Dating your Dinner

I was gone Saturday night. A friend stayed at my house, ostensibly with the dog, but since she's 22, I am guessing that her idea of pet care is much like any 22 year old's idea of pet care. Basically, that means that as long as the animal is obviously alive and gets food and water at some point in the weekend, nobody will have to know that the animal got no exercise, got yelled at a lot and had plenty of "me time" while the 22 year old went out and did what people that age do.
Namely, take 3 hours to get ready, wear the tiniest mini-skirt, the tallest shoes, the biggest hair, the most make-up, and go out to a bar where they are the undisputed center of attention, despite the fact that they look really, super-slutty.
Sometimes I miss being 22.

So When I get home on Sunday, 22 was in my shower but things were picked up pretty decently. I didn't get a chance to live a Saturday night vicariously through 22 before she took off to her waitressing job in my favorite tee-shirt.
Sigh again.
22. Please don't spill on that tee-shirt. Hopefully, my tee-shirt will pick up some youthful vitality and bring that home for me upon its return.

Before she left, 22 did let me know that while she was out on Saturday night, Rosie got into the treat bucket.
I strangely didn't really care since I had been driving, and what I thought to be a wicked hangover on Saturday, turned into a version of the Super Death Flu that is trying to kill us all on Sunday. On By the time I got home, my fever was so raging that I later started crying when I dropped my tv remote on the floor and had to lean over to pick it up.
"Did she eat all of them?"
She left four.
Needless to say, I had to deal with dog shit ALL DAY on Sunday.
That didn't do me any favors mentally or quite frankly, physically.

Luckily, I was fueled up with more food than the sum total of what I'd eaten for the last five days. Saturday night, I had a dirty, illicit encounter with a pizza. What can I say? That pizza was hot and I needed to break me off a piece.

Now, I don't generally eat very much... it's the best way that I have found to control my weight and to stay healthy.
Sometimes, I really feel like eating a lot, though. It's like I allow myself one adventure through the Good Old Days of fattitude. On Saturday night, I needed to journey. I was starving.
Admittedly, I had been out the night before, and I do mean OUT. I met some friends, there were many beers, and I believe somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 am, I fell asleep cuddling the two rolled tacos and side of guacamole that I needed to make my life complete.
I don't think I need to point out that Saturday was a pretty quiet day for me. I had a hunch that I was coming down with the Super Death Flu which is working its way through my office with maniacal precision. You know… rather than admitting that I might have been suffering from the world’s most well-earned hangover. I opted out of about 18 activities that the Viking had lined up and to be fair, he reconsidered on 17 of those and only did the one that involved his family and, mostly for the Christmas presents.
Finally, the cursed sun went down and we could be guiltless in our singular quest to colletively become one with the couch and grow marsupial pouches where remotes could be stored.

So I’m on the couch, hazing in and out of full consciousness, convinced that a La Boheme-style death would be imminent if I had to sit up fully or move a leg AND an arm at the same time. I allowed my rheumy eyes to loll over toward the Viking.
“I’m so hungry,” I whishpered through my dry and cracking lips.
What do you want to eat?
“If there was some way that I could drink Chinese food, that would be my first choice but…. maybe…. Ummmm…. “
If you say burritos, I would like to point out that rather than eat your 4 am Mexican fiesta, you fell asleep spooning your half.
“I was protecting it, thankyouverymuch.
Let’s order pizza. That way, I don’t have to take off the sweats and nobody needs to be subjected to your alcohol sweaty-smell”
I’ll let that slide, Princess, but watch it.
“Pepperoni sounds sooooo good,” I cooed.
Fast forward to the arrival of the blessed pie. And, before I detail what happened next, I DO want to take a minute to note a couple of things. These notes are not excuses but they are things that you need to consider before judging me for what I’m about to tell you.
First of all, I FELL ASLEEP with my Mexican food breakfast. I didn’t eat it.
Second of all, the Viking is a Large Male. He may be just my type but those things eat A LOT. If you don't often eat a lot yourself, they forget that once in awhile, you need to eat a whole pizza. If there is food in the area and you better be prepared to fight for it or you will be left picking at the crumbs that fell out while he was chewing. He's not expecting you to eat so much, so you better suit up in your Food Armour before you open that pizza box, mmm'kay?
Finally, I never order pizza. I never sit on a couch in my pjs with a dude who still thinks I’m cute after he wakes up to me cuddled up next to him, a burrito in one hand and a fist full of nachos in the other.

ding dong
He set down the pizza, totally unsuspecting of the table-turning that was about to go down in his living room. I took a slice and during the time that it took me to eat that one piece, he was almost finished with two. I was pretty nervous about losing out on my share of the pizza, so I moved the box to the couch between us – the closer the better right? I mean, seriously. If I am going to FALL ASLEEP with my food cradled in my arms, you can damn well count on me keeping it just as close while I am awake and eating it.
He kept on going, mindlessly focused on a football game and digging deeper and deeper into the heart of what I considered “Mine.” I think by the time he reached for his fourth slice, I must have panicked.
I drew the box onto my lap, with the opening facing me.
And then I started eating it from behind the safety of the box top. I figured that if he can't see the food, he won't want to eat it. When I finally looked up after my own four pieces, mostly because I needed some precious oxygen, the Viking was staring at me with a look that can only be described as sheer wonderment.
How’s your pizza?
Did you take a bite out of every single one of those pieces?
“Shuddah thot-a-at”
You know, I would’ve let you have them.
“Too late,” I said, swallowing, finally able to get a second without a mouthful of sweet, sweet pizza.
This went on until there were two, happy little slices left. One had a little bigger crust and the other had more cheese and I was finally filling up.
But not quite full.

How do you choose when there are two left and you love them both? I’d kind of become enchanted by the pizza. We’d spent little time alone together; I knew it was listening when I whispered to it; I just… I felt a CONNECTION and that’s so important.
And we were about to say goodbye but which of those little slices was going to be the memory of what me and that pizza shared on the couch last Saturday?
I love crust; I totally do but – god – CHEESE. I could eat the crust end of the one and the body of the other but…
No. The Viking would kill me if I did that.
Does the one with the crust have more parmesan? It looks like it might and that’s definitely a factor. I love parm on pizza, I really really do. Huh. It looks greasier, though.
I don’t want greasier.

I glanced up after a good 30 minutes of debating and immediately, I felt the Viking’s eyes on me.
Then I heard the laughing.

I realized that I would have to admit that for at least the last 45 minutes, I had been totally cheating with a pizza. I have never considered for any other food item. I fell for that pizza, I fell hard, and it owned me like a helpless adolescent boy, gazing for the first time at a girl who would actually let him get to second base. I was going to have to do something to break the general discomfort of having to fake it and look at the Viking the way looking at this pizza was working out so naturally for me.
I sighed inside and told myself that it had to end sooner or later and then I turned the box so that it opened toward the Viking and presented to him the last two slices.

Oh really?
“Yeah. I think I’m done,”
Which one do you want?
“They’re both yours, honey. I am breaking up with the pizza right now.”
Breaking up?
“Never mind.”

arizonasarah at 2:02 p.m.

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