Disaster struck at 2 PM on July 10, 2012. I had been to the market on my semi-annual trek for food and because of the stress to me of that activity, I required a cookie. It was not just any cookie, but rather a freshly baked, chocolate chocolate chip cookie of a generous size. The market doesn’t always have these cookies on their shelves. Imagine my delight when I saw, through the cellophane top of the square cardboard box, a dozen deeply chocolate, yummy-looking cookies.
Upon my arrival home and after the huge exertion of putting away several bags (sorry, plastic) of groceries, I sat down with my tea and cookies and with great anticipation, opened the box. Horrors! There before me were at least three of those brown beauties in pieces. Broken. My cookies were broken.
Before eating even one small broken piece, I bravely telephoned the market and told them what had happened. I explained that I would put up with this tragedy, but they should inform the people who pack the bags to be more careful. I explained that I sometimes take cookies to the children in my class and how upset they would be to have broken cookies. (I figured that heartbreaking, and true, story would solve that problem for a while.)
I then proceeded to eat the broken pieces. The problem with not having the cookie whole is that you can’t judge how much you have eaten. I didn’t want to short myself because, after all, it’s important to take care of yourself after a disaster.
The reason the cookies broke is because of those plastic bags. The packer, who was not just some bag boy they had pulled in off the street, was a seasoned bagger. I had been in his line many times. But for some reason, he put the cookie box into the bag on its side, rather than seating it carefully on its bottom. That’s like putting a kid into his car seat head first. Who would do that? Cookies are sweet and fragile like kids. Well, most kids.
Now my whole cookies are individually wrapped in foil and in the freezer where they will remain until I remove one and defrost it, though I have been so anxious to eat one that I ate it frozen. Crunchy, but not too bad.
“Good grief,” you must be thinking, or something similar. “She is a fanatic about her cookies. I can’t believe she called the market to complain.”
Well, that’s the whole point of my book, “Ticked Off And Tickled About It,” You need to do more than complain about something; try to fix the problem. And, I’m so mellow from all the chocolate that I don’t yell when I complain. I’m calm. Sort of.
COMING NEXT: How To Do Nothin’
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