I’m Addicted and I Just Can’t Get Enough

There a few things that just melt my heart – grandpas, puppies, penguins in sweaters, Girl Scouts . . . shall I go on?

As you know, Girl Scout cookie season is upon us. It’s the best time of the year. During the long, cold winters, my body literally begins to shut down if I don’t supply it with cookies. Like clockwork, I begin to crave a combination of mint, peanut butter, coconut and chocolate. I wake up in the mornings and my stomach actually growls, “TAGALOOONGGGSSS.”

Don’t act like yours doesn’t.

This past week, little Scouts have been stalking me. No matter where I go, I see a tiny human that says, “I only need to sell three more boxes to reach my goal. Can you help me, pleeeeasseee?” Yes, of course. I will take 5 boxes of tagalongs.

Once upon a time, I was a Girl Scout. However at the ripe age of 9, I realized that I was never going to make it in sales. I remember going from door to door trying to convince my sweet grandpa-neighbors to buy Thin Mints. They would politely say “no,” and that they already had promised Little Susie that they would buy cookies from her. Thus, my parents would buy all of the cookies, and my grandma ended up getting diabetes. THANKS, OBAMA.

So, I vowed to never be one of those grown-ups. Anytime a child comes to me and asks me to buy cookies, I oblige.

Which is starting to become a problem, because as of today I have bought 26 boxes of cookies. Yes, you read that correctly. I have 20 boxes of Thin Mints, 4 boxes of Tagalongs and 2 boxes of Samoas. People, help me. Teach me how to say “no.”

It’s quite hilarious, so you have permission to laugh. In the meantime, if you want some cookies just hollah.

Ice, Ice Baby

It all started when my friend Elizabeth and I decided that Sunday, January 25th would be the perfect day to go ice-skating. We slipped on some leggings, found some earmuffs, and convinced Sally that it wasn’t that hard.

While contemplating our fate over a hot cider that may or may not have been spiked with Fireball, Sally warned us that she really didn’t know how to balance (which I should have accounted for, considering she cannot walk without tripping. Also, she would attest to this statement, so I don’t feel bad for publicly shaming her.)

We laced up our skates, tucked in our laces, and headed to the ice. I must say that Sally was picking up on the technique. Everything was going so well that I thought we may have an Olympian on our hands, UNTIL . . . (Note: You know there is a plot twist when someone adds any of the following words: “but,” “until,” and “then.”)

Back to the original story. UNTIL . . . a small child who was wearing pink pajamas, which is another story, decided to skate underneath Sally’s legs. If you have many questions regarding that sentence, it’s O.K. I’m assuming your questions go as follows: 1) Why did said child skate UNDER Sally? 2) Why was said child wearing pink pajamas? 3) Where were said child’s parents?

WE ALL WERE WONDERING THE SAME THINGS.

Needless to say, Sally fell. And by that, I actually mean her legs came out from under her, she was in the air for about .3 seconds, and she broke the fall with her wrist. Had we been scoring this performance, I would have given her a 10.

After a trip to the doctor, we learned that said child’s failed attempt at being Kristi Yamaguchi successfully dislodged bones in my roommate’s wrist. The doctor politely told Sally that she would only have to wear a cast for a month and they had an array of colors to choose from. Because that makes it better. 

Sally not so politely told the doctor that she was calling his bluff. After a slight argument over which one knew more about bones, the doctor won and Sally surrendered by saying, “Well then, I want black . . . like my soul.”

The good news (if there is any) is that Sally does not have to undergo surgery and her parents did not hunt me down and murder me. Oh, and she can still drink wine. Priorities.