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.