The Art of Surviving a Dump

"Mr. Teacher, I don't get number 17."

Recently I was dumped. Dumped as in, "He dumped me for for that blond in algebra class."  Yes, dear Prairie Readers, I ventured back out into the dating scene at the ripe old age of 57. I discovered that a dump hurts as much now as when I was 16.  

I won't go into the details because that would just have me sobbing over my keyboard, but let's just say that he was a really sweet guy who decided that life with a woman who still obsesses over children's fiction about pioneer life just wasn't in the cards. His loss most certainly.  Every good man needs a Prairie Grl in his life.  

What I will dwell on is the return of the cookie sheet and its many implications.  

At some point in our sixth-month relationship, I gave him one of my three fabulous cookie sheets--the kind that have the degree of shininess so that cookies never over-brown, the kind where the cookies just slide off without additional greasing.  It was truly a gift that bespoke of love and commitment.  Being a beginning baker, he had been dealing with inferior equipment (I'm talking about his cookie sheet, girls.), and he was thrilled with the results from my far superior tools of the trade (still talking cookie sheets).  

So, the breakup occurred  copious tears were shed, and Eydie consoled me via phone, texts, and personal visits.  I  began healing.  "I can do quite nicely without this man.  I am a strong and independent woman.  My personal value is not based on a relationship."  Yada, yada, yada...

Then a large box arrived in the mail with the ex's return address.  Immediately my rational self dissolved, and I envisioned a "I-made-a-terrible-mistake" gift.  Something sentimental and just a wee bit costly.  Gone was my independence and strength. I ripped into the package.

Well, I gave away the climax of the story.  It was the cookie sheet.  Again, the copious tears and the grieving started anew.  Eydie listened to my sad tale and made the appropriate remarks, "What an idiot!  I'd like to smash that sheet right over his head.  I hope his cookies burn in hell..." (the cookies he baked, girls).

Granted, he did send a note with the cookie sheet, but that didn't help much.  The band aid had been ripped off, and we all know how much that hurts.

So I need to relate some sort of lesson that I learned through all this.  For one thing, I learned that sometimes our actions are imbibed with much more meaning than others realize.  In giving him that cookie sheet, I was giving a bit of myself.  He thought he was just returning an object, but to me it was much more.  

Also, I learned that MEN CAN BE REAL POOPS SOMETIMES!!! 
Thank you for allowing me to get that off of my chest.  It was very cathartic.  Our dear Prairie Men, please forgive.  I perfectly understand that females, as well, have this tendency.  I have been the pooper and the poopee.

Oh, and I have learned something else.  When you are really feeling down, throwing yourself into something new is really therapeutic.  Like this writing gig.  I suspect that Eydie knew that when she insisted that we start this blog, "Now!"

And Mr. Cookie Sheet, if you ever google "blogs written by women obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder"  and come across this piece, I forgive you...sort of.

"Bye-bye, Mr. Cookie Sheet."

Prairie Sherry   

P.S.
It being Wednesday, and Wednesday being a perfect day for cookies, let me share a great recipe.  These literally melt in your mouth.

Delicious Cookies

1 cup butter (no nasty margarine) at room temperature
2 cups flour
5 tablespoons sugar (that's all)
1 cup pecans, finely ground 
1 teaspoon water
1/2 teaspoon real vanilla

Cream butter.  Add remaining and combine thoroughly.  Roll in quarter-size balls and place on your cookie sheet (sniff).  Flatten with a floured glass.  Bake at 350 degrees just until light brown on the edges.  Cool on racks and then sprinkle with powdered sugar. 

There's nothing like a good cookie to help mend a broken heart.