It's Sammich Time

I was having lunch with my friend, Diann, one day and we started to compare horror stories of taking care of our parents. I told her that someone had told me that I was part of the 'sandwich generation', squeezed between taking care of our children AND our parents at the same time. Diann's witty sense of humor took over and before we knew it, we'd decided to write a book about this topic. I can't remember if we came up with a title or not (Diann, did we?) but I knew we wanted to put something like "Lettuce tell you the whole (wheat) truth with no bologna!". We thought we were pretty clever. We even came up with several chapters. Oh, it's been too long since I've had a "Hero Sandwich" lunch with Diann (that's what we called our get-togethers) and I've lost all sense of humor. Trust me, it's been grilled (cheese) and toasted right out of me.

The reason I've been so silent for the past several weeks is that I've been smack dab in the middle of the biggest, nastiest sandwich of a dilemma and too depressed to talk about it. Besides, you didn't come here for all the lovely details. Put it this way, this "sandwich" leaves me with a lot of nausea and heartburn. Rick can't stomach the taste these days and the taste is way to strong to allow the kids to get anywhere close to the table. David (my brother-in-law), well, put it this way - sandwiches made in our family are off his menu and Susie's sandwiches have been burned too many times for her to keep trying. I can't decide if I am just foolish and like the taste of burnt toast or if Susie's taste buds are more sensitive than mine.

Have you ever tried to gently and lovingly show a sandwich that it's lettuce is wilting and that the buns are a bit soggy? What about telling it that the mayo is a bit "off"! Telling a sandwich that the Swiss cheese just has too many holes in it and that the tomatoes are slipping off of the bread is just about the hardest thing I've ever done. Especially because sandwiches DON'T LISTEN!!! FYI-I'll smack the first one of 'ya that leaves me a comment saying sandwiches don't have ears.

You know the show "The Dog Whisperer". Well, I have now become a very blunt sandwich whisperer. I know, blunt and whispering don't go together but you get the picture, right? I am making slow progress with one part of the sandwich (the big cheese - Egyptian Feta to be exact) and he's sadly realizing the whole (wheat) truth. I really hate this, you know. It's really hard watching my sandwich decaying right before my eyes.

Soon, I hope to be able to post that my sandwich is well taken care of in a nearby cafeteria, where the big cheese can be in independent living and the Canadian bacon is safe and sound in long term care. I pray daily for the strength to endure my indigestion. I have a question for my Catholic friends out there. Is there a patron saint of sandwiches?

P.S. After reading this post Rick wants me to add that he's feeling like a 'Po Boy! I feel like hamming it up myself! Ya gotta keep that sense of humor, right.