I was mightily amused to read this morning that the young damsel in distress who claimed to have found a finger in her bowl of Wendy's chili has been arrested. Aside from the shameful schadenfreude that inevitably accompanies reading of the misfortunes of others, I was struck by the peculiarities of the episode and its similarity to the tale of Medea and the daughters of Pelias. At any rate, it would seem that the young finder of said finger has quite a checkered, litigious past, and investigators are examining the possibility that she planted the finger in the chili of her own accord. Zounds! I'm chortling in my leather chair just thinking of such diabolical cleverness. At least, this is the reigning theory, which was arrived at after an extensive inquiry into the digitude of the Wendy's employees. The inquiry went something like this:

Q. Hello, there. Is this thing on? Hello, employees of the Wendy's corporation. Is anyone in any of our franchises perhaps missing a finger?

A. Well, yes, in fact. Several of us are missing fingers.

Q. Let me be more specific. Has anyone lost a finger in a setting other than high school shop class?

A. Well, no. Once we graduated or got our GEDs, we tended to keep better track of our digits.

Q. I guess that about does it then. We'll let you know what we find out.

I have it on the best authority that Wendy's has set up a telephonic hotline, and that they are offering a $100,000 reward for anyone able to offer information leading to the finger's source. Well, I have some information that you might find illuminating. Did I ever mention that I lost a finger not long ago while dining at one of your restaurants? It's true. I was up at the counter ordering my mechanically separated chicken pieces when the extra value menu that was hanging like the sword of Damocles over me unloosed itself from the ceiling. (Why are these crafted out of sharpened, serrated steel, anyway?) I jumped back, but alas, I was not nimble enough. My finger was sliced off as cleanly as with a guillotine. I could even see an old woman knitting in a nearby booth, like some Dickensian joke perpetrated by my cosmic nemeses. And I was fortunate. The abominable marker of savings might have severed an entire arm, and then I would have buried the restaurants in litigation.

Why haven't I spoken up at this until now? Well, out of shame and embarrassment, naturally. It's a dreadfully lowbrow anecdote, and when I'm out at the martini bar, trying to be persuasive with a lovely lady, I have found that a thrilling shark attack story sparks more interest on her part than a truthful account of the event. I have almost come to believe this version myself—Freud be praised!—until I heard from some smirking anchorman that my lost digit had concluded its hapless peregrination in a bowl of chili. Only then did I realize the gravity of the situation. I knew then that the time had come for me to speak out about this harrowing (and banal) experience. It is my burden to confront the unpleasant truth of my visit to Wendy's, or the event will come to dominate my life.

So, might I trouble you for that generous bounty promised for those who proffer relevant information?

Please?

Ladies and gentlmen of the school board, I am here today to tell you how imperative it is that we place more emphasis on teaching The Epic of Gilgamesh in our schools. Yes, it's mentioned peripherally on occasion, but the text is treated with a dismissiveness that is downright offensive to me. The Epic of Gilgamesh should be taught as historical fact, not as "literature" or, even worse, "mythology." This is a sad era, indeed, when teachers can stand before a classroom full of kids and say that The Epic of Gilgamesh did not happen exactly as written. Who are you to question the writings of Shin-eqi-unninni? Who do you think you are?

Let me give you a bit of context here. The Epic of Gilgamesh is probably the oldest written story in human history. It was from from Ancient Sumeria, and was originally transcribed in cuneiform on a series of tablets. It is about a King Gilgamesh of Uruk, who ruled circa 2750 BCE. You may notice that this text is older than the Bible. This is a great testament to its credibility. It seems to me that the closer things are to the beginnings of creation, the more likely they are to be pure and uncorrupted. Therefore, the oldest written story probably has more truth to it than that biopic on Mariel Hemingway I just saw.

You may object to my assessment, saying that the writer of The Epic of Gilgamesh had his or her own agenda and distorted the facts accordingly. You may even assert that certain embellishments of the narrative were made for the sake of aesthetics and were not intended to be taken as literal truth. This is ridiculous, and if I didn't know better, I'd suggest that you were going to hell for espousing such beliefs. But, of course, the Ancient Sumerians believed in more of an egalitarian underworld—irrespective of a person's behavior—so I guess you're off the hook on that one.

Sure, science tells us that some of the events that occur in the epic are not possible according to the laws of nature. For example, certain naysayers have repeatedly pointed out that "scorpions can't talk." Whatever. We all know how science lies when it's backed into a corner. The modern scientific community is so driven by humanistic self-aggrandization that it seeks to quash everything it can't explain. These individuals are bent on stripping human life of its miraculous quality, and therefore, its meaning. But their words mean nothing; they cannot subvert the truth that was written down so many years before. I believe The Epic of Gilgamesh is literal truth. I believe that not only did Gilgamesh exist, but that he was part deity. I believe that he and Enkidu had wrestling matches the likes of which the WWE could only dream of, and that, together, they defeated a demon guy who wasn't wearing much armor. I believe that Gilgamesh spurned the advances of a goddess named Ishtar and that she tried to punish him for it. I believe that he met a man named Utnapishtim, who built a boat in order to survive the great flood (did I mention this was before the Bible?). And I believe that at the end of his life, he did take that boat ride in search of immortality. The Epic of Gilgamesh is beyond question, its authenticity beyond reproach.

As a sidenote, I'd like to know what other religious text you can think of that was written in a language as complex as cuneiform? The author gains credibility simply based on the difficulty of the endeavor. Do you know how hard it is to hold a long, sharpened reed just right, so the wedge marks don't smudge the clay? It takes a freakin' act of Anu, the sky-god. Which is exactly my point.

So, to sum up, let's ensure that The Epic of Gilgamesh is taught in history classes, not English classes. Our children's future is too important to leave to the evil dogma of the scientists. This is what I believe, and this is what your kids should believe, too. Thanks for your time.

Newscasters have been describing the bizarre California weather as a “winter mix.” Winter mix? Back in middle school, winter mix was that melange of steamed broccoli, cauliflower, and lima beans that they dished out in the school cafeteria. We never knew why it was called winter mix, exactly. I guess winter was just the season for serving the world’s most objectionable food.

This started me thinking about the institutional foods of the past, and the general nastiness we endured in the name of education. There was meat loaf, corn dogs, spaghetti with sauce (we were never informed as to the meat content), and the requisite tuna surprise. Our pizza often was laced with leftovers. If you were brave enough to look beneath the petrified canopy of cheese, you might see peas, pieces of corn, etc. There was also something called Panther Rib, which bore a slight resemblance to the McRib sandwich, but without the barbecue sauce or the taste. The panther part came from our mascot, although why we’d want to be eating our mascot, even for pretend, was a mystery to me. Maybe it was a Celtic, drinking-the-blood-of-the-fallen sort of thing.

The favorite entrees were burritos, macaroni and cheese, and breaded chicken strips. Even the most truant students rarely missed these days. The breading on the chicken strips always tasted like it had been wrapped in cellophane for months, but at least the chicken part was good. Sometimes you got a big ole’ vein running through your chicken strip, and then you’d be too grossed out to continue. If this occurred, you would simply pass it around the table for inspection (the polite thing to do), and subsist on the mashed potatoes until you could make an illicit trip to the snack machine.

The milk was dependably palatable, unless the expiration date had passed (which was the case at least half the time). And it was a crap-shoot whether you’d get the carton open without the assistance of a fork. I know I wasn’t the only one trying to drink milk out of that tiny cardboard pinpoint hole, which was like one of those devices you made to view an eclipse without burning your retinas out.

You may be wondering, how are school lunches across the globe? Well, I checked out the menu for a primary school in the UK, just to see how British kids are faring. Here’s a sample lunch:

1. Minced beef and Yorkshire pudding
2. Sausage roll with tomato sauce
3. Chipped potatoes
4. Garden peas or baked beans
5. Cherry love cake

Man, that sounds about a thousand times better than anything we ever had in school. Those British brats sure are lucky. I am a little dubious about the cherry love cake (can someone tell me what this is?), but it sounds friendly enough. Cherries are good. Love is good. Cake is good. So why not combine them to make cherry love cake, even though it sounds like the main course at one of those hippie gatherings where Phish is playing in the background and you have to feed each other from oversized wooden bowls?

Oh well. So I was never served Yorkshire pudding in school. There are worse things to do without. Like bread. And water. Plus, there’s no reason why I can’t have Yorkshire pudding for every meal now, if I want. One of the things I love most about being a grown-up is that I can feed myself (legal drinking is another great perk—at least until you develop cirrhosis). No more scouring my lasagna for vegetable stowaways. No more peering into the kitchen to see what sort of culinary subterfuge is really going on amid the swirling hair nets and the general fog of war. And no more winter mix.

Except for the California kind, of course.

Kevin was one of the meaner kids in class. He had a wicked smile, and a passion for disrupting class with simulated fart sounds. Usually, Kevin picked on the smaller kids, but one time he embarrassed me terribly by holding an anatomy book in front of my face and pointing to a diagram of the breasts. I was mortified, but I do remember looking at the strange way the tissues seemed to be folded around inside the breast, and thinking how odd that was, and how I wasn't sure I wanted any of that stuff anyway.

One day, Kevin brought a bike chain to school with him. It was fairly long, with large metal links. He wound it around his knuckles, waving a menacing fist at the group of boys gathered around him. Before long, he began to show off even more. He waved the chain around, and had the other boys tug on it to prove how strong it was. And then, in a Houdinic fervor, Kevin chained himself to his desk.

Kevin looked at the class and grinned widely—for about ten seconds. That is, until he found himself unable to undo the hefty combination lock on the chain. At first, there was a little laugh of disbelief, as he tried the numbers on the lock over and over again. Nothing. He tried the numbers in a different sequence. Still nothing. Finally, he tried to shimmy out of the chain—making these horrible grunting sounds as he did so—but only succeeded in jerking the desk all around. Kevin and the desk were fused together, like some sort of hybrid creature from Norse mythology.

We were all alarmed at this turn of events, but not so alarmed that we couldn't laugh. Just a little.

That was when Mr. G, the principal, came in.

A hush fell over the class, and I had the distinct impression that all the air had been sucked out of the room. Contrary to the spelling mnemonic taught to children everywhere, Mr. G was most certainly not our pal. He was a strict, ex-military man who didn't tolerate much in the way of misbehavior, and operated under the Machiavellian assumption that it was better—far better—to be feared than loved. The only time I'd ever seen him smile was in his yearbook picture, and even that, I suspected, may have been touched up after the fact.

Kevin's eyes were wide with terror.

Mr. G didn't hesitate. He assessed the situation, then picked Kevin up, desk and all, and carried him out into the hallway. No one said a word. Kevin found his voice then, and began to shriek. "Noooooooo! Noooooooo!" We were all listening as Kevin's panicked voice traveled down the infinitely long hallway, his screams finally growing fainter until at last we could not hear him at all. As Mrs. H chastised us and re-initiated our reading lessons, we were left wondering if the one-time bully would ever return to us.

An hour later, we were doing purple math problems on mimeographed pieces of paper. Kevin walked quietly back into the classroom, pale and silent, eyes rimmed with red as if he had seen things of such horror that he would never be able to describe them. Most unthinkably, it was obvious that Kevin had been crying. His desk was gone, and so was his chain. He was holding his hands over his butt as if the skin there was very, very tender.

Kevin didn't speak the rest of the day, and at recess he was like a small monk huddled up by the monkey bars.

I felt a little sorry for him.

But just a little.

It all started when I had to stay the night at Greg G's house.

Greg's mom and my mom were best friends, so Greg and I were forced to spend a lot of time together. Every Sunday after church, our families would go to the restaurant at the Ramada Inn to eat lunch together. Greg and I were always bored during the meal. We'd sit squishing green jell-o through our teeth until our parents dismissed us, at which point we'd go out to the lobby and monopolize the sit-down Centipede game. Sometimes we'd fight over the controls.

Greg and I had a conditional friendship, the condition being that no one in school could ever know about it. The problem? He was a boy, and I was a girl. Neither of us really believed that the other had cooties, but we had to stand behind the party platform anyway. It was just one of those things.

This arrangement came to an abrupt end, however, when my parents went out of town one weekend. I couldn't go with them because I had school, and Greg's mom was more than happy to put me up for the night. From the time I arrived, Winnie the Pooh sleeping bag tucked under my arm, I was uncomfortable. Greg was embarrassed and irritated, and he kept casting withering glances at me, as if we were two baboons and I had intruded on his territory. After dinner and some cookies, Greg's mom showed me his room—there were cowboy boots and lassos on his sheets—and suggested that he give up the bed and sleep on the couch. But Greg threw a temper tantrum, then became all maudlin and sulky, until I said fine, I'd sleep on the couch because I didn't like the cowboy stuff, anyway. (This was a blatant lie. I've always been fascinated with Western stuff. I had a Billy the Kid outfit that was my prized possession until I rode some spinning carnival ride thing and threw up on it. But whatever. If I'd had cowboy sheets, I probably would have guarded them just as jealously as Greg did).

At this point, I would like to remind everyone that grade school can be tough. Not nearly as tough as middle school, but when you're in grade school there's nothing to compare it with so it's about as bad as it can get. You have to step carefully. The social codes in grade school are really just cartoonish representations of adult society, and the kids often don't have any idea what their own rules mean.

The morning after the sleepover, Greg and I got ready and started walking to school. After a few blocks, it occurred to us that the circumstances might be cause for disapproval and ridicule from our peers. So we agreed that Greg would walk on, and I would wait until he was about a block ahead before continuing. But it was too late for discretion. Lamar R., another boy in our class, saw the two of us walking together just before we split up. There was a brief look of astonishment on his face, followed by an expression of unthinkable glee, and then he ran as fast as he could toward the school. By the time I got into the classroom and hung my jacket on the coat room peg, everyone knew our not-so-dirty secret.

"Karen and Greg spent the night!" they shouted. There was riotous laughter. Kids were standing on their chairs, tossing papers in the air. Apparently, the excitement of a scandal had caused our classmates to lose all sense of decorum.

Greg was sitting quietly at his desk, staring hard at one of those Scholastic information sheets about killer bees, but even from across the room I could see how red his face was. As for me, I loudly denounced the claims, bossily calling Lamar a liar until it became obvious that everyone was determined to believe the more sensational story.

"Karen and Greg spent the night!" they shouted again.

"What does that mean?" one of the girls asked, looking puzzled. I was kind of curious, too. Everyone turned to hear what Lamar would say.

Flushed with joy at all the attention he was receiving, Lamar's face broke into a wide grin that I will never forget. "Hanky panky," he said, and nodded knowingly.

My alumni magazine arrived today, and it got me thinking about old times. Or, as Shakespeare put it, for "my salad days, when I was green in judgment." For the love of all that is holy, people, don't choose English as your major unless you are prepared to suffer. There's a reason there are more English majors at your local fast food joint than any other type of college graduate. There's a reason Garrison Keillor makes jokes about English majors working menial jobs and diagramming sentences just to freshen up their skill set. It's because English departments attract the kind of people who are dreamers, who are so right brained they can't manage to coordinate their socks, and who are too absorbed in their Victorian novel to pay the heating bill. I know this, of course, because I was one.

Me: My name is Karen, and I'm an English major.

Group: (together) Hello Karen!

You know how English Departments market themselves? This is a paraphrase of one piece of propaganda I actually encountered. "Graduates of the English program have found lucrative careers in a variety of fields. They thrive in the world of business, publishing, and even zoology." This, of course, translates to "receptionist, paper boy, and guy who scoops up porcupine scat." That's because unless you're going into teaching and are planning on doing graduate work right after college, there's not much that potential employers feel you are qualified to do with an English major. It doesn't help that at a lot of major universities, an English major is a common default degree. You can pretty much graduate with this major even if you don't speak a word of the language. At my school, those of us in the English department worked really, really hard. We had a rigorous course of study—reading massive tomes in a short amount of time, writing massive essays in an even shorter time. I've taken whole classes dedicated to etymology. I've read everything Dostoevsky ever wrote. And yet, when I submit my resume to an employer, it's sitting right there next to the one from Joe Imbecile from Major University, who became an English major by default, and who thinks terminal commas are something you'd need to see an oncologist about. Not that Joe Imbecile would know what oncology means. He'd probably ask for "ontology" by accident, and end up in the secret philosophy wing of the local hospital.

So please, dear friends, be careful if you're thinking about selecting English as your major. I don't regret my English major, because it's helped me as a writer and an editor. I just wish to high heaven that before I swore fealty to the English Department, someone had tossed a caveat or two my way. From time to time, I toy with the idea of traveling around the country, doing some kind of old-time revival show to warn young people about the dangers of an ill-considered English major. "Smoke your illicit substances if you must," I'd say, "but an English major is something you don't want to get mixed up in unless you have a Very Good Reason." If you can't think of a Very Good Reason within the first five seconds of rumination, you should probably go into botany or nuclear science instead and just leave the terminal comma to us. We may die from it after all. But if not from that, then definitely from exposure, because the power company has turned off our heat again.