Write your award-winning book or screenplay BEFORE the next rapture! Writing Pad wants to help you. We have brand new novel writing, children's book writing, personal essay writing classes starting up this weekend. We have new rounds of Finishing School and So You Want To Be A Writer starting up, and we even have a class that will help you get a publishing deal! Check out the list below and call 323-333-2954 or email marilyn@writingpad.com before the classes are full.
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- Scary School Book Release Party (Sun. June 26)
- Get Your Book Published (Sun., June 12)
- Get It On The Page: A Creative Writing Workshop (Sun., June 19)
- Dialogue Doctor: Punch Up Your Scenes With Specific Speech (Tues., June 21)
- Etch a Sketch: A Sketch Comedy Writing Workshop (Tues., June 28)
- Writing The Great American Novel (Sat. afternoons)
- So You Wanna Be A Writer (Sat. a.m.'s, Wed. p.m.'s, Mon. p.m.'s online, Wed lunch online)
- Finishing School (Wed. p.m.'s, Sat. a.m.'s)
- From Bedtime Stories To Tales Of Teenage Woe: Writing For Kids and Young Adults (Sun. a.m.'s)
- You In 1200 Words: Writing and Publishing The Personal Essay (Thurs. p.m.'s)
What comes to mind when I say "childhood lunch?" Write about it for 10 minutes and then post your write on this blog for the chance to win a free class!
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It started out like a normal lunch at Old Orchard High. I sat down in the cafeteria next to my friend Miriam, who had black curly hair that was so thick, it clumped together like Spanish Moss. I pulled out my turkey sandwich on wonder bread and my Little Debbie individually wrapped brownie. “So do you want to go ice skating with me on Friday night?” I asked.
“I do, but I have to ask my Mom. She might need me to stay home with my little sister.”
Then it happened. Joe Dorre swooped down and picked me up by my waist. His pimply friend Craig Wilson was with him. Joe was the greasy haired basketball player who teased me in homeroom. “Moron Freakman!” he yelled and dragged me over to the garbage can.
“Stop, please!”
I knew why this was happening. I had had enough of him calling me Moron Freakman in homeroom, and I had yelled back “Dumb as a Door.” He didn’t like me standing up for myself so this was my punishment. Craig and Joe lifted me up high over the garbage can. “We’re going to throw you in there where you belong!”
I could see half eaten bologna sandwiches, greasy swaths of cafeteria spaghetti and meatballs, candy wrappers, and rotten apples. I could feel the bile building up in my throat. The garbage smelled so putrid that it was going to make me puke.
“No! Don’t throw me in, please!” I tried to wriggle free of their grip. My Disco Fever tank top was starting to ride up my back.
“And, one, and a two and a. . .” Craig and Joe heaved me back and forth like they were going to slingshot me into the giant, black can.
“No! Please! Stop!” My heart was pounding in my ears. And then, finally, it stopped. They dropped me on the cold, dirty tile.
“We’re not going to throw you in this time, but you better keep you mouth shut in homeroom or else—straight in the garbage can!” I walked back to my seat next to Miriam, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Are you OK?” she asked. I nodded. Some day I would get even. Some day those dumb jerks would get theirs.
I am one of four children, which meant from an early age, I did not get coddled. I just saw a video on The New York Times website about a new book on siblings – the author states unequivocally that every parent has a favorite child, and it is either the eldest or youngest. I am the second, so I guess I missed that train. Next time.
Anyway, being one of four meant that my mother did not make our lunches -- even though she was a stay-at-home mom, even though my friends’ working moms made their lunches. But they were not one of four. They were one of two, which seemed like a much more reasonable number of children. I still feel that way. Anyhoo, I made my own lunch – every morning from the age of 5. But then one day, when I was in first grade, my mom went on a trip to visit friends in England, and my dad got us off to school – but we were late, and he made my lunch because I couldn’t. But he didn’t put my name on it, and because I hadn’t made it, I didn’t know which of the 24 brown paper bags the kids had all left together upon entering the classroom at the beginning of the day was mine. What would I eat? By 15 minutes into the 30 minute lunch break all the lunch bags were taken but two. Which one was mine? One had Hawaiian Punch in it – surely not mine – and the other, a banana. No way. I hated bananas. Well, I hadn’t once upon a time, but my older sister didn’t like them – she thought the consistency was gooey and gross – so I didn’t like them either. And there was a banana in the bag. My dad knew I didn’t like bananas.
Two lunch bags for one girl required a call to my father (to eat someone else’s lunch?! Maybe it would be poisoned!), so the teaching assistant went to the teachers’ lounge and called my father at his office. The banana lunch was mine. Oh woe, woe was me. To be one of four children. It was all very upsetting. I ended up crying on my teacher’s knee.
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