The nine year old sits in the front yard. She yells, “I want ten thousand Girl Scouts to come to my house! Is anyone a Girl Scout? Come to my house!”
Go back in time with me 10 minutes. We’re in the kitchen, where she expresses concern over a social conundrum. 3 of her dear friends, it turns out, belong to Girl Scouts. Who will we buy from when cookie season hits us?
“I’ll buy at least one box from each Girl Scout who comes to our door,” I promise, feeling expansive.
If my daughter’s advertising works, I’ll have to put up barriers to prevent the G.S.’s from getting to our door. I’m thinking foaming dogs and smelly skunks ought to do the trick. I might also threaten my daughter—no more friends from the Green Brigade or she’ll have to pay her own medical bills. And mine, since I’ve never passed up a frozen Thin Mint. Or an unfrozen Thin Mint. Or a melted, squashed, under-the-baby’s-carseat Thin Mint. Dang, it was hard to wrestle that one out of her fingers!