Girl Scouts
The lovely Mrs. Borengasser and I are in Omaha. We’re here because she’s attending her Girl Scout troop reunion.
Don’t ask. I don’t understand it myself.
I remember the first time I found out she’d been a Girl Scout.
We’re newlyweds. One evening, I decide to mention something that had been concerning me. “Ahh … honey … we’ve been married for a month now – a very delightful month, I might add – and I wanted to ask you a question. I’m not complaining, mind you, but I wonder why every night for dinner we have a weenie roast.”
“You don’t like weenie roasts?” she asks, her lower lip quivering.
“No, no, no,” I quickly assure her. “I love weenie roasts. If it were up to me, I’d have a weenie roast every night for the rest of my life. It’s just that we don’t have a back yard. We live in an apartment. Having a weenie roast in the kitchen over a gas burner seems … well … unusual.”
“You’re unhappy.”
This is, of course, the ultimate newlywed accusation.
“I am happy. I’m elated. Probably even ecstatic. I’m so happy I’m going to have another hotdog … with a great deal of relish.”
“You’re disappointed.”
This is the second worst newlywed accusation.
“If I were disappointed, would I have eaten four hotdogs? I’m simply curious about your … ah … fondness for weenie roasts.”
“I was a Girl Scout for twelve years,” she explains. “We went camping all the time. I loved it.”
Suddenly, it all makes sense. “Is that why we always have burnt marshmallows for dessert?”
She hangs her head. “Yes,” she admits.
“They’re wonderful. Do you mind if I have that last black marshmallow?”
After I get used to it, I realize being married to a former Girl Scout has its advantages. In the winter, she always builds the fire. I never have to tie any knots. And, we always have cookies around the house.
In fact, I become so addicted to Girl Scout cookies, I can be bribed into doing any household chore. “Honey,” she says, “will you do the dishes tonight?”
As I’m preparing an excuse, she continues, “I’ll give you a box of S’mores.”
That’s all it takes. “Sure,” I reply, instantly giving in. I’m like a trained seal performing stunts for a sardine.
So, here I am in an Omaha motel, while the lovely Mrs. Borengasser is at a park with her former Girl Scout troop. They’re, no doubt, yelling and giggling and talking about “cute guys.” Every so often, I know one of them will start a campfire song, and they’ll all pipe in. They’re having a terrific time.
I feel left out. I’m almost jealous. So, of course, I sulk.
But, wait a minute.
I was a Boy Scout. I’m resourceful. Be prepared, I tell myself.
I know exactly what to do. I’ll make a few phone calls and locate a couple of old Omaha Boy Scouts. We’ll head out to the park where the lovely Mrs. Borengasser and her troop is and ambush them with water balloons.
Back when I was a Scout, tormenting girls got you a merit badge.