Skating on Thin Mints(Thomas Andahl) Ike would have been proud.

His D-Day preparations had nothing on the Girl Scouts, at least not here in the Virginia suburbs of the nation's capital.

Eight semi-trailer trucks, each loaded with its precious cargo of Thin Mints, Samoas, or another cookie variety, were lined up like a carrier task force, ready to disgorge the sweet treats into the long line of waiting delivery vehicles.

Each of us had a precise pick up time — mine was 0939 — and we were under strict orders to arrive when designated, not a minute before or after. Nor were we to break formation once in line, inching forward toward our date with destiny, or at least with a case of Do-si-dos.

Okay, admittedly it wasn’t that dramatic. But Ike-like efficient, yes, as minivan after minivan, SUV after SUV, and the occasional U-Haul show-off pulled in and loaded up with thousands upon thousands of boxes of cookies.

Oh, and did I mention that I was the only man driving one of the cookie-laden vehicles? A sole male in a vast sea of cookie moms. Ike would have been proud.

It All Started at IHOP

Since adopting our daughter from Russia four years before, my wife and I had been seeking, sometimes desperately, some activity, some club, some experience where Marta would fit in and make friends. Diagnosed with ADHD, PTSD, and a host of sensory processing disorders, her impulsivity and poorly developed social skills made making friends seemingly a bridge too far.

So Kathleen and I found ourselves at the neighborhood IHOP on a Tuesday evening, at the organizational meeting for Marta's Brownie troop, feeling the discomfort common to introverts who prefer to be in a library, alone. There we were as the troop leader started pleading for volunteers, and hands started going up. Not ours, however. We don't join, we observe.

But then, due to a mix of arrogance and ignorance — how hard could it be? — I saw my hand rising to the request for a volunteer to lead the cookie sales effort. Kathleen moved to grab my arm but was too late — the troop leader had seen a hand rising and pounced. The subsequent erratic applause of the gathered parents reflected the collective thrill of dodging a bullet commingled with puzzlement: Thank God someone stepped forward, but why you, a man?

That question was still hounding me weeks later at the first training session in the gym of Marta's elementary school. Tom and 17 cookie moms, all certainly wondering, "Why is he here? Is he unemployed? Didn't the Boy Scouts want him? He's not going camping with my daughter!” They were all quite nice, actually, if distant. Me? I was too intimidated to ask the simplest question, let alone explain my presence.

And it didn't get any better at the first event, a party commemorating the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Girl Scouts by Juliette Gordon Low. Gender count: 69 women, two men, and one mortified-looking eight-year-old boy who had to chaperone his sister. The other presumed dad slinked off to the parking lot with his iPhone five minutes into the event, leaving me alone to mingle. A year later, I still have nightmares.

Juliette Didn't Have Cookies in Mind

When Low created the first Girl Scout troop in Savannah, Georgia in 1912, she saw the organization as a female version of the Boy Scouts, a social outlet for girls, when few such communal bodies existed, and an opportunity for them to learn practical life skills. But selling cookies was not on the agenda until troops started seeking ways to raise funds to finance activities. The first box of cookies sold is generally considered to have been a basic sugar variety made by the Muskogee, Oklahoma Mistletoe Troop in December 1917.

Word quickly spread and troops all over the country began making and selling their own cookies. Not until 1934 did commercial bakeries get into the act, at which time the Girl Scouts began licensing cookie production and coordinating sales. The first National Girl Scout Cookie Sale took place in 1936, and by the 1950s, the three established varieties were shortbread (with the distinctive Girl Scout trefoil), chocolate mints (now known as Thin Mints), and a sandwich cookie.

Troops now typically offer eight varieties each year, with Thin Mints being the most popular, followed by Samoas and Tagalongs. When sales are going on, so the story goes, Girl Scout cookies collectively beat out Oreos as the most popular brand of cookies in America.

I ignorantly assumed our girls would be unleashed for door-to-door sales, just as I was as a Cub Scout selling everything from seeds to magazine subscriptions. But that approach was largely abandoned years ago (though some troops and individual girls continue knocking on doors) in favor of more lucrative booth sales outside supermarkets, drug stores, and gas stations.

In fact, the Girl Scouts now use an automated online booth bidding system to ensure that all troops get a fair shot at the best sites and time slots. Belatedly, I learned that the best time for hardware stores are Saturday mornings when homeowners are starting their weekend chores, that grocery stores and gas stations are among the most lucrative sites, and that location means everything. Running a booth at the tail end of a strip mall on a late Sunday afternoon is deadly — fewer than 20 boxes sold in three hours, while a prime spot in a mall around lunchtime can be frightfully frenetic — more than 60 boxes sold in two hours!

But with the territory came the learning.

It Begins: Biker Terror

After a slow first day of booth sales — a late Sunday afternoon outside of the local hardware (FOOL!) — day two had to be better at the corner gas station. Or so I thought as Marta and I arrived early to set up our table and display our wares, just as a group of tattooed and goateed bikers (at least the men) roared into the parking lot and started suspiciously eyeing our operation. Having just heard of recent cookie thefts in Toledo or Tallahassee — and with visions of Sons of Anarchy racing through my head — I warned Marta to keep an eye on the cashbox. Do I sacrifice the cookies in a mad dash for our SUV or put up a fight against all odds? As I contemplated the indignity of running and screaming like a girl, two of the bikers approached and inquired, politely, whether they could buy some before we had finished setting up (must have a rumble scheduled for early afternoon, I thought). They bought ten boxes of Thin Mints.

What I learned that morning was that no one —no one— can resist a cute eight-year-old girl pleading for four bucks. Forbidden from tackling customers or even approaching them as they enter an establishment, the girls had a foolproof technique: shiver in the February chill or complain loudly about being tired and hungry. Hearing that, even gluten-intolerant men and diabetic women carrying cases of Bud Lite diverted from their planned store-to-car routes to buy a box or donate money to the troop or our community food bank.

Marta, math-challenged as she was, found that pitching reluctant customers with a deal —“just for you, five boxes for $20”— worked every time. Other girls used time-worn chants to catch the ear of prospective customers: “Girl Scout cookies can’t be beat. Girl Scout cookies are fun to eat!”

And no one was safe from the scent of chocolate or nostalgia. Mothers bought five boxes for each son away in college. Fathers forked over four, eight, twelve bucks, in memory of their little girls, now married and living in Florida or Oregon. Who knew that a cookie could be as addictive as meth. The money rolled in.

Cookies, Cookies Everywhere

Like any business, small or otherwise, I quickly learned that managing stock and moving inventory were essential to success. Anticipating how many cookies we’d need and the proper mix, however, was a crap shoot. I knew we would need more of the popular varieties, but how many Trefoils could we move and how many granola-loving northern Virginians would buy boxes of Thank You Berry Munch?

As sales progressed, it became obvious that my initial mix was off. We started with more than a thousand boxes in total but were quickly running low on Thin Mints, while the Savannah Smiles and Dulce de Leches were proving a tough sell. Thank God for Cookie Cupboards and swaps. Cookie Cupboards are emergency stashes of literally thousands of boxes of cookies for troops desperate to unload unwanted Do-si-dos for craved Samoas later in cookie season. Saintly —and there is no other adjective to properly describe these women— Girl Scout boosters surrender their garages, foyers, and family rooms for three months to serve as quartermasters to meet these unanticipated needs. I made repeated, thankful visits.

Luckily, I didn’t have to engage in the frantic online swapping that takes place in the final days of sales, when the Cupboards shut down and troops face the prospect of swallowing unsold inventory. But I did see email after email pleading to sell less popular varieties or, better yet, to exchange them for, what else, Thin Mints. Painful to witness, some entreaties went unanswered time after time, leaving some unfortunate mom with several cases of Tagalongs. What a waste of peanut butter, I smugly thought.

Selling Out

The grind of managing sales over three months, of standing in the bluster and persistent drizzle of early March, of suffering the indignity of the dozens of emails from the Girl Scout bureaucracy addressed “Dear Ladies,” it all came down to the last Sunday, the last day of sales. And we were stuck with nearly 40 boxes of cookies to unload, or we'd be paying for and eating Tagalongs and Trefoils for months. So much for my precise logistical calculations. Ike would not have been pleased.

So I gambled, switching our booth site from a drugstore to an arts and craft warehouse. Surely, I thought in desperation, women will pack this place and remove our cookie burden.

But, just to be sure, Marta and I showed up early on a raw afternoon, set out our cookies, and waited. And waited. It wasn't looking good, but then, on the distant horizon, across a largely empty parking lot, I saw a couple walking in our direction. In fact, they were making a beeline toward us!

As soon as the young woman, Katya, spoke —saying that she and her husband just had to see who was wearing the neon pink coat (that would be Marta, not me)— I knew she had to be Russian. They were from Ukraine, only three years in America. Even less time than Marta. I told them that Marta, too, was Russian. They quizzed her on her Russian language knowledge but didn’t seem disappointed that all she remembered were the words for milk (moloko) and ice cream (morozhenoye).

The husband, Andrei, then asked Marta what her favorite cookie was. She replied, Samoas. Luckily, we still had two boxes of the caramel and coconut cookies left. Andrei paid for them, and started to walk away with his wife. They suddenly stopped, spoke briefly and turned. Andrei opened a box of the cookies and offered it to Marta, almost whispering, “For you Marta, your favorite cookie in America.”

Marta dug into the box. Me? I was crying like a girl…scout. Juliette would have been proud.

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