Troop Beverly Hills, before.

I was a Girl Scout. I say this to friends sometime, and the looks of disbelief on their faces are payoff enough for the confession. It's the same kind of look I get when I tell them I was a cheerleader - another story for another time.  I'm not a camper, or a hiker, not particularly crafty or involved with my community,  either. Maybe these traits have just gotten stronger with age, but maybe something about my three years as a scout permanently altered the reality of who I'd grow up to be: an indoor gal.

I got involved with the Girl Scouts older than most girls, at nine or ten, so I got to start as a Junior. The troop I entered had started together as Brownies, the classification for younger girls, so the troop was fairly well-established before I showed up. I don't have any Mean Girl stories, luckily the majority of the girls were great; the worst was a "snob" and incidentally, a neighbor, so sometimes our moms carpooled us to the dim church basement where we had weekly meetings. From 6:30 to 8 we would practice tying knots, learn how to take a pulse, sing songs, and on one particularly memorable day, paint plaster Christmas ornaments. I still have mine. I also still have my vest. 

Despite what the patches might suggest, I never built a fire, or tied a knot outside that basement. I definitely never slept in a tent or drank from a canteen. The single "camp out" I remember was at Camp Bonnie Brae, a Girl Scout sanctioned camp that was about an hour from our homes. We didn't even sleep in cabins, instead, the whole troop spread their sleeping bags on the floor of the Big House, a high-ceilinged meeting place and dining hall. It was like a semi-rustic slumber party. When they shut the lights, all the bats that lived in the rafters started swooping down and fluttering around, which made everyone scream, which made our fearless leaders leave the lights on for the entire night. No one slept a wink. It was a far cry from the tents and bonfires and smores I had reluctantly hoped for. I mean, roasted marshmallows are great, but really, having a toilet to pee in was way more interesting to me than an authentic camping experience. Even at the age of nine.

I wish I remembered the first time I saw Troop Beverly Hills, but the initial viewing is replaced with the massive amount of times I watched it after that. Like a visualization exercise, I think I stared at the movie so much in hope that some of the fun and frivolity of Troop Beverly Hills would carry over to my own lackluster group. My own leaders, while sweet and well-meaning, were dowdy and dull. Phyllis Nefler of Troop Beverly Hills was glamorous to the point of absurdity, with a sharp sense of humor and mischief. I was envious of the personally tailored Wildness Girl outfits displayed through the movie too, a far cry from the boxy yet somehow snug kelly green vest and skirt I was forced to wear. The girls had a patch presentation ceremony on a yacht, ours were handed to us at the end of our meetings, with instructions that our moms should sew them onto our vests by next week. They choreographed a concert on Rodeo Drive to sell cookies, we stood outside a supermarket with a rickety card table stacked high with cookie boxes, none of us wanting to ask strangers to patronize us. Though we did get a very Saved by the Bell looking cookie patch one year.

On the rewatch, I'm especially curious to see young Carla Gugino . Last week while watching Californication, she showed up and I thought, "oh, Carla Gugino." Novel. But in my internal review of her filmography - Sin City, Watchmen, Spy Kids - it was the Troop Beverly Hills bell that rang the loudest. She's had a long and varied career, obviously, but in my heart she'll always be the bratty Wilderness Girl.

I love her.

2014 is the 25 year anniversary of Troop Beverly Hills, and I worry that watching it again after all this time is going to tarnish the sequined memories I have. I'm sure it's going to seem cheesy now, but I'm hoping that as I watch, I spend more time smiling than rolling my eyes.