So I had another round of finals today; no exams, “just” projects.  The amount of work that goes into these projects is far beyond the effort needed for any final exam, barring, only, I’d think, the LSAT and MCAT.  So although I am glad they are over, I am still riding the residual waves of anxiety and lack of sleep.

My last round will be Monday, when I will take my final exam for Leather Materials/Technologies, and present my finished book project to my Photoshop teacher.   I’m not too overly concerned about Monday.   Tomorrow is the heaviest thing on my mind.

You see, I’ve been invited to a cookie party.  The idea is quite lovely–a bunch of ladies, getting together, each one making her favorite cookie recipe in quantities large enough to pass around, and then give half a dozen out to each guest to take home.  Brilliant!  All-in-all, this would mean that I have to make around 8 dozen cookies.  Um… huh??

Yesterday I finally looked at the situation in all practicality and thought, “What the heck am I doing?!  I can’t bake!  I don’t know any cookie recipes!  How am I gonna do this in my dorm?!”   Well, I did do it.   It didn’t go exactly as planned, but I did it.   I made ginger snaps from scratch with a recipe my wonderful mother sent,  entirely from ingredients from Whole Foods.  So they are healthy and organic–as cookies go, anyway.

There are a few issues.  Today I ran around after school looking for a cute cardboard or paper-based package to put each half dozen in.  I couldn’t even find those white bakers’ paper bags!  There were simply no biodegradable options to choose from in the biggest city this side of the Mississippi.  Not one to bend my plastics rule,  I ended up buying plain brown paper bags (bonus: no bleaching) and waxed paper, wrapping them first in the waxed paper and then sticking them in the bags and sealing with a cute paper holiday sticker.

I hope nobody thinks I was cheaping out, because it probably cost more than going to the dollar store and buying a 25-pack of nasty plastic bags that will only end up un-rotting away in a landfill.

Then there are the cookies themselves… ::Sigh::  Let me begin by setting you up with the background of my misgivings.  The hostess of this party is a friend from high school (back in WNY) who has married a wonderful Italian man, and hence, married into a very Italian family.  As I was wrapping up my cookies, I realized that they may or may not be cooked all the way through.   I’m not sure!   And that’s what’s so awful!  I’ve never made them before, and they use a Crisco-like shortening, so I’m freaking out–that means that they’d be softer because of it, right? … RIGHT?!

Plus, I made two large batches and they’re just NOT ENOUGH!  I had to divide them into packs of five (oh, the shame!) in order to have the dozen left over to share at the party.  Phooey!

They’re packed, but they’re not baker-ready wrapped.  I can’t wrap a present to save my life, what made me think I could roll five cookies into a neat package in the first place?!  To add insult to injury,  the stickers don’t seem to want to stick, and they keep popping back up, throwing me into a bit of a tizzy.

Oh, I just keep having the same horrible scenario playing through my head: cookie party on the set of Moonstruck, and the grandmother (born in the Old World, of course) takes one look at my sad little ginger snaps and says, “Whatsa matta witha you?!  How you-a gonna make-a your husband hah-ppy?  Can’t even bake a little Christ-a-mas-a cookie!”

Please, please, PLEASE don’t let the Old-World grandmother trash-a my cookies in front of-a everyone-a!

And then I take a step back, and I breathe.  Everyone in that family is incredibly nice–I went to her wedding and met quite a few of them.  No one who talks like that, either.   Still… the fear is hard-a to shake.



For many months now, I have had a recurring-type of dream. Always, I am in my grandmother’s house, and there is always an extra room that was not there before. In the beginning, all of the dreams featured an extra, secret bedroom above the stairs, accessible from either the closet in my aunt’s old room, or from my grandma’s room.
Then, I started having dreams that there were extra rooms in the basement… first just one room… then two… rooms that were my grandfather’s (he died before I was born). These rooms would be discovered while we were setting everything to order after my grandmother’s death. Every dream went on in this way, though none were exactly the same, and the rooms always looked different.
Last night, I had the dream again, only this time, there was a whole FLOOR below the basement, complete with extra rooms that were my grandpa and grandma’s. Rooms that were like speakeasies and clambake kitchens… masculine and feminine abodes for adults–no toys in any of them (the basement always had the toys at Grammie’s).
I can’t help but think that this is escalating, and just had to put it out there… What could it mean?

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