Cookies

The other night I was lying on the sofa watching Project Runway while trying to beat my sister-in-law at Words with Friends on my ipad, when I realized there were some Oreo crumbs in my cleavage. The fact that I have no cleavage to speak of makes this all the more disturbing. I won’t deny that I did eat the Oreo, but discovering the crumbs down my shirt just made me feel real bad about myself.

I knew I was becoming that woman who always wears big sunglasses (to hide the bags under my eyes of course) and a turtleneck (to hide my developing waddle neck), but I didn’t think I was going to be the one with the ill-applied lipstick, an egg-yolk on my shirt, and Oreos between my boobs. I thought once I got past the years when I wore spit up on my shoulder like a pirate wears a parrot, and actually had the time to apply lipstick at all, I’d be able to keep myself relatively neat and clean until bedtime. So the cookies in my shirt really threw me for a loop.

I remember a time when I’d be having a really good hair day and Charles would tell me I looked a lot like Marion Cotillard….Sure he usually followed that with a request for cash or an extended bed-time, but he could have just complimented my shoes. I asked him last week if I still look like her and the poor thing thought he was being nice when he said not really but I look a lot younger than people my age. When I pressed him to divulge exactly who I looked younger than, he started naming all my mother’s friends, so I said, “Hey is that a giant zit on your chin?” before heading to the kitchen to make myself a big ol’ drink.

Once I was liquored up I dimmed all the lights and lit a bunch of candles around the house in case I were to walk past a mirror and catch my reflection. I was starting to understand why Maverick was always scolding me for leaving lights on. High electric bills, my ass.

I went back to my game to discover that my sister-in-law had thrown down a word worth 68 points. The perfect cherry on my day. She might have been cheating because I don’t think “lez” is an acceptable word, it being a politically incorrect slur and all. But as I pondered whether or not lesbians really mind being called “lez,” a sleepiness induced by the cocktail and the candlelit ambiance came over me and I dozed off.

Sometime later, I woke up to Charles standing over me and something wet on my cheeks. “Geez, Mom, were you drooling?” I thought I had sent the little twerp to bed. “It’s not like I wet my pants!” I retorted wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, as he thrust his algebra homework at me. “Don’t put it so close to my face I can’t focus like that.” What was this, word problems? I immediately had a horrific flashback to my own 8th grade math class…..

You need to make a quilt with 643 squares of fabric, of which .35% are floral and 51% are striped, in an alternating AABAB pattern. The squares cost .25 each, which is expensive, you only have $26.50 in your wallet, and your parents won’t let you take any money out of your bank account. If you ask your mother to sew the quilt, in exhange for 1/15 of your meager allowance, and you sell your old surfboard at a loss equal to your current weight in kilos to pay for the rest of the fabric, how long will it take you to get to Chicago by train if you leave at the same time your mother threads her needle and the train makes stops every 90 minutes…

I reached for my new reading glasses and a pencil. “Charlie,” I said, fluffing my coif, “get your mother a couple of Oreos and freshen up my drink.” As he bounded off I thought I recognized a bit of renewed respect in his step. Suddenly I was struck with a clarity that swept through me like a shot of brandy on a cold night:

Cookies in your boobs are much better than algebra.