I admit I was pretty lenient on Friday afternoon when I let the girls have a boatload of friends over to party the way teenagers do on a Friday evening. I’ve never minded being the Kool-aid mom and still like the idea of providing a safe environment for kids to hang out and have fun—especially now when they’re at an age when substances swirl around in the backgrounds of their lives. What I mean is they won’t find any drugs or alcohol in my house.

But what they did find on Friday were all the ingredients (save the eggs) to make chocolate chip cookie dough. Since I’ve been afraid to buy eggs ever since I found a dozen in my refrigerator that had been recalled by the salmonella scare, the girls opted to call a neighbor to get the two they needed to crack into the mixture.

I liked the idea of fresh-baked cookies in the house because I wanted to bring a plate over to my kind neighbor, the off-duty cop who helped me with the dumpster the other day. Unfortunately, the smell of fresh-baked cookies never permeated my kitchen. The girls were only interested in making (and eating) the raw dough! Further, they didn’t clean up the mess or put away the ingredients. Ultimately, the bowl of leftover dough—about enough to make a dozen cookies—sat with a foil top inside my refrigerator all weekend.

So today, Monday morning, I worked on an interview prep and tried to compose an author intro—or how I want to be introduced during an upcoming program. I sat at my computer letting my fingers do the babbling, and thought I should focus on the multi-tasking nature of my “career,” or how I describe myself on this blog:

“Michele VanOrt Cozzens is an author, resort owner, jewelry designer, wife, mother, soccer mom, and great big beyotch.”

It’s true that on any given day and at any given time, I can choose one of these titles and claim it’s accurate. I am a consummate multi-tasker.

But I suck at it.

Prior to sitting down at the computer, I had removed the cookie dough bowl from the refrigerator, heated the oven and balled up a dozen blobs of dough on one of my Pampered Chef baking slabs. When the oven hit 350° I loaded the dough balls and then got to work.

Wearing one of my least favorite caps—the self-promotion cap—I wrapped my mind around describing myself as this accomplished multi-tasker, and I pat myself on the back a little bit as I considered adding things like “Kool-aid Mom” and “Cookie baker” to the list.

I got so wrapped up in describing the many sides of ME, I forgot about the cookies. And damn it! I burned them. They’re not charcoal black—just an ultra crisp shade of brown—and may possibly still be edible, if you like your cookies well done.

Meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder what kind of title I’d have to give myself if I put them on a plate and delivered them to my neighbor. Would this fall under the category of ‘Great Big Beyotch?’ Or would I simply have to add the title: “Idiot?”

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