8:06 p.m. - March 28, 2004
Baking cookies. And it's not even midnight.
We're baking cookies - correction: He's watching a movie, and I'm baking cookies. The ones I make once in a long while when the urge strikes or I'm asked sweetly, the ones that my high school students begged for and used as a negotiating tactic: If we do ____ well, will you bring them in? and often I would. Most of the time I'd bake cookies only on those nights I couldn't sleep, and from there I'd clean the bathroom while the house smelled like chocolate chips. And back then I wouldn't eat the cookies, just watch as others enjoyed them. Looking at me now it's obvious I've begun eating them, too. Life was better when I was in shape and in control of everything.
These are my secret ingredient chocolate chip cookies, the ones without a recipe. Spec called them my secret weapon cookies because a) he's into weapons being the frustrated keep-being-turned-down-from-the-assignment-he-really-wants-involving-real man-weapons[thank god] and b) because I do use something that makes these cookies stand out. Ryan II's munching away and this makes me feel happy almost, more like content, except that it all feels wrong. I want someone - man, woman, it doesn't matter - to bake cookies with me because oddly, it's during this time that I feel talkative and open. Perhaps because the higher cognitive functions are engaged in brown and white sugar ratios so the things I refuse to think about at other times are given free reign, though they don't run amok and make me scared. When I am focused elsewhere things are controlled and pleasant if that makes sense, and I feel halfway good thinking about my childhood issues while creaming butter and chocolate chips together. I am glad to see that I'm now focusing - engaging? - on another person being there, with whom I can talk about these things, rather than focused intrapersonally like I've always done.
I don't feel bad about myself tonight; I am talkative and ready. Aware. It is a great feeling.
First person to send me an address gets a dozen cookies. Send an email to [too late] [at] aol.com. Now don't make me look bad or feel stupid when nobody takes the offer, so send now.
Update: Something's different with these cookies. Not quite right; merely ordinary, though good. Must determine what went wrong.
