"OPERATION COOKIE"

An ugly sweater party was never an option. Far too mundane and commonplace an event for the reunion I had in mind, a reunion that I'd been visualizing over and over and over and over again since the day he left for Australia seventeen years ago. Besides, I'm nowhere near handsome enough to pull off an ugly sweater. There are those that are and I hate them for it! All except for Paul of course. I could forgive him anything. Paul could throw on a pair of old musty sweats, forget to run a comb through his hair, show up late for a brunch, and still manage to be so disconcertingly handsome that I had to remind myself that I couldn't gape at him all the way through eight mimosas and a second-rate Eggs Benedict. It only got worse when he smiled, which was pretty much all the time. His near 'perfect white teeth' grin was a tremendous part of his appeal. Who wouldn't want to be responsible for, or at the very least imagine they were responsible for that look of resplendent delight that lit up his face as if he'd found nirvana. (Think Robert Redford in "The Way We Were") No, an ugly sweater party would never do.

Over the years since his departure, we hadn't really kept in touch. (his fault, not mine) We'd exchanged messages on Facebook all of about five times. Yes, FIVE times, all of which I'd initiated. Ordinarily, I would have made quick work of severing ties with someone who showed such an insulting lack of interest in maintaining a friendship. I had my pride after all, just.... not when it came to Paul, perhaps because I had always been secretly in love with him. As soon as it had become apparent that I was all but forgotten, I resorted to stalking him on social media. Don't you dare judge me! I know it sounds pathetic, and may very well be pathetic, but you never met Paul. I followed him on Twitter. I subscribed to his YouTube channel "Better Hair For A Better Tomorrow". I read his near daily blog even though the subject held little interest for me. After all, how much is there to say about the "Coffee Culture In the Modern World". Last but not least, I also 'liked' each and every single one of his status updates on Facebook, even the ones about his fucking cat, even the ones that included a picture of him and his asswipe husband Sergio, a man he'd met and married a mere seven months after he arrived in Sydney. Not to sound petty or anything, but he never once 'liked' any of my posts, not even the ones I thought had been especially clever. And yet,... and yet..... my obsession lingered.

Before you get the wrong idea, there was never any real possibility of me becoming a dangerous stalker. I'm just not the type. No racine filled envelopes, no threatening letters and phrases cut out from "Elle" magazine, a publication we had always languidly flipped through the moment it hit the stands. No purchases of shotguns or razor sharp Bowie knives, no homemade fertilizer bombs, if only because I wouldn't be able to get them on the goddamn plane. (Kidding!) I had; however,imagined his husband dying in a plethora of freak, tragic accidents, but I would like to think we've all done that from time to time. Most people say "No" when you ask, but I know they're lying. Even Paul lied about it once. At first he gave me this really strange look, as if I'd just bitten into a live rat, then he shook his head and said, "God NO!! What kind of horrible person would entertain such a thought?" As I said before though, I could forgive Paul anything, though it took me a while to forgive him that.

It was on an ordinary humdrum Wednesday afternoon, just a few weeks before Christmas, that I saw the Facebook post I'd been yearning for, praying for, and often considered making deals with the devil for. Paul announced to the world, or at least to his 4,372 'friends', that he'd decided to leave his husband, something about about an affair or growing apart, I'm not quite sure. I had stopped paying attention the second I'd read he would be returning to Seattle, sans asswipe husband Sergio. I must have read those words a hundred times, just to make sure I had the right of it. I even went so far as to spill a cup of scalding hot coffee all over my lap just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. After a couple, or several dozen ouches and yelps and assorted obscenities, I went back to reading and rereading the long awaited news, with as much fascination as Trump feels the public pays his endless tweets. After a good twenty minutes of constantly reassuring myself that the miraculous had at long last come to pass, I jumped up from my desk with an exuberant "YES!", which made it the second time I had leaped up from my chair that afternoon, the first time following the hot coffee fiasco. Anyway, second degree burns or no, "OPERATION COOKIE" could now finally be put into action.

A few days after his post, or perhaps it was only a couple of hours, I sent him a message expressing my excitement over his imminent return to the States. I casually mentioned that I would be more than happy to throw him a "Welcome Home Cookie Exchange Party,", complete with a red carpet, trumpets, streamers, the ubiquitous paparazzi, etc. He responded with a bloody laughing face emoji. God how I loathe emojis!They are nothing more than the lazy man's version of a complete sentence. Adhering to my incessant compulsion to forgive Paul anything, I magnanimously chose to overlook this modern faux-pas and simply spent the rest of the day congratulating myself that I had supposedly gotten him to laugh. If only I could see the psychotically positive side to more things in this life, why I would be the happiest man alive.

The very next day I began work on the invitations, complete with calligraphy and gold leaf on a sinfully expensive and imported onion skin stationery. There are those who will say that this was way over the top for a cookie exchange party, but sometimes a cookie exchange party isn't just a cookie exchange party. Sometimes it's a new beginning. Why a cookie exchange party in the first place you ask? The answer is a simple one. Cookies were Paul's favorite stoner snack. The one he cherished above all was the Madeleine. They were "sheer perfection" he said. Sometimes I wondered though if it wasn't so much the taste he was enraptured with, or just the opportunity to say the name "Madeleine" in his embarrassingly horrific French accent. (Insert forgive Paul anything)

Luckily, considering the fact that each invitation took about 3 hours to make, there were only seven guests. Why would I want Paul's focus diluted with an endless stream of people coming and going and leaving crumbs all over my Persian rugs. Finally, the day arrived, December 16th. The party began at 7, with the first six guests having the good manners to arrive within the first thirty minutes. Needless to say, Paul was not among the six. (forgive, Paul, anything) He showed up at 8:20, yes 8:20, after four of the six guests had already made their exits. None of that mattered though when I answered the door, and there was Paul, just as perfect as I'd remembered him. (It didn't dawn on me until later that he wasn't holding a container of cookies.) All I noticed was his Robert Redford face, not a wrinkle or a gray hair to mark the passage of time. One thing I'll give him credit for was that he very graciously let me drink in the sight of him for a good ten minutes before I thought to invite him in and give him a far more cursory hug than I would have liked. (When the person you're hugging keeps his arms at his sides, a lingering hug soon becomes awkward.) Initially, I had planned to let him mingle and unwind a while before I unveiled my big surprise, but fuck it, there were only two guests left and I just couldn't wait another second. With trembling hands, I picked up a silver platter from a small table in the entryway and lifted off the dome with a courtly flourish to reveal one dozen perfect Madeleines. When I say perfect, I mean P-E-R-F-E-C-T!!! I'd been spending many a Sunday afternoon trying out various recipes, one after the other, making my own laudable modifications along the way. Practically prancing up and down, I trilled "Madeleines, Madeleines. Your favorite, I remembered! I remembered your favorite cookie!" He then looked at me with a deadpan face and asked me if they were gluten-free. That's when I told him to get the fuck out of my house.