We all have things we fear in life. My sister teases me because I am terrified of Martians. I am not trying to be planetarist but for some reason, I think a Jupiterean and I would probably get on fine. Is there anything you fear?
I apologize in advance for any typos. I am writing this from below my kitchen counter and the space is limited. And I am typing as quietly as I can with furtive glances to the doors and windows so I may not have time to proof everything I’ve written (No, I don’t have an excuse for last week’s typos.)
Why am I under the counter, you may ask? Lord knows our dog Scruffy wants to know. I have just returned from the supermarket where I stuck to my list of healthy items that should make well balance meals (should being the operative word there. Once I finish attempting to “cook” them, I don’t think the FDA would recognize a single one of them.) I went in to the store by way of the South entrance as planned but after escaping from the checkout line with enough money remaining in my grocery fund to catch a matinee, I lost all sense of reason and walked through the North exit. They spotted me the minute my foot hit the cement. I whipped around to reenter the store but the pneumatic doors wouldn’t budge. I was stuck – they had me.
I threw the hundreds of coupons that came with my receipt at them but they pursued undeterred. Each time I looked, their smiles were brighter and their greetings more generous. When I tripped over an errant shopping cart, three rushed to my aid, concerned about my well-being. I desperately tried to avoid eye contact but it was too late – contact was made. She was a particularly sweet-faced girl with red ringlets of hair springing free from her headband. Sparkling green eyes sat atop a small field of red-brown freckles. You could tell she was one of their high command – her ironed vest littered with accomplishment patches. Her uniform was crisp and showed no signs of battle; she was a precise warrior – the most fearsome of all. She inquired as to if I was okay and when I nodded, she asked the question I had dreaded most:
“Would you like to buy some cookies?”
Why is it, once that question is asked, you have to answer yes? Are there people who have ever answered no to that question? I would like to hear what that sounds like but I doubt I would over the crunching of the Thanks-A-Lot in my mouth as it was spoken.
I shook my head “no” but my lips form the word “yes” because the truth is, I always want to buy a box of Girl Scout cookies. There was a moment when I was in hard labor with Tabby that I wanted to buy a box of Girl Scout cookies (being in hard labor, this translated into me shouting at Nate to bring me a box of Do Si Dos immediately or I would list Wilford Brimley as Tabby’s father on the birth certificate. Since it was not cookie season, Tabitha Brimley is often asked many questions.)
I enlisted a slightly-less-than-sober surfer to assist me to the car with my cases. We had a small dispute over the price but I am fairly certain I would argue with the Dali Lama that his years of peace and civility were only worth one sleeve of Thin Mints. If you want a whole box of anything, you had best have my 24-year-old perky breasts to offer in return.
I rationalized the whole way home how I would disperse the cookies and therefore not be doing too much harm to my insulin levels. I would give some to my elderly neighbor down the street. I would take some to church for happy coffee hour. I could bring some to the nice ladies in the school’s office who have stopped asking Logan why he only has on one shoe. I could even bring a few boxes to the next PTO meeting and maybe get to sit in the second row for once. By the time I made it to my kitchen door, I had every box and flavor assigned to its perfect counterpart.
… I remained on the floor surrounded by plastic and cardboard for some time. Scruffy had gotten all the crumbs long before I regained consciousness from my sugar-induced coma. I did the best I could hiding the carnage; stuffing my neighbors recycling containers with empty cookie boxes before they got home. I tried to wash my tear-streaked cheeks of my shame but to no avail. You can smell the Samoas on my breath and I wear a light dusting of Savannah Smiles like a cilice. I know the children will see through my false protests of innocence – Logan can detect a Tagalong from a mile away. Nate will simply shake his head and remind me of the line we added to our marital vows about always splitting the Trefoils equally.
However, all of that will have its time. For now, I remain in my kitchen trench, fortifying my position with baking trays and muffin tins. I remain as silent as I can, not answering the phone, not reading the new issue of Cool Celebrities that just arrived (and the stupid cat knocked out of reach) because the minute they sense motion, the moment I let on that I am on the other side of that door, the knock will come and with it, that damn question: “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”
And the cycle will repeat itself…
Please do support your local Girl Scouts. They have a number of wonderful programs for young ladies and give back to their communities. In addition, they are equal opportunity in leadership, membership and policy.
Thank you to Alexander Ellis from South Bend, IN for the question. If you would like to write to Supermom, email her at AskSupermom@placedeplume.com or click the button below: