The only neighborly visitor we’ve had in the two weeks we’ve lived here was from the resident girl scout.
“Do we need girl scout cookies?,” my husband yells from the door.
Now what kind of messed up rhetorical question is that? I mean who really ever needs girl scout cookies? The fat content in those puppies is enough to simultaneously re-clog the arteries of an entire cardiac unit.
That’s not generally something my heart or my ass needs. Ever.
It’s one thing when they set up shop outside of the local supermarket and before you know it you’re signing your life away for a box of Do-si-dos that you consume on the way home just so you can hide the evidence. Hell, I’ve seen grown men make it through an entire cookie aisle and fully stocked bakery emptyhanded only to be suckered into a case of cookies by a couple of little girls wearing their brown and green uniforms complete with side pony tails and freckles.
But when they knock on your door, they’re a bit harder to escape. I mean what grumpy old miser says “no” to a $5 box of cookies from a little girl and her fully stocked wagon goodness. In fact, I’m pretty sure they carry around a credit card machine and a check swiper since most people don’t have enough cash stashed in their house for two damn boxes of those things.
Meanwhile, there we stood. The new
suckers neighbors caught with our extra big cookie-needing pants down around our ankles.
“We shouldn’t have answered the door,” I whispered to my husband as I approached him from the kitchen. He ignored me, entranced by the complicated ordering chart already full of cookie orders that were bound ruin some poor person’s new year’s resolution and inevitably end up left on the work “snack table” or turned into a pie.
“So what do you want?,” he asks me.
“Um, what are those called, tinfoils or something” I ask, sort of jokingly to the eight-year-old standing on my doorstep.
“Trefoils” she said, unamused, pointing to their picture on the box with her very pointy pen.
“No,” I said. Those aren’t it.”
“Well, everyone likes the Thin Mints.”
“Ew. No way.” For me, chocolate and mint together is like some terrible incestuous relationship.
“What’s the one that like a square dance move?”
“Do-si-dos.” She points again, her little Ked-sneakered foot tapping.
“Okay. I got it. You know, the ones that have the coconut and the caramel and are like 12 grams of fat each. Yeah those,” I say, challenging her cookie knowledge.
“Oh. Samoas.” I swear she rolled her eyes.
“Right. Apparently we need two boxes of those.”
Here’s hoping we’ve moved before they actually end up on
my ass our doorstep. I suppose there are benefits to moving a lot.