Dear Girl Scouts Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever

Today is Friday, January 28, 2011. Snow emergency advisories are popping up on cell phones throughout the northeastern part of the country. Dr. OZ has announced that sunscreen causes major depression.* And in a short text from a concerned friend on the other side of the country, I have been notified: WARNING!!! They are starting to sell Girl Scouts cookies. Order forms have been sighted.

Soooo? you may be asking yourself. What's her problem? (her meaning me)

I will tell you the problem, my friend.

No one** eats just one Thin Mint.

Now, the Girl Scouts, being the clever, honest, upstanding girls that they are, ought to be applauded as it seems at first glance that they recognize this universal truth; the serving size on the back of the Thin Mint box is in fact clearly marked as being 4 cookies.

However.

No one** eats just four Thin Mints.

I mean, they are air-like by definition. Their very paltriness is advertised in their moniker. Four Thin Mints are the equivalent of one regular cookie, and just like no one eats only four Thin Mints, no one eats only one cookie.**

So...

Dear Girl Scout Leader** Troop Number 6,791 or Whomever:

I am writing to petition for truth in labeling so that the innocent consumer is well aware of the penalty before committing the infraction with regard to your deceptively benign and cheery looking little cookies. But before I do so, a little about myself:

First things first--I was never a Girl Scout (or a Bluebird or a Brownie). I freely admit that I am still working on straightening out the surprisingly tightly-woven ball of deep psychological hurt nested inside of me due to this childhood deprivation.

For nearly 25 years I have repressed the awful truth. Last year around this time I saw the top of someone's head just barely peaking out from a four foot tall snowbank at the end of my neighbor's driveway. As a concerned citizen I approached the oddity and was, as you can imagine, shocked to see that the top of the head belonged to a small girl child. I began to dig and in so doing discovered that this girl child was in fact one of your very own--a full-fledged be-ribboned Girl Scout. In her small, frozen hands were two boxes of cookies-Samoas and Tagalongs.

I am no stranger to living in cities where snowbanks are in fact large enough in size to swallow relatively large objects. However, it has been my experience that a little shoveling usually uncovers a bicycle or, say, a frozen cat, or perhaps a person who has lived his life in such a way that it is not unexpected that he has found himself lodged in a snowbank. But a Girl Scout! As far as I can reason Girl Scouts belong in the salt of the earth category (God, Country, Cookies). It was at this moment that as a 32-year-old woman I realized I was wholly shafted during my youth. I mean, imagine the sort of perseverance and inner fortitude this little girl must surely have been taught to tolerate being frozen in a dirty snowbank in the name of delivering cookies to their rightful owners!

Had I been allowed to participate in such life-skill development, I'm fairly certain that I would have by now:
a) thought of the Red Box idea before the Red Box guy did
b) found a clever way to convince Prince William to marry me and not Whatshername
c) climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro
or
d) at the very least circumnavigated New Zealand in a mere rowboat.

But no, I was forced to spend my Thursday afternoons sitting at Mrs. Zoss's piano breaking out in a cold sweat as I tried to play my scales without allowing my wrists to touch the ruler she had taped to the keyboard several years earlier when she had grown tired of telling us brats "Wrists up! Keep your wrists up!" and subsequently hunkered down at the dining room table, silently chain smoking (arguably a run-on sentence).

And while my friends who were Girl Scouts were learning how to make bow and arrows out of felt and silly string, all I have to show from my extracurricular curriculum is a half-remembered Fur Elise and panic attacks at the mere sight of a Steinway (which of course renders any talent for a half-remembered Fur Elise obsolete).

And now that I am on a bit of a roll, my lack of enrollment in the Girl Scouts meant I was shafted in an entirely different manner as well. I clearly recall now that every Thursday the Girl Scouts were permitted to wear their official Girl Scout uniforms to school, which by my calculations means that they escaped approximately 180 days of having to wear the stupid black watch plaid uniform that I had to wear for nearly thirteen years of my life. And what did I have to show for that? Another string of panic attacks my first year away at college when I realized that I would actually have to choose clothes (as in different, non-school-issued clothes that were supposed to match) to wear to class.

And finally in regards to how disadvantaged my girlhood clearly was as a non-Girl Scout is the fact that these little strumpets of yours Mrs. Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever have easy access to the goods. Probably the craftier among them--with all due respect Mrs. Troop Leader #6,791 or Whomever--simply say things like "Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Smith, we are out of Shortbreads" all the while stockpiling the buttery treasures for their closet-diabetic aunt or "You know Mrs. Smith, you could simply pay for a box of Lemon Chalet Cremes and I'll mail them off to Kuwait for our men and women in service there straightaway. Scouts honor." (Grrrr....)

OK. I'm OK.

Anyways, now to the reason for my correspondence, Mrs. Troop #6,791 or Whatever.

It is the opinion of this experienced Thin Mint consumer that you ought to change the serving size on the back of all your boxes of cookies to include the number 8 or perhaps the word "sleeve." Pushing your ethos of "moderation in all things" onto your paying customers (who were likely not fortunate enough to be taught your ethos because they were busy holding their wrists up in precarious situations) is neither realistic nor nice, and the last time I checked the Girl Scouts, if nothing else, aim to be nice.

Also, now that I have broached the subject directly, I would like to point out that "Thin" Mint may be slightly misleading, if not downright cruel--especially given the fact that Girl Scout Cookie season is quite in line--thankyouverymuch--with Countdown to Swimsuit season.

Next up: New Year Resolution Math vs. Girl Scout Cookies' Calorie Count

*And I thought all along it was just my paper white paleness that was bumming me out.
**Liars--each and every one of them that says he or she eats just one (or four).

up it's sleeve: 2011 So Far So Good. Mostly.

2011: So Far So Good

I am happy to report that given the general thematics of 2010, the first 15 days of 2011 are looking exponentially better, which is NOT to say that every silver lining doesn't come with a bit of its own cloud.

Silver lining: in the summer I will be traveling to a particularly intriguing city that straddles Asia and Europe to write feature articles about young women and faith.

Cloud: according to Fodor's guidebook, men from this particularly intriguing city tend to assume --I kid you not--that all youngish, blondish women are Russian sex workers.


Silver lining: I will be paid to go undercover at an undisclosed location as part of a sting operation to smoke out suspected employee rats.

Cloud: While I can't discuss this too much yet, I am told that truckers and math tests will be involved--neither happen to be my forte.


Silver lining: According to Vogue, long arms* are in for Spring 2011

Cloud: As is orange lipstick.


Silver lining: Any day now, both refined white flour and an AOL email address will be retro-cool.

Cloud: Ditto Milli Vanilli.


Silver lining: Officially, Girl Scout Cookie season in Northeastern Ohio is only four weeks away.

Cloud: Officially, Spring in Northeastern Ohio is four months away.

Silver lining: In about a week, I will no longer feel guilty about breaking my New Year's resolutions...
Cloud: ...if I had made any.


Silver lining: Soon, all the salespeople of the world will stop saying "Take an additional 50% off the lowest marked price" while pointing to one of the 250 blaring red signs in the store that say "Take an additional 50% off the lowest marked price."

Cloud: Soon, we fools in Northeastern OH (delirious from lack of sunlight and in a sort of defiantly hopeful gesture) will be paying full price for the new Spring arrivals, which of course we cannot wear for four more months.


Silver lining: After an inordinately long conversation about the topic over dinner last week, I have reason to believe that I am thisclose to cracking the age-old mystery as to why all males** insist on turning down the thermostat in the winter to the temperature that is just one degree below bearable.

Cloud: As suspected all along, spreadsheets and ego are both involved.


Silver lining: My guy friends are much more verbally descriptive and imaginative than I have ever given them credit for.

Cloud: I apparently look like a Russian spy who has stolen Sherlock Holmes' winter coat after having moved to London and taken residence in Paddington Station. Huh?


*'bout time. AMEN.

**and I do mean all.

***this observation would have meant very little to me if it weren't for the fact that I happened to be present at the little caucus held among FOUR of my male friends during which this verdict was declared despite my protestations. That they spent even five minutes discussing my sartorial choices instead of prowling among the hundred or so hot women in attendance at this party can only imply that these boys felt VERY strongly about my winter attire.

The Last Decade Part Two or What I've Learned Now That It is Over

Major lessons learned (the hard way):

God is good.
Even beyond what we can humanly understand.

Lover never ever fails you.
But people sometimes do.

Wherever you go, there you are.
So...go wherever you are.

Bloom anyways.

Minor lessons learned (also the hard way):

Using two bunny ears to tie your shoe is a perfectly respectable way to get the job done.
In private.

Addiction to Splenda is totally legit.
Go cold turkey.

Narcissists are the most under-recognized threat to society.
And the most dangerous.

There is a way to ALWAYS sit in the best seat when flying Southwest.
And when you are my husband, I will tell you what it is.

Shih tzus are contagious.
So is generosity.

Weekly pedicures are not frivolous.
What? They're not.

P90x works.
But, like most things, only if you do.

Sow to reap.
Reap and then sow some more.

Flossing and good grammar are as important as they say.
Celebrities are not.

Making an emergency landing in Atlanta due to a failed engine is not the end of the world.
But having to sleep in a Howard Johnson instead of your room at the W in the French Quarter in New Orleans due to your missed connection is. Almost.

:)