Thursday was trash day. My sisters and I were responsible for gathering all the trash in the house, consolidating it into big, black bags, driving it a quarter mile to the top of our gravel road and dropping it off by the highway, where the garbage collectors would pick it up. We had to complete this task before 7 so we could then walk that same quarter-mile stretch and wait for the school bus.
One Wednesday evening, we decided to go ahead and do the trash early so we wouldn’t be as rushed the following morning.
We were enjoying a leisurely breakfast when one of the neighbors called our mother.
“Sarah,” she squawked, “are your girls menstruating?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Well, today it is everyone’s business! Someone’s dogs have gotten into the trash at the top of the road and there are feminine hygiene products everywhere. It is unsightly!”
“Oh, gee. I’ll let them know.”
And so we spent the morning picking up picking up limp shreds of cotton. We were still at it when the bus arrived, and still at it when the bus left.
Three teenage girls. Three synchronized cycles.
It was a big chore.
Tampons are foie gras to dogs.