I have only missed about five days since I began this blog at the beginning of the summer. Mostly due to my computer being in for repair and then my phone was not charged or my thumbs were feeling fat. But yesterday was to be my 100th blog. And I was stuck in the bathroom.
Now I’m going to avoid going too deep into the details. Which is hard for me. I’ve been making a living for over twenty five years entertaining children, seventy-five percent of them being between the ages of four and seven. They would enjoy my tales of poo. I could do a forty-five minute show on my experiences yesterday and then make balloon animals and they would not miss the magic tricks. But this is, after all, a more sophisticated forum.
There are two important points though. One, I am very lucky to not only be self-employed, but to be able to “take the day off” while I dealt with the constant feeling that “it was time.” I haven’t pulled my pants up and down (and again so glad to be home, more specifically staying with my folks, that I could wear lounge pants and not deal with the whole buttoning, zippering thing) so much since I was an extra playing the role of outhouse guy number two. No, you didn’t have to really go to the bathroom, there was no camera in there. But I wanted to be a method actor at the time. And there were a lot of takes.
The other important point about yesterday is the affirmation that men would never make it through childbirth. I was a wimpy, whiny little baby as I kept trying to push it out. And I’m sure that I was making the stupidest face, like women say men make during orgasm. Not me though. I make a very cool face. I know, I’ve practiced in front of a mirror.
So this was an all day affair. The conclusion did not happen until 4:37PM. The entire day was spent very uncomfortably and non-productively. And it’s all my fault-I must take responsibility. I could try to blame it on my mom for having the food available, but it was me that kept eating cheese, crackers and the little chocolates. I could try to blame it on the fact that I went downtown to meet my friends and had to eat out, but I ordered eggs two days in a row. I just don’t eat dairy or white flour or white sugar very often and then it’s just one little candy, not fourteen. So I have to try to remember, and now I have a physical reminder, what a drag it was and how eating healthy really does make you feel amazing.
But there’s a great line my friend used to use when he talked about drinking and how people would forget the consequences: a woman wouldn’t have a second child if she remembered how much the first one hurt. Our brains are wired that way to protect us. So on this 100th….what….oh, gotta go. My mom wants me to go to the grocery store so we can get the stuff for me to make pizza tonight.
It’s that time of the week; I submit the random water cooler talk out to the Internet since I work alone.
My father is Norwegian, which means he married an Italian woman because he wanted better food! I have grown up eating Italian food and my brother and I were always grateful for lent, because in our house that meant Friday=pizza! I’m sure my mom would tell you that’s because we were picky eaters and didn’t want to eat fish, but as an adult I know that she prefers pizza over fish, especially mine.
I learned how to make pizza as a young man and my folks love my pizza, so I make it for them every time I visit. My retired, gentle, polite parents become 7 years old again, asking from the comfort of the television set if it’s ready yet.
“I only got two hands here! Oh!”
Being from Chicago, everyone asks, and assumes, that I would like Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Funny, they never assume that I’m a gangster, that I vote twice, or do I have scars from being blown about by the Windy City; the other stereotypes Chicagoans have faced.
I don’t really like Chicago-style; it’s too thick and packed and I like being able to walk after I eat. My pizza is somewhere in between-not quite that thick but not quite New York thin. Which is fine, what’s up with that whole folding thing? I can see why because of the size, but I like looking at my pizza when I eat it. I think it’s beautiful, especially when the cheese is golden brown. And there’s nothing more fun than the cheese stretching out from your mouth to the slice in a long string. That don’t happened when it’s folded.
But let’s get to one of my pet peeves and the title of this edition of Amusingz: Pizza should not be eaten with a fork! That’s why the crust is there. You grab it with your hand, the other end is pointy so it goes in your mouth easily. Come on!
Now deep dish is sometimes eaten with a fork due to the weight, that is when a pound of mozzarella (pronounced mootz-a-rella, not matz-arella) cheese and two pounds of sausage (pronounced sausage) top each slice. Then, if you’re a wuss, you’re allowed to slice the first 5/6 off, so that it doesn’t just fall off onto the plate. But once it’s stabilized, grab it and go! That’s the thickest crust of all and therefore the best handle.
So, please, eat your pizza with your hands, and I’m off. I’m hungry.