It was with great pride that I took my turn this year as the Girl Scout cookie mom. Now, if at this point you are groaning, or reaching for the Rolaids, then I
know that you too have been a Girl Scout cookie mom or that you are married to (or have been married to – Girl Scout cookies have been known to break up a few solid marriages along the way), or are the child of a Girl Scout cookie mom. Those who had been there before warned me away. I paid no heed. After all, how hard could it be? Famous last words.
The job begins by collecting the orders from the girls in the troop, adding up the numbers, and then placing the the big deal? I guess those who cautioned me away from this job just don’t have the great organizational mind that I do.
A few weeks later, I go to pick up the cases of cookies at the cookie coordinator’s house. She has her husband wheeling a hand-truck around stacked with cases of those much beloved Thin Mints. He looks tired. She looks happy. I ask her how long she’s been doing this. She says this is her ninth year. When I express my amazement, she says she is happy to do it.
Loves being a Girl Scout cookie mom. She says it is the one thing she does where the numbers always turn out at the end. I smile knowingly. No messy loose ends. Just like I’d like my life to be. After getting all 1,500 boxes of these cookies crammed into my van and then onto my porch, and divvying the boxes up to the little Scouts, a problem arises. I am left with 8 extra cases. That is, 8 extra cases of, wouldn’t you know, the new low-fat variety. The cookies that everyone thinks they should order, but after one bite, doesn’t order. Yes, I have over-ordered 96 boxes of these dusty little rocks.
Now here is where I am left feeling like the Little Red Hen. “Who will help me get rid of these things?” “Not I”, said the Girl Scout offi ce, “Not I”, said the
cookie coordinator, “Not I”, said all my fellow Girl Scout moms, “Not I”, said the principal at my school, “Not I”, said every other cookie mom in the metro
area, “Not I” said all my soon to be exfriends.
It turns out that I am responsible for selling these things myself. No wonder I am a crazy woman running around with a box of cookies in each hand.
The talk of cookies permeates my every conversation. I’m certain that when people see me coming they walk to the other side of the street. Finally, I decide to make it a family affair. I sit down with my husband and tell him he will have to set up shop at the offifi ce. Just set a couple of piles of cookies at the corner of his My friend Debbie says that you could set out frosted doggy biscuits in an office, and within an hour they’d be gone.
I figure she’s right – seems people will eat anything at work, including low-fatrocks covered in powdered sugar, even if they do have to pay $3.00 for the pleasure. My husband balks until I show him the math. Here is what we owe the Girl Scouts for all these cookies: $288. It was just the motivation he needed.
He becomes cookie dad of the year, hawking these unwanted little rejects at every opportunity. People stop coming by to ask him questions. Meetings are cancelled, for fear he will haul out yet another plate of these delicious little treasures. Despite all this, the “frosted doggy biscuits” theory holds true. He
sells all 96 boxes in 3 days. So now, the numbers have worked out, just as the cookie coordinator said they would. I have deposited all the money, including the extra $288 windfall. My family has taken to eating poptarts and cereal for snacks.
“Cookies and milk” just doesn’t have the same appeal that it used to. I’m evenworking on repairing some of my damaged friendships.
No more messy loose ends. Just like I’d like my life to be.