Tuesday, January 8, 2013

It's the Most Stressful Time of the Year

Scene: Girl Scout Parent Meeting at an undisclosed location at 1800 hours. Girl Scout Leader (GSL) commences meeting after biting off Shenanigan's husband's head because she apparently thought Rawr (who's married) or I brought a date. To a Girl Scout Meeting. Riiiight.


Rawr: [coughs under breath] Hell no.

Me: [leaping to feet and staring nervously at other parents] Ahem. Yes, well. As you know, cookie season is upon us and we are here to discuss the severity of what we're about to embark on.

Absolute silence. And a lot of staring. Seriously. I think I heard a cricket.

Me: [entering managerial mode because I just pictured all the parents in Burger King uniforms holding sliecs of cheese and standing in my way] We're going to rock this season! We're going to sell the ever-loving SHIT out of these cookies, AMIRIGHT?!

Okay, well, I didn't exactly say it in those words. Or anything close to those words. But they knew that's what I really meant when I droned on and on and onandonandon about cookies and all that crap. Rawr and I'd been to the informational meeting earlier that month and we saw everything in action last year. Piece of cake.

I felt pretty confident about my and Rawr's cookie responsibilities.

Until tonight.

I think it was around the time I was sitting on my living room floor completely surrounded by piles and piles of Cookie Papers that it dawned on me: I had no idea what I was doing. And like, 18 people were depending on me to pull this crap off without a hitch.

So I started talking to myself.


I used to do it in my Burger Office all the time. I would shut the door and take four shallow breaths and unleash an absolute crap-storm of fury on my filing cabinet and spreadsheets. Unfortunately for my team, the office had a window and fortunately for the team, the window allowed them to see for themselves when it was safe to knock (which was never).

That was on a regular day. Have you ever worked with the public? When I was really pissed I would go in the freezer and kick the fry boxes. Whatever.

Okay then.

Rawr and I have to figure out the number of boxes the girls are going to sell (which is a crap-ton. Seriously. Thousands of boxes will be sold). We have to select the flavors of cookies based on that number and HOPE we order the correct flavors so that we don't run out. We have to input thousands of pieces of information into a computer system and I'm not even sure what system that is or where to find it. Then we have to pick up and store the case of cookies. And dish it out to the girls throughout the season. And monitor the inventory. And be responsible for cash, and in the middle of this seemingly easy task I couldn't think of anything other than WHAT IF I HAD TO GO BACK TO WORK AND RUN A BURGER KING AGAIN AND WHAT IF I FORGOT HOW?

Why do I care, you ask? Heck if I know. Because I worry about weird stuff that carries no meaning. Hello, I'm a woman. like you needed to ask.

Also because I can be extremely competitive and all sense of reasoning goes out the window. It's sort of a no-holds barred kind of thing and there's usually a lot of yelling and a little bit of swearing. There is one of you in particular who was there and lived to tell about it who can vouch for The Crazy. Who now has my old job. SUCKA! But you know I'm right.

Surrounded by Cookie Crap, I gave myself a little pep talk about how our troop would rise above to conquer dieters and house wives everywhere, kicked my entertainment center (ow) and got myself together.

Rawr and I will rock this.

As soon as she opens up her front door and see's that I've dumped it all on her porch.

I get stuff done yo.

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