They shouldn’t have such a negative connotation to me, after all, cookie cutters are the kitchen tools of choice come holiday time. They conjure up images of flour faced kids in the kitchen yanking at Mom’s aprons while she throws another edible Picasso into the oven.
Cookie cutters come in many shapes and sizes, perfect for the mother of four at various ages with varying dexterity and a myriad of shape obsessiveness. I can purchase different colors too. And the textures they come in help any tactile dysfunctional kid. I say dysfunction because I will never understand the dislike of metal or aluminum cookie cutters. They are sharp, they get the job done quick, and what girl doesn’t like a good shiny object that can double up as a weapon at a moments notice.
What I wouldn’t do for a nice sharp cookie cutter to uncut the dysfunction from the cookie cutter neighborhood my kids reside in half the time, half their lives, half cookie cutter suburban dysfunction.
So cookie cutter, unless associated with frosting, and warm vanilla aromas wafting from the oven during holiday regalia is a negative, albeit rancid association in my memory with this word.
Cookie cutter is like a paper doll, you cut the same pattern, undo the fold or the extra dough and everything, I Mean EVERYTHING is the same. And I swear, if you give those scissors or that cookie cutter to the frosted face girl with askew pig tails, everything will get fucked up and turned upside down. Then no one will eat those god damn cookies or color those asinine dolls because they don’t look right. And that poor girl who fucked it up is to blame.
That poor girl is me. (Incite pity party and maudlin violins please). But really… I love being that girl. I love being different. Always have been, always will. I don’t even know I’m different half the time but I sure as shit knew it when I moved into the world of Betty Crocker.
Here is a shining example of my (bite your lip and show disgust) difference …
Me: Walk into cookie cutter paper doll gym, walk onto cookie cutter paper doll treadmill, smile at woman next to me who is/ was my neighbor.
She smiles back. She looks to the woman to her right. There are whispers. There is laughing. I wasn’t told the joke.
Me: what’s the joke.
The joke is me. Apparently I am wearing my shirt inside out and back to front with the tag just underneath my chin. I didn’t notice. I didn’t care.
Me: I don’t care
I tell them. And I laugh. Then they frown. They whisper. I barely notice because I’m wearing headphones and since it’s a treadmill, I’m running. But those whispers became a conversation that turned into a neighborhood, cookie cutter diagnosis of my mental status. The whisper diagnosis was depression.
Im depressed because I don’t fucking care which way a shirt lands on my body. I’m depressed because I admit I don’t fuck my husband more than once a week or on catholic Sundays? I’m depressed because food for my kids is more important then shedding the pjs for the store. I’m depressed because I don’t fit into their stylish ball of dough they mold and I’d rather be flattened and sculpted by trash then let them have their hands on me.
Wow, that sounds rather abusive and angry. that’s not me. And when I get into my cookie cutter soapbox routine, I yield to Buddha, the non cookie cutter higher power who has taught me lessons of reason, forgiveness , and wisdom.
Here’s the lesson, or rather lesson within a story I yield to:
A BAG OF NAILS
Once upon a time there was a little boy with a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he should hammer a nail in the fence. The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. But gradually, the number of daily nails dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.
Finally the first day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. He proudly told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper. The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence.
“You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out, it won’t matter how many times you say ‘I’m sorry’, the wound is still there.”
"It is natural for the immature to harm others. Getting angry with them is like resenting a fire for burning."