HEY! MEIJER! It's all fun and games until I have to use your restroom!

Here we go! Merry Christmas to All!  It's the 23rd of December and I was all set to write a really lovely holiday post about how my mother has become really passive aggressive regarding my housekeeping lately.  (Trust me, THAT was going to be LOVELY compared to what's coming.)  The problem is, after a wonderful dinner with an old college friend, Hubby and I made a stop...and that's where disaster struck.

Those of you who know me, or who read this blog on a regular basis, know that I would rather walk across hot coals than use a public restroom.  I've pontificated often enough about the woes, the pitfalls, and the nonsense I've experienced in public toilets all across this fine US of A.  (I recently read an article about restrooms in other countries that pretty much cured me of any desire to travel.)

Last night, on our way home from a really beautiful dinner with an old friend who's in the area for the holidays (That would be TODD of the "Todd, you've been warned" fame.) Hubby and I stopped at the Meijer store on our way home. Please note: This was NOT our regular Meijer in Waukesha, where the restrooms have been, in my experience, perfectly lovely.  This was a different Meijer.  And, in fairness, it was 7PM three days before Christmas.

Still. I checked.  Those bathroom check lists...yeah, that had been filled out.  So either that one ladies' room got crazy stupid busy between 6PM and 7PM on a Sunday night (I'm thinking not likely since this was the facility at the BACK of the store) OR, and this is what I'm going with, maybe the restroom checking isn't as, um, detailed as it should be.

Not that the restroom was dirty. It was not.

There were no bad smells. Nothing was overflowing.  The hot and cold water was working, there was paper towel in the dispenser for hand drying.  There were no puddles anywhere and everything was flushed clear.

So what...oh what...oh what could have been wrong?

Now, from here on it, it gets a little gross. So...TODD...don't read beyond this if you're easily grossed out!  (Or if you're going to send me an email or accost me in the hallway at church letting me know I grossed you out. YOU. HAVE. BEEN. WARNED.)

They. Were. Out. Of. Toilet. Paper.

THEY WERE OUT OF TOILET PAPER!

It was one of those double sided dispenser, and I'm a former janitor so I reached past those sharp teeth of death (why do we need such sharp edges to cut single ply paper?  Those teeth cut skin!  If it can puncture skin, it's complete overkill for use in cutting through translucent TP.) and I felt nothing. Not  a single square.

Now, normally this is not a problem. I mean, I typically carry a couple packets of nose tissue with me in my purse. 

Except....

Thanks to tightened security in various places and since I hate dragging a big purse around all the time, but it's still a necessity even though I'm lightyears past the diaper bag era of my life, I've been switching between my big purse and my little purse. Last night was a little purse night.

The nose tissues didn't make the jump.

What does one do?

Well...one does what one can.  And in this case...one had to use a teeny, tiny little lens whip she just happened to have in the bottom of her purse to clear up...enough...so that one could then move from the first stall to the second with a modicum of dignity.

Two lens wipes would have been good, but you know, I had one.

As a side note, I did the best I could with what I had and then moved over to the second stall, this one the handicapped stall.Now, I don't know what kind of ADA rules are in place for these stalls, but I found it really difficult to believe that in that entire GIANT stall one about the size of my home bathroom) the only place they could put the toilet was within four inches of the wall.  Seriously.  Anyone actually needing a handicapped stall could have parked a whole music festival of wheelchairs in there, but no one, and I mean no one, would have been able to actually use the toilet unless they sat side saddle, which is just uncomfortable.

Anyway, there WAS TP in there. Not in the dispenser...just a large wheel of single ply resting on the grab bar.  So...thusly I managed clean up and left the restroom determined the tell the first associate I saw that they needed to restock.

And then I didn't because the first associate I saw was a teen aged boy who looked like nothing in the world would make his life worse than to have me talk to him about toilet paper.  Instead, well, instead I waited a day and I'm sharing it with the rest of the world.

Well, it was a lens wipe, so my bum feels streak free?

Anyway, Merry Christmas. And Happy Hanukkah for my friends out there who celebrate that.  May your holidays be happy and bright and may your toilet paper be well stocked.

But just in case, I'll leave this cute picture of a Christmas goat for you to enjoy.

 

The Drinking Choir Cleans up its Act.

Hello and happy holidays to everyone!

Yes, I say "Happy Holidays."  I celebrate Christmas, but I'm fully aware not everyone on this planet is exactly like me.  (Wow, what a horrible, weird world that would be if everyone was exactly like me...just one long line of angry people at a pharmacy...)  Anyway, so Happy Holidays, and Merry Christmas!

For those of you who celebrate old school, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" Christmas, you know that the weeks leading up to December 25 are Advent, a time of preparation.  While most churches these days don't really do a lot in the way of special services for Advent, mine does, holding Wednesday services the three weeks prior to Christmas. These are lovely services, the trees are up, and the lights are twinkling, and there's extra pretty music and choir singing.

Which is what brings me to my blog topic this week.

Our church has two adult choirs. The eating choir and the drinking choir. Now, Hubby and I have belonged to both choirs for many years, but recently we scaled back our commitments outside the house a little, and dropped out of the eating choir.  (No pie social for us twice a year!)  Instead, we stuck with the drinking choir, the more contemporary group of singers who, on occasion, gather at each others' homes after choir practice for a little wine drinking. And yes, this group has been known to go to wine tastings and yes, many of the members belong to the "Case Club" at the local winery.

So yes, the drinking choir.

Now, the drinking choir began largely as a summer group, sort  of a fill in choir to be active while the eating choir went on hiatus for the late spring and summer months.  The eating choir did the big holidays, Christmas, Easter, Confirmation, and the Advent song service.  Meanwhile, the drinking choir typically handled the summer outdoor concert.  Hence, when the drinking choir decided they
wanted to get a sort of uniform look, they went with polo shirts.  You know, casual, for those more casual, possibly outdoor, church services.

Over the years the drinking choir has become a year round group, and some members have branched out to long sleeved shirts, and some have even invested in sweaters bearing our choir logo.  (Not me, I am not in a place where I'm wearing a sweater for much of anything.)  Most of us, however, stick with the uniform polo shirts.  Whenever we sing

, the director, a man who takes way more grief from certain members of the choir (Yep, I include myself in that) than he probably should, will tell us if we are wearing our shirts or not.  (To which someone will always say, "Uh, do we have to wear something on the bottom?" or if we aren't wearing our shirts, someone will say, "So it's naked time?"  Because we're eleven.

Now, I'm telling you all this so you can understand my giggle fit at the end of the Advent service this past week.

Our director wanted us to class it up a bit since we were doing three numbers in the Advent service.  We were going to be in the public eye for quite a bit of the service, standing in front there, next to the twinkling trees, and our director, a man I'll call "Ned" wanted us to look less like a bunch of campers from a local group home out for a day at the park and more like grown ups preparing for the birth of our Savior.  Or something like that. I was too busy trying to come up with a snarky comment about dressing up for church to really focus on what he was saying.

Anyway, after practice Tuesday night, Ned announced that we would not be wearing our polo shirts.  And,  before anyone could make the "naked" joke, he added, "I'd like the men in suits and ties and the women in dresses."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand the Alto section lose their collective mind.

Well, okay, to be fair, really only three of us in the alto section lost our minds.  Four altos have dresses (that fit) and they are capable of wearing shoes that work with dresses.  The other three of us, however, announced loudly that we were not going to wear dresses.  (I believe, in my frenzy over the very suggestion that I wear something that wasn't pants, I informed the group that this wasn't my mother's funeral and I wasn't wearing a skirt. It's something I generally say to my mother to get her goat.)  Fortunately for the altos, the tenor and bass sections were a bit louder in their protestations about wearing suits and ties.

Had we really become this casual?

So on Wednesday I dug to the very back of my closet and found a skirt that would probably fit and a pair of dress shoes, high heels, that I remember buying several years ago because 1) they were a screaming deal and 2) I figured I'd need high heels at least one more time in my life.  I was ready to GO!

Two things happened, almost at the exact same time.  1) I got an email from the choir director basically backing off of his suit/tie/dress requirement, in fact he intended to wear a zip up sweater with a tie (whereupon I asked if he meant to dress like Mr. Rogers) 2) I put on the high heels.

I remember wearing pumps almost every day as a teen. I mean, it was the 80's. You wore pumps.  Pumps with skirts, pumps with dresses, pumps with knickers, pumps with jeans, pumps with leg warmers.  You just did.  And I wore pumps frequently in college, where I was learning to be a teacher, and then as a teacher I wore pumps...until I realized that first graders are really, really short and pumps made me taller and taking the shoes off was easier than bending.

That's probably about the time I started giving up dress shoes.

At this point, I have a pair of loafers, a pair of boots with no heel, and a couple pairs of sandals when it comes to non sport shoes.  None of those work with a skirt.  so I put on those pumps and hobbled around the house, first to make sure I could still walk in them and also to see if I could wear them without pain.

The answer to both those questions?  NO. No, no, no, no.

I hobbled out of the bedroom, and showed the shoes to Hubby.  "Wow, those are cute!" says he.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow" says I.

How can the same pair of shoes both pinch and be too loose?

From which ring of hell, which fire of Mordor, which demon possessed clearance aisle at Kohl's did these shoes come?

Well, since Ned mentioned he wasn't going to be wearing a suit, I felt okay slipping into a very dressy pair of flowing...what...pants?  Trousers?  Fancy looking lounge wear?  Hey, they were black, they looked fancy, and they fit.  Footwear was a fun little pair of suede winter booties that I love to pieces and wear all winter long.

Topped the off with some sparkly jewelry and a festive, fabulous red top and I looked AWESOME!

So we got to church, and we all congratulated ourselves on how great we looked. Several of the women opted for the ubiquitous black pant, but the guys, I'm impressed to say, all pulled out suits and ties. 

Now all that of that is only moderately amusing and I'm guessing more than a few of you are sitting there wondering why you're reading about the wardrobe issues of a contemporary church choir.  But here's why I had to write this blog:

At the end of the service, which really went well even though I think a number of us still question the song choices Ned made for the evening, (He's gutsy, that Ned is, he never goes for the safe stuff.) the pastor came down from the altar to make a few announcements.  His first one...and I'm not making this up...was the following:

"So the saints in the choir clean up nicely, don't they?"

WHAT?

Just how out of the norm was it to see us, as a choir, in front of  church wearing, you know, church clothes?  Apparently we've become not only the drinking choir, but the SLOPPY choir.  I mean, if the pastor feels he's gotta make a comment after the service about how good we looked, one of two things is going on:

1)  the congregation really doesn't like the polo shirts and they've complained or

2) we sounded horrible and the pastor just wanted to find something, anything, nice to say about us.

So there's a mystery for everyone to solve.  As for me, I'm fine with the polo shirts.  I'm fine with fancy pants.  Just don't ever again think you're going to get me into a skirt and heels.

This is weird question to be asked 3 times, right?

Hello everyone!  First of all, Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends out there.  For those of you not in the know, Thanksgiving is the official kick off to the five week mayhem that we call "the Holiday Season."  I'm happy to say that other than placing an order for Kringle for my far flung relatives, I'm officially done with all the shopping and can now settle into 5 weeks of decorating, caroling, and drinking warm adult beverage while watching charming, utterly forgettable movies.

But first, Thanksgiving.  So, hey all, I'm thankful for another year of being able to share my life with you fine folks and, while my posts might not have been as many this year (mostly because my life has been a tiny bit more exhausting...) that doesn't mean I don't have plenty up my sleeve for 2020. Seriously, who thought we'd all make it this far?

Anyway, Season's Greetings and all that.

Now, on to the topic of the day.

So yesterday I took a break from writing (still working it hard for #nanowrimo2019) and Hubby and I went out for lunch/brunch.  It was noon when we settled on a cute little family diner/bakery in a cute part of an adorable town near ours.  Given that it was noon on a Saturday, I expected the place to be busy, but apparently this was more of a breakfast/supper place than a flat out lunch place. What I'm saying is that at noon yesterday, we were one of about six tables in the restaurant and there were no less than 9 young ladies, all of whom wore ponytails, working as servers.

That's not the weird part.

Just wait.

So Ponytail #1 takes us to our table and asks if we want breakfast or dinner menus. We take breakfast.  She gives us our menu and leaves.  Ponytail #2 comes up, brings water, asks if we want coffee. We do. She gets it, takes our order, and leaves.  (BTW, I'm calling them "Ponytails" because not a one of them told us their names.)

Now, while we are waiting for our food, this is when it starts to get weird.  Another ponytail walks us and asks us if we are using our ketchup.

I have to think about it for a moment, but then Hubby reminds me that I like ketchup on my hash browns.  So, we tell Ponytail #3, that yes, we are using our ketchup.  She walks away.

Had that been the end of it, there would be no blog.

Another two minutes pass and Ponytail #4  comes up to our table. Now, she's carrying several ketchup bottles.  She asks us, "Are you done with your ketchup?"

Sweetie, we haven't even gotten our food yet.  No, we say politely, we are going to be using our ketchup.

She turns around, and leaves us. Now, Ponytail #5 (I'm not making this us...all different young ladies, same hair.) brings us our food. It's great. It's delicious.  And then Ponytail tale #6, who nearly trips over #5 on her way to our table, asks, "are you done with your ketchup?"

I mean, this is a weird question, right?  This is a strange thing to be asked 3 times within a matter of about five minutes by three different people.  Right?  All my years working in a restaurant, and all my kids' years, I don't think anyone's ever asked a seated table to surrender their ketchup. And, if they were cleaning and refilling the bottles, as Hubby suggested, noon is a weird time to do it. That's really more of a 2-4PM job, right?  Let me hear from my servers and bussers on this one!

Anyway, Hubby, at this point, hides our ketchup on his booth.  When I need it, I ask for it, and then he tucks it back on his seat.  (I like to put ketchup on my hash browns in stages.)  So we're enjoying out meal It's really good food.

And then it happens.  Ponytail #2, our server, comes over and puts a bottle of ketchup on the table. "Here's your ketchup!"

And now we have TWO BOTTLES on our table.

I'm not about to say anything. It's mine now.

Meal over, everything was wonderful, we pay our check and go on with our lives. At the register Ponytail # 7 asks "How was everything?"

I, of course, want to ask, "WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH YOU PEOPLE AND THE KETCHUP?"

But I don't.

Because I'm basically a coward.

But seriously, that's a weird question, right?

Anyway, everyone have a safe and happy Thanksgiving and we'll see you in December!

A birthday concert and dinner...and this happened.

Hello everyone!

I know you're all wondering how National Novel Writing Month is going for me.  Well, it's going. I'm behind the standard goal for the month, but I am gradually working myself into a regular, consistent schedule for writing.  So that's a win.  Plus, My newest work in progress, "Suburban Princess" (a psychological thriller) is starting to take shape. Check out a rough draft of the cover!  Isn't it sort of cool?

So this past weekend was my birthday.  I don't need to share how old I am.  I'll just say I'm old enough to know better, young enough to still think I should try anyway, but now I'm old enough to be too tired to bother.

Hubby REALLY outdid himself this year. First of all, he took me to Detroit to see my beloved Redwings play in their new (AND AWESOME) arena. We got to catch up with old friends, the Redwings won (which was nice...they aren't great this year) and we drove back in a blizzard which wasn't nice, but we got home safely.

That was great.

Then, hubby and I sort of did a fun impromptu little thing with friends Jake and Sydney.  They got tickets to see Manheim Steamroller's 35th anniversary tour for themselves for Christmas and asked us to join them.  (So nice!  We felt pretty honored, especially when we saw the seats, which were perfection!  On the aisle, close to the door, the walkway in front of us so no one sitting right in front of us...awesome.)

I'll bet you think someone dumped a rum and coke on me.  (Especially since this is the same place where we saw Mellencamp.)  Nope. No one dumped anything on me.  We enjoyed the balanced mix of orchestral instruments and electronic keyboards. We hummed along with familiar Christmas tunes and tapped our feet to the ones that were less than familiar.  We talked about how Manheim Steamroller Christmas was an important album when we were in college.  Oh, there was one interaction with the woman behind us. She tapped Hubby on the shoulder and told him his bow tie was the best one she'd ever seen.

I think I need to attend more concerts with Jake and Sydney.  Seriously, I've never been to a concert where nothing was dumped, poured, sneezed, barfed, thrown, or coughed on me. Not even church concerts.  This was a magical experience.

When the concert let out we walked back to our parking ramp where we waited in line zero minutes to get out and back on the street.  We then drove to a popular Italian place for dinner.  A place called Maggiano's. If you have one near you, check it out.  

Now, when I say this place is popular, I mean...it's a massive two story eatery with a huge bar area. Having no idea how long the concert would be or how long it would take us to get out of the parking ramp, we didn't make a reservation.

Wait time: 1 hour.  

Did I mention that, thanks to Nano, I got up right away in the morning, didn't eat breakfast, didn't eat lunch, the went to the concert...not eating?  

I FORGOT TO EAT?  

Ohhhhhhh, You say....here we go!  

Did someone bump into me?  Did I obaserve someone arguing with wait staff over their bill?  Did we have to wait longer than one hour for dinner?

You know what?  No. None of that happened!

The four of us waited a bit, and a table in the bar opened up. Hubby asked the head seating guy if we could take the table. Head seating guy said sure.  So, we did.  

Total wait time: 25 minutes.

We got a waiter I affectionately called "man bun."  (see, because he had a man bun...)

Man Bun (or MB as we'll call him here) was very harried. Poor guy.  He apologized every time he came to the table for the long wait. 

Here's the thing:  We didn't wait any sort of length of time for anything.  If we asked for drinks, we got drinks. When Hubby asked for a clean water glass because his had some weird brown, brackish liquid in it, he got it, along with a series of apologies from MB.

Sydney has some dietary requirements that make eating out a little bit of a challenge. She's really cool about it, though, so it's no biggie when she asked MB about gluten free/dairy free options.  MB...he was great. Instead of sighing and secretly rolling his eyes (I've seen that before)  he apologized that he didn't know everything about the options.  So what did he do? He got the CHEF to come out and talk to us.

Did I mention that this place was beyond packed on a Saturday night?

Now of course our food took eons and was clearly dried out because we had a special order, right?

Nope.  Everything was amazing and perfect and lovely and if it had been polite to do so I would have licked my bowl clean because, remember, I'd forgotten to eat.

Now it was time for dessert.  Hubby informed MB that it was my birthday.  Like here we are, actually out on the day of my birth.  MB said they had a lemon cookie dessert they could bring.  

No thanks. I'm not eating lemon cookies when TIRAMISU is on the menu!  

So we put in a dessert order and we waited.

We waited the exact amount of time it would take to get a dessert order if there was literally no one else in the restaurant. The food runner brought out our desserts and we began enjoying them. 

That's when MB came out and said, "Wait...there's no candle in your dessert?  I'm so sorry! I told them to put candles in your dessert!"

Poor guy. I don't know what they do in the back rooms of that restaurant, but I was starting to feel sorry for MB. He was really great at his job and we were having literally the best time ever.

MB vanished for a moment, and I thought the candle issue was over.  Nope. He returned a couple minutes later. 

"I'm so sorry," says he.  "I couldn't find candles so here," he held his lighter just over the last bits of my tiramisu (I'm sort of a pig when it comes to a good tiramisu...and this was magical) and he lit it. 

Hubby and friends and MB wished me a happy birthday and I blew out the lighter.

So, here's the point of all this:  I went out, on my birthday to a concert, to dinner at a busy place, and everything went very, very smoothly.

On this blog I generally talk about how I fall down a lot or get frustrated with people or get stuff dumped on me.  I figured, in this holiday season, especially since we are so close to American Thanksgiving (and those of you outside the US, when you celebrate your own holiday of thanks, ponder this) I had to share the one and only time I went to a concert and dinner and nothing bad happened.

It's just like riding that annoying, painful bike you thought you'd thrown away.

The following blog deals with a very personal matter in a very personal way.  (Yes, Todd, it's about feminine punctuation.)

If you don't want to know way too much about me...or if female problems make you feel icky, do not read further.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED...

I'm serious.  We're about to get graphic and female up in here.  If you're going to read this and then chase me down after church and tell me this week's blog grossed you out, then stop reading right now!

Let me be clear:  I'm not going to keep you wondering. I'm going to reveal it all!  STOP READING NOW IF  FEMALE ISSUES MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.

The language, also, is going to get pretty bad.

Who's left?  Just us girls?  Us older, age appropriate to listen to a graphic rant about female stuff girls?

Good.

Ready?

WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL JUST HAPPENED?  I JUST GOT MY PERIOD.

I haven't had one since JUNE.  JUNE.  That's July, August, September and October, no female punctuation.  No cramping. No bloating. No leaks all over the sheets. No leaks all over  my clothes.  No worrying if I had protection in my purse, suitcase, whatever. NO WORRIES ABOUT ANY OF THAT NONSENSE AT ALL for four blissful months.

Unlike not getting your monthly punctuation when you're younger, or maybe waiting on that first punctuation after the baby is born, getting one after missing it due to menopause is just a gigantic slap in the face.  I was done. I was free. I was able to leave my house without wondering if I had stocked my purse properly.

All I had were hot flashes. And yes, they were horrible this summer, but guess what?  We're getting into winter. I was looking forward to those hot flashes. You know, save on the heating bill. But, a couple weeks ago, I noticed I wasn't getting those flashes as often.

Stupid me, I thought I'd just gone through the fastest menopause EVER.

BUT NOOOOOOOOOO.

I got up this morning, all crampy and grumpy and sick to my stomach and head achy and then boom, bam POW.  

Period.

So now, I'm taking a moment out of my novel writing month to share this with all of you because I'm so FREAKING MAD.  I have to do things I thought I was done doing.  I have to use things I thought I was done using.  I HAVE TO HAVE RESET THE MENOPAUSE CLOCK AND GO BACK TO START AGAIN.

Now, of course I haven't forgotten how to treat a period.  I haven't forgotten how to use the punctuation protection. I haven't forgotten to wear all dark colors.  (Like I had even gotten away from that yet. That'll teach me to ponder getting a pair of gray jeans.)

Getting a period after so many months is like riding a bike. An annoying bike that causes pain. A bike I honestly thought I'd gotten rid of for good.  But, apparently, unlike stuff you take to St.  Vincent de Paul, this bike is coming back to you until it's good and ready to be gone.

So reset the menopause clock.  I'm back in the land of the menstruating for at least one more cycle. And I'm not terribly happy about it.

A Story from my childhood: Fartloaf

Good morning my friends!

Continuing my trip down memory lane this week, I started thinking about my mom's cooking.  If you've read this blog for a while, you know that wasn't exactly a happy, misty nostalgic moment.

My mother is not a good cook.  To be fair, her mother before her was not a good cook.  It wasn't a lack of talent, for I can recall meals at my grandmother's home that were tasty, and I know my mother can whip up a fairy decent lasagna when called upon.  And, to be very fair to my mother's side of the family, my paternal grandmother did not enjoy cooking, and therefore did not do it terribly often.  She preferred going out to dinner, a recessive trait I've inherited.  No, the women in my family were not bad cooks because they had no talent.  They were bad cooks because they just didn't care about cooking all that much. 

Case in point, my mother's meatloaf.  There are many jokes about meatloaf, but when it comes down to it, there's a reason everyone knows about meatloaf.  It's because, even the lamest cook can make a meatloaf that people will enjoy.  I do.  It's one of the few things my kids eat that I make.  My mother's meatloaf was, when first out of the oven, a delight.  It was hot, bubbly, just crusty enough on the outside and sweet from the ketchup glaze. 

When it cooled off, however, it became something else entirely.  My brother has some very colorful names for it, but I like to call it FARTLOAF.

Yes, when my mother's meatloaf cooled, it smelled like farts.  I'm not sure why.  Perhaps it was the green peppers she stuck in there  "for color."  (Is there anyone out there who's on the fence about eating meatloaf and then sees a touch of green and says, "Yes, that is the loaf of meat I'm going to eat!"  No, I didn't think so.)  I'm not a scientist, I cannot say what happened chemically speaking during the cooling process.

Since eating farts is not appetizing, there were always leftovers of the Loaf of Fart.  Which was perfect for my mother, who used said fartful meat for lunches the following day.

I'll give you a moment to wrap your head around the image of an inch thick slab of cold meatloaf nestled on two pieces of whole wheat bread.  And not the soft, mouth friendly whole wheat we have today, no, no;  the twigs and bark type of whole wheat that crumbled in your hands.  Now, put that sandwich in a fourth grader's lunch.

A meatloaf sandwich in a child's lunch?  Why ever would you do that, Dear?

So you can see why I , the fourth grader, threw those chunky, crumbly, fart tasting sandwiches away.  See, the worst crime you could commit in my family back then, besides lying, was throwing away food.  It was the 70's, we were the lower lower lower middle class, and wasting food was wrong.  Also, we lived under the iron clad rule that you had to eat your main course before dessert.  Generally this rule was moot since my mother, on an eternal quest to get my father to lose weight, rarely provided a dessert of any kind. 

It's completely logical, then, that I would have to dispose of the the sandwich if for no other reason than I wanted to eat whatever "dessert" sort of thing was in my lunch.  (Generally a home made marshmallow rice cereal treat with as little marshmallow as possible.  It really was like eating mildly sticky cereal.)  And I had  a sweet set up.  I couldn't toss it at school, no.  You can't throw out food at a parochial school...that's sinful.  But, on the walk home there was a vacant house.  And in front of that vacant house there was a ditch and in that ditch was a culvert.  And in that culvert were the remains of about six months' worth of my sandwiches.

Yep, it was fool proof.  I walked home alone, I ditched whatever lunch remains I had, and I moved on.  Given how perfect this was, I still scratch my head over the rest of this story.

One day, like any other, I had a fartloaf and wheat sandwich to dispose of.  Why I didn't go straight home from school that day, and send the sandwich to the culvert, I will never know, but on that day I threw the sandwich away at school and a classmate, I'd like to use her real name because it's one of those names you never forget, but let's call her Dora Donaldson, saw me and instantly told the teacher.

Let me tell you about Dora Donaldson.  Ours was a tiny school and there were only three girls in my class.  Dora, Kayla, the super cool girl who had horses, and me.  We were friends because there simply was no one else.  But Dora was one of those girls the teachers all like, but the kids can't stand because they constantly wreck whatever game you're playing at recess with things like, "Well, it just doesn't make any sense.  I'm left handed, so if I get a hit in softball, I should run to the left."  (No worries, Dora wasn't any good at sports, so the actuality of her getting a hit was non existent.)

Dora had lunch issues of her own.  She hated all things fruit.  But Dora was clever.  She would tell Teacher she was going to eat her fruit on the playground at lunch recess.  Then she'd go out, put the fruit in her special spot  (35 years later, I bet I can go to that playground and there will be a grove of apple trees there.) and "forget it."

Yeah, so Dora tattled.  That meant a note from the Teacher, who made me gather up as many of the pieces of the sandwich  (which had all but disintegrated in the garbage can by this point.) and put them back in my lunch box  (Emergency! with the Thermos!)  I had to take note and lunch home.

Now, a normal child with a normal childhood would have tossed the note.  Not me.  I wasn't living a normal childhood.  See, my DAD was the OTHER teacher in this two room school.  So I was smart enough to know that my teacher and he had conversations, and undoubtedly, the subject of a note would show up.  So I couldn't throw out the note.  I had to come up with a plan.

And I still had to ditch the sandwich. 

Hey, rule number one in the house:  Don't eat dessert before your main meal.  Since dessert was long digested, I had to do something with the chunks of farty wheaty goodness in my lunchbox. So, passing by my favorite culvert, I dumped the sandwich and cooked up a foolproof plan.

I got in trouble because Dora Donaldson lied.

Yep, that and some real tears was going to get me out of this.  Never mind that there were countless witnesses to me picking the sandwich out of the trash.  This was the gold star story that was going to save me from a week of no TV. (No Emergency?  No Johnny and Roy? Horrors!)

I'm not going to bore you with the court room drama, or lack thereof, that followed.  My parents were fooled by this story for about six seconds, which is how long it took my father to ask where the sandwich was now.  Knowing I couldn't tell the truth, I said, "I ate it."

Yeah, I'm not what you'd call a criminal mastermind.

Well, I didn't lose a week of TV.  No, I lost a month of desserts.  (Sort of like getting Al Capone on tax evasion.  Without the evidence, they couldn't really prove I'd thrown out the sandwich.  So, they nailed me for eating dessert before the main meal.)  The worst of it was my darling Aunt Carol  (her real name) was coming for a long weekend.  Aunt Carol, unlike my mother, was a BRILLIANT cook, and her speciallty was dessert.  So, in the final review, it was a painful punishment.

Did that stop me from throwing sandwiches in the culvert?  Nope. 

Know what did?  Two things:

1)  Shortly after this, someone actually bought the vacant house. Food dumping became trespassing and littering pretty quickly.

2)  We moved.  My walk to school got shorter, and there was no place to hide food.  I wound up having to actually eat it.

I shared this story with my parents about ten years ago, at Thanksgiving.  (Now you understand why I try to avoid Thanksgiving?)  I figured that, at age 42, I was safe from further punishment.  Besides, confession is good for the soul.

It wasn't, not really.  My mother glared at me over a platter of dried out turkey and muttered something about being poor and being grateful for having any food. My father slapped a spatula of pasty, unbuttered, dry mashed potatoes onto his plate (They only parted from the spatula if you gave it a really good whip of the wrist.) and said nothing.  Which really doesn't mean he disagreed with me or anything, it's just a funny mental image of him smacking mashed potatoes onto his plate.