Maybe they're trying to tell us something...

It's that time of the year again. No, not March Madness. No, not Lent, or St. Patrick's Day or Easter. I am talking about Girl Scout Cookie Time. Every year, those sweet, innocent little girls dressed in green and brown magically produce a variety of cookies that are like little gifts sent straight from heaven. And every year, my loving husband and I agree that we could single handedly put one girl scout through four years of college if only she would visit us and offer us her order form/wheel barrow full of cookies. And alas, every year, we are amazed at how we completely miss out on the pre-ordering.

We used to chalk it up to living in a neighborhood where most girl scouts were uh, well, out drinking and on their way to procreating the population, but we've moved. We've moved to suburbia central. Land of slow driveway back outs for fear of running over small children. Land of cookie cutter homes and one upping the neighbors. Land of future Friday night football players and most importantly Land of GIRL SCOUTS. If ever the odds for being bombarded by cookie orders were increased it would be when the new neighbors moved into 'hood. We are the new neighbors! Where the heck are all the girl scouts!?!

After we learned that ordering was over and the cookies are now in stock, we have been carefully keeping an eye out for those little tables here and there for our opportunity to grab some pure happiness - thin mint and tagalong style. The other day we were driving and saw a little stand on the side of the road, but we were going the wrong direction. We told ourselves we would definitely hit them up on the way back. So, on the way back when we were going the correct direction, those little elves had packed up their cookies and headed home. Defeat.

Last night we were in bricktown for dinner and low and behold there was a table of girl scouts and their cookies just inside the restaurant. Not wanting to embarrass ourselves by buying them on the spot and then devouring them at the table as an appetizer, we told ourselves we'd be back after dinner. We stuffed our faces quickly so we could get back to the table, only to find they'd packed up and left. Again.

I am starting to wonder if these girl scouts in their infinite wisdom and honor are trying to tell my loving husband and me something. Like, "Hey fat asses there's a reason we are avoiding you!" Or maybe they know I was a traitor when I was younger. Yes, I was a Campfire girl.

Either way, it seems that what could be the happiest time of the year has turned into a depressing experience for me. I'm off to dream about Samoas.