Or, too much of a smart ass.

I bake. I bake and I cook. I am a great cook, but I love to bake. I can make Yule Logs and they actually look like that. I can whip you up almost any flavor of the best cheesecake you've ever eaten in no time flat. I make a coconut cream pie that is like sex on a buttery crust. I'm good. But in my 31 years of life, one delectable dessert has alluded me.

The cookie.

The evil, dirty rotten cookie. I can't bake a cookie to save my ass. I have been trying for two days to make cookies that I can then turn into ice cream sandwiches for T's birthday party, and all I am left with is flour in every crevice and 18 of the saddest, most oddly-shapen piles of brown-ish stuff with chocolate chip cookies in them. I bet you $10 I end up buying them at the store on my way to his party. Curse you, cookie!

I have heard the theory that truly genius people have trouble doing things others of us find simple, like, say, driving a stick shift. Yeah, that's my problem. I'm just too smart to bake cookies.

Or maybe I'm just an idiot.