Death of a Salesman

Before we return to our regularly scheduled post, I need to give a shout out to Kip (whom I've finally met after all these years) for identifying the mystery object as a moldy bagel. And let me give a double shout out to Emily, who recognized it as a cheesy bagel from Costco. I found that little gem tucked away by our water heater in the kitchen closet. Estimated age: 2 months. Jibblies.

Now, as you may or may not be aware, I was a Girl Scout in my elementary school days. For the most part, I enjoyed the program. However, one aspect of it caused more angst to my soul than my little self could bear. The cause of dread, year after year? Selling Girl Scout cookies.

I hated it. I was painfully shy, and I dreaded having to -- gasp! -- talk to adults and ask them to buy some cookies. One year I think I only sold cookies to two people -- and one of those people was my mom. Another year, I was determined to go door to door around my whole block to improve my abysmal stats. I made it to three houses, was rejected each time, and walked home in tears. The reason I finally quit Girl Scouts was because my poor soul couldn't stand to be crushed by cookie sales one more time.

With a background like this, I've become kind of a sucker to children salespeople. Oh, you're selling bars of chocolate for your baseball team? I'll buy one. You're selling subscriptions to the local newspaper? I'll pass, but have a dollar for your trouble.

The past two days, some neighborhood children have knocked on our door, trying to sell -- get this -- rocks for a dollar apiece. They're trying to raise money so they can go to the fair at the park. While I admire their pluck, it's a very good thing that Jacob has been answering the door, because otherwise I'd probably be staring at a nice little rock collection right now.