I’d forgotten about the white gloves. Back in the early 1970’s, we Junior Girl Scouts did indeed wear them to complete our uniforms, with our official Girl Scout ankle socks and beanies. It wasn’t until you became a Cadet that you got to wear hose and heels and a smart beret, along about the time you had breasts to go with them. Happily free of all those encumbrances, we younger girls were able to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into trying to earn more badges than Philomena Scotch, who cheated and got away with it and faked her way to a fully laden awards sash.
She cheated on cookie sales, too. Back in the day, girls were actually expected to do their own door-to-door selling. Hers was the first over-achieving mother to elbow in and take over fundraising responsibilities. Would that mine had done so! Whether it were greeting cards or gift wrap or thin mint cookies, Philomena’s mother always made sure that she sold the most. I’d spend two angst-ridden weeks trudging hopelessly around town trying to sell the required ten boxes of 50-cent cookies, and Philomena would swan into our meeting with a list of 250 orders. It rankles me still, even after 40 years.
Such are the concerns of Junior Girl Scouts, then and now. Who did the best? Who just got a training bra? Who’s the teacher’s pet? Who did Scotty Joseph smile at in the lunchroom? Who has the coolest sneakers? Who snuck out of the house with pearly white lipstick on? Junior Girl Scouts do not dwell upon the carefully neutral political ideology of the Girl Scout organization. Why, then, are the whackos of Waco, TX, doing so?
John Pisciotta is the director of Waco Pro-Life and an organizer of CookieCott 2014, a drive to punish the Girl Scouts of America for their leftist commie secular liberal baby-killing agenda by refusing to buy peanut butter patties or tagalongs. Take that, you fiends!
I do love it when men busy themselves with our lady parts (she said, ingenuously). We’re not smart enough to handle these things of ours ourselves, you see. We need someone with a penis to take charge of our uteruses (uteri? Uteroes? YouTubing?). Waving a penis around must feel like wielding a conductor’s baton – “On the downbeat, ladies! My tempo, not yours! I lead, you follow!” Controlling our collective libido is no more complicated than conducting a concerto – just ask Mike Huckabee.
Leadership is what Girl Scouts is all about, these days. This cookie kerfluffle, spawning a sea-to-shining-sea boycott, began because the Girl Scout organization posted on-line links to articles in the national media about the inspiring female leaders of 2013. Some of these successful and influential women happen to support education and contraception and even personal choice. This renders their civic accomplishments null and void; they are godless harlots ready to lead 12-year-old girls to perdition.
Twelve-year-old girls don’t care about perdition. They find the facts of life utterly gross. They have no more interest in penises (peni? Peniles? Pennies from heaven?) than they have in calculus.
And the leaders they respect come from within their own ranks. In Adirondack Troop 214, Ivy Ostberger was the uncontested alpha dog. Yet she was no dog – she was pretty and popular and played the flute (of course). Life didn’t get much richer than that. She was ruthless in her power, though; never let it be said that a 5th grader can’t be a royal bitch. I played the violin and wore glasses and was the last girl I knew to hit puberty – I was no threat to her, except perhaps in having almost as many badges as Philomena (and I dutifully earned mine; my mother wouldn’t just wantonly sign my handbook).
That was enough to inspire Ivy and her cohorts to lock me in the putrid outhouse at Hidden Lake camp one night while they all went off to the council campfire ceremony. I can still hear them laughing as they stuck a stick through the door handle to trap me inside. I sat in the spidery dark for over an hour, until one of the assistant troop leaders found me. She laughed at my plight – she was Ivy’s mother.
That was about the end of my Girl Scout career. And that was the lesson I learned about leaders and leadership: The meek don’t inherit a damned thing. They get locked in the crapper and laughed at.
So good for today’s Girl Scouts for holding better women than the Ostbergers up as role models. The scouts publish a series of bland age-appropriate handbooks brimming with life lessons (none remotely abortion-related). Even those are under fire from Pisciotta and his one-trick-pony cronies. Says he, “the only person applauded who is pro-life is Mother Theresa.” Apparently, even her sainted presence can’t offset the pernicious influence of Geraldine Ferraro, Hillary Clinton, Betty Friedan and the like.
You will think less of me when I report with no little satisfaction that, while Ivy went on to become a varsity cheerleader who dated handsome football players and lived the high school dream, she got pregnant before the end of senior year and wound up married right after graduation to someone who subsequently scandalously left her. That pleases me, even after all these years. The “Hold a Grudge” badge has always been one of my favorites.
I’ve been avoiding a pushy guy at work who’s been hounding us all to buy Girl Scout cookies from his daughter (or, rather, from him). Tomorrow, even though he acts like Philomena’s mother and looks like her in drag (she had a better moustache), I will seek him out and buy a bunch of boxes. No CookieCott 2014 for me.