MY FAMILY IS BETTER THAN YOURS
Tales which, unfortunately for me, are completely true.

Part I: The Case of the Disappearing Sandwich

I lived with my family throughout much of college, for financial reasons. The university I attended was an hour from my parent's house, so after a semester of commuting, my whole family packed up and moved closer to school (it only sounds creepy). A few years later I finally moved into my own place, but I still made frequent trips to the folks' whenever I was running low on cash or crippling insecurities.

My brother took a different approach--only leaving for short periods of time, returning eventually with heart broken, hopes dashed, or pocketbook hemorrhaging. Finding his need for independence superseded by the practical allure of free rent, my brother relied on a combination of on-the-fly diplomacy and occasional outright deception to maintain domestic harmony. We called it the "deny and conquer" method, and it saw him through many a tight scrape. Never was there a more perfect example than the following incident.

It begins innocently enough. One evening, my dad takes the dinner leftovers to make his lunch for the next day. His meatloaf sandwich is delicately prepared and wrapped in cellophane so carefully, even Christo would be impressed. He leaves it in the fridge with every expectation that it will be there waiting for him when he gets up in the morning. He sleeps soundly this night, satisfied with a job well done, blissfully dreaming of unwrapping tomorrow's lunch before an audience of jealous coworkers.

Then my brother comes home.

Drunk, or high, or maybe just fucking hungry, he follows the established protocol: open fridge door, stare blankly for a few seconds, check the usual suspects (top shelf, cheese drawer) for new arrivals. Finally he spots the sandwich on the bottom shelf, almost hidden from view (that's odd...). Without hesitation he removes the plastic, and with a lusty and guttural, "Aaaannnghhh!" the sandwich is broken into pieces and swallowed with minimal chewing. Some straight-from-the-jug milk washes down the remnants, and a moment later he stumbles into bed, belly full, completely unaware of the plan he has unraveled.

He wakes a few hours later amid some sort of commotion; his eyes adjust to the light and he slowly realizes my father is standing over him.

"Did you eat the meatloaf sandwich?"

"What?" he thinks to himself. "Meatloaf how? What time is it? Get out...

"No."

This isn't the answer my father expected. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure." And it's back to bed; crisis averted. Except that a few minutes later, my Dad returns.

"Well, if you didn't eat it, and your mother didn't eat it, and I didn't eat it, what could have happened to it?"

Now fully awake, reality is starting to sink in and my brother hastily assesses the situation. He recalls seeing the sandwich. Dammit! He did eat it. It would have been trivial, but now he has lied about it. There's only one thing he can do. Staring calmly into the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, he continues to deny having eaten the alleged sandwich throughout several minutes of heavy and direct interrogation. Finally my father leaves for work, granting my brother a temporary reprieve.

But the jig is up, you're thinking. My Dad has now made it his mission in life to solve this mystery. He knows my brother is the culprit. There isn't any other possible explanation. My brother eating a meatloaf sandwich doesn't exactly top the list of nature's most improbable occurrences. He has to confess now. Doesn't he?

Amateurs.

Eleven a.m., I am resting comfortably in bed when the ringing telephone disturbs my sleep. "Hey, it's Todd. I need a favor..." This is followed by a lot of indignant eye rolling on my part, and some pretty effective bargaining on his. Suffice it to say that if I ever need to dispose of a murder weapon, there's someone I can call, no questions asked.

Ten minutes later I am on the phone with my father. "Hey Dad... What? Yes, I did come over last night--I needed to pick up some video tapes. How did you know?... Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I did eat a meatloaf sandwich."

My father remains skeptical. "But you hate meatloaf."

"Correction: used to hate it, Dad. Used to... Sorry 'bout your lunch, but that was a gooooood sandwich."

And so my father relaxes and explains the whole amusing mix-up. He's relieved to have some explanation other than that my brother is a totally lying liar-face. I laugh at all the right moments, as if I am hearing this all for the first time. And once again, my brother walks away scot-free.

I, however, have been pretending to like meatloaf ever since.

Part II: The Tina Yothers Incident