The Cookies Have Landed

Well, not the cookies just yet, but the order forms are here. “Go Day” was Saturday, and Demigoddess the Younger has already been on the phone pitching overpriced-and-really-not-even-all-that-tasty Girl Scout Cookies to every relative in our area code. And to a couple who are long-distance.

My little capitalist is practically frothing at the mouth to get outside and work the neighborhood, but, in yet another move that is sure to secure my place of honor in the Bad Parent Hall of Fame, I have actively discouraged her ambitions because, yes, I am lazy. And poor. And every time I let them sell cookies door-to-door, I end up having to cover the cost of about six boxes that don’t get delivered because the people who ordered them are never home to take delivery. Not to mention the fact that dragging cookies all over the blessed neighborhood again and again is a giant pain in my arse.

As usual, the likely root of the problem can be traced to residual resentment from my childhood. Back when I was a Girl Scout, I clomped along in my Moon Boots for blocks and blocks, taking cookie orders all by my unsupervised self. Later, I alone delivered the goods, still without any adult supervision, from the back of my little red Radio Flyer. One wonders whether my weary parents weren’t maybe hoping I’d get abducted and thereby reduce the number of mouths they were legally required to feed from four to three. Maybe even to two, if they got really lucky and Meghan, who was also a Girl Scout, could find a way to get herself picked up as well.

Then again, maybe my Mom and Dad were on to something. Maybe they understood that the secret to keeping young girls safe from abduction is to dress them in Moon Boots and give them bad haircuts before releasing them to wander the streets alone. Certainly, no kidnapper would be interested in such homely-looking urchins.

Nah. It was probably the numbers thing.