Girl Scout Cookies

It's one of my favorite times of year. . .

. . .Girl Scout cookie season! 

And although I am a big fan of this 100 year tradition. . .

. . . it is kind of a love/hate relationship. 

I mean, whose brilliant idea was it to make

Girl Scout cookie season right before Spring Break? 

Right?

 So as much as I TRY  to be reasonable about my Girl Scout cookie intake,

everywhere I go, I am smack dab in the middle of the danger zone. 

Grocery stores, pharmacies, local coffee shops, & neighborhood street corners

  are all peppered with little girls in their patched green sashes. . .

. . . with their inviting smiles and convincing sales pitches:

 "You KNOW  you want some."

They are so right. I DO  want some.

Little she-devils. 

And I, once a Girl Scout, remember this all too well.

Girl Scout cookie season was a highlight to our normal troop activities,

and learning to skillfully bat your eyes and gain

 a sale or two was a trick we learned young.

 And to be honest, being in Girl Scouts was not my favorite. 

I was into sports. And Girl Scouts activities lacked the excitement

and danger that I saw my brother experiencing in Boy Scouts.

While his Boy Scout troop was earning patches for archery, marksmanship,

& skillfully tying 100 different kinds of knots for 100 different important reasons,

my Girls Scout troop was earning patches for such things as: 

Lawn chair sitting?

 OK, so I'm poking fun. 

I'm sure there were some completely relevant 

activities we did that earned us some totally respectable badges.

Totally.

And I admit, even though it lacked the adventure I was hoping for,

my short stint as a Girl Scout was still fun,

because I was with my buddies. 

This is us.

I couldn't find any old pics of us in Girls Scouts,

but just imagine us twenty-something years ago,

wearing green berets and holding a "Girls Scout Cookies" sign.

Oh and can't forget JoAnna!

Her mom, Kathy, was one of the troop leaders,

and let me tell you, Kathy knows how to shake things up!

(If you can't tell, we're all still really close friends.)

So even though Girl Scouts wasn't all that I had

hoped and dreamed for activity-wise,

 at least I got to be a part of the cookie madness.

Here's the breakdown:

 

Tagalongs are BY FAR, my favorite kind of Girl Scout cookie.

Whenever chocolate, peanut butter, and some

kind of crunchy cookie come together,

it is a truly beautiful thing.  

Unfortunately, there are only 15 to a box.

Why do I know that? Because I am THAT obsessed with them.

Next, Thin mints.

These are known to be most people's 1st choice,

but they come in a close second for me.

And according to this blasphemous (& blurry) graph, Tagalongs come in 3rd after Samoas!

Really? REALLY?!

I admit, Thin Mints are a very nice alternative to a Tagalong.

Put them in the freezer and they become even more refreshingly awesome. 

But here are my two qualms with Thin Mints:

#1. They are clearly too thin.

If they made Fat Mints, maybe we wouldn't need to eat 5 to feel satisfied. 

Maybe this key ingredient has something to do with that:

#2. And although there are more Thin Mints per box than Tagalongs provide,

I still have a bone to pick:

The other cookie flavors fail to earn my attention,

so I will not even bother to discuss them.
These two are my favs, and it is almost like the others don't even exist.

This year,Travis and I pre-ordered 5 boxes
of cookies from our friend's daughter.
Three Tagalongs. Two Thin Mints.

But upon delivery, one box of Tagalongs was mysteriously missing.

So logically, I kept wanting to replace that missing box.

And Travis kept trying to talk the fat kid out of me.

"We already have 4 boxes, that's enough."

Is it? Is it REALLY? I think not.

Here is me impulse-buying box #5!

Do you see what is happening here?

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Oh wait. That's not me.

But you can see the resemblance. 

Oh, here I am!

 Look at me cling to that box, money in hand, mid-giggle.

This is the look of pure joy.
And judging from this Girl Scout's reaction to my excitement. . .

. . . I think I was the most enthusiastic customer this troop had come across.
Which is both an honor and a shame.
Doesn't anyone else care how amazing these cookies are?

I mean, it's not like I was cheering or anything.

OK, OK. So I was cheering a little bit.

OK. A lot.

But can you blame me?

Unfortunately, my box #5 purchase was made in vain,
as I was not able to enjoy the full 15 cookies.
Later that night our valet ate a WHOLE ROW of those beautiful Tagalongs.

I was in shock and disbelief our whole drive home
and I kept saying, "Who does that?!!"
Over. And over.

But honestly, I can't blame that valet.
It's as if I left precious jewels out in the open, just asking to be wisped away.
Nice move Mr. Valet. You are a smart man.
You got our tip AND our cookies.
Valet: 2, Travis & Aimee: 0.

But overall, I gotta say, I got my fair share of GS cookies this year.
(S/He who eats the fastest, eats the mostest!)

So thank you Girl Scouts, for another fabulous year of deliciousness.

You're truly a stand-up organization. . .

. . . where girls grow strong, and those around them grow chubby.
Scouts honor!



Self-Portrait: An Identity Crisis

I've had two identity crises in my life. 

The first was after I got married and decided to
 change my last name from McMahon to Mandala.
The whole new signature thing was, for some silly reason, cause for personal dilemma. 

Eeee, how many loops should I make?

Note: I cut off the end for security reasons. But let me assure you, it's quite lovely.

This was a BIG. DEAL.
But, alas, it was decided upon,
and without any large casualties I might add.
 I settled on many loops.
(Good choice, self.) 

My second identity crisis was a couple years ago when I decided to take a portraits class.
 One of our first assignments was to do a self-portrait. 
I could not, for the life of me, draw myself as other people saw me. 
Or as I saw myself for that matter.  
Whatever I drew, was not me.  

This is me.

This is not me.

This looks like Ramona from the Beverly Cleary childhood book series.
NOT me.

And I'm pretty sure I'm not this chick either.

Yikes, right? (This is embarrassing by the way.)

Or at least, I hope I'm not this chick. 

I didn't have this problem when I drew other people. 
Just me.  

I stared at myself in the mirror... hard,
and tried and tried to draw who I saw in the reflection, 
who I thought I was... 
and I was consistently unsuccessful.

Every. Time. 

It's been a couple of years, so I thought, why not give it another go.  

Maybe I can see myself clearer now.  
Maybe I found me.  
Or at least something closer to me.

  Our original assignment was to draw ourselves in pencil.  
But this time, I chose to use color. 
 I want to see the me
with auburn hair and pink cheeks. . . 

. . . pale lips . . .

. . .  and blue eyes with a tinge of yellow at the center.

It's been a while since I've touched my chalk pastels, 
and I relished every moment. 

The feeling of my fingers sliding across paper,
blending purples and blues and reds alike.
The chalk leaving trails of dusty pathways 
alongside each feature. . .
. . . until I blow it away with a single breath,
 and I watch as the rainbow of particles fly off the page,
 set off to destinations unknown. 
Maybe into the wood crevices of my beloved antique drafting table,
maybe into the folds of my jeans, maybe into my glass of water. 
But it doesn't matter.

Because I've missed this.
I've missed the broken pastel sticks spralled out on layers of newspaper.
 The Q-tips and paper towels smudged with colored dust.

I've missed getting my hands dirty. Missed getting lost in art.
Missed realizing that it is 12:30AM on a weeknight
and knowing I have to get up in 6 hours. . .
. . . but not caring.
Because I am having entirely too much fun. 



I've missed knowing that the process is more
rewarding than any finished product could possibly reveal.
As each layer of color, each section touched, blended and manipulated. . .
. . . gets closer to something more tangible.
Something more real.

 So this is my modest attempt at drawing me. 
Again.  


(Drum roll, please. . .)

I can sit here and tell you all the things that are wrong with this portrait,
 because there are certainly things that are wrong with it. . .
. . . but I am not going to.


I am going to deem this self-portrait a success,
a vast improvement over my previous attempts,
and accept that there is still more to learn, 
still more to discover about myself.  

The good news is, I think I am getting closer. . . 
 . . . and big plus, at least I don't look like a Beverly Cleary character.