Cookie Monsters

Ooooh, holeEey niiIIIght—

A clatter from the kitchen interrupted my shower serenade and made me drop my microphone loofah. What the —?!  Another crash, followed by what sounded like someone digging through my breakfast cereal looking for the prize.  Ha, ha muthafucka!  I already took out the prize!  It was a Lego toilet or something.  And Dingo Girl already chewed it into a pulpy wad of plastic!  You FAIL, chump!

Wait!

I was home alone.  I was in the shower.  The ruckus from the kitchen could only mean one thing — zombies.

Trapped in my bathroom, my only hope for survival would rest on how resourceful I could be.  I needed a weapon.  I looked around.  I could concoct a Molotov cocktail in my empty mouthwash bottle with Nyquil and a wash cloth.  But the wash cloth was wet and I had no matches.  Nyquil alone would certainly knock out someone who is a zombie even before they take it, but how would I get him to drink it?  I couldn’t even find the little plastic cup.  I needed something foolproof.  I could squirt shower gel in the zombie’s face.  If it didn’t close its eyes, that would sting like hell.  And zombies don’t blink all that much.  I had about half a bottle of Aveda Rosemary Mint Hand and Body Wash.  But it’s a small bottle and, serious, it was almost $20.  It should cost less than $10 to blind a zombie.  I needed a cheaper weapon.

I did have morning breath, a known WMD, and no mouthwash.  I breathed into my cupped hand.  Oh yeah, I thought.  Locked and loaded.  But, you know, no need to rush into anything.  Besides, I hadn’t yet washed off my oatmeal-honey scrub mask.  Maybe hiding out in a steamy shower covered in breakfast was the appropriate way to deal with the zombie hordes.  Kind of like how Governor Arnie handled those aliens in Predator.

No.  Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo were out there.  I had to make a move.  I was carefully and oh. so. quietly sliding the shower curtain aside when I heard the dishes by the sink clatter to the floor.  Innernetz, this was serious.  There was really something in the kitchen.  I may or may not have peed my birthday suit. 

I stepped carefully across the bathroom floor.  It was probably not a good idea to apply the oatmeal-honey scrub mask to my entire body because it was really hard to move with ninja-like stealth with my butt cheeks stuck together.  I pressed my ear to the door.  The sounds were definitely coming from the kitchen.  I really needed a weapon.  The plunger!  Grabbing Excalibur from behind the toilet, I gave a few practice thrusts and put on my mean face.  “Don’t come any closer, asshole!” I whispered.  “I have e coli and I’m not afraid to use it!.”

I was ready. 

The door creaked open on its warped hinges. The kitchen went silent.  Damn!  Had I lost the element of surprise?  I eyed the living room through the quarter-inch crack.  I didn’t see Dingo Girl.  She was probably protecting me from under the bed.  Into my peripheral vision strolled Not a Dingo.  Evidencing the fearless mien of her leonine ancestors, she mercilessly stalked a sunbeam. And then got bored. Yawing and stretching, she plopped down in the middle of the floor, hiked her hind leg over her ear and began to slurp her cooter.  I remembered reading an article about a cat that saved her owner from an intruder and another one about a cat that dialed 911.  I knew I could count on Not a Dingo. “Run, Not a Dingo!  Go get help!” I thought.  I could tell the moment Not a Dingo received my instant mental message.  She looked up from her cooter slurpin’ for just a moment and messaged back, “Hey!  Look what I can do!”

There was another crash from the kitchen.  Damn, damn, damn! I thought.  It sounded like the cookie jar.  And then I got mad.  Oh, no you din’t! You did NOT come to my kitchen and steal my cookies.  The front door was just inches away from the bathroom and I was confident I could make it. But there was no way I was going to leave Dingo Girl and Not a Dingo in the apartment with a killer.  And I knew it had to be a killer.  Anyone with enough balls to sneak into my apartment and touch my Snickerdoodles had to foresee the potential need for deadly force. 

One hand on the door, the other holding Excalibur, I had to make a decision.  And then I heard it.  tich, tich, tich.  I knew that sound!  tich, tich, tich. But in the kitchen?  Drying oatmeal flaked off my trembling body and crumbled to the floor.  My feet left wet tattoos on the cold hardwood as I snuck to the kitchen.  Every Law and Order episode I’d ever seen flicked through my brain.  I could see Ice-T standing over the chalk outline of my body shaking his head saying, “Ah, here!  See this footprint?  This is where the victim did something really stupid.” I took a deep breath that never quite reached my lungs and peeked into the kitchen.  Pots, pans, dishes, and cookie crumbs were everywhere.  And there, in the middle of it all was the black-eyed fiend. 

“Pinky!” I yelled.  “You scared the shit out of me!”

Pinky’s bushy tail waved at me wildly as she dove into the tub of nuts by the fridge searching for the walnuts that warm her squirrel heart.  A cold breeze alerted me to the open window.  “Get out of here,” I hissed.  “Do you know what will happen if Not a Dingo sees you?”

Pinky was unperturbed.  A quick glance over my shoulder revealed Not a Dingo oblivious to the gamey morsel just within her reach as she practiced the Licking Your Own Belly With Two Outstretched Legs In The Air yoga routine that still gives me a sore neck when it’s just about to rain. 

“Get back outside,” I said to Pinky.  “I’ll bring some walnuts to you.”

Pinky ran to the window, pausing briefly to scoop up a piece of Snickerdoodle.  She waited impatiently while I sorted through the tub of nuts.  I presented her with the largest walnut I could find.  Without so much as a “thank you,” she grabbed it from me and scrambled away.  I closed the window.  I had twenty minutes to get to work.

Although I managed to wash off most of the oatmeal and honey, the areas I missed formed an insoluble binding agent between my clothes and skin.  Walking to work like a drunken hula girl in an attempt to dislodge the resulting denim wedgie was a painful reminder not to miss my waxing appointment later that afternoon. 

But the day was not through fucking with me yet.  Alone in my office, frantically printing out the day’s lesson plan, the lights suddenly went out.  It could only mean one thing — zombies.

******I have a new post up over at The Greenists. It’s about food!****

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