The Time I was Lunch Lady for a Week

5 06 2009

lunch lady

(Picture from

I just read over on my friend Berta’s blog (I still call her “Sister Boice”) that her husband is no longer going to be the assistant principal at my alma mater.

In my comment, I said, “How can it even be MHS without Mr. Boice?” To illustrate this point (and in his honor), I’m going to relate the one time (I’m pretty sure it was only once) I got called into his office.

I was (and I think I am not exaggerating when I say this) a stellar student. I did, however, occasionally park in the teachers’ (cough, cough) parking spaces. You see, back then I didn’t have nearly as much respect for those fine people who choose to educate the populace as I do now. Back then, I simply thought, “Whatever. They’ve got legs, too. Let them walk.”

I need not point out to you, dear reader, that even though I was a stellar student, I was still a teenager. And, as such, sometimes engaged in some of those disrespectful attitudes that become prevalent when the hormones are high and the gray matter gets (momentarily) overpowered.

There are a few reasons why the choice to park in the teachers’ parking spaces was unwise:

  1. They were for the grossly underpaid teachers. The least we can do is give them a closer parking space, right? How’s that for a job perk!
  2. Mr. Boice was in my ward, and he also happened to like Volkswagens. I drove a Volkswagen (after my three older brothers). Thus, he knew my car on sight. There was no mystique like a, say, red Ford Escort would have provided. There were at least 12 people with red Ford Escorts at my high school. Did I really think he wouldn’t know who the white GTI belonged to? Duh. (Picture from
  3. I didn’t have my kids back then to blame my lateness on. Why on earth was I late for school?

After multiple infractions, I got called in. How embarrassing. Like I said, he was in my ward. His wife was my Laurel advisor, and he had beaten me quite soundly at badminton during the last ward picnic.

The conversation went something like this:

“Wendy, I need you to take care of these parking tickets.”

“But I don’t have the money!” (All, I don’t know, $25 of it. And I also had a job, but apparently didn’t want to spend my own money on something as trivial as parking tickets.)

“Talk to your parents.”

[With large, startled eyes.] “Um, no. That’s not a good idea.” (Seriously, though–like they would have blinked an eye after all the stuff Sam pulled.)

“We’ve got to get these taken care of.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” [Thinking, frantically thinking.] “I’ve seen some people serving lunch. Can I do that?”

Mr. Boice looked at me for about three seconds. Three l-o-n-g seconds. “Are you sure?”

At that point, I was ready to sell my soul for my parents to remain blissfully ignorant of my parking tickets. “Yes.” I said. “Yes, it will be fun.”

So I got to serve lunch (with a smile!) for a week. It actually wasn’t all that bad. No where near the horror fessing up about those tickets would have been. [Insert Adam Sandler’s Sloppy Joe song right here. “Navybeansnavybeansnavybeans!”]

Mr. Boice, I don’t know what’s going on in that school district over there since I’m no longer in the same state, but I want you to know you were a great principal. As your wife said, “You leave large shoes to fill.”