(No sheep were harmed for the purposes of this blog)
I’m thinking of marking my front porch with lamb’s blood, so the Girl Scout Cookie Sale will pass over me next year. Or maybe I could run a pair of my fat pants up the flag pole to deliver a less scary, less biblically themed message that I should not be sold any more food.
But that’s for next year.
Are they still out there, canvassing neighborhoods, popping up at football parties and “sick-ing” their mothers on me to get me to buy their cookies? I can only hide so long. I just survived a sweet-free Valentine’s Day because my candy-pimping husband finally listened to my “No chocolate!” pleas. I’m well on my way to a svelte spring body and I don’t need the temptation of those delicious cookies.
My problem, besides overindulgence, is it’s practically impossible for me to refuse a child pedaling anything on my porch. I had to sell fruitcakes door-to-door as a kid and I still shudder recalling the rejection of a fruitcake hating public.
A few weeks ago, as I was flipping through my daughter’s cookie sales material, I saw a Facebook message from a friend announcing her daughter is ready to take my cookie order. Within hours of the Facebook message, our quiet neighborhood streets were populated with the cardboard-chart holding uniformed midgets. The mad cookie pusher/cookie consumer “Cat and Mouse” game, starring me as the Mouse, had begun.
As soon as I kindly-but-firmly sent one away, another appeared, with a “harder-sell” approach. They were sending increasingly confident girls…with sales pitches… and dimples! My resolve…and my doorbell…were being tried.
“I’m sorry but my daughter is a Girl Scout and we’re buying cookies from her,” I lied, “but thank you.”
“But they’re delicious,” said Little Green Sash. I repeated my statement, smiled and gently closed the door. “They have zero-trans fat!” she added.
Then they sent in the big guns—Pig-tails.
“Sorry sweetie, but if I buy one more box of cookies I’ll blow up,” I joked. Pig-tails got a blank look on her face, then turned back and ran screaming to her mother in the driveway.
Oh MY God, what had I done? I meant I would blow-up from eating too many cookies. I walked out and shrugged my shoulders and waved. Pig-tails came back and said, through sobs, “Th-th-th-thank you, anyway.”
“Wait—I’ll buy some of your cookies!” I consoled. 5 boxes later she danced back to her car. I hadn’t actually seen any tears.
I read that a good way to control your consumption of the cookies is to freeze them (the cookies, not the Girl Scouts).