Like Mythical Sirens, but with Cookies

           January is a wonderful month, with all sorts of wonderful things happening like new seasons of TV series, award nominations and 1099s and W2s for those who anticipate a tax refund.  It’s also early enough in the year that the feeling you will actually start eating right and exercising is still real and true.  But the best thing of all is Girl Scout Cookies.  I cannot overstate how much Samoas (or Caramel Delights) mean to me.  They are life sustaining, y’all. 

            Having seen multiple posts on Facebook from friends letting me know that their tiny girl children of the scouting variety were looking to load me up with all sorts of deliciousness, I was on the lookout for these dessert-laden children.  Since most of my friends’ children live in other states, I have to wait to find these elusive Girl Scouts who appear suddenly on sidewalks calling to mere mortals like me, not unlike the mythical sirens, but with cookies.

            I was running errands on Saturday and remembered to keep my eyes peeled for groups of young ladies surrounded by throngs of parents at folding tables, precariously crammed with boxes of baked happiness.  I spotted a group just outside the bank and planned on buying a box or three once I had my cash in hand from the ATM.  While Girl Scouts in my city take card payments with Square, I prefer to pay cash.  I don’t need an electronic record of me cheating on my diet.

            Cash in hand, I practically bounced out of the bank lobby and toward the table of people.  I walked right up and was about to announce my intention to purchase Samoas, when I noticed the sign said Camp Fire Girls and they were attempting to sell me overpriced trail mix. Have you ever tried to stop mid-bounce?  It's difficult and it hurts.

            I’m embarrassed to say that my poker face failed me, and my disappointment was evident.  I sidestepped the table, made some excuses about being allergic to raisins and the outdoors and fled to my car, both slightly ashamed of my behavior and sad that I had no cookies.

            In my mind, I said, “Hmpf!  Camp Fire Girls! Trying to sell me trail mix so they can sleep outside, when they have perfectly lovely, overpriced houses in their neighborhood.  Ridiculous!  I do not want your trail mix! I do not want your campfire!”  During my internal tantrum, I wondered, what is a Camp Fire Girl anyway?

            Camp Fire Girls or Camp Fire, as it is no longer a girls-only group, was founded in 1912 in Missouri as a sister organization to the Boy Scouts.  It is an organization that emphasizes camping and outdoor activities for youth and has been co-ed since 1975.  As someone who has camped out dozens of times in my childhood, only a few of them voluntarily, I don’t get the passion for sleeping outdoors.  We invented houses so we wouldn’t have to do that.

            Camp Fire today, however, is geared toward helping youth find their spark and discover who they are.  They focus on camping and environmental programming and service and leadership, which I applaud and would fully support if they sold cookies.  

A list of notable alums includes Shirley Temple, Marian Anderson, Janis Joplin, Gladys Knight, Madonna and Rita Moreno.  I’m not sure if a vocal tryout is required before you join, but I’m guessing the sing-alongs at their campfire are better than yours.

Also, I need a Samoa.  Can somebody help me out?  Please and thank you.

Is It Reality, For Real?

            The other day I was sitting at Einstein Brother’s Bagels having a quick breakfast before my doctor’s appointment and I noticed a mother and son duo that piqued my interest.  At first glance, they appeared to be a run-of-the-mill Hispanic mother in her early 30s with a son around 13.  I only noticed them because the son had walked away from the counter where his mother was ordering to peruse the drink options.  When they were apparently out of the bagel he wanted, they had the conversation of choosing a new bagel flavor, while yelling at each other across the restaurant, neither of them feeling the need to walk closer to the other.  They fortuitously sat at the table next to mine, which allowed me to literally transcribe their conversation.

            Once they got their food, the son began talking and his side of the conversation was so much like a bad reality show that I surreptitiously looked around for a camera crew.

            Son: “Are you tired?”

            Mother: “Yeah.”

            “Is it because you’re worried about your brother?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you worried he might not have changed like he said?  That your love for him will only hurt you again?  That your belief in him is not helping him?
            “Yeah.”

            “I’m worried about you.  You don’t enough sleep and then you get clumsy and we both know how Dad gets when you get clumsy.  How he gets angry at you and it makes you sad and then you don’t get enough sleep.”

            “Yeah.”

            They stop talking for a few minutes so the son can take a breath and eat, and I find myself staring at his food trying to figure out what it is.  Like any narrator worth his salt, he describes his custom order which is a smoked salmon and cream cheese on a chocolate chip bagel with BBQ chips as an additional layer.

            Son: “You’d think those flavors wouldn’t work together but they do.  You get your salty and you get your sweet.”

            Mother: “Yeah?”

            “Definitely.  I’ve tried different ones.  Pretzel was too salty.  Pumpkin was the best, but they didn’t have it, which was what you told me earlier when I was looking at the drinks.  Remember, I had to find out what drinks there were to make sure they had something that you liked because I wanted you to enjoy your meal.  Our meal.  Our time together.  I really do enjoy our time together.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you worry when I’m not around?  When I’m gone to school?  Do you worry about me like grandma?  Here’s a text from grandma.  Let’s read it together.”

           

            At this point, I realized I was going to be late for my appointment, so I had to leave them behind.  I don’t know if this young man thinks that’s how people talk to each other because he thinks reality TV is actual reality or he was pretending that he was on a show in case he ever gets cast on a reality show or if it was actually a show and the cameraman was really great at camouflaging himself.  Either way, if you see me on TV at some point, and I appear to be furiously writing in my notebook, you can rest assured that I am writing down everything the people next to me are saying.  I’ve got to practice just in case I get my own reality show.

          Can I get an Amen, y'all?