Disclaimer: I clearly warned you; if you're offended, it's your own fault.
Post Begins Here:
About a month ago (how I know it was about a month ago will become clear soon enough), we gathered together here, at the Country Casa, for dinner. My Aunt was still here from San Diego, friend Di was here, Tim and the kids joined us, along with Craig and his friends. After dinner, while the weather was still holding and everyone was present, we gathered around a bonfire of sorts.
I say "of sorts," as GeniusInventorClint cut a lawn roller in half horizontally, which makes for an excellent country fire pit. Toss in lots of firewood, pull up the chairs, and you have yourselves a party!
We wrapped ourselves in blankets to keep our backs warm, and kept our feet close enough to the fire to smoke our soles, and proceeded to laugh our booties off all night long.
Nigh about midnight, when everyone began declaring that they should be heading home, Clint decided that he'd let the wood-fire die down, and throw in our paper bag of paper waste [we are country folk now, and can burn our paper waste].
Whoosh! In went the junk mail, ads from bill statements, paper plates...you get the picture.
We continued to talk and laugh, and were still going strong when the weekly flyers were gone. To my complete mortification, I watched Clint throw in a second bag of our burnable garbage.
The bag from the bathroom.
Now would be a good time to explain that waaaaay out here in the country, we have a septic tank, which means a girl cannot flush her....ummm...personal hygiene products...under any circumstances. Citified girls, this means, as far as I understand it, that things would become clogged, and the UncloggerMan will have to come out, and stuff that you flushed will inevitably end up out in the yard for Deer and God and The Whole World to witness, and the Man of Your House will be beary-beary perturbed.
That's as I understand it, you see. I haven't risked the man of my house becoming perturbed (on this particular issue).
Let's just cut to the freakin' chase, shall we?
So, Clint threw the bathroom garbage into the fire barrel while I simultaneously realized what had just happened, and thought, Oh.
The outer bag burned off in milliseconds, leaving the contents on complete display for everyone sitting in the circle. I held my breath, thinking "keep talking, everyone please just keep talking," when my niece, Brandi, began to giggle. Finally she said "Well. THAT was a first."
Thank you very much, dearie. The men in the circle hadn't yet noticed the fiasco, and Tim asked her, "Whuh?"
You know it, she said "I JUST WATCHED A TAMPON GO UP IN FLAMES!!"
Suddenly, all eyes were on the fire, and everyone was aware that the barrell was full of a week's worth of "someone's" used tampons, panty liners, and sanitary pads.
They don't burn as fast as you'd think.
Uncomfortable giggling beget when Brandi, actually trying to make things better, piped up, "Well, at least it doesn't smell."
She really thought that would help, but the boys in the crowd screamed with laughter.
To counteract that, she panick-ed-ly tried to gain control of the situation: "No! No, Aunt Lori, I wasn't insinuating that you're dirty!"
To which the men in the party completely fell out of their chairs, and her father, my brother-in-law Tim, screamed, "Just Stop! You're making it worse! You're making it worse!!!" Then he consolingly laid on the ground and laughed for about 10 minutes.
Everyone went home. Clint threw another bag of burn-able waste into the barrel, and I went to bed, having had one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
Let's just keep this between ourselves, ok?