Friday, April 2, 2004
Page 15
AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)
The Way the Cookie Crumbles
By J’AMY PACHECO
“Me Want Cookie!”
—Cookie Monster
“Cookie, Cookie, Lend Me Your Comb”
—Some song I once heard
If it seems like I have cookies on the brain, there’s a good reason. I’m the mother of a Brownie Girl Scout.
Unless you have a personal servant who does your shopping, I’d hazard a guess you’ve been approached in recent weeks by a cute little girl wearing some kind of patch-laden uniform, and asked to buy-some-Girl-Scout-cookies-only-four-dollars-a-box.
I’d also hazard a guess that if it was in the Western United States and the girl was a Brownie, it was my daughter.
For the last month, it seems all we’ve done is sell cookies. Every Saturday, we’ve packed up my husband’s van and transported child, tables and cases of cookies to supermarkets, swap meets and other retail outlets that allow scouts to peddle their wares out front.
This is, of course, in addition to the pre-order-taking my daughter did. That’s the easy part – getting family members, friends and co-workers to order a couple of boxes. It was only after those orders came in and were delivered that the real work began.
The annual cookie sale is a big deal in the Girl Scout world. It’s how troops earn most of the money they use to travel, make crafts and do other fun scout stuff. Scouts also earn patches based upon the number of boxes they sell, and are offered other incentives to sell cookies.
The result is that parents of little scouts help staff and supervise cookie booths. Parents who have vans end up staffing a lot of cookie booths.
Sometimes, cookie booth work can be fun. About half an hour into a three-hour shift, the girls usually work up enough courage to make up songs and chants to incite a cookie-buying frenzy. That’s always interesting, and usually funny.
Sometimes, though, the girls get tired of selling cookies. Occasionally, weird things happen.
At a swap meet, a big, mean man who saw me hand my husband the directions to our booth yelled at me and accused me of selling my booth space, scaring my daughter and myself.
Many, many people have stories to tell about when they were scouts, or when cookies cost fifty cents, one dollar or some other amount. They love to tell their stories—but don’t usually buy cookies. Too bad we can’t charge for listening and smiling.
At one booth, an obviously intoxicated woman bought a box. Insisting we knew one another, she repeatedly tried to remove my sunglasses from my face. After I took them off and she agreed we’d never met, she tried to kiss two of the Brownies on the tops of their little heads. Now, there’s something you don’t see every day. Unless you work in a bar, I suppose.
Lots of people buy one box and pay with a $20 bill. Consequently, I spend a lot of time (and money) going into stores to buy $1 items in order to get change. That part is okay, though; I’m happy to support stores that allow the scouts to do their cookie thing outside.
A surprising number of people pay with icky money – bills that feel grimy and leave you wondering what was on them. I wish I had a dollar for every icky bill I’ve handled in the last month. A clean dollar, I hastily add.
After a month of cookie booths, my Brownie-girl exceeded the 200-box mark she had set as a goal. I don’t know if the patch will be worth it, but she’s happy and no stranger succeeded at kissing her, so I guess it all worked out.
The only problem remaining is the 11 cases of cookies still sitting in my living room. One hundred thirty two boxes came home with me after last weekend’s booth, and I can’t get rid of them.
The troop leader hasn’t come to retrieve them. My neighbors are keeping their doors locked and their blinds closed, and even my own mother won’t call me back. (She did buy cookies, however.)
After a month of cookie vending, my sales skills are kaput. I can’t even sell myself short.
I bought so many myself that there’s no room for real food in my freezer. And after all these weeks of selling them, cookies are the last things I want to eat. I may have to drape the crates with cloths and pretend they’re furniture.
On the bright side, the summer ant season is just around the corner. I know those little critters would be happy to get some cookies. I just hope they bring money.
Clean money, and lots of it.
Copyright 2004, Metropolitan News Company