Girl Scout Season is Here
By which I really mean, Girl Scout Cookies are here.
I love Thin Mints, don't you? We have our own cookie connection who calls us in advance of cookie season, asking for our annual order. This year I told Sarah Jane, "Two boxes," as I was trying, at that moment, to rid myself of the extra ten that has settled around my waist and refused to leave because I don't do enough to make it go.
She wrote it down, "One Thin Mint, one Tagalong, OK." And she was off to the next call.
When I broke the news to the kids that we were only getting two boxes, shortly before Sarah Jane's mom arranged to bring them by, they wailed, "Two boxes?"
"You have money," I told them, "Call up Sarah Jane and order more if you want them." They did put up the money, though I made the call, and we ended up with ten boxes of cookies, eight of which I couldn't raid with impunity. They disappeared into bedrooms before Little Brother could spot them, never to be seen again, while eaten surruptiously bit by bit, in moderation, by our two teens in order to extend the cookie season, because usually I swallow them whole before two days are up and regret it.
The cookies arrived while my wife was away on business. Last night, back for days, she asked about the cookies, "So, are there any cookies left in the house? Did you save any for me?" The teens were silent. "Ours are gone," I told her, "But the kids might have them, they bought their own," and told her what they'd done.
My wife turned to our daughter, "So how much would you take for a box of Thin Mints?" But daughter wasn't releasing her cookies.
"Maybe Sarah Jane would deliver?" I suggested, "We could call her up for an emergency order. Or you could swing by, toss a check in the door and she could toss her cookies."
"No," my wife grumped, "I'll just go to the QFC and buy a box of grasshopper cookies, they're exactly the same."
A round of ardent denials circled the room.
"Yes they are, they're just as good, and I can get them anytime," she pouted.
"I didn't need to know that," I murmered.
"Um, no, they're not nearly so good," she amended.
"I still think you should call Sarah Jane," I added, secretly hoping that we could add to our cookie stash while the season was here, now, not wanting to wait until I stumbled over a Girl Scout while entering the grocery store as they manned their stations selling boxes on Saturday.
At that moment our youngest son exploded at the computer, frustrated that Princess Leia was unable to jump up to the next level on the game, and pounded the laser mouse into the mouse pad. I jumped up instead.
"Time for bed," I chirped, before further damage ensued, "I can't wait to read some more Scooby Doo. What shall we read tonight?" while hurriedly washing my face, brushing my teeth, and slipping on pajama bottoms so that the transition to bed could be a happy time, and not something that disintegrated into a melee involving harsh words (his), and hard labor (mine). As I chirped my way up the stairs with him, holding hands and eagerly anticipating the Mystery Inc. gang's next escapade I was in ignorance of the next move on the main floor.
Would they call Sarah Jane? Would my wife skip to the store for Keebler Grasshopper cookies, Thin Mint substitutes, or would our children relent and sell her some for an inflated price, learning supply and demand economics at home? As I slipped into the ether after discovering that it was the architect who masqueraded as the Groovy Ghost, to ensure the old theatre was torn down, all I could think was, maybe I'll call Sarah Jane tomorrow.