Girl Scout Cookie Season Has Arrived

It's Girl Scout Cookie season. Like every supportive teacher with a sweet tooth, I plan my dessert menu according to my students' fundraisers. Candy bars in the fall, Butter Braid in the winter, and Girl Scout Cookies in the spring.

I was a Girl Scout, but I dropped out when the troop planned its first camping trip. All I remember about my stint as a Girl Scout was a song, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold," and a puppet show with a grandmother who kept repeating, "Babes are a bane and burden." I liked the puppet show, but I don't think I understood the definition of "bane" or "burden." And I probably didn't consider myself a "babe" at the wise old age of six.

Of course, I also remember Girl Scout Cookie season. Since we Girl Scouts were the ones selling the cookies, our leaders allowed us to sample the products in order to share our expertise with potential customers. It was one of my favorite Girl Scout activities.

As a teacher, I was delighted when little girls started knocking on my classroom door, cookie order forms in their hands. I was probably my kiddos' best customer, ordering a box of everything (except the sugar-free kind). After I married Dan, I ordered a box of everything and a couple of extra Samoas and Thin Mints.

Sadly, the past couple of years, not one Girl Scout has darkened my doorstep, an unusual turn of events since about 650 kids darken my doorstep every week. I would think these are pretty decent odds. One of those lovely children must be a cookie-selling Girl Scout.

Last year, Dan and I had to buy all of our Girl Scout Cookies from the hyper girls that plant themselves in front of the local supermarket. We made several trips. One evening toward the end of cookie season, Dan returned home, dejected.

"They didn't have any Samoas left, so I bought another box of Thin Mints," he said with a sigh.

Last spring, I announced in all of my classes, "I expect all Girl Scouts to sell me cookies next year. Don't forget! You have all made my husband and me very sad."

They all remembered.

When the first little girl handed me her order form, I marked one of each flavor, fearing - in light of my Girl Scout Cookie dry spell the last few years - that this would be my only chance.

The next day, the girl's mother e-mailed me, thanking me for supporting her daughter and essentially asking me, "Are you sure you want to order all these cookies?"

Of course I did! Didn't she know that I had a growing husband-boy at home, and this was the only Girl Scout Cookie request I had received in - like - four decades?

Then another wide-eyed, smiling face showed up at my door later that week.

I ordered more Samoas, Thin Mints, and Savannah Smiles, a new cookie issued in honor of the Girl Scouts' 100th anniversary. (I was probably about Brownie age when the cookie's namesake, the movie Savannah Smiles, was released.)

At the end of the week, one more little girl brought me her form.

"I want to sell a thousand boxes this year," she exclaimed.

I ordered more Trefoils, Tagalongs, and . . . Samoas. (If you haven't guessed already, Dan's mantra is, "You can never have too many Samoas." By the way, Samoas are still made with hydrogenated oils, but no one seems to care at my house.)

The little girl tried to make me pay on the spot, but I am a Girl Scout Cookie pro. I know from many years of experience that I am supposed to hand the kids their money when they show up in the spring with a plastic grocery bag filled with several pounds of sugary goodness. I gently delineated the entire cookie-selling procedure. She went away penniless - for the time being.

I was afraid she might lose the check before I got my one hundred sixty-four boxes of Samoas.

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SNOWPOCALYPSE!

My diabolical plan worked.

Just four days after posting "SNOWLESS!," Idaho (and the Pacific Northwest) braced itself for SNOWPOCALYPSE! We were finally going to get the big snowstorm we had all been awaiting with bated breath.

When the local meteorologists reported a severe winter storm warning for Wednesday, the news was greeted, not with trepidation, but with eager anticipation. Boise residents seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and complained less than usual about having to drive on the snowy winter streets. The ACHD went to work pretreating roads with an almost happy diligence. It was predicted that we were going to get anywhere from three to nine inches in the Treasure Valley alone.

But then SNOWPOCALYPSE! came, and with it came fifty-nine crashes, thirty-five slide offs, and twenty-four stalled vehicles (according to an early report on the local news station).

SNOWPOCALYPSE! didn't reach Boise soon enough to necessitate a snow day. It wasn't until all of us school district employees were driving to school that we got pelted with snow. Many of the buses didn't make it to our school on time. The fourth graders were supposed to go on a music department-sponsored field trip to the Philharmonic, but only one bus arrived, and it was over a half-hour late. We watched the snow come down in wet, fluffy flakes, hoping we wouldn't get stuck at the school overnight. The kids spent the day rolling around in the stuff, returning to our rooms a sopping, soggy mess of little bodies.

The nurse finally sent us an e-mail that said something to the effect: "I have no dry clothes. Please let students know if they play in the snow, they are going to get wet."

The kids didn't care.

"When I get out to recess, I'm going to do a face plant in the snow!" one of my students exclaimed.

"What did our principal say about that on the morning announcements?" I reminded him.

"He just said not to do it to someone else," another kid chimed in.

Eventually the snow turned into rain, making the commute home slushy and slick. The temperatures in the Treasure Valley crept back up to the forties, and we have been stuck with rain ever since. Later in the week, the remaining snow in the higher elevations was so wet and heavy that it knocked out power for a couple hundred customers in Boise County.

But in the long run, I believe SNOWPOCALYPSE! will benefit our local economy. Bogus Basin opened the very next day, having gained ten inches on Wednesday and fourteen more on Thursday. Even non-skiers, like me, can appreciate the impact that will have on our community. And I'll be the first to admit - That one day of Snowmageddon was pretty exciting.

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Reject PIPA and SOPA

The Internet blacklist legislation—known as PROTECT IP Act (PIPA) in the Senate and Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA) in the House—invites Internet security risks, threatens online speech, and hampers innovation on the Web. Urge your members of Congress to reject this Internet blacklist campaign in both its forms! For more information, see the following sites:

Stop the Internet Blacklist Bills

Strike Against SOPA

SNOWLESS!

We have no snow in Boise. In a state that bases much of its economy on snow-related recreation, this is devastatingly big news. Bogus Basin, our local ski resort, still hasn't opened. Until now, the latest Bogus has ever opened was on January 6 in 1989. It is January 14.

My husband, Dan, a season pass holder, is mourning the lack of snow. Some of the nearby resorts are offering discounts to Bogus Basin pass holders, but there hasn't been much snow anywhere else either. Dan gave me new Nordic skis for Christmas, and they currently sit lonely in the garage, gathering dust, lamenting the absence of snow, a reflection of the melancholy many Idahoans are experiencing right now.

For the people who could care less or are even joyful about not having to maneuver around snowy roads, this is truly sad for the local businesses that are dependent on winter recreation. Bogus Basin itself has lost over $2 million in revenue and has had to temporarily lay off some of its staff. It may prove to be sadder in the spring when we realize the mild winter's effect on our snow melt and water supply.

Yikes! This isn't my typical lighthearted, comedic fare. How depressing!

On Tuesday, the morning forecast still predicted low-forties and no precipitation, maybe some snow in northern Idaho. But around 10:30ish, slowly but surely, white fluffy flakes began to float apprehensively from the sky.

"The weatherman's always wrong!" one of my fourth graders exclaimed.

"My brother bought a ski package and lessons this year and hasn't been able to use it. Maybe now he can!" another third grader cried, as he lumbered in from recess. (As I watched the snow melt immediately upon touching the ground, I didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't likely.)

"You jinxed it in choir!" a fifth grader told me.

She was referring to a comment I had made earlier that morning: "Pretend like you are balancing a snowman on your head . . . even though there is no snow out there."

"Jinxed it?" I said. "I'm so powerful, I made it snow!"

I instant messaged Dan at lunch, "Did you see that it's snowing? We're all very excited here!"

A few hours later, the snow stopped, and the sun came out. But I believe it provided a tiny glimmer of hope for the snow-loving Boise community.

"Bogus only gained about a half-inch," Dan said that evening. "I've been checking the snow report all day."

Yesterday, Dan finally gave up and went snowboarding at Anthony Lakes in Oregon.

Bogus Basin is throwing a "Getting Louder for Powder" party on Wednesday. Apparently, there will be snow-dancing on the Basque Block downtown. (And I think this is a serious claim. It is not just a fundraiser. They really are calling on the snow gods.)

Maybe it will work. Snow is in the forecast this week.

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Rescued By the 1%

Dan and I spent our eighth wedding anniversary in Sun Valley, Idaho this year. For those of you not familiar with Sun Valley, a lot of rich people hang out there. At times, the attitude of entitlement some of these rich people cop with the retail workers, restaurant servers, and anyone else they deem an "underling" disturbs me. But, for the most part, it is a friendly, laid-back, and refreshingly open-minded community.

This year, in solidarity with the Occupy Wall Street movement, I spent the first portion of our trip yelling, "There goes the 1%!" at the crazy drivers (mostly with California license plates) in downtown Ketchum. I did this from the safety of our own car, where no one could actually hear me, and from the pedestrian crosswalks whenever a car, with its windows completely rolled up, tried to run me over. I say "in solidarity" meaning that it was my way of showing support without actually doing anything.

Then, on the afternoon of our anniversary, December 20, 2011, Dan and I were rescued by the 1%.

Dan had left his skis at Galena Lodge after a morning of cross-country skiing. Neither one of us had realized this until we were halfway back to Ketchum via Highway 75. As soon as the way was clear, Dan made a nice, neat U-turn. Or we thought it was neat until he hit a patch of ice, which must have been invisible to the naked eye. We ended up trapped in a snowbank on the side of the road. I should say I ended up in a snowbank because it was the passenger side that was actually trapped by the snow. Dan flipped on the four-wheel drive and tried to gun it out of the ditch but to no avail. We were stuck.

"Should I crawl to the other side? You know, distribute the weight?" I asked.

Dan looked at my five-foot-two-and-a-half frame.

"I don't think it would make much difference."

I have never worried about getting stuck because I am a proud, card-carrying member of AAA. I have been ever since my mother sent me off to college and somehow predicted that I would need several rescues (mostly due to the dome light in my '93 Hyundai Excel being left on overnight). But alas, there was no cell service in the Sawtooths on December 20, 2011.

Dan decided he would walk down to the Sawtooth National Recreational Area (SNRA) Headquarters to make a phone call.

"Do you want to go or just stay here?" he asked me.

Recollections of news stories about husbands and wives splitting up and disappearing and/or dying in the snow-capped mountains, followed by visions of a crazy man murdering me flooded my mind.

"I'll go with you, but I'm not sure how to get out of the car."

Did I mention I was almost sitting parallel with ground? That is how tilted the car was, by the way. If I had opened the door, I probably would have been suffocated by snow. (Dan just accused me of exaggerating. I just informed him that hyperbole is a common literary device.)

As I unbuckled my seat belt and crawled across to the driver's side, a Blaine County Parks and Recreation vehicle drove up, and the gracious worker offered to head to SNRA and call AAA for us. She couldn't give us a ride because she had too many dogs in her pickup. (I love Idaho.)

We were in the midst of giving her our information when a few vacationers stopped. Pretty soon, we had four different groups of people who were willing to help us. One even had a tow rope, and another had a CB.

The men set to work attaching the tow rope.

"So what's the best way to go about doing this?" Dan asked, always the engineer.

"I'm not sure. This is the first time I've ever had to use it," the gentleman said, crouching down by his vehicle's hitch.

Within a matter of minutes, we were out of the snow bank. My liberal side hates to admit it, but I was grateful for SUVs that day, despite all the damage they do to our environment (although, our 4x4 didn't do us much good).

Dan and I shook the vacationers' and recreation worker's hands, thanking them profusely.

"Next time, I won't let him do a U-turn on the highway," I said to our saviors with a nervous laugh and a wave goodbye.

And we were back on our way down Highway 75. The whole ordeal only took forty minutes, all because a handful of friendly northwestern vacationers were willing to stop and help a couple of desperate thirty-somethings.

Dan spent the rest of the day deep in thought, his brow furrowed.

"Don't feel bad," I said. "I do stupid stuff all the time. And nobody treated us like we were stupid. They just acted like getting stuck is par for the course for people who play in the mountains."

I waited. Dan sighed but didn't respond.

"I wasn't very witty or sarcastic," I continued. "In fact, we both stayed surprisingly calm. Maybe I should have been funnier. Maybe I should have made more jokes about being rescued by the 1%."

"Thank you for being a good wife," Dan finally said.

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