Adam made us cookies tonight. He ate half his share and then went off to solve a bathroom sink plumbing problem.
“Hey,” I finally told him, “you still have two cookies left here. You can’t just leave two chocolate chip cookies next to a pregnant woman. They’re not safe.”
“I trust you,” he said.
Trust me? Trust me? What does trust have to do with it. This is a medical condition we’re talking about. I’m pregnant. There are cookies beside me. This has nothing to do with trust. This has to do with the involuntary compulsions that force me to scarf down anything with sugar in a three-block vinicity.
“I trust you.” What an idiot!
