She held me to her bosom, rocking me as I whimpered. Knees pressed to my chest and arms encircling my shins, I felt the chill of the outside world and howled my misery from this safe cocoon. "I HATE THIS TIME OF YEAR! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE I—"

"There, there," Mother gentled. "We'll make it better. Shh...we'll fix it. It will be okay."

I hiccuped a sob and sniffed ladylike around the accumulation at my nose. "I must brush my teeth." I announced, and scrambled spiritedly from her lap. This activity always makes me happy. I've a fondness for minty, slippery teeth. I returned to sit on the floor at my mother's feet, legs folded in a pretzel and my back slumped in the telling curve of an orthopedics's horror film.

She looked at Debbie knowingly, and I knew a rescue was on the wings.

It proved to be a sleepy day. The sun did not shine, the neighbors did not stir, and for my part, I spent seven hours trying to compose a single email. I was pretty hyper the day before, as some may have observed, (*cough*—Mark—*cough*), and yesterday was to be my first day of cookie detox.

But I had a sort of relapse early-on. I moaned in satisfaction as my teeth sank into my pumpernickel toast, and I had good feelings about the return of the health food, the departure of the cavity conjurers. The good feelings faded gradually as I finished that spot of fudge, the cinnamon roll, and they were totally absent by the time I polished off the raspberry scone. It was with the resulting tummy ache that I carried on so.

I was sprawled upon my back last night, weak and bleary, when Debbie called down, "Do you want any cherry chip cake, or should I put it down the garbage disposal?"

"GET RID OF IT!" came my passionate call.

I heard her steps cross the kitchen floor and the sink begin to growl. She asked Brenda, "What about the date balls?"

—"Get rid of them!"

"The cookies—?"

—"Get rid of them!"

"The—?"

—"Get rid of them! Get rid of them! Get rid of them!"

The growling grew loud and fierce, and the slaughter of the caloric devilry continued well into the night. My lips trembled into a grateful smile, and I returned to my comatose repose knowing tomorrow would be better. The kitchen was now pure.