Putting The Great In Grandma

Besides being the location of my conception and birth, there are many reasons to spend an exorbitant amount of cash for non-spacious, inconvenient, regional jet flights to Montreal; the top being that it has long been the residence of Grandma Cookie. Lil Sis and I had not been back since our cousins were married (no, not to each other) two years ago, so we planned a Thanksgiving day excursion to spend some quality time with the eldest of the clan.


Big Cuz, Cookie and Grandma Cookie


Prior to shoveling some Montreal smoked-meat.


Lil Sis and Grandma bake the best shortbread in the universe.

Sadly, visits to Grandma are never close enough together, as they are so very necessary for the soul. Her house is a museum of comfort and her tiny hugs quench that indefatigable thirst for acceptance. What I adore about my trips to Grandma's split-level manse is that nothing changes...ever. Her book shelf holds a stack of Maclean's magazines written before I was born; her medicine cabinet is a functioning tribute to a 1950s pharmacy; her walls sport decades-old, tacky Christmas gifts from her grandchildren; and games of cut-throat cribbage are played using a card deck virtually as old as her.











I have often said that Grandma is one of my most notable idols. All of her fascinating tales of adolescent struggle are laced with a positive downplay. She is so much more than a minister's wife who has long outlived the minister. She is a humble, faithful Christian; a healthy, active community member (with, according to her cardiologist, a heart as strong as Lance Armstrong's in training); a doting, generous parent; and a simple, frugal businesswoman who converted a preacher's pension into a reasonable fortune purely for the benefit of her legacy. She is an iconic example of how to live and love in a world devoid of material possessions. Throughout her fiercely independent life she asks for nothing and gives everything.


Our 'great' Grandma becomes a Great Grandma at the birth of Lil' Second Cuz.

Her children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren are blessed to share in her continued wisdom and live according to her selfless example.

More Babies

I can't help myself; I love babies. That statement could be frightening to a man who is not quite ready to fathom the transition from evenings of draught beer to evenings of infant goober. As such, a woman who utters the blanket statement "I love babies" without further clarification risks flaring the otherwise dormant fault line of separation between herself and her significant other.

To a woman "I love babies" means just that; she enjoys being in the presence of cuddly, giggly, warm, drooling little people who willingly indulge her nurturing instincts. To a man, "I love babies" implies an over-active, calculated and eager biological clock preying on his uncharacteristic submission to monogamy.


Cookie teaches Lil' Second Cuz all about narcissism.


Lil' Second Cuz enjoys a new play thing; Cookie's hair.


Auntie Cookie will have to work on convincing Little Timmy that dill pickles ARE the greatest.


Cookie sneaks a snuggle with a friend's sweet little meatball.


What Cookie's college roommate did post-Cookie.

Just be certain that when you're making googly faces over your best friend's six-month-old son in the presence of your man that you stress the word "eventually" throughout the conversation. That way he can rest assured that he's not alone in his desire to cling as long as possible to those late, champagne-fused evenings undisturbed by the wails of diaper-rash.

An Alpha In The Sheets

Now that I'm off the market I've been reflecting on Roosh's theories about alpha vs. beta males. I've been hesitating to post recently because I'm all-consumed in that dreamy state of mutual infatuation and want to refrain from propeling my readers to vomit in their mouths. The occasional vignette would be relatively innocuous, but otherwise I am certain the beau would prefer that his romantic gestures remain our little secret.


Cookie gets a present.

The question I have been debating is this: What does society consider a man in love to be; an alpha, a beta, or a combination of both? If I understand Roosh's post correctly, the moment a man becomes enamoured of a woman, he is figuratively castrated. Of course, I disagree wholeheartedly. Women don't want to marry granola-eating, ballet-dancing, indecisive, driveling whipping-posts. A contented man is also a courageous man because he has that much more to defend.

The rest I will leave you all to debate amongst yourselves, as I have another rendez-vous with my tough guy.

2006 Cookie Trading Card

Released a little bit later than last year due to lack of demand and personal, romantic distraction, here is this year's not-so-anticipated DC Cookie trading card:

Front:


Back:

Reflections Of The First Third Of My Life

After the age of 21, many people begin to fear their pivotal birthdays. But my concerns about aging have always been allayed by the actuarial fact that every year of my life has been better than the last. On November 12th, I reached the first rung of my own downward-spiraling milestone birthday ladder and surprisingly, it felt wonderful.



At the last minute, I decided to host a small and subdued soiree to 'celebrate' (if one can consider a slower metabolism, noisy joints, grey hair and wrinkles worthy of rejoicing) my veritable entrance into adulthood. Upon arrival I grew immediately and blissfully breathless as I was engulfed by the sea of smiles and fervent embraces of 100+ people whose lives I must have touched along our journey. My request for 'nothing big' turned out to be anything but and were it not for my mascara I might have even shed a few tears of gratitude.

From my punk rocker cousin who drove all the way from Allentown to my very first American high school friends; from GQ who hopped on a train from New York to Lil Sis who flew in from Boston; from my co-workers to the ARL girls; from my college friends to many of my cool, classy, creative blogger amigos; from an age-old buddy who ventured from Ohio to surprise me to the reigning party kings of Arlington; from former flames to the love of my life; the lounge was filled to the brim with those I hold near and dear to my heart.



A disappointing reflection for those who might have been seeking a tale of woe, but turning 30 was not dramatic. In fact, it was the absolute opposite of the gut-wrenchingly abhorrent sensation for which I had built myself up. I feel more beautiful, more content, more stable, more adventurous, more blessed, more peaceful, more pragmatic, more poised and (most importantly) more loved than I ever have before.

For those of you who made my birthday the truly momentous event that it was, thank you! You know who you are and I adore each and every one of you.

Earning the Name GQ

I have always adhered to the philosophy that there is no such thing as “falling out of love.” Despite the inevitable atrophy of a poorly functioning romantic relationship, if you truly love somebody, you will always have a place for him in your heart.

Since the inception of this blog I have consistently referred to my first post-college boyfriend as “the douchebag ex.” My relationship with him was turbulent, as many relationships are between a naive and blindly obliging young female and a stunningly handsome, magnetic, former NCAA athlete in their early 20s. Throughout the prime of our development into prudent and mature adulthood we tormented each other. Our passion was dramatic and intense, but unfocused; our trust was justifiably fleeting; and our uncertainties weighed heavily. In spite of the whole-hearted, unacceptable dysfunction, I loved the man. One day following a harrowing and sordid shouting match, I determined this instability was too much and I cut him out of my life entirely. Debates are one thing, but a love affair that tumultuous was draining, all-consuming and physically unhealthy. Just as we clapped for Ms. Britney yesterday, my friends applauded vigourously the decision they’d been dreaming I would make (and stick to) for years.

After I terminated our relationship, I never looked behind me romantically. I am much wiser and a much more suitable monogamous partner having left the dramatics and the baggage at the back door, but having carried forward an enlightened confidence and exponentially improved sense of calm. Regardless, my former lover had played such an influential role in my youth that from time to time in the period of silence that followed, I missed his friendship. Years later, when I was 100% assured that I could handle a constructive acquaintanceship, I began to converse with him again, slowly.

Our reunion occurred almost a year ago and our journey has finally brought us to the place of comfort that was intended; caring deeply for each other’s well being from afar and rejoicing in each other’s contentment. He told me in a conversation that we had just last week that he was happy to see me beaming about my new boyfriend, that he’d never heard my voice so giddy or my seen my face so youthfully blushed. I understand my ex almost better than his family, and I am certain his words were genuine.

I can finally say that I am thankful, proud even, to have him in my life. He has fought valiantly against his destructive demons to emerge on the greener side as a legitimate friend and as such, I am officially dropping the less-than-affectionate title of douchebag from his moniker.

The Many Packages of a Mate

I have never been of the opinion that a soulmate has to sport a different combination of chromosomes than me. Kindred spirits can come in all sorts of parcels. I ran away from DC this weekend to spend some quality time in the mountains with a woman who has long sported such a title in my life. She's a best friend because every fiber of her being encapsulates the same inner harmony that I was blessed to have discovered early in life and when I'm with her I mask nothing; I don't have to, she doesn't judge.



Following our lengthy hike, we sandwiched ourselves into a well hidden neighbourhood dive bar for authentic Mexican grub and some eye-poppingly strong margaritas. In a cozy booth we spent time gossiping about old times and new men. Of course, I couldn't help but gush at length about the journey I have taken with my sweetheart, from long-lost friend to distant super-crush to beau, and I droned on with tens of examples to validate why I'm so completely enamoured of him.

After a short pause to sip our margaritas and contemplate all that I'd laid out on the table she said, "You know, Cookie, you realize you're basically dating me with a penis." I coughed on a salty ice cube as soon as she said it, partly because she's hysterical and partly because she's frighteningly accurate...

Cojones

A girl can be nothing but blushfully flattered when a man is so fleetingly taken with her that after a handshake and a thank you he realizes he cannot let this be the last moment you converse. Despite the presence of 50 of her fellow recruits and colleagues lingering at the tail end of a private dinner, the upscale server throws caution to the wind and chases the girl down the block as she departs towards her car.

Server: "Cookie!"
Cookie: "Oh, hi. Shoot, did I forget something?"
Server: "No, no..." (catches his breath) "I wanted to see if you had a business card."
Cookie (surprised): "Okay. Sure, let me check..." (hands him card).
Server: "Thank you. I was hoping that you would be free to meet me for drinks sometime."
Cookie (uncomfortably blushing): "Oh, that's incredibly thoughtful! I'm so sorry, I'm actually engaged [artistic liberty, I will be soon enough] so drinks would be out of the question, but that's very kind of you and I'm sincerely flattered."
Server (awkward pause): "Yes, well, my brother is looking for a job, so perhaps I can e-mail you his resume?"
Cookie: "Okay! Please do." (Server returns to the restaurant).
Cookie (to the recruiting candidates watching the episode unfold): "Wow, yes, our waiter really did just ask me on a date...how hysterical?"

I must admit, that took a ridiculous volume of courage to race after me on the street like that. I wish more men in the world had those kind of cojones.

Jalapenos Don't Grow In Ethiopia

May I present to you a fleeting vignette also titled "only things that Cookie would do." Last night I sat down to a radiant evening meal with my sweetheart and his mother who I was meeting for the first time. The choice was a small ethiopian venue in the heart of the mayhem that is Georgetown on the night of Halloween. Following our beet salad the waitress filled the table with a platter of spiced meat and vegetables. For my first bite, I decided to sample the cabbage and okra that was closest to me. The problem was, what I thought was a large piece of okra was in fact a pepper so spicy I would have happily squelched the fire that was my tongue for the next five minutes with a glass of habanera juice. I giggled as graciously as I could while a few tears streamed involuntarily down my cheeks and the waitress raced a small cup of milk to my aid.

Although we'd broken the ice much earlier with discussions of our similar career paths and mutual admiration for her offspring, this certainly helped to melt away any potential remaining awkwardness. Because what parent would not embrace a goofy girlfriend who can swallow a flaming jalapeno with dignity?