Girl Scout Cookies

It's that time of year once again.  Yes!  It's Girl Scout Cookie Season!  Yay me!!

I'm a proud supporter of the scouts.  After all, when I was a wee lass a gajillion years ago, I, too, was a scout.  My mom, in fact, was the "Cookie Mom."  Our troop would pre-sell Girl Scout Cookies and then, like a miracle, one day I would come home from school and our entire garage would be filled with boxes and boxes and boxes and boxes of Girl Scout Cookies.

As a fat child -- a fat child who loved and adored Girl Scout Cookies, this day was second only to Christmas morning.  I truly believe the Cookie Angels descended down to bless us, making up for the thousand times my mother casually waltzed down the grocery store's cookie aisle, ignoring the Oreos, Peanut Butter Nutter Butters, and Chips Ahoy only to put a measly package of Fig Newtons in our cart.

Fig Newtons are a favorite cookie of my mother.  And evidently a fav of my husband as well.  But for me, Fig Newtons taste like year old graham crackers that have moved so far past stale they have taken on an entirely different consistency -- then, they've merged and melted onto year old raisins that have gone funky and now have a weird, well, crunch.  Nasty.  Nasty and, what's worse, not worth eating.  Buying Fig Newtons, I must admit, must have been a brilliant ploy on my mother's part because they truly were the only cookie that could remain on the cupboard shelf untouched by any of my siblings.  (I believe it's necessary to point out that this is the same woman who would buy Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies, take them out of the box, and then slip the plastic wrapped goodness between the mattress and box springs in her bed to hide them from the rest of us.  The fact that I know where my mother kept the LDOCPs is a testament to my perfectly honed hunting skills.)

If my mother ever did, in fact, buy Oreos or Nutter Butters or Chips Ahoy, you could count on one hand the number of seconds that passed between the time my father unsealed the package, and the time that the locusts, er, um, I mean my siblings and I, descended and systematically devoured the entire contents.

But I digress.

So back in the day when I was a Girl Scout, the instant I arrived home from a troop meeting with my Girl Scout Cookie pre-order sheet, I ran as fast as I could on my chubby, not-even-remotely-little legs across the street and three houses down.  That house was owned by a single man, a doctor by trade, who spent altogether too much time away from his cats drinking Diet Rite and working on premature babies at the hospital.  I loved him.  If I caught him before any of the other Girl Scouts in the neighborhood, I was guaranteed a huge sale.  You see, my folks did not believe it was "fair" to take my order form to work with them to sell my cookies for me on my behalf.  So I had to hoof it around the neighborhood selling door-to-door the old fashioned way.  Kinda like trick or treating, but not in October, and I didn't get any candy.

One time, when I lugged my little red wagon filled with the Good Doctor's cookie order over to his house, he answered the door, and the look of glee that crossed his face brought such joy to my heart.  At that moment, I understood with crystal clarity why Santa Claus works so incredibly hard all year round to make all those toys -- to see that look on another person's face.  The Good Doctor wrote me a check, and I spent the better part of forever unloading the millions of boxes he had ordered.  I thanked him and headed home, red wagon in tow.  About three steps out, I opened the check to make sure he had filled it out correctly, and my jaw dropped to the floor.  The Good Doctor had written a check for $100!!  I had never seen so much money in my entire life.  I sobbed uncontrollably.  I had never felt so happy in my entire life.  I vowed right then and there that should I ever grow up and own a house, I would buy $100 worth of Girl Scout Cookies from the first Girl Scout who ever came to my door selling cookies.  And I have lived up to that promise.

I am pleased to say I have passed my love for Girl Scout Cookies down to my children.  When my son was 14 months old, I sat him down and asked his three year old sister to watch him for a moment.  When I returned no more than a minute later, my daughter, a half eaten Tagalong in her hands, with the innocence of an angel asked, "What's so funny, Mommy?"

Well, you see, my son (my baby.  My 14 month old baby.  Who had maybe eight teeth at this point in his brand new life) had found his way over to the Thin Mints.  He had a sleeve of the cookies in his hands, and, like an ear of corn on the cob, he had raised the sleeve to his mouth, gnawed through the plastic, and sampled the goodies inside.

To this day, I flash back to this image each and every time I eat Thin Mints.

And as I sit here alone on a rainy Saturday afternoon, PMSing, surrounded by 23 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies, my hubby gone on a business trip for the next five days, I truly believe I should not be judged for having eaten an entire box of Tagalongs all by myself.  

After all, my baby gnawed his way through plastic to eat Thin Mints.

Just sayin'.

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