Don’t Speak

TAB's fave – Half Moons

Yesterday morning Jen and Oni had a little brunch soirée. On the guest list were Jen’s mother (also named Donna – no, don’t read anything into that!), her fab Uncle Bob, sister Erin, brother-in-law P.J. and nephew Patrick (he’s almost three now!). I haven’t felt like being in groups or around many people AT ALL but this crew is nothing but wonderful, comfortable and awesome.

Mega cool, right?

Erin and Patrick came up on the veranda (as we refer to the raised cement platform which connects Jen and Oni’s house with ours). We were talking about Patrick having just seen his very first movie theater flick – The Secret Life of Pets. Hey, ME TOO! And then Erin very accidentally pulled the trigger.

She used the word cookies as in, I baked you some cookies. And she had. I began trembling and my face began a slo-mo crumble, a silent sob (as far as I know but, hey, I’m deaf) rolled up through my chest. A tsunami of weeping threatened. I ran inside my house – rather I would have but, now that I lock my door, I stood there fumbling with my keys, trying but ultimately failing to keep the gasping, soggy howls at bay. I finally made it inside and collapsed in TAB’s recliner. Honest to Bast, if this display of raw emotion had been intentional it woulda snagged me an Oscar, a Golden Globe and a Tony or three.

Now then, this is Erin McMurrer, Saint Erin (!), Erin fucking McMurrer – the test kitchen director of Cooks Illustrated. Baked goods from her can only be the most exquisite, drool inducing, Valhallian manna. Seriously! So, wut up?

TAB used to bake me cookies – special ones with spinach!  This and TAB was the Cookie Monster. MY Cookie Monster.

Jen came and found me, by this time I was in the bedroom scaring poor Rocco with my howls of pain. She knew that a trigger had been pulled but didn’t know what it was.

"She said the word cookie," I cried, dissolving in a fresh round of tears.

"OK, 'Jen calmly replied, "we won’t say that word again. What should we call them instead?"

"Biscuits. Call them biscuits or anything else. Just don’t say that word!"

"We won’t."

Jen escorted me back to the party. As we walked through the door, Jen quietly advised all to not use the word cookie. I realized, fairly quickly, that I was in Bullets Over Broadway/Diane Wiest-ian territory. You know – Don’t speak! Added to the ban on cookie was Don’t hug. I was in such a fragile state that even the most gentle embrace would set off the waterworks.

I could see and truly appreciate the tragicomedy – the whole business of having the word cookie, of all things, set me off was, really, pretty damn funny. Still, I felt it was best not to rain on everyone’s brunch parade any more. Every kind string of words uttered was a minefield.

I went up to my bedroom to read more Slaughterhouse-Five.

Some days, some moments are better than others. And so it goes...

I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.
~ Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five