I'm taking the cookies with me . . .

So I came into the office this morning feeling groggy and depressed. Well, on my way to depressed. I wasn't awake enough to feel much of anything. And then one of the professors came by my office and dropped off a plate of cookies she'd baked for me. Okay, so she hadn't baked just for me, but she was making cookies and she decided that she would bring a plate to me. Still an awfully sweet thing to do.

What is it about a plate of cookies from someone you hardly know that just makes you feel all warm and wonderful?

Since I didn't post yesterday, and I really have nothing worthwhile to post today, I thought I would put a picture of my cookies up, but then I discovered that I forgot my cellphone today.

Damn!

So, instead, you get the next best thing - an artist's rendering of my cookies:

Okay, so I pinched the cookie image off the web and Photoshopped it. Perhaps I should actually draw my own cookies:

Yes, they have smiley faces on them! How could a plate of gifted, smiley face cookies not make you smile yourself? I haven't eaten any of them yet. They're too adorable. Besides, if I eat these cookies, I will look like this:

(Yes, that is a proportional drawing of my clown feet. Oh, my hands too. I have giant hands. Like in that Seinfeld episode. Man hands. I could crack a lobster with these babies. Not that I would crack lobster: I don't particularly care for lobster. I mean, for eating lobster. I guess if I didn't like actual lobsters, then going around and cracking them with my giant hands would seem perfectly logical).

Of course, because I am neurotic this way, I am also concerned that if I do eat the cookies, especially here in the office, there's a chance that the phone will ring or a student will stop by just as I have taken a bite (shoved an entire cookie in my mouth), and in an attempt to keep from speaking with a mouthful of cookie and running the risk of a: sounding like a snorting warthog when answering the phone or b: spraying wet cookie crumbs all over a student, I will swallow too big a bite, choke on the sugary goodness, and die due to the fact that a: I am on the phone, mouthful of cookie, with a blocked airway and unable to communicate my need for an ambulance or b: the student who is in my office, in a rushing attempt to administer the Heimlich manuever, will trip over my giant clown feet, run smack into the corner of my desk, and be rendered unconscious, thereby leaving me to suffocate because of the cookie lodged in my throat. Then I will look like this:

So, you see, were I to consume these smiley-face cookies, I would die a terrible death. My obituary would read that I died because of an affinity for sweets, they would have to buy a giant-sized coffin to bury my fat ass, and all the people who made fun of my in high school would get a good laugh at my expense. Yet again. And because of my past transgressions, and the fact that I am a smoking, lesbian-loving, radical feminist, socialist hippie, I would, according to my grandmother and minister uncles, end up in hell:

And no, that's not a tiny devil in the corner, that's a lobster because as we all know, lobsters are unclean and have no chance of entering heaven when they pass on.

So I would die, humiliated, and suffer eternal damnation. All because some horrid professor stayed up last night, plotting my demise (probably because I didn't order the right kind of chalk or scented white-board markers), and baked me cookies, knowing that I would be unable to resist temptation.

Well, cookie-baker, I have news for you! I can resist your cookies. I say NO to the cookies. I will not taste . . .

Oh, wait, I just remembered I left my cell phone in the car!

Hold on while I upload the image . . .

Wonderful, smiley-face cookies baked just for me:

(Oh, and for the record, this is what I look like now, without eating cookies:)

All the Kool kids are doing it

I didn’t start smoking until I got to graduate school. Okay, that’s not true. I smoked while I was at Basic Training. And yes, I was in the military for eight years. I smoked at Basic because smokers sometimes got a three minute patio break while non-smokers had to stand in formation. I quickly took up the habit. But it only lasted those six weeks and then I gave it up. Easy as that.

My parents household was for the most part smoke-free. Mostly because any members of my extended family who lit up in the house were quickly chased out by the cloud of Lysol my father let loose in the room. But most of my mother’s family did smoke, including my grandfather who, upon being diagnosed with emphysema, switched from Camel no-filters to Kool Milds.

I always found it to be a disgusting habit. Elementary school health classes had filled my mind with images of diseased lungs and voice boxes inserted into people’s tracheae. Plus, any time I entered a smoky room, my eyes would burn and start to water and I’d have a sneezing fit. So in high school, when many of my friends picked up the habit, I passed. And even though I smoked for those six weeks at training, I found it nothing to stop. I maybe had one here or there, at a bar after way too many drinks, but I always woke up feeling extra hung over and vowed never to do that again.

Then came graduate school.

Here’s how it happened. Back when I was in the military, and I worked for the human resource officer, I found out that all the really good stuff, all the really important decisions, were made on the back loading dock where the smokers hung out. Remember that episode of Friends where Rachel takes up smoking because her boss is becoming all chummy with another co-worker on smoke breaks? It was exactly like that. Lucky for me then, I was already in with the smokers, and they found me charming enough to allow me to hang out while they smoked, and I never had to take a puff.

When I got to grad school, I found the situation was pretty much the same. No important decisions were being made, but all the best discussions about writing, all the funniest stories, all the invitations to the coolest parties were occurring on smoke breaks. And I was missing out. The thing was, they were cool enough to let me tag along, but since we were all working in different parts of the building, doing different things, I never knew when they would be going outside unless I happened to be in the vicinity at the time.

Until one weekend, when at the bar across the street, we all got to drinking and I eventually bummed a cigarette. And then a few more. The next Monday, when everyone went out to smoke, somebody came to get me.

I was officially cool.

And apparently, emotionally, still in junior high.

So how did I get from the occasional drunk-smoke and cigarette break to full-blown pack a day addict? It could be that over the next couple of years, with my son (at the time) still living with his father, I had a lot more time to spend at the bar, where I sat, with my laptop, writing and drinking and smoking until my friends showed up and I would drink and smoke some more. It could be that in the years following my (in)completion of grad school, I struggled financially and emotionally, and cigarettes, despite their expense, were my only comfort, the only thing over which I had any control. Or it could be that smoking is a very slow, relatively painless, deliberate act of suicide on my part.

All I know is that the thought of giving it up now fills me with dread. Not because of the withdrawal period that I know comes with quitting (they have drugs for that now - wonderful drugs). And not because I think that I will substitute food for nicotine and ruin my body-by-Hostess physique.

The truth is, and I am not afraid to say it, I love to smoke.

That's right. I love smoking. I love the way a cigarette feels in my hand. I love how the smoke calms me down when I'm stressed (this may be purely psychological). I love that I always have a built in break time. I don't love that I always have to carry mints and body spray and the unconscionable amount of money I spend on fabric refresher, but I find these things a small price to pay for something so dependably wonderful.

Haters, feel free to comment by clicking the link below.

I have to go light up.