Crack dealers in training...or earning your crack badge

Disclaimer This post is tongue-in-cheek. I've been a girl scout, a girl scout leader. I've had boxes upon boxes of Girl Scout of the United States cookies that we had to sell, so I understand. But now, I see it from the (crack, uh, I mean cookie) addict's side.


Most people feel a let down after the holidays. I feel the excitement building because I know soon, someone, somewhere, sometime, will approach me with an order form for Girl Scout cookies. Those delectable Samoas, Thin Mints, Do-Si-Dos and Tagalongs -- even the names make my mouth start to salivate.

It happened this year. Early January, I'm at the spa where I get my nails and waxing. As I was paying the cashier, I saw it. THE order form. My daughter, who was with me, was the voice of reason. We were restrained grown-ups and order three boxes. That was a decent amount so we didn't look cheap, but not too many that we looked like wolves circling a lamb lost from the herd.

A month later, we picked up the cookies. Now, here's the important fact that I've left out. My daughter cannot tolerate gluten -- meaning she's not supposed to eat things like Girl Scout cookies -- and she recently moved back home. Hubby and I knew we should cut out some of the carbs in our diet so we decided to make our home gluten-free. The cookies were clearly not fitting into this decision.

Day 1: we opened the Samoas after dinner. Restraint. We each ate two. That's it. Two. The next day, we each ate 3. What happened after that is a blur. I think I blacked out. We woke up the next morning and all that remained of the Girl Scout cookies were three empty boxes.

We were all ashamed, but it was over. The cookies were gone.

We forgot about the crack dealers in training: those cute little girl scouts and brownies in their cute little uniforms with their cute little voices and faces. They are everywhere.

My daughter and I needed to go to the fabric store to pick up supplies -- the fabric store. They were there. Table set out, loaded with boxes of cookies. "No thank you, I already bought some," I said, hurrying by and not making eye contact.

We slammed the car doors shut and bought let out a long breath. "That was tough," my daughter said.

We went to the next store. They were there. Did they follow us? I swear the little red head was at the last stop.

We got in quickly -- the little voices trailing behind us. It was tougher getting out of the store. They had positioned two of the cute little crack dealers at the side of each door.

"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies," one chirped. "They're yummy."

My daughter grabbed my arm. "Keep walking. Don't look at them." We kept walking, and were approaching the larger group of Girl Scouts, each with armed with a smile and a plea to buy their cookies. "Run!" my daughter said. "Ok, just walk faster."

She pulled me past and another (target) shopper headed out of the store, distracting the Girl Scouts.

We dashed across traffic to the safety of our car. High-fives!

"Crack dealers in training," my daughter said. We both laughed.

We got home, unloaded our bags and I opened the pantry to put things up. That's when I saw it, hiding next to the cereal. A box of Samoas.

My husband swears he has no idea how it got there. I believe him. I swear I saw a little red head in a Girl Scout uniform walking around the corner of our house when we were headed to the front door...

A rose by any other name is...another flower

My name is Carmel -- pronounced like Carmel-By-The-Sea in California. Despite the fact that the majority of my life people called me Car-mul, that's not how it's pronounced.

In the past few months, I've been called that and Carmen and Carmelita and Camille. Sometimes I grin and bear it but most of the time, I correct people both verbally and in written form. Why? Because that's not my name.

I'm named after my paternal grandmother. I like my name. There was a time that I did not like it, but it is after all my name. Yes, I'm known by a whole like of other monikers from Cissy to O.N.C. (only my running friends know what that stands for)to Mom, "E" and Mimi.

Our name is the first thing we own. It's ours. It's part of, a great big part of, what makes us, us. Think about how often you've met someone and thought, "Wow, they don't look like a ...." fill in the blank there, but you know what I mean.

Imagine if Elvis' name had been Roger, or how a country girl like Norma Jean changed to fit the name given to her by the Hollywood machine.

We are our name. So don't take it personally if I correct you should you mispronounce my name. It's Carmel with an L, no N.