The Girl Scout Birthday: Part One (AKA the Swish Bag Massacre)

The time has come for you to know about The Girl Scout Birthday. I have kept this notorious family folk tale to myself for selfish reasons. It’s not exactly a proud moment for me to recount, and it is a disturbing portrait of 11 year-old me. If you think I am at all even a slightly neato person now, trust me- you would not be able to stand 11 year-old me.

I barely can myself.

Let’s Build-A-Frances, not a Bear. The ingredients for 11 year-old Frances are as follows:

Start with Tracey Flick. Add a hazy cloud of exploding perm, goggle-like glasses, and a burning need win all possible spelling bees.  A nerd love of mystery books rivaled only by a legitimately nerdier love of writing mystery book reports, and a complete ignorance of boys which continues to this day.

11 year-old Frances once laid the mack down on a male contemporary by telling him she was impressed that he was so punctual. Because 11 year-old Frances found nothing more attractive than a boy who was on time to class.

I am quite certain my hippie parents were not entirely sure of my origin. They are go-with-the-flow-ers, and for a very long time I was not. Almost like a reverse superhero, I landed in their field from a planet light years away-not to save anyone or demonstrate nifty powers, but to complain about the heat and win the affection of teachers.