Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Memories of Thin Mints Gone By

My co-worker's niece is at the office right now selling Girl Scout cookies. She is making a killing because A) She is adorable, and B) they are Girl Scout cookies. They're like crack rocks; the sell themselves. They're especially crack-like to adults who are too young to have kids of their own, because when was the last time you got to buy Girl Scout cookies? Supply and demand, people.

I was -- as you have perhaps already surmised based on my general misanthropy and aversion to selling anything of any kind -- never a Girl Scout, but in elementary school we were forced to do an annual candy sale twice a year: once right before the winter holidays and once right before easter (I remember that delicious peanut butter-filled bunnies were a top seller). I was -- and still am -- a very laissez-faire kind of salesgirl. When I had my short-lived lemonade stand on Block Island in 1989, I only begrudgingly made a sign that said "Lemonade"; I preferred to blend in with the side of the road, figuring that thirsty people would come to me. I didn't want to actually convince anyone to buy anything. So with the candy sale, I adopted a truly passive (sort of ... cheating) method: I sent my parents into work with the order forms and let them do my selling for me. Since my parents were in senior positions at their offices, their co-workers tended to buy a lot, and I would send in my orders and collect my prize (inevitably something electronic and crappily-made, although once I did win a giant container of Tootise Rolls), basically for doing nothing.

I would love to end on a note of "look how much I've learned and changed", but the truth is if I had to sell anything today I would probably do the exact same thing. I'll do anything for Tootsie Rolls.
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