No cookies for you

Hi, I am Ragged and I am a people pleaser! (I bet you didn't know that about me.) Well, it's true. I even majored in people pleasing in college (public relations).

This fact gets me into oodles of jams, much like the one I found myself in yesterday. I will omit the names to protect the innocent, but do know that innocence is only protected so long, so you'd better watch out.

We opted to have a little cookie trade. A cookie trade for those of you not familiar with such a phenomenon, is where everyone brings different cookies and you swap cookies and recipes. For this little task, we had to make 51 cookies (three each for the 17 bakers involved). I hate to bake. I hate to cook. When I got the invitation for this little shindig, I was panicked and annoyed. Can't we all just meet up at a restaurant and eat, why does it have to involve ovens, baking sheets, cursing and stirring.

I agreed anyway. I solicited the assistance of my own Master Baker (Queen of Cool) who sent what she assured me was a fool-proof (even Ragged-proof) recipe. So, after spending $1,678 on baking supplies at Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon (another hell in itself), I went home to attempt baking yet again, knowing it would end in little hardened rocks of dough that even the cats weren't tempted to lick.

I also conned Cynical into helping me. So, we followed the instructions, dumped all of the ingredients and stirred until our arms resembled those of Hulk Hogan and then we plopped them onto cookie sheets, said a prayer to the god of all things baked and held our breath. Cynical started to worry that they didn't spread properly. I don't know anything about spreading anything, so I consulted Queen of Cool, dragging her to the phone and away from her Sunday plans. She assured us that all is well and these should indeed be little bumps of brownish gunk on a sheet and not to worry.

I released her from her duties and went back to scooping. Fifty-four cookies later I called it a day and was proud that when Cynical taste-tested our 54th cookie, that it was indeed edible, that he didn't choke or make an awful face.

I packed them all up for the next morning. I learned about one our prior to trade-off that the cookies had to be packaged in groups of three of ease of trading. What! I was panicked yet again. I scrounged for red ribbon, Saranwrap and patience and made do.

Alas, the cookie trade commenced. Lots of sugary goodness to behold. All seemed to be right.

Then it hit, my people pleasing need was called to task. Some wanted to leave early and asked since I was staying a bit if I'd watch over the remaining cookies and tuck what was left away for yet another event the next night centered around eating. Being as I can't say no and I have no life, I agreed.

So, I stuck around a bit and then decided that I could just head out before the next set of traders joined us. I contacted the Cookie Swap Organizer (who was to be part of the second influx of traders) and asked if she'd just put the extras in the fridge for those of us already hitting the road. Alas, it was if I had trudged through the doors of her Cookie Kingdom and trampled on her royal garden. What was I thinking, trying to help out? What could I possibly think I had to contribute? Why was I over-reacting? It was just a cookie trade.

How did I respond, I just took my bounty of cookies (15 varieties in all) home and acted like the peon that I am. I left feeling fussed at, embarrassed and upset. I hate situations like that. I hate when women attack one another over silly stuff in an effort to come out on top. I hate that she felt the need to berate me in front of co-workers. UGH. UGH. UGH. I hate that I let it bother me, let it hurt my feelings and let myself be knocked down by a &^%$ Cookie Queen.