Party Like it's 2001

There is something I need to admit. Word has started to get out, and I'd rather you heard the truth from me than from someone else.

I should probably start from the beginning.

Earlier in the week I had the pleasure of finally meeting one @JMWander in person. He of Pittsburgh Magazine fame is one of my writing idols, so I was pretty excited that he had agreed to stay in one place while I stalked him. I left a few minutes early for our meeting, which, if you know me, you know is sort of like The Jonas Brothers going to a strip club. It only happens in alternative universes.

It was a good thing I left early because traffic was . . . um . . . I can't really think of a description that doesn't require a whole lot of cussing. Let's just say that there's more moving and advancing and getting somewhere happening in the Heinz Field parking lot an hour before a Steelers game. It. was. awful. A drive that should have taken ten minutes took far, far longer.

As the clocked ticked and I sat not moving, I realized that I should give my writing idol a call. And that's when it struck me--I had his phone number, but not stored in my phone or written on a piece of paper. It sat out on the internet, mocking me because I couldn't get to it.

Yes, indeed, I don't have internet access on my phone. Nor do I have any sort of texting plan. If I want to send or receive a text? Ding! Pay 25 cents! While 25 cents per text can add up quick, I still can't say that there is a reason in the world for me to get a texting plan, which would be $5.

I'm not entirely sure why I even have a cell phone. I rarely use more than 60 minutes in a month.

It's true--I'm a communication device dinosaur.

Hand me the inkwell and vibrating pager, while I start the fire for the smoke signals. I have no need for your fancy smart phones and such.

Little Red. He's not much bigger than a PEZ dispenser, but he gets the job done. Or something.

Only One of Them is Enjoying This

Weapons of Mass Consumption Best Go Elsewhere

In theory, I should hate the Girl Scouts and their blasted cookies. After years of torture at the hands of the Girl Scout leader who drank lots of the Kool-Aid, I have every right to never want to see another green sash for as long as I shall live. The evil Girl Scout leader made me wear my uniform to school every single week, even on school picture day. It wasn't the fun blue uniform the Daisies wear, nor was it that poop-brown Brownies uniform. No, siree, it was the bright green pants, crazy patterned shirt, and green sash of the Juniors set. I WORE THOSE GREEN PANTS ON PICTURE DAY.

Pity me.

The same crazed Girl Scout leader forced me to go door-to-door selling cookies. It was an uphill walk, both ways, through ten feet of snow. And lest you think I exaggerate, I lived in Minot, North Dakota at the time. Cookie season is in January. Do the math, but make sure you carry the one because OMG! There was a lot of snow there. Always.

In case you didn't figure it out, the lunatic Girl Scout leader was my mom. She drank gallons of the Kool-Aid. She might have lived on the stuff. Every year she drove me through neighborhoods all over the vast nothingness that is North Dakota because I had no choice but to sell at least 300 boxes of blasted cookies. She would sit in the car, toasty and warm, while I trudged through snow drift after snow drift, begging people to PLEASE just buy 100 boxes because then I could go home and be warm, too.

Whatever.

Here's where I'm going to admit something I never thought I would say: that torture might have led me to gain a few selling skills. I might have used those skills at some point in time. Maybe. I don't want to get all carried away and give anybody too much credit for the champion ear piercing sales skills I demonstrated in college.

These days, the only thing the Girl Scouts are learning from cookie sales is how to hand the sales sheet over to their parents. Or do they not do the sales sheet anymore? It seems more like the girls and their parents hide at random locations around town and play Marco Polo with those cookies. Seriously, you would not believe how much trouble I went to in order to find a few boxes of those cookies. A LOT OF TROUBLE. I think there is a vast conspiracy to keep cookies out of my mouth.

Over the weekend I finally found a respectable stash of the crack . . . er . . . I mean cookies. In theory, I secured enough to last months. (Thank you so much @AccessClosing! And @soulfulleoness!)

In theory.

Two years ago, Alexis was not at all interested in Girl Scout cookies. It was as it should be. Momma gets all the cookies for herself. This year, Alexis has evolved into a Girl Scout cookie weapon of mass consumption. People, she ate an entire box of Peanut Butter Patties (I refuse to acknowledge the name changes, sorry.). AN ENTIRE BOX. IN TWO DAYS.

I'm hunting down more cookies. They will be secured in a top-secret, locked location. If anybody tries to touch them, they best run for dear life.