Girl Scout Cookies: Try them for breakfast

It's that time of year. Time to ignore the fact that you could purchase three boxes from the Keebler Elf for the price of one box from a member of the Girl Scouts of America.

The cookies are packaged quite cleverly, especially the Thin Mints. Once you open a row, the cellophane literally disintegrates; you can't just twist the plastic back up like you can with a roll of Ritz Crackers. So naturally, you're compelled to eat far more than you had initially planned, sometimes the entire row. It's actually deliciously easy. Try to pop one whole cookie into your mouth. I'll bet you can.

My nine-year-old daughter is now part of the legion of cherubic, guilt-inducing, green-clad sprites who invade our lives every February and March. She accompanied me into my employer's office about a month ago, to solicit orders for her "pre-sale." All she really had to do was walk around the floor for an hour, wearing her scout sash over her purple piece sign t-shirt, her red velvet capri pants and her imitation UGG boots. This is her A-list outfit—the one she wears to close a deal.

The girl didn't even speak; she needed to merely ask one simple question:
"How many boxes would you like?"

And provide a few rudimentary answers:
"They're four dollars a box...Yeah, I know it's a lot, but it's for a good cause."
"Samoas are my favorite. But they're all really good...sure, you can buy one box of each."
"Yeah, I think my dad's really obnoxious, too. But can you buy some anyway?"

She sold 84 boxes in an hour. Amway should be so easy.

The other phase of the sale, which we performed yesterday, was the "site sale" activity, where you set up a cookie table at the entrance to a grocery store. This is a bit more challenging, but the cute factor really proves to be the sharpest arrow in the girl scout quiver. The scouts must adhere to some basic rules, such as not soliciting people to buy until they leave the store. We developed a technique which we felt led to increased sales, but didn't break this tenet.

The girls simply smiled, established eye contact with each customer who entered the store and said, "Hi." Occasionally, someone, usually a kind, older woman, would walk right over and purchase from us. Or, they'd remember us and buy on the way out. It's a great study in human nature, because once face-to-face acknowledgment occurs, the sale is all but done. Either that, or the person offers up some warm encouragement.

Some individuals go to extremes to avoid any eye contact whatsoever. We witnessed people listening to iPods and talking on phones at the same time, while others craned their necks painfully hard in the opposite direction of our table. I've never seen so many people so interested in Duraflame logs on their way out of a grocery store.

It's not lost on me that I live in Seattle, the passive aggressive, fake-nice capital of Earth. Yet we experienced so much literal kindness. Some people couldn't eat sugar, so they donated a box; one lady donated five. Another woman handed us a twenty and said, "Just spend it where you see fit." That actually came at a great time, since I needed some Saturday night beer money (I'm kidding, for all you know).

The only improvement I might suggest for next year, is a special Seattle area, vegan thin mint, delivered in smart cars by free range bakers.

The fine line between hero and goat

Heroes have been frequent subjects in my writings. Today, I'd like to hang a "U" turn.

Let's talk about "goats." 

I would define a goat as someone who commits an act, intentional or otherwise, which profoundly affects that person's reputation, whether fair or unfair, for the remainder of their lives.

First, let's back up a bit. I've got a rather strange, pathological habit, which I inherited from my mom, of reading the obituaries, probably three days a week. I find it interesting to learn about ordinary folks like myself—how many kids they've left behind, what they did during their lives, what their interests were.

This morning, I came across an article in the New York Times about a man named Kermit Tyler, who recently passed away at the age of 96. Mr. Tyler rendezvoused with fate on the morning of December 7, 1941, as he served as the senior army officer on duty for the aircraft tracking center at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Two privates watching the radar screen reported picking up a large group of approaching planes and informed Lieutenant Tyler. Tyler, who was performing his duties for only the second day at the tracking center,  possessed little knowledge of radar and mistook the large blip for a squadron of American B-17s. He famously advised them, "Don't worry about it."

This large swarm of aircraft was actually the first wave of Japanese bombers and fighters, on their way to wreak havoc on the American naval base and subsequently plunging the United States into World War II.

Many factors contributed to the lapse in America's defenses that day, but Lieutenant Tyler's name emerged as synonymous with our country's historical unpreparedness, and although he continued on to an illustrious and decorated career in the Air Force, he was forever haunted by this singular event.

How unfair I thought, that history judges people so harshly. So many more examples came to mind after reading this piece, of others who received the "goat" brand, none with the severity of Mr. Tyler, but all highly stigmatized nonetheless:

-There are the politicians. Who can forget Howard Dean, the guy who watched his front runner status as the Democratic presidential candidate fly out the window on the tails of a crazed-cowboy, testosterone-laden, screaming frenzy? Or John Edwards and Gary Hart, who self-administered their own goat horns and blew their presidential aspirations due to their colossal, libido-governing deficiencies?

-There are the sports figures. Just name a major league baseball star who played during the 1990s, and I'll show you a goat who looks more like a centaur from all of the human growth hormone injections. How about the Dutch speedskating coach, whose ill-fated advice cost his protégé both an Olympic gold medal and a world record?

And then there's Bill Buckner.

Here's the thing—we've all been goats and we'll probably be them again. What I wouldn't give to go back in time and not ask the woman at my wife's work Christmas party, "So when are you due?"
She wasn't pregnant.

The difference is that most of us can wallow in relative obscurity over our gaffes, while a select few are forever judged in the worldwide court of public opinion. Some deserve it, some don't, but either way, the burden's got to be heavy.

The throw up lowdown

It's not fun. In fact, that's an understatement. It's gross, disgusting, sickening and traumatic. However distasteful it may be, though, we're all united through our common experiences with it; everyone's got a story about how it happened to them in the worst possible situation or in front of the worst possible person.

I'm talking about...vomiting.

We've got more names for it than almost any other bodily function: hurling, yakking, gargling groceries, throwing food, spitting yams, chumming, barfing, ralphing, backfeeding—I'll stop there. It's not that we don't like to talk about it; we sort of do, but only under the correct circumstances. We don't bring it up at Grandma's dinner table. We don't mention it to our brand new girlfriend—"Wow, when I threw up last week, that gift just kept on giving. I blew my nose the next day and found a piece of carrot." Nope, not a good time to go there.

But when we're with friends or others with whom we feel comfortable, the stories line up like the barf bus just arrived for story time. Today at work, for instance, three of my colleagues each had a couple of yam yarns to spin, with a few to spare. The common denominator for each story was that moment of realization we all experience when we know it's going to happen...the dizziness, the nausea, the cold, clammy skin and increased salivary build-up. That singular moment in time when we think, "I need to find the porcelain."

Of course, witnessing our kids throw up is no laughing matter. No parent enjoys watching his or her child in such discomfort. And, as every parent knows, the first strike from a small child is never into the proper receptacle. It's on the bed, in the car, on the carpet; I actually was thrown up upon by my younger daughter as my older daughter pulled out one of her teeth and simultaneously bled on me. As a general rule, it's never a terrible idea to wear rubber clothing around children under five.

My own parents frequently made the colossal error of plying me with Pepto Bismol in an effort to fend off an attack of technicolor yawning, but the opposite result usually occurred, where a frothy, pink bouquet merely supplemented the toxic cocktail. Or, they would bring out the "just in case" barf bowl, which only surfaced in this situation and primed your pump like a Pavlovian experiment.


The actual act of cookie tossing is quite a marvel of the human body. According to James Hallenback, MD, vomiting protects us from ingesting toxic substances, an evolutionary advantage. "The brain has a variety of receptors that test for potential toxins. Stimulation of these receptors triggers nausea and vomiting, preferably in time to limit further ingestion of poison." He goes on to state that many animal species do not have the ability to vomit, such as rodents.

Well, rodents seem to be getting by just fine.

I'm sure we'd all like to think that our throwing up days are behind us. In a Seinfeld episode, Jerry became distraught when his twenty-year, no-throw-up streak ended after eating a black and white cookie. But let's be realistic, here. It's going to happen again. And we're going to tell our friends.

Is yours a job, a career or a calling?

Every so often, I like to ask my kids what they want to be when they grow up. I never know if I'll receive the same answer as I did a day, a week or a year ago. My nine-year-old daughter's most recent career choice is to become either a lawyer or a bartender. Why not both? I wondered. She can offer discounted legal services and dollar well drinks during happy hour.

As flippant as this sounds, however, how long did it really take some of us to decide on a career, let alone when we would actually be "grown up?" It seemed so much simpler back in our fathers' eras of working for G.E. or G.M. or 3M or IBM for 35 years, and retiring with a shiny, gold watch and even shinier pension. I'm sure it wasn't all that simple nor easy, but the word "loyalty" did hold a larger status among employers.

Today's youth don't seem to possess the luxury of feeling things out during those first two years of college, and then declaring a solid major and plowing full-steam-ahead toward a corporate executive position upon graduation. It seems that presently, kids' career paths begin in high school, with running start programs or international baccalaureate pursuits, and let's not even delve into the sporting arena, with AAU teams, personal trainers and traveling all-star teams encouraging specialization at a young age.

Even when I attended college almost thirty years ago, my peers and I were faced with choosing between a well-rounded, liberal arts education and vocational training, otherwise known as a business degree. It was during the full-blown glory of the Reagan years, and the young Republicans bloomed at the University of Washington campus like azaleas at the Masters. An individual had to be extremely cautious walking the halls of the business school, or his or her eyes risked being gashed out by some guy's pink, vampire-like IZOD collar.

The word "vicious" is probably a little strong to describe the atmosphere within my chosen major of accounting, but I'll also say we didn't all join hands with a big, purple dinosaur, either. One of my fondest memories was looking over at my adjacent classmate as he spied the numerals "2.5" across the top of my mid-term exam. With a satisfied smirk, he looked at me and simply stated, "Bummer." I came hauntingly close to removing my penny loafer and pile driving it into his mouth, the penny hurling from the shoe tongue and lodging against his uvula.

A common behavior among my fellow accounting pledges was to occasionally wear business suits to class. This indicated only one thing—that you had an interview that day with a big firm, like Price Waterhouse or Deloitte & Touche, and didn't have time to change before the big meeting. Color me bitter and/or jealous, as I never had the good fortune of wearing a suit to class, but, many years later,  I took a slight bit of pleasure when the largest accounting firm in the world, Arthur Andersen, imploded in a blaze of humiliation along with Enron, its partner in crime. Take that, you cream-of-the-crop scholars. Bummer.

Okay, time to pull the cord and jump off the vindictive bus. Honestly, I'll never regret the education and five-year accounting career I embarked upon following my graduation from the U.W. I don't think my subsequent twenty-year stint as a graphic designer could've been possible any other way, and I learned some valuable lessons about the difference between the words "job" and "career," as well as the difference between the words "career" and "calling."

Here's to all of us discovering our calling.

Anatomy of a blogger: break it down

Over my past 92 posts to Reflections of a shallow pond, I've deciphered a few patterns in the topics I expound upon. The reason I started writing this manifesto in the first place was to document the escapades of my family, especially the kids. How often do we parents hear, "Oh, you need to write that down. If you don't, you'll forget about the time your daughter made a twelve-room castle out of cardboard and duct tape, or how the other daughter longed to drink a 'crappuccino'?"

I didn't expect to burst at the seams with ideas, to be giddy about writing this life log, but it's really turned into a fun outlet. And even though I had no pre-meditated format, the themes can be narrowed down to:

1) Family and kids.
2) Recollections of my youth.
3) Stories of everyday experiences.
4) Opinions about social issues and pop culture.

I think we all reach a time in our lives when our concept of the future begins to narrow and the past bursts wide open. I feel like I've been driving through the industrial area of my life and stumbled upon a massive warehouse, containing pallets of experiences and anecdotes. And here's the best part—someone just taught me how to drive the forklift.

I'm 47 years old. When I hear myself talk, I hear the voice of a twenty-year-old, warming up in the on-deck circle for life. Then I gaze upon my gray-whiskered face in the mirror, and wonder, "Why is the Quaker Oats guy staring back at me?" I'll see a picture of a criminal or celebrity in the newspaper and think, "He's got to be at least ten years older than I am." As it turns out he's three years younger.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself here. Oh, no. In fact, it's quite the opposite. This blog has been a cathartic, personal journey. It has illuminated the true richness of life. Thanks for listening.

Fashion and the Winter Olympiad

I work in the fashion industry. However, I'm not a role model, nor a maven of fashion; my fabric of choice is elastic; my shoe of choice is the Converse Arch-Be-Gone (also known as the Chuck Taylor).

Nevertheless, I keep a watchful eye on clothing trends and styles, and I couldn't help but notice two fashion worlds colliding this week, as the the 21st Winter Olympiad opened in Vancouver, BC and New York Fashion Week burst onto the scene in the Big Apple.

I'll leave the New York stuff to the experts, but I do want to share a few nuggets of observation regarding the styles worn by the world's snow and ice athletes 140 miles to the north of my home here in Seattle. I've broken these outfits down to the following categories:

1) The skiers and lugers (Actually, they're called "sliders," not "lugers," probably because "lugers" sounds a little too much like "losers."). These people look the coolest of all, with brightly colored, superhero, super tight suits and sleek, streamline helmets. I would totally dress like this if I were twenty pounds lighter and buff, except I'd probably wear some baggy shorts to hide my "Baryshnikov."

2) The speed skaters. Also very cool looking, except they wear snug, one-piece outfits, with a head covering that makes them look like baby harp seals with forty-inch thighs.

3) The curlers. I love these people because they look like they just fixed your copy machine and didn't change before the competition. I could have sworn I saw a Hostess Berry Pie sticking out of a guy's Dockers' pocket as he bent over, sweeping. I'm completely behind athletes who represent "Herb Everyman," and I could just picture one of them walking over to me at work, cell phone clipped to his belt, saying, "Mornin', the name's Bob. I went ahead and re-stocked your toner and fuser oil. If you need anything else, call me and I'll get back to you as soon as possible, even if I happen to be curlin'."

4) The snowboarders. These are the dudes, the guys and girls who care much more about the look than any type of aerodynamic advantage. They wear jeans. Jeans in the snow. Remember what it was like when you wore jeans to play in the snow for an afternoon? You'd finally burst through your front door, shivering uncontrollably because your pants were wet, frozen and crusty. Your mom would gaze at you, shaking her head. "I told you to wear your snow pants. Now let's get you into a hot bathtub."

5) The figure skaters. Let's just say this is what happens when someone has a Bedazzler and too much time on his hands.

There are other fashion realms of the winter athlete, I'm sure, but I think I've touched upon the main categories. And since it's not practical for someone like me, who spends the day in a cubicle, to wear any of the above clothing choices, I've decided to pursue either a Bruce Jenner or Dorothy Hamill hair style. No difference, really.

Judge not, lest yeast be judged

Any time my family and I embark on a little road trip, as we did this past long weekend, we encounter a period of re-acquainting ourselves with each other. As is the case with most families, our separate lives behave like free radical particles, loosely orbiting a nucleus, otherwise known as our brick rambler.

But this weekend, the chickens came home to roost as we piled into the awesome, sporty and dirty 2003 Kia minivan for a little weekend junket to our time-share condo in Port Townsend, Washington. It's a trip we've made scores of times in the past, but each trip is a bit lighter—no more portable high chairs, strollers, playpens, bibs or baby monitors—than the time before. It's also more contentious each time, as my older daughter struggles mightily with those in her presence. She's at that age where the worst day with a friend beats the best day with a parent. I've been meaning to tell her how much I appreciate her willingness to go out to dinner and watch cable TV. Please remind me to do that.

Since my wife can actually balance 17 plates in the air at once, while I can hold one with two hands at the same time, she utilized the three-hour drive to grade papers and instruct the girls to write thank you notes for their Valentine's Day money from the grandparents and aunt (By the way, when did kids start receiving greenbacks for VDay?).

They whipped out the notes in record time, so Terri decided to give them a once-over. Lauryn, our nine-year-old, simply wrote "Thanks, Love You," three times. Zoe, the fourteen year-old, expressed herself a bit further, writing, "Thanks for the money. I'm going to use it to buy food."

Hmmm. I guess that's a good way to get more money next time. Just play the old hunger card.

We arrived and settled into the small condo outside Port Townsend, and it didn't take the kids long to find the trashiest shows on the telly. The Real Housewives of New Jersey, as much as I hate to admit it, has unseated The Bachelor as the absolute king of swill. I decided, after viewing a mere three, one-hour episodes, that this show was invading our brain synapses like LCD methamphetamine. Then we saw previews for other "Real Housewife" shows from New York and Orange County, and Lauryn wondered out loud if Real Housewives of Montana would contain as much venom.

After dinner, Terri and I decided to leave the girls to the trappings of the television, while we headed into town for a screening of Crazy Heart.

"Hey, Zoe, want to wrestle after they leave?" inquired Lauryn.

"Okay, but I have to pluck my eyebrows first." Zoe has a knack for being both twenty-four and four at the same time.

Terri and I left without further comment.

We arrived at the small movie house in downtown Port Townsend, a Victorian burgh brimming with bohemian charm, if not full-blown hippie. I love the place, and I'm certain there's a Woodstock groupie itching to burst out of me, but some of the traits of the inhabitants of this hamlet are even a little over-the-top for this old, tie-dyed soul.

I must have seen at least four grey-haired "skullets," or bald men with ponytails. In addition as we walked through the concession area of the theater, we noticed a jar at the condiment table that appeared to be Parmesan cheese. Upon further examination, however, we discovered that the stuff was yeast. Yes, yeast. Yeast to sprinkle on your popcorn. Gross. That's like putting wheat on your rice.

At that point, I told myself, "Stop being so judgmental. You preach to your kids about jumping to conclusions regarding people you don't know, and here you are, doing just that."

Then I saw the dog with dreadlocks.