This Is Why We Can't Have Run-of-the-Mill, Cheap-Ass Things

And now, for the doozy of a shock I got during RetirementPartyPalooza...

Genius and The Veteran were the two driving forces behind this event. I agreed to have the festivities here at the homestead, and Genius assured me that they would do all the work. I offered to buy the meat and make a few sides. That was my choice.

It's not like I was serving a sit-down Thanksgiving dinner with cloth napkins, fine china, and the family silver. The fact that I had napkins at all is a feat for which I should be commended, even though the package seemed fuller when the guests left than before they arrived. I offered a choice of sturdy oval cardboard plates, or a foam tray with compartments for folks who don't like their food to touch (explain THAT peccadillo to the starving children in [insert country here]). I also provided a nice set of plasticware (is that an oxymoron, or am I just the moron?) with forks, spoons, and knives.

As you can see, these were not the flimsy individually-wrapped forks that I collect from Hardee's when I get a Chicken Bowl. Not the black plastic kind which are likely to leave a broken tine in your teeth if you are a bit aggressive in your feeding habits. These were the thick, clear plastic PREMIUM forks, a Great Value brand, with their own case separating them from the spoons and knives. As you can see, we had plenty of forks left.

When we set out the food for self-serving, I made sure to have a fork or spoon with each item. I used my real metal forks and serving spoons for dishing out the vittles. In fact, we ran out at the dessert table, having a fork for the Rice Krispie treats, and one for the lemon bars, but lacking one for the giant chocolate chip cookie cake. We figured people were smart enough to use the knife, or borrow a fork from the lemon bars beside it.

I was standing at the sink, out of the way of the cutting block and counter, where people were milling around in an orderly fashion, loading their plates. I figured when they were all done, I could get mine last. That's what a good hostess does, right?

Let the record show that our guest list included a gaggle of kids who are of high school and driving age. Not little shavers. Old enough to be considered people. We are not a close family who gets together routinely to revel in our own company. I am not a jolly Mrs. Claus kind of grandma who hosts sleepovers and baking parties and knits you those sweet house slippers that are great for sliding on tile floors. I'm more of a severe spinster aunt kind of relative, who might send you five dollars for your birthday, and expect a written thank you card sent through the U.S. mail. (Let the record show that we give more than that, and I don't expect a thank you.)

Anyhoo...there I was, allowing everyone to fill their plates and find a suitable place to sit outside (the surfaces inside being covered with our food platters) before I partook of the feast. With only a few people left, a young gal (let's call her Sissy) came back inside and around the counter to stand beside me. She was cute as a button, and polite as only a woman who has raised four sons can appreciate.

"Do you have any real forks?"

I was taken aback. REAL forks? What in the Not-Heaven! I had a PREMIUM set of 192 pieces of sturdy plasticware, 64 of which were forks! Why would anybody need a REAL fork? Are you special? Are you allergic to plastic? What are you trying to stab or cut? Why should YOU deserve a real fork, when everybody else, including about-to-be-eating me, is okay with using plastic forks? That's not what I said out loud, of course.

"Um...we're out of real forks. I put them out with the food, to serve with. In fact, we were one short on the cookie cake."

"Oh. Okay."

And with that, Sissy started pawing through the clean silverware in the dish drainer! As you may recall, my guests started arriving 45 minutes early, as I was cleaning up the kitchen. And I don't have a dishwasher. Are you freakin' kidding me? Pawing through my dish drainer! That was CERTAINLY not done back in my day! The fact that there was even silverware IN the dish drainer was a major faux pas on my part, but to my credit, at least they were clean, and would have been put away by the scheduled party time.

Well. That pawing was just not going over well with Val! In haste, I pulled open the silverware drawer, and grabbed a little fork. That's what my kids call them. Little forks. If you're a Rockefeller of a Vanderbilt, perhaps you'd call them salad forks. I only have four of them. There used to be eight. When Genius moved out to go to college, I lost four short forks as if overnight. Genius denies it to this day, just like the missing four inches of Apfelkorn in the bottle that Hick brought back from a trip to Germany and put in FRIG, too.

It's not like Hick took my short forks in his lunch box and left them at work randomly during his career. Hick, in fact, does not like a short fork, and has only brought extra silverware INTO the house, one of them being my favorite spoon which does not match my set. Genius and The Pony preferred the short forks, and I'm pretty sure that even when Hick excavated the junk in The Pony's room after he left for college last fall, no short forks were found. All tines point to Genius as the fork thief.

Anyhoo, I took one of my four remaining short forks out of the drawer, and said, "Oh...well...here's a short one. Here you go, honey." Well. Not the honey part. Val is a woman of few words and fewer endearing nicknames. So I probably just thrust it at her and said, "HERE!"

"Thanks!" Sissy headed back outside to her plate. Of whatever was so tough that it needed a metal fork instead of plastic.

That was fine, right? Surely a lass of teenage years could be trusted with a metal fork. That's what I kept telling myself, anyway. It's not like it was the family silver, handed down from generation to generation, polished especially for this grand affair. In fact, I think it was not even Walmart quality, but came in the mail from Fingerhut. I got it during my very first year of teaching, way back when I had my first household all to myself. 

You know what happened, right?

The party raged on, people finished eating, Genius and The Veteran and Hick continued drinking, a gang started a punting practice in the side yard (one member had been in a contest earlier that morning), and another group set to competing in a cornhole tournament in the front yard. I sat out front to socialize (yes, it nearly killed me), and when the next-to-last car headed up the driveway, I went inside to dish up leftovers for Genius, and wash the limited dishes.

Genius and Friend (his designated driver) sat and talked to me while I was washing up.

"You know, I never got back my little fork! Look! It's not in with all these others. What in the world could Sissy have done with that fork? Did she throw it away? Take it home to make a voodoo doll of me? A metal fork doesn't just disappear. Except for those four the night you moved away to college."

"I didn't take your forks! I've told you that a hundred times!"

"Don't get me started on the Apfelkorn!"

"I didn't take that, either! You need to chill. Have a beer."

"No thanks. I'm fine."

"It's JUST a fork. I don't know what she did with it."

As much as Genius tried to pull me out of my funk by changing the subject to a compliment on my physique from my past year of wise choices...I was still bitter over my missing fork. It may not have been worth much in money terms, but it had great sentimental value. Now I was down to THREE.

The next day, I told Hick that I sure did wonder what Sissy did with my fork. He looked all around the porch and by the grill, and over the side of the deck rail, but didn't find it.

"It HAS to be here. She probably threw it away. I'd look in the wastebasket, but Genius and Friend bagged that up and took it out while I was washing the dishes. I've got a good mind to go to the dumpster and go through that bag. It should be the one on top..."

"Oh. I put a bag in there from the BARn. And we had that one outside for the meat trays."

"Okay. The meat tray bag will be light."

"I know which one I put in from the BARn. It's tied in a knot. Not with a drawstring."

We went out to the side porch. I took my tall laundry basket and put a clean trash bag in it. The plan was to open the other one, and move items one at a time. Yes. Val is that crazy. Val is not proud. Didn't even wear gloves. Which I kind of regretted as I got to the shucked corn.

But you know what? As I got down to the very bottom of that trash bag...

I found my precious! And also that somebody had wasted a perfectly good hamburger that my dogs would have enjoyed for their evening snack. Upon excavation, it appeared that the sole purpose of my short metal fork was to eat (or not) the baked beans.

Yes, that picture was taken on the porch, on the chair right beside me. Don't know why it looks like it was after dark. I knocked off the beans and washed up my short fork and stashed it back in the drawer with its mates. I thought of telling Hick to take one with him on his Goodwill tours, to see if he can find four more. But that would be just like losing a short fork all over again.

I hope Hick doesn't plan on ever retiring again. I don't know if I can take the stress.