Adulthood Stole My Cool

Cookie Hell. Or, That Time Girl Scouts Turned Me Into a Dealer

Posted on Jan 18, 2013 in Adulthood Stole My Cool

I do not do drugs.  I do not condone drugs.  I never experimented with drugs.  But maybe if I had, I’d be better prepared for dealing with Girl Scouts now.  Stay with me.

While I don’t believe in doing drugs, I do believe in volunteering.  Last year I wrote about volunteering with Girls on the Run, a wonderful organization dedicated to making health and fitness fun for young girls.  While we don’t have GOTR on NAF Atsugi, we do have Girl Scouts, another organization committed to building girls of strong character.  Or something like that.

As you may be interested to learn, I was once a Girl Scout.*  So when I learned that the Atsugi Girl Scouts were looking for volunteers, I thought, Why not?  I figured it would be a great way to get more involved more in our community and give back a little of my time to an organization that had given so much to me.**

I was wrong.  Very, very wrong.

Due to my schedule, I was unable to volunteer as a leader.  Instead I was asked to take on the role of Cookie Manager.  (Co-Cookie Manager is more accurate.  I have a saint of a partner, Kat, who is way more on top of this thing than I am, bless her soul.)  It wasn’t really what I had in mind, and truth be told, I didn’t really know what the job entailed.  Again I thought, Why not?  If that’s what they needed me to do, by all means I would manage me some cookies.

What I failed to take into account is that people go bat-$&!% crazy for girl scout cookies.  Straight up psycho.  People want their cookies, and they want them now.  Let’s be real for a second – they aren’t even that good.***  But it’s as if we as Americans have some weird, nostalgic connection to these cookies that compel us to buy, buy, buy and sell, sell, sell.  And the fact that they are only offered -gasp!- once a year in -gasp again!- limited quantities strikes an urgency in us to get our cookies the moment they become available.

Or maybe they’re just laced with crack.

As Co-Cookie Manger, I’m in distribution.  There are no Girl Scout Cookies without me.  Or Kat.  Or Sam, the woman who is storing all of the boxes in her storage facility.  But anyway…  When the hundreds of cases of cookies arrived, Kat and I and some other volunteers divvied up the cookies for each troop; these were the cookies for the girls to sell individually.  We kept half the supply in storage for booth sales around base.  Seemed easy enough.  But then the girls began selling out of their supply.  And ish got real.

Suddenly I was fielding calls and texts and emails from desperate mothers and troop leaders.  They needed more cookies!

I need more cookies! 

Sorry, no can do.

But I’ve got a buyer!  He wants a case tonight!

Tell him to visit the booth on Saturday.

Come on!  Just a case of Caramel Delights!  Just one case!

Can’t do it.

Fine, fine.  Six boxes, then.  Just get me six boxes! 

And so on and so forth.  As I was responding to cookie related emails at 11PM last Saturday night, it hit me.  This must be what a dealer feels like.  I’m not getting any money directly, so maybe I’m not technically a dealer.  Sorry, I’m not up on my drug-related terminology, so this metaphor may be a little shaky. Point is, I am involved in some shady business.

You should have seen me tonight: There I was at the storage facility, loading up shopping carts full of cookie cases, shoving  them into my car under the cover of darkness, casting furtive glances around me to see if anyone was watching because I had been in the loading zone more than 20 minutes.  What did I tell you?  Shady business.  All in the name of cookies.

What are we all getting worked up into a frenzy for?

“Just you wait,” one of my Girl Scout Mother friends said to me, “Your time will come.”   I shudder at the thought!  Dealer today, druggie cookie mom tomorrow.  I fear it’s my destiny.

*I was a Girl Scout through the 8th grade.  Sort of.  I was a closeted Girl Scout.  Besides my fellow troop members and my immediate family, no one knew my secret.  It was far too embarrassing.  Then came some ceremony at the end of the year for all the local troops – I suppose it was a graduation of sorts – and whaddya know?  I was not the only closeted Girl Scout.  There were a whole lotta girls there that I had known for years, but never known were fellow scouts.  Oh, to be an insecure eight grade girl.

Also, my troop was not your traditional girl scout troop.  I suppose we earned badges and whatnot, but I don’t remember in what.  We certainly never went camping.  We did, however, rent a condo in Big Bear for a ski weekend.  And there was that time (or two times?) the Avon representatives came to our meetings and taught us how to pick the right makeup for our skin tones.  Troop Orange County, anyone?

**Thank you, Girl Scouts, for teaching me such valuable skin care techniques.  I am a better woman for it.

***I know I’m going to catch flack for this.  But do me a favor and consider what I’m saying.  Last weekend I made some delicious homemade chocolate chip cookies.  The other night I went to go eat one, and they were gone.  My evil husband had finished them off.  Disappointed – but not defeated – I went to the pantry to find my sugar fix.  There was a box of Peanut Butter Patties.****  “Eh,” I said to myself, “I guess I can have a Peanut Butter Pattie.”  And it was fine.  Not bad, but not great.  I definitely would have preferred one of my homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Wouldn’t you?


I realize I just wrote an entire post making fun of the Girl Scouts.  It’s a joke.  In all seriousness, it is a great organization and all the volunteers and mothers involved dedicate a lot of time and energy into their troops and daughters.  As for my own personal Girl Scout experience, it really wasn’t that shallow.  I had wonderful leaders and we did good things.  When I start writing a sentimental blog, I’ll tell you about all about it. 

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Goth Mom

Posted on Oct 30, 2012 in Adulthood Stole My Cool

I am not a do-it-yourself kinda gal.  You’ve probably gathered that from previous blog posts.  Well, my non DIY stance applies to my hair, too.  I never have – and never will – colored/cut/up-doed my own hair.  I am simply not capable of such things.  I once YouTubed a curling iron tutorial.  Got that?  I actually googled, “How to curl your hair.”  I can’t even operate a curling iron without video assistance!  And even with the video assistance, I totally scorched my hair. But that’s okay, because I’m not really high maintenance about my hair.  Perhaps I’m not high maintenance about my hair because I don’t know how to be high maintenance about my hair – but whatever.  Growing up, I always played it safe, never adding more than a few barely noticeable highlights to enhance my natural color (mousey brown).  But then a few years ago I decided I was ready for a change!  I was ready to plunge into the world of hair dye! This was a HUGE decision for me.  So I gathered my courage, walked into the salon a light brunette and walked out – a dark brunette!  It was revolutionary!  Changed my life! I’m lying.  Of course it didn’t change my life.  It’s hair dye.  I don’t subscribe to the theory that blondes have more fun, and by extension, brunettes less fun.  Or any theory that claims you hair color will determine your life/personality/how much fun you have.  The person who has the most margaritas has the most fun, obviously; it has absolutely nothing to do with hair color.  But still, I liked the new look and decided to stick with it, when convenient. Incidentally, the last time it was convenient was a really, really long time ago.  Like, pre-baby long ago.  My lustrous dark brown hair had long ago faded back to basic brown.  But visiting my parents in California afforded me the opportunity to visit my long-time stylist and redo my do. Perhaps my stylist’s assistant had been drinking before she mixed my color, or perhaps she just didn’t like me.  Either...

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Why I Love Not Being Pregnant

Posted on Jan 2, 2012 in Adulthood Stole My Cool, Pregnancy Stole My Cool

6 weeks ago I went through this.  6 weeks ago little Elisabeth Lucy came into the world.  6 weeks ago my pregnancy was OVER! 6 weeks is a not insignificant amount of time.  Yet I still find myself, on a fairly regular basis, thinking, “Wow.  I love not being pregnant.”  When I open the medicine cabinet and see the Tums bottle gathering dust, I think it.  When I slip on a pair of pants without an elastic band, I think it.  When I climb a flight of stairs without breaking into a sweat, I think it. So in that spirit, here is my list of Top 10 Reasons I Love Not Being Pregnant: 10) I can sleep on my back and my stomach.  I don’t actually sleep on either, but I like that I have the option. 9) For the first time since moving into our new condo, I fit comfortably into my stall shower. 8) As suddenly as it appeared, my heartburn disappeared.  Miraculous! 7) I am no longer resigned to the elliptical at the gym.  I see running in my future.  And kickboxing.  And power yoga.  And if I’m feeling saucy, maybe even… Zumba! 6) My legs no longer resemble Bigfoot’s.  I don’t believe No Shave November was intended for women, but shaving my legs became an impractical and somewhat dangerous undertaking as pregnancy wore on.  As my belly grew, so did my leg hair.  TMI?  Sorry. 5) I am saving loads of money not having to buy toilet paper every other day.  Not peeing every 45 minutes has major monetary advantages. 4) I can wear my pretty, fun shoes again.  OK, I still wore them while pregnant, but it hurt.  Swollen feet + strappy sandals and high heels don’t mix. 3) Wine. 2) I have not once gotten stuck in the garage between the car and the trash cans.  Yes, that happened. 1) (Drumroll please) I get to cuddle and play with and love on the cutest little baby girl*.  (Awwwwww).  It’s INFINITELY better than have her play soccer in my stomach every time I try...

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