It’s almost April. In a few more days I can breathe easier, stop looking behind me and jumping at my own shadow, stop having to appeal to the universe to give me the strength to get through what is always the most difficult time of year.
It’s not Lent. It’s not Fiscal Year End. It’s not the impending Tax Time.
No. It’s something far more formidable than life, death or taxes.
It’s Girl Scout Cookie Time.
Yes. That time of year when, as surely as the first flowers of spring, little sprites in the form of innocent-looking, uniformed girls emerge from their underworld lairs to tempt us to the dark side with bewitching boxes of tantalizing treats.
Don’t let the cherubic smiles and “fund raising” explanations fool you. Girl Scouts are evil. They lure us into their sinister sugar-traps with irresistible indulgences available only once-per-freaking-year. Then, once we are completely hooked and live for the day the damned green-frocked prepubescent devils knock on our door, they hit us with steady price increases knowing we are now addicts and will sell our souls for some Tagalongs or Samoas.
You can run, but you cannot hide. If they don’t doom you at your door, they’ll snag you at the supermarket. You’ll feel the pull when you approach the table, set up in front of the local Safeway, populated by adorable looking, identically dressed minions with whirling pinwheel eyes and robotic smiles. Resistance is futile. You’ll take one look at those boxes of Do-Si-Dos and money will fly out of your wallet of its own accord. Next thing you know you’ll be sitting on your living room floor surrounded by empty orange boxes and not even a dim memory as to what transpired.
I surrendered my soul to the Green Demons many years ago. They are both friend and foe now; beings I look forward to seeing as the only source of satisfaction for my cookie cravings and fear because of the power they wield over me. I’m so deeply ensconced in their damned cookie cult that I now have my own personal Girl Scout Gremlin. She doesn’t even bother with the formality of coming to my door, she just phones me.
“I’ve got your Thin Mints,” she says in a voice reminiscent of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. “How many boxes do you want?” I’m certain that while she is saying this her head is turning all the way around. It doesn’t matter how many boxes I tell her I want. She brings twice that many and I shoot out dollar bills like a Pez dispenser.
You may be smirking. Or laughing. But you’re not immune. Don’t even waste time thinking you can avoid the Green Demons. If they don’t know where you live right now, don’t think they don’t have ways to get people to divulge your whereabouts. I don’t care if you’re in the witness protection program – I’ll sell you out in a heartbeat if it means getting discounted Daisy-Go-Rounds.
If you visit my house you’ll see the evidence of my addiction. Empty green boxes in the trash, partially consumed ones in the refrigerator and more in the freezer. You’ll wonder how I eat all those cookies and manage to stay so slim. And you’ll covet my cookies. But you won’t get any. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care if you’ve pulled me from a burning building. The cookies are mine.
Get your own.