Fools In Love

April 21, 2009 at 1:38 AM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  Saturday night at Domino’s, Kearbey asked if (or more or less told me that) a friend of his was coming up to the store with his kids to make some pizza.  They want to have the whole pizza experience:  come into the pizza parlor, make the pizzas, cook the pizzas, eat the pizzas, and run out on the bill.
  Whatever.  I said, "As long as we aren’t busy."
  They came in around 9 pm.  The dude is a friend of Kearbey’s and I never quite caught his name.  Jason, maybe?  His two kids were Briana and Blake, and the girlfriend was Lynne.  So, I treated them like I would have a girl scout troop coming into the store for a tour.  First I made many uncomfortable sexual innuendos, then I exposed myself…
  I had them wash their hands, admonishing them to not touch themselves or pick their nose during the pizza-making process.  They made four medium pizzas, which I’m sure was way more than they needed, but they would have leftovers for several days.  I helped the kids with the sauce, and did the dough for the two that wanted hand-tossed, and otherwise just supervised to make sure they did nothing stupid. 
  Of course, Lynne was right pretty, and she was shamelessly flirting with me.  I offered help and suggestions to her and the kids, but the guy–
  I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but he just annoyed me right off the bat.  I know you think I’m shallow, but it wasn’t just because he was a long-haired hippy freak looking dude with a hot girlfriend.
  For the pizza making process he wanted to "do it all" himself."  You know how long I’ve been doing this.  Watching him was like watching a armless retard play a priceless Stradivarius with his knees.  No, I’m not that good–he was THAT bad.  The kids and the chick took helpful suggestions from me, but he whined like a bitch when I tried to get him to choke up on the spoodle so he would have some control, for God’s sake.  "No-no-no-no-no-no—lemme lemme lemme.  Mine."
  He made a thin crust pizza and it was an inch and half thick from all the toppings he put on it.  It’s not going to cook right.  People think they know, and they really don’t
      [Like the assclown I remember from 20 years ago.  Some old black man came in the store, all smiling and proud.  He must have won the lottery.  Or maybe it was the first of the month.  Money was NO object to him.  Sorry about the racial stereotyping, but this is what he said and this is how he said it:  "I wants a LARGE pissa…wif….exxra…EVERTHAN."  No, no you don’t, I said.  Maybe you do want everything, but you don’t want extra everything because it wont cook.  It’ll be cold in the middle and the dough will be raw.]
                  understand how their poor decision making process affects both their life and their pizza.
  And of course we had to run it through the oven about one and half times, and I tried to save it by putting some extra screens under it to keep the bottom from burning while I tried to get the top to cook.
  Of course the whole time I am talking with them, and while they were both very nice, Lynne at least seemed to be able to take a joke whereas Jason wanted to take personally my sarcasm.  He seemed like one of those mellow, non-confrontational pacifists–and you know how much they piss me off. 
  Upon reflection, however, I realized what disgusted me about him.  Now, don’t get me wrong:  I wasn’t not jealous of him because of his hot girlfriend even though I did find out later that she was a gymnast (hmmmmm…..limber….), but it was their whole *thing*.
  It was that fresh romance, new love thing they had going on.  He had the thing where he felt he had to comment about EVERY LITTLE thing in some sort of CLEVER, FUNNY, way in order IMPRESS her with his OPINION and DEEP, THOUGHTFUL insight into the slightest of INANE subjects, like his son who LOVED BACON but didn’t get any bacon on his pizza this time ("But you’re the bacon guy, dude!") or his girlfriend’s half and half pizza and her odd choice of toppings (Look at your own weird shit, duder).   Other stuff, too, that I could no longer tolerate paying attention to.
  I hope I wasn’t like that when I was freshly in love.

  Meanwhile at home, the fresh love that Detroit and I share…hasn’t grown stale.  But I don’t like rye bread.  I ask for white.  I’ll take wheat.  Right now all we have is rye.
  We had a pissy little weekend.  I guess it’s over now, and I forgive her for being difficult to live with.  I forgive her for being difficult with which to live.
  I had some free tickets to a comedy show.  It would have been nice to go–you know, someplace as just a couple instead of taking everyone along like we’re the goddamn Clampetts.  Someone gave me ten tickets that were only good Thursday or Sunday, and Thursday is gone with the wind.  I talked to Kearby, and to my cousin, and we had tentatively lined up kind of a couples evening, subject to scheduling and babysitting.
  Detroit didn’t wanna go.  It’s a Sunday, she has to work the next day, she’s a party-pooper and a homebody.  She doesn’t want to go.  But she will, to make me happy.  Then she proceeds to give me the moody quiet cold shoulder the rest of the day, as proof that she’s willing to make me happy.  It’s going to be a fun night.
  So I call Kearby and Joey, and tell them each that we’re not going to be able to go.  I gave Kearby tickets, he could still go if he wanted to.  Joey was never sure he would have been able to, but would have tried if we were going.
  Now I had the self-righteous pity on my side.  I could logically now return the cold shoulder and silent treatment.  Detroit wants to know when we have to leave.  "We’re not going."
  "We can still make it."
  "You don’t want to go, we’re not going.  I already called people."
  She started again, and I said something like, I already put up with alot over it, so never mind.  And she said, so now she has to put up with it?
  I wanted to say alot of things, like, well yeah, fair is fair.  But most importantly, she got her way and I didn’t.  But I didn’t say anything, and I’ll be over it alot sooner than she would have been.  I get to be the martyr this time.

  I don’t want anyone to think we’re "having trouble."  Detroit, I’m sure, doesn’t like having our personal stuff on the air, but I’m an open kind of guy.  I mean, I can see where I was wrong in this too (a little), so it’s not a hatchet job on her even though it is her fault.
  We still get along, we still love each other.  After a while, we start to annoy each other also.  We’re not in that early stage of love anymore where we annoy other people around us with kissy noises, pet names, and baby talk.  Instead, we annoy each other with sarcastic comments, stubbornness, and silent treatment.
  Our love has evolved.

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