The third rule of cookies is I didn't even notice any cookies. That's how much I don't care about cookies.

On hot summer days when I was a kid, I'd head over to my friend Nicki's house because she had

1) a pool

2) a sweet ghettoblaster

and 3) cookies.

First we would swim in the pool while I plotted the best way to get to her cookies, and then we would listen to tapes on her ghettoblaster while I continued to plot the best way to get her cookies.

It was really all about the cookies. I was a cookie playa. (Hate the game, baby. Hate the game.)

It was like:

Nicki: Hey Becky, watch me do a handstand in the pool! Ready? Are you watching? Ok, here I go!

Me: WOW!! I give that handstand a 10 out of 10. Hey, you know what goes good with handstands? Chips Ahoy!

or

Nicki: Hey Becky, want me to stick a blank tape in my ghettoblaster and dub my new Duran Duran tape for you?

Me: Yes, totally!! That would be radical! Hey, did you know that Simon LeBon's favorite snacktime treat is Oreos? And guess who's hungry like the wolf right now? Last one to the kitchen has to marry the ugly one from Tears for Fears!!

We had cookies at our house too, but they didn't count because our cookies had fruit and fiber in them while hers had a delicious sugary-lard filling, and even though her mom usually hid them before I came over because I was fat and hungry, I'd usually find them because didn't you hear what I just said? Fat and hungry!! Fat and Hungry are bastards. Fat will kneel down on his hands and knees behind you and Hungry will push you backwards and you'll go toppling over and then Fat and Hungry will steal one of your shoes and grab your tuna sandwich and run. Fat and Hungry are an unstoppable duo, like Horny and Drunk. It's just gonna happen, is what I'm saying. There's nothing you can do to stop it. Do you hear me, Nicki's mom? So you can just tie your box of Oreos to one end of a shoelace and your Pudding Pops to the other and throw them over a power line and I will duct tape a steak knife to an orange picker and have those motherfuckers down before you can say "I called your mom to come pick you up."

But hold on. A fat hungry kid can't just go barreling into the kitchen and grab whatever she wants. There are rules. There is an art to this.

The first rule of cookies is Be Prepared, which meant reconnaissance missions to the kitchen beforehand, because things I would do for an Oreo might not necessarily have been the kinds of things I would do for, say, a Mother's Circus Animal. It was all about making sure the effort was proportional to the reward.

And the second rule of cookies is Be Cool. Nobody's gonna give any cookies to an overeager fat kid. People get scared, you know? Understandably so.

Be Coooool.

(House lights dim, spotlight on a young blonde girl entering from pantry left, graceful as a cat)

Like Bob Fosse cool....snap....snap....snap....Black Danskin unitard and bongo drums and long stretch-outy legs cool....snap...snap....snap....

(Blonde girl encounters Nicki's mom sitting at the table clipping coupons. Nicki's mom flinches, then settles down.)

Like be cooool, Nicki's mom. I'm just checking out your pad, dig?

(An eerie silence settles over the room as the spotlight reflects off the sharp blade of her scissors.)

...slow step...slow step...kitty cat hands, high knees prancey prancey over to the cupboards...

Just seeing what you've got goin on in your shelvesssss...snap...snap...I'm not lookin' for your cookies, Mommy-o, I just wanna see what you got goin' on in here. Bandaids, vitamins, (HOLY SHIT CIRCUS ANIMALS! FUCKING PINK AND WHITE CIRCUS ANIMALS!! OK, cool it down, Becky. Cooooool.) ...crackers, chicken noodle soup...way cool...snap...snap

(Blonde girl exits dining room left, slowly walking backwards, kitty cat hands up so as not to arouse suspicion, never breaking eye contact with Nicki's mom.)

snap...snap...snap

FIN.

Bob Fosse recon complete, I was finally able to coax Nicki into the kitchen...

Nicki: Do you want an orange? We've got these dried pineapples and some...

Me: Whoa! What's in this bag? It says here on this label...(eyes squinty concentratey reading) Mother's Brand? Circus? Animal? Cookies? Hmm, I'm not sure I've ever seen these before. What the heck? Pink and white with sprinkles?! That's crazy!!

Nicki: Okay. If you want, we could...

Me: Well sure, I guess, I mean...if YOU want a few, then sure, open up the bag. I'm not much of a "cookie" person, per se, I usually opt for the healthier snack option of apple or carrot sticks, but what the heck?

See, Nicki's mom, the thing is (I would explain later for the millionth time) The thing is there's so much air in those bags of cookies that it LOOKS like there's a ton of cookies in there. I get that you would think that. It even says, "Family Size" right on the bag. But you know, Nicki's mom, you know the sad state of today's family. Most of the kids WE know (sad, regretful head shake) live in broken homes. "Family size" isn't what it used to be, Nicki's mom. "Family" means two people, at most. And me and Nicki are the two people who ate all those cookies. Oh, Nicki's been in the pool this whole time? That's weird. Did I mention my mom's away on work a lot? If she were around more, she'd be super grateful for feeding me cookies. Lord knows, I need all the love, I mean mommy, I mean cookies, I can get. *wipes away fake tear*

aaand kitty cat hands, prancey prancey away...

Make them POP! Because nothing says sexy like Thyroid Disorder Eyes.

First, there were the manicures for the bridal party.

Manicure lady: You want them rounded or squared?

Me: My nails? Oh, I don't know. Whatever you like.

ML: Which do you like?

Me: You pick one.

ML: What's this green stuff under your fingernail? 

Me: Food coloring.

ML: It's not coming off.

Me: Yeah. It's the good stuff.

*file, file, file. Soak, soak.*

ML: OH LORD! BECKY! What. Did. You. Do. To. Your. Feet.

Me: What? Maybe I shaved my toes a litt...

ML: No, the nails. Girl, you need to leave a little nail there when you trim.

Me: I clipped them for the wedding. I like them short.

ML: I can see that. This one's bleeding.

Me: Yeah. So they don't snag my socks.

ML: (Shakes head. Big sigh) Settle in. We have work to do.

Then, there was the makeup lady. 

Me: Just so you know. I hate getting my makeup done. I look ridiculous with makeup. Can you do, like, the bare minimum?

Makeup lady: Of course. I keep it really light. I want you to look natural.

Me: That's good. Especially my mouth though? 

ML: Yes, you have full lips, I won't need to do much there.

Me: What I mean is, could you stay inside the lines with the pencil stuff?

ML: You'll love it, don't worry. Your eyelids are kind of puffy, so I'm going to make your eyes just POP! using eyeliner. Do you like blush?

Me: I guess, in modera...

ML: Hold still.

*Blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush...*

(stands back, assesses her work)

*Blush, blush, blush, blush, blush.*

*Guess what? Blush.*

*aaanddd hey look here's some blush.*

*PS? Blush.*

Groomsman wandering by: Oh hey! You look...you...you look like...you're almost there it looks like! (awkward smile)

ML: You ready for the mirror? Your eyes just POP! You look incredible.

Me: (*excited clap!!*)

ML: Here you go. What do you think?? Amazing, no??

(awkward beat)

Me: yes.

ML: Riiight?

Me: yes.

ML: Amazing!!

Me: yes.

The hair guy was so patient.

Me: My hair doesn't hold any kind of curl.

Hair guy: Oh, don't worry. We'll spray it.

Me: Yes, but even with spray.

HG: Oh we'll see.

(30 minutes later)

HG: Look at those beautiful curls!!

Me: I feel like a princess!! (Skipping away)

(20 minutes later)

HG: Becky? Did we do your hair?

Me: Yes.

HG: C'mere. Let me touch that up for you.

(10 minutes later)

HG: Becky? Maybe a touch up before you go down the aisle?

(5 minutes later)

HG: (concerned face, hushed conference with hair assistant) Becky, c'mere a second. We're gonna touch up your hair a bit.

Bride: (whispering) Becky, I know someone who can tone down your face a bit if you want. Fix your mouth and soften your eyes a bit.

Aunt of the bride: Did you not have time to take out your dress a little, dear?? Can you breathe?

Bridesmaid: I can totally see your bra. 

Groomsman: Are you okay? Your eyes look enormous! Like, popping out of your head big.

The letter to Hitler I composed in my dream at 5:30 this morning after a restless night's sleep

Dear Fuhrer,

Please tell my physical therapist I'm not going to make our appointment this morning, because I'm just so super cozy. Snuggley buggley. Here, get in. 

Also, I am stuck in a tree sitting with a branch between my ass cheeks. Now I am wearing a thong made of rope. Now I'm sitting on the bar of my bicycle. Wait, at least one of these things has to be a dream.

Oh. It's just the pant leg of my pajamas that has ridden up and is bunched up in my ass. How did that happen? Did you do that? Silly Fuhrer!

In conclusion, the physical therapy lady is old and she makes me do old lady exercises. Stop licking your vagina, Hitler, it's shaking the bed. Wait, that was probably the dog. I meant the dog. Not you.

Is this a dream? Aren't you dead, Hitler? This letter will never make it from death to physical therapy on time. I should just call and cancel. Will you call for me? My arm will get cold if I reach for the phone. The number is 1-800-petmeds. No. That can't be right. 1-800-95Jenny. 

Friends forever.

Love, 

Becky