There are ninety crates of Girl Scout Cookies on my dining room table.
Crates, not boxes.
Crates have twelve boxes of cookies in them.
So I have 1,080 boxes of cookies on my table.
There are generally 20 cookies in a box.
So I have 21,600 Girl Scout Cookies on my dining room table.
But 21,600 Girl Scout Cookies on my table is not the confession.
Approximately 10.3 crates of those are The Pistol's orders that she took from friends, family and random Do-Si-Do-jonesing strangers on the street.
That's 130 boxes.
That's 2,600 cookies.
That's 2,600 cookies that I don't know who to give to because I lost her order form.
You read that right.
The Brownie Girl Scout Troop Leader lost her daughter's order form with 130 boxes worth of names, numbers and cookie amounts on it.
Now that I've made this shameful confession, I have a few options:
1. Hand random cookie boxes to people, tell them that's what they ordered, and force them to fork over the cash. (I do have some experience with this technique, as I once waitressed at ChiChi's. I could never remember what people ordered, so I would hand them one of the 19 different Taco-Enchilada-Flauta Combo platters and insist that's what they asked for when they strenuously objected.)
2. Pony up the $520 and eat the 2,600 cookies myself, a la the pastry-eating scene from Meredith Baxter Birney's 1986 made-for-TV movie "Kate's Secret".
3. Hope that the buyers are such Girl Scout Cookie fanatics that they remember exactly what they ordered, unlike myself who keeps calling Samoas, "Samosas" (a pastry shell filled with spiced potatoes and lentils) and Tagalongs, "Tagalogs" (the language of the Filipino people).
4. Leave the 130 boxes on my front stoop and enter the Witness Protection Program.
At this point, all I can say is, if any of my readers ordered Girl Scout Cookies from me,,,
(3/22 UPDATE: I found the cookie order form. In my t-shirt drawer. Apparently, I put it on top of the clean laundry in the laundry basket, then put more clean laundry on top of it, then took the basket to my room and emptied it, like a good 1950's housewife, into the drawers. And I almost never wear t-shirts, so it probably would have stayed there forever, if not for my husband monopolizing my laptop. I was so aggravated by not being able to tweet that I decided to rearrange my drawers in silent protest. God bless that laptop-monopolizing man I married. He's a keeper.)