood outside myself and watched with horror and a complete inability to intervene, as I became a reckless kid and, throwing caution to the wind, did exactly as I wanted to do, regardless of the consequences. I spent the next three hours alternately packing cookies away in tins and sitting in front of the fire with diet coke and eating. Nothing but cookies. The first five were a complete delight. The second five were sinful. The third five were an embarrassment. And then I quit counting.

So now you see why I had to come to confession - and I'm not even catholic. I wish I could tell you that I'm exaggerating here, taking poetic liscense. But I truly am not. I'd share Monday with you, as proof, but I won't expose you all to the anguish of the day after glom day. Just rest assured, I paid the consequences. I can't remember a time in recent history that I was so sick.

I was a much better girl yesterday. I ate real food in between cookies. Today, it's 9:44 am and all I've had to eat are sugar cookies again. I think I need re-hab. Anyone know of a 12 step sugar cookie program?