Tag Archives: pizza

What do 3285 days, Jerry Lewis, ground bees and Santa have in common? Nothing. Unless you’re me. (A full-circle essay brought to you by Fresh Air and Sarcasm.)

3 Mar

blog image styx

I didn’t eat pizza for nine years.  Mostly because it was the last thing I ate before getting the rotovirus and the vivid and colorful memory of “rotovirus + pizza” remained in my brain for 3285 days until my brain reversed itself and told me that a slightly charred crust with mushroom and eggplant is wonderful and that they have vaccines for that other thing now.

It’s kind of like how I will not listen to Styx because they also once made me puke and I didn’t even have a stomach bug.  Instead I was trapped in a car where the driver honestly enjoyed listening to a grown man/boy sing “I’m SAIL-ing A-way” with that weird inflection that makes me angry as well as nauseous.  And then there’s the whole use of the word “lad” which, unless you’re Frank McCourt or Flannery O’Connor, you have no business using.  So there’s that.

But what I really would like to discuss here is the reason I will never again work in the garden.  Of course, when I say “work” I don’t mean the kind that transpires in an office (did that and am proud to say that my biggest accomplishment there was dismantling the “Secret Santa.”  By refusing to participate and clearly articulating the reasons why, I was able to single-handedly kibosh an office ritual that had devolved into a high school popularity contest where there was always one person who completely disregarded the established budget and made the rest of the rule-followers look like misers).  Really, in 1999 I got a drug store brush and comb set while the woman who sat one cubicle over got a “Cashmiracle” opera-length scarf and she neither attended “La Traviata” nor saw the face of Jesus appear in the wet cement sidewalks outside her apartment.  So there’s that too.

I mean the kind of work that is often performed at home, outdoors, for free.

See, when the bees attacked, I had been contemplating dinner (see “crust” above) while picking up sticks (see “puke” also above).  I’ll tell you what I wasn’t thinking: “boy there sure are a lot of angry, brown bees coming out of the ground over here where my hand is.”  I was also probably not thinking: “I wonder if Styx will ever play live again and does anyone care?”  (Answer: July 24, 2015 @ SPAC and no, no one does.)

It sure would have been helpful if I had paid more attention to those bees, though.

Because when they went crazy and started stinging everything around, I was still trying to figure out how Dennis DeYoung, et al, ever became popular the first time around.  And then, just for a moment, I thought that maybe the bees had somehow intuited my thinking about Styx and were having a horrible, angry reaction of their own.

Finally, I screamed like a girl (because I can) and ran inside like Jerry Lewis (because that’s how I run).

Which is where I should have been to begin with.

And where you’ll find me this spring too.



17 Apr

blog image trebuchet

It’s not me.

It’s Spouse and Boy (and maybe the cat- they’re all so hairy).

As for me, I can sit at the kitchen table and discuss vomit and “The Exorcist” and all things projectile while eating a 12 cut slice of pizza.  (Side note: “All Things Projectile-” a new NPR show about rockets and drones and trebuchets and such?)

Also what is “12 cut” pizza anyway?  Do pizza makers not realize that if they take an average-sized pizza and roll over it twelve times they’ll end up with ribbons of pizza?  Conversely, if a shop makes a pizza large enough to cut even ten times they’ll end up making about one pizza per store and be out of business within a week.  Why must I fix all things linguistic?  (Take note, NPR.)

I’m talking to you upstate NY.

But not really.

I’m mostly wiping.  Counters and floors and handles and such.  It’s so exhausting; I can hardly find time to shop online for shoes.  (And dresses and scarves and hats and such.)

I was able to get out and buy a lottery ticket yesterday so there’s that.

Because nothing cures a stomach bug faster than 2.6 million dollars.

Except maybe a Twix bar.

Because life’s too short to not enjoy food when it’s moving in both directions.

You’re welcome.

Go On Now Go

26 Nov

blog image baobab 2

I don’t mind waiting at the pizza place.

I call it in, they say “1/2 an hour” which really means that they will commence making the pizza in 1/2 an hour because when I get there 45 minutes later, I wait.  Just not as long.

At least not as long as Cheyenne has been waiting.

I don’t personally know Cheyenne; I know her name (or her favorite state capital) because it was stamped onto the large leather key ring she was holding which was hanging next to her stuffed teddy bear key chain.  You may know Cheyenne as well: she is about 45 years old with the lungs of a 25-year-old (and roots as deep and long as a baobab tree, but I digress.).

I know that her lungs are strong because I could hear her swearing at the pizza maker from across the room.  The pizza maker whose job, BTW, is to make pizza- not manage the counter, nor talk to customers nor answer the phone.  (Why anyone would yell at the pizza maker in a small town is beyond me- it’s the Russian roulette of take out.)

Still, Cheyenne shouted at the pizza maker because her food wasn’t ready.  “If I had known it was going to take this long,” she yelled, “I would have made dinner at home.”  And, you know, it took all the strength I had not to fall apart or offer to drive her home (to a disco beat, if necessary).

Instead, I spent my time perusing the specials board, looking at the Little League team photo and reading the following written on a little plaque outside the dining room:

“It would be our pleasure to seat you.”

Surely you understand my discomfort.

While it would be my pleasure to wait for pizza if I wasn’t waiting along with Cheyenne and it would also be my pleasure to bring that pizza home if I knew that Spouse and Boy were not going to complain about it taking so long, I received no pleasure from knowing that the restaurant has terms for seating that are, essentially, a mystery.

It’s like a crucial part of the sign is missing and I am Nancy Drew.

It would be wrong of me not to use my Sharpie.

So I fixed it.  Without even telling the restaurant staff it was broken.  (That’s just how much of a giver I am.)

The little sign near the dining room now reads: “It would be our pleasure to seat you but, sadly, we have no chairs.”

“PS: Cheyenne wuz here.”

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