“There is no accounting for human beings.”
– Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
My daughter’s Girl Scout cookies arrived not long ago. As usual, I bought two boxes of thin mints, let her eat a few, and threw the rest in the trash when she wasn’t around.
So I’m out seven dollars, but that’s fine. I have no quarrel with the premise behind Girl Scout cookies: a non-profit organization sells junk that nobody wants, at hugely inflated prices, because it’s marginally more dignified than just asking for a donation. If Nabisco tried to peddle the same stuff in stores, it would just sit on the shelves and collect dust; but because it’s the Girl Scouts, we smile and hand over the money. We see it as a charitable contribution—we give away money and expect nothing useful in return. It’s a little like buying a car from GM, Ford, or Chrysler.
There’s nothing wrong with that. The Girl Scouts are a fine organization, and they are welcome to some of my money. If my daughter learns some entrepreneurial skills in the process, that’s a bonus.
But here’s what I don’t understand. Shortly before cookie delivery week, I observed someone in my office saying, with a straight face, “I can’t wait to get my Girl Scout cookies.”
Get out.
It would have been strange enough if it were an isolated event. But every year at about this time, I hear at least one person saying something to the effect that she loves Girl Scout cookies.
Let’s get something straight: nobody loves Girl Scout cookies. Nobody likes Girl Scout cookies. The most appetizing part of a box of Girl Scout cookies is the box. Everyone knows that.
This not some snooty anti-junk-food rant (although I am quite capable of that). No one enjoys sugar, chocolate, and partially hydrogenated vegetable oil more than I do. Oreos, if I bought them, would be gone in an hour. Pepperidge Farm Milanos wouldn’t even survive the trip home.
Girl Scout cookies, however, are never in danger. When, late at night, I am foraging desperately for a snack, I will turn to the thin mints only after I’ve finished the stewed rutabagas and the pickled beets. I am as likely to drill a hole in the wall and suck out the insulation as to break open the Girl Scout cookies. In fact, I could just take a bite out of the wallboard and experience the same taste sensation one gets from a Samoa or a Do-Si-Do.
We all feel the same. Why, then, the lies? Oh, I understand the feigned enthusiasm when making the purchase from the scout herself. Even I can go along with that. But the point of making the same representation to an adult eludes me.
Most adult lies make sense. We pretend (okay, I don’t, but you do) to think Moby Dick is a great book, or to be interested in the latest art exhibit at the Met, because that’s what smart people are expected to do. But claiming to like Girl Scout cookies? I don’t get it.
This is one of the mysteries I have encountered on the road to enlightenment. Here are a couple more:
Why do men spit?
One day many years ago, when I was in my late teens, I was talking to my mother about who-knows-what. There was a pause in the conversation, which my mother ended by asking, “Why do men spit?”
I stared at her, speechless. If I had said, “That’s what men do,” she might have asked, “What is a tautology?” Instead, I admitted that I had no idea.
Some thirty years later, I was talking—okay, listening—to my daughter about who-knows-what. There is never a pause in a conversation with my daughter—even when the other party leaves the room (she explained to me once, as I tucked her in at bedtime, that “you’ll know I’m asleep when I stop talking”)—but that doesn’t prevent sudden subject changes.
“Dad? Why do men spit?” she asked.
I stared at her, speechless. After three decades, I was no closer to an answer.
There is an efficient biological function, called swallowing, that disposes of saliva quite handily. Are there some men who haven’t mastered it?
I do understand spitting under certain circumstances. If one is chewing tobacco, it’s a necessity. I am all too familiar with the consequences of swallowing a wad of Skoal (or, say, a Girl Scout cookie). But that fails to account for most instances of expectoration.
As I’ve explained before, almost all male behavior stems from one impulse: the desire to impress a woman. But I can’t think of a woman, other than perhaps Sarah Palin, who might be impressed by spitting. In my family, you’d be 0-for-2. Further, that wouldn’t explain why most spitting takes place in the men’s room.
So. Any theories?
What’s with the Old English?
This, really, is my most burning question. I’ve asked it before, but I’ve never gotten an answer: Why, in the year 2009, do so many people use the word “amongst”? This is the strangest language pattern I’ve detected in recent years—not the most objectionable, by any means, but the strangest.
Pay attention, and you will hear the word at least several times a week. You know several people who use it regularly; there’s even a good chance that you’re one of them. I hear it almost every day.
Why? Isn’t “among” easier to say, and isn’t it also how normal people talk? If you’re going to say “amongst,” why don’t you say “betwixt,” as well? Why not “amidst”? (Actually, I do hear that one occasionally, too.)
What thinkest thou?
I am not being difficult here. I am capable of being difficult—no, really, I am—but that’s not what I’m doing. I really would like to find answers to these questions.
To that end, I am doing something unprecedented in the annals of The Johnston Papers: I am turning on the “comments” function. To be honest, I’m not sure how this works, but I assume it will be obvious. (For those who receive this by e-mail, you may have to go to the website to post a comment. I don’t know.) If you can answer any of my questions, I’d be much obliged.
Understand, of course, that your comment will be read by hundreds of the smartest people in the country—but if you can answer any of these questions, they’ll all be impressed.
Thank you for any assistance you can offer.
