|The cookies have taken over.|
There’s a restaurant located on our street, and parking can be tricky, especially the evening before garbage day when trios of waste receptacles claim much of the valuable space. Nevertheless, I nearly forfeited my husband’s coveted spot this evening when I attempted to move his car to accommodate our trash bins. I blame The Girl Scout.
I noticed the girl and her mother as I rounded the corner with Wolfie on the homestretch of our walk. The pair had freshly alighted from a parked minivan, and the 8-year-old drew back in fear as I passed her with my leashed, 10-pound Chihuahua mix. From my yard, I watched as they climbed the steps to Tony and Elise’s house, presumably for a visit.
Depositing Wolfie inside, I grabbed Matt’s car keys. It wasn’t until I climbed behind the wheel of the Prius that I realized the girl and her mother were now at the home located two doors down from Elise and Tony, the one on the other side of mine. Then I saw the tell-tale vest. The colorful patches. Surely they had observed me enter the car. Contact was inevitable upon my exit. I shifted to Drive and sped away.
|We're under attack!|
Are there any adults who genuinely like Girl Scout cookies? Pardon me, but they’re tiny and dry and have been so for generations. Eons. The only mildly appetizing variety are the Peanut Butter Patty ones, but no coworker leaves an open box of those babies in the communal kitchen; it’s always Shortbread or Do-Si-Dos (Ahem, Do-Si-Don'ts). I suggest Girl Scouts try peddling items adults actually need and desire like six-packs of beer or Alka Seltzer. According to The Guardian, Boy Scouts raise funds for programming by selling popcorn and fertilizer. I’m not sure I need fertilizer, but at least it won’t shame me on the scale the next morning.
This morning, Wolfie and I encountered a neighbor’s house featuring Girl Scout cookie boxes functioning as lawn ornaments. Someone had draped them on bushes and positioned them within tree branches. I snapped a photo and texted it to Matt.
“Maybe it’s a warning,” he replied. “Like how they would hang pirates outside town to warn others.”
Personally, I considered it a hostile act, a threat, and Wolfie and I quickly trotted away.
The problem is I don’t like confrontation. I hate seeing those little doe eyes peep up at me with disappointment when I spew bold-faced lies like, “Oh dear. I already bought my quota this year” or “I’m so sorry. My dog’s a diabetic so we can’t keep that kind of thing in the house.”
Matt came home from running to discover our house swathed in complete darkness. After confirming he had not been accosted by that industrious little hawker of solidified glucose, I explained my reasoning. He seemed amused.
“They’re Girl Scouts – Not commandos,” Matt said. “What, you think they’re going to do a no-knock raid? ‘Buy the cookies!’”
Anything is possible. They do have quotas, after all.