This Cookie Monster Has Gone out of Control

There is a slight possibility that our bulldog, Wonderbutt, ate a Girl Scout.*  So far, no one has reported that there is one missing, but the evidence in Wonderbutt’s Poop Pen is quite damning.  Yes, he could have just taken one of the boxes of cookies off of our counter, and devoured half of it outside.  But there is no way that fat little dog can reach the center of the counter where the boxes have been sitting.  He can’t even get enough altitude to jump onto his favorite armchair at night.  It is far more likely that: a persistent Girl Scout came to our door while we weren’t home, rang the doorbell twenty times, decided to make sure we really were not home by checking out the back of our house, climbed over the fence, saw the dog door, and decided to crawl through and deposit ten boxes on our counter along with a big fat bill.  Before she could unload her Savannah Smiles onto our counter,  Wonderbutt charged her, and gobbled her whole.  Still hungry (because she must have been a fairly small Girl Scout to fit through his dog door), Wonderbutt then proceeded to polish off the boxes of cookies that had fallen to the floor, only stopping when he heard us arriving home.  Then, he dragged the remains of the box to his Poop Pen to leave as a warning for any other adventurous, yet ill-fated, Girl Scout who might attempt to darken his dog door.

I just hope they don’t make us pay for all the cookies he ate.

*By reading this post, you have committed yourself to be my lawyer, thus ensuring your confidentiality in this matter.  Or you can be my therapist; you pick.

 

I guess he could have climbed the stool – but how likely is that?

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It’s Official – I’m Not Martha Stewart

Yesterday was our annual Cookie-Baking Extravaganza with Grandma.  Per tradition, the three of us (Grandma, nine-year old Dimples, and me) donned our Cookie-Baking Extravaganza aprons.  Dimples insisted on wearing the one I personalized for her when she was five.  It’s far too short, so I tried to hand her a slightly larger one, labeled “Little Helper.”  But Wonderbutt had a different idea.  He grabbed the apron himself.

Since Wonderbutt seemed so insistent on involving himself in the process, I decided to outfit him with the apron that Dimples refused to wear.  Apparently, tearing around the house with it in his mouth was much more appealing to Wonderbutt than actually wearing it.  Thus, my dreams were dashed of my handsome dog ever becoming a canine clothing model.

Our "Little Helper"

Or not.

Once Wonderbutt clarified what he intended to be his role in this whole event, we set to baking, and he set to sticking right by me in case I dropped anything.  It did not matter to him in the least that he was completely in the way.  This was his best chance to get something yummy, and he was not going to leave the scene for a moment.  Even though we were completely using up his prime napping time, he steadfastly remained, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier and his face looking more and more dejected.

Meanwhile, I could not spare much time to feel sorry for Wonderbutt, as we were trying out some new cookie recipes, and I needed to concentrate every working neuron on trying to overcome my measuring disability.  In addition, Dimples had chosen a recipe to make cookies shaped like pretzels – completely oblivious to the fact that all three of us have a spatial disability, and cannot, apparently, make pretzel shapes.  I like how the recipe, by Martha Stewart, simply stated, “Shape like a pretzel.”  Cap’n Firepants pointed out that there was a picture of a finished pretzel shape to help me, to which I shot back that it was clearly no help at all to someone who can’t find out where she is in the middle of a mall even when she is looking straight at a directory that says, “You are here.” Things got tense in the kitchen until I finally said, “Who says pretzels have to be a specific shape?  There’s stick pretzels, too.”

This is the closest I got to making a pretzel shape.

I swear Wonderbutt did not make this one himself in the back yard.

Besides, no one is coming to our house for Christmas, anyway.

The evening was topped by me walking into the living room where Wonderbutt was seated in the armchair, and Grandma was standing in front of the television watching The Sound of Music.  Grandma had been sitting on that chair when I left the room fifteen minutes earlier.  Apparently, Wonderbutt first tried to solicit an invitation onto the chair by sitting at Grandma’s feet and looking up at her determinedly with his sad eyes, but she did not understand his intention.  So, he went across the room, and took a running leap onto her lap.  At which point she decided to surrender the chair to him.  Her comment?

“I guess dogs like him do things like that.”

And that pretty much sums up Wonderbutt.

Why Aren’t They Called Doughnuts?

I love cookies.  I am the Cookie Monster of the 21st century.  If you take away my cookies,  I will hunt you down.

I am talking internet website cookies.  The ones that remember things for you, like where you have visited, what you have already purchased on that site, and, most importantly, your login and password.  As we have already established, I have a memory problem.  And passwords are about 99% of my problem.

I realize it’s very Big Brother to have these sites tracking everything I do.  And I should probably resent the privacy intrusion.  But I’m getting to the point that I just don’t care.  Kind of like when I didn’t care when I was delivering my baby and my husband and 4 perfect strangers were watching the situation unfold on a mirror on the ceiling.  I had more important things to worry about than my sudden lack of privacy.

So when I periodically have to clean things off of my hard drive and cookies go with them, I get a little cranky.  Suddenly, the sites that have been greeting me by name have no idea who I am.  And I don’t either.

Which person was I when I started my Amazon account?  And what was my password du jour?  I started my internet identity as a fairly whole person, then gradually started splitting into multiple personalities as I attempted to cleverly outwit the brilliant hackers that are tracking every keystroke.

A psychiatrist would have a field day sifting through all of these identities.  Which is fine.  If he can make some sense of them, and discover the *&!@#$#! passwords, I would consider it worth the $1,000 per hour.

I get e-mails on a regular basis (addressed to various different identities) reminding me that I haven’t visited lately, and I feel like a blackout drunk trying to recall when I ever even visited the first time.  I am constantly hitting the “forgot password?” link because, God forbid, there is no regulatory commission for passwords, and different sites have different rules for length, number of letters and numbers you can use.  Many times, I hit the password link, only to be told that I never registered for that site to begin with.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if there suddenly seems to be a long lull in my blogging, don’t call the police or anything to report that I’m missing.  First of all, remember my Phobia about stuff like that.  And secondly, I probably just forgot my !@$%! blog password.