My Name is Jules, and I am a Cookie-holic

I should have listened to Boomer Girl.

Remember back in November when she warned us the Girl Scouts were making their way around town, suckering people into purchasing what she called “legal heroin” with their cute, semi-toothless smiles?

Rather than heed her warning and avoid eye contact with the brown-sashed cookie pushers, I ordered four boxes from one. And four more from my niece.

What can I say? I got hooked on them long ago, when a neighborhood girl came by selling cookies. And, boy, did she hit the jackpot, I was eight months pregnant and ripe for the sale. Six weeks later the girl showed up with a truckload of Thin Mints that I, in my pregnant state, had apparently ordered. I looked at them in horror as I stood in the doorway holding my new baby girl in my arms – and about 20 extra pounds around my middle.

No longer sporting the metabolism of a breastfeeding twentysomething, I placed my order this time around with the belief that eight boxes (and a pair of Spanx) would hold me until next winter. Unfortunately I failed to consider the autonomy of my four cookie-hungry children, and all eight boxes vanished before I could sink my teeth into any of them.

Feeling empty inside, I shared this sad tale with my bunko group. The hostess announced that she, being the Cookie Keeper for her daughter’s troop, had in her possession a stash of leftover cookies for sale, and I returned home six boxes happier.

They lasted through the weekend, and not one of them landed on my lips. My kids had become cookie Ninjas.

Just when I had resigned myself to a long and cookieless winter, I overheard a mom at school discussing her troop’s plans to sell cookies at the grocery store that afternoon.

I casually sidled up next to her and muttered, “Caramel deLites?” under my breath like a junkie.

“Two cases,” she replied, “Should I hold them?”

Scanning the room, I whispered, “Three boxes, I’ll be there at 4:00.”

I arrived at 4:15 (so as not to appear desperate) and secured ten assorted boxes of cookies. The girls manning the table watched in awe as I walked out with 5% of their inventory, which I should have taken straight to my closet for personal emergency use. But that is something only an addict would do. Instead, I left them out in the open, unprotected.

Big mistake.

Five days later, I pulled the plastic tray out of the last box of Caramel deLites to find it empty, leaving me $84 down (don’t tell my husband) and destitute.

Alone and weeping over a barren purple box in the kitchen, I realized my cookie obsession had spiraled out of control.

And now, after some serious soul-searching, I am ready to admit I am powerless. However, I am not sure if I am powerless over the cookies themselves, or my family, who will not let me have one.