Chirky

At work, Fridays are always exciting for me because I am a member of The
Breakfast Club. Each week a different person brings breakfast for our elite
group, and we delightedly take our fill of taquitos, omelets, bagels, doughnuts,
and quiches � whatever is available.

This morning was different because the law clerk, Jennifer, decided she would
take advantage of The Breakfast Club Fridays. She told me yesterday, "I like to
bribe my way into the hearts of my coworkers, and nothing works better than
cookies..."

When she told me this, I laughed at the truthfulness of her statement. Everyone
likes to be liked, and she is likeable WITHOUT the cookies, so this morning she
just earned bonus points with us.

I followed another coworker into the kitchen this morning, entranced by the
wafting aroma of homemade eggs and potatoes for the taquitos. Two boxes caught
my eye as soon as we walked in, and I stopped to look at them. Inside, dozens of
cookies (oatmeal raisin, sugar, snickerdoodle, and chocolate chip) were piled
high within the confines of the cardboard walls.

The cookies looked normal enough � there was nothing grandeur or unique about
them, except they were only slightly underbaked, with the perfect amount of
brown coloring, and I could tell by looking at them that they were going to be
mouth-wateringly chewy instead of just-okay crispy. They held the promise of a
sweet treat, so I hurriedly put together my taquito, grabbed a chocolate chip
cookie, and headed toward my office.

I took a bite of the cookie, just to sample it before I started in on my
taquito, and something about it made me take another bite. Before I knew what
had happened, I had eaten the cookie, half of my taquito, and was heading back
to the kitchen for another. (Cookie. Not taquito.)

Warning, Warning: Roger, do not read any further.

My fingers automatically found the chocolate chip variety, grabbed two, and
carried them carefully back to my office, as though they should be on a
pedestal, or that any moment they might disappear.

I finished my taquito, savored each bite of the two cookies, and decided to send
Jennifer an email because OH MY GOODNESS I CANNOT KEEP MYSELF AWAY FROM THE
COOKIES THEY ARE DRAWING ME IN LIKE UFO'S TRACTOR BEAM! I have never, ever, EVER
had a cookie of this caliber, and that's saying a lot, because Katie makes great
cookies! But these are So. Much. Better.

Sorry, Katie. You'd think so too IF ONLY YOU WERE HERE TO TRY THEM. At the pace
I'm going though, there wouldn't be any left for you.

I asked Jennifer where she got these cookies, confident that it was located in
some obscure town and she had flown them in for this special day, because these
cookies were OUT OF THIS WORLD. I was certain that only she had access to this
secret, unknown place.

She responded, �It's JD's Chippery in Snider Plaza, or as I call it, the
Happiest Place on Earth. It's right across the street from school, at an
intersection where, last year, THREE pedestrians were hit in separate incidents,
but even the looming threat of vehicular injury doesn't keep me from going."

And now I know why.

I grabbed a fourth cookie, headed into her office, and agreed with her that
these cookies MUST have something in them besides butter and eggs. If I do not
have the taste of one of these cookies in my mouth, I begin feeling the affects
of withdrawal. I salivate at the mere thought of the delectable treats, and then
I start eating them in larger amounts that ANYONE had originally intended for
me. Much like an addict, I am experiencing the inability to decrease the amount
of the cookies I am consuming.

All self-control has been sucked from my powerless body, and I'm spending a
great deal of time thinking up ways to eat the cookies without anyone knowing
that I'm getting them. If only I could crawl up into the ghetto-fied kitchen
ceiling through the missing tile, armed only with a glass of milk and a
go-go-gadget arm-reacher, I could silently gorge myself to obesity, devouring
every last scrum-didilly-icious crumb from the box.