Fund ME!

It’s fall here in the Midwest, which means falling temperatures, crunching around in the fallen leaves, and inordinately stressing about Halloween costumes. It’s probably my favorite season, with the careful exception of My Birthday Season, which trumps all else.

With fall also comes fundraising.

With fundraising, I’m unhappily reminded of my failure as a Girl Scout.

Every other day, it seems, as I’m on the phone, trying to juggle dinner and deal with a squalling child (the child, at least, changes day to day) as the doorbell chirps. I’m never on the receiving end of packages, unless they’re delivered to me by accident by my dyslexic UPS guy, so that’s immediately ruled out as a possibility. The calendar reminds me that it’s yet another small child, earnestly asking for my cash in exchange for some ugly wrapping paper or stupid looking cards.

And every time, without fail, I buy it. I’m pretty sure that my house has “SUCKER” written all over it.

See, I’m a Girl Scout drop out.

Back in the days when I rode a dinosaur to school, when Jesus was my classmate, I decided that those nifty brown Girl Scout uniforms would make me look like a WINNER at LIFE! So I begged my mother to join their ranks. It was with great reluctance that she agreed.

She knew, apparently, that I was NOT Girl Scout material, no matter how nifty the costume.

But, because I am both pig-headed and don’t read fine print, I insisted.

It wasn’t too long before I had to sell some cookies to prove my worth and win fabulous prizes. Like a TELEVISION set! Oh, how I wanted that TV set. I just KNEW I could win it! I only had to sell seventy basquillion boxes of cookies to do so!

I dragged my friend out with me around the neighborhood. The first couple of houses, which contained parents of my friends, bought a couple boxes. Buoyed on by this, I happily marched up to each and every house on the block. Sure, I was freezing my ass off in that polyester skirt, but I was going to WIN!

Until people started slamming the door in my face. Calling me names. Rolling their eyes at me.

People, I was only eight.

I sold forty boxes of the cookies. My dignity shattered, I accepted my “prize” of a crappy dog zipper pull.

So now when these kids trudge to my door, I buy whatever they’re selling. Doesn’t matter if I need it.

Maybe I’ll be the house that wins the kid a TV set.

If not, I’m building up fundraising karma for my kids. That’s the way it works, right?