Pizza, pizza or pizza
So far, the "Cooking" portion of this blog has been sadly lacking. And I'm afraid tonight ain't the night to break it in... unless by "cooking" you mean "ditching plans to make homemade pizza dough and sauce because of super-long day at work, so stopping at grocery store to buy fresh dough and fancy-schmancy organic sauce, then ditching that to pick up the phone and dial for greasy, takeout, red-pepper-and-sausage pizza." Yeah, cooking.
So in lieu of any actual cooking - or any running, for that matter - I provide you with this exchange between the mostly fabulous husband and myself, as I was leaving the house to pickup the aforementioned pie. (Minor rant: Why don't people in New England recognize that "pie" is the same as "pizza," and that "plain" is the same as "cheese"? Have they never been to New Jersey, New York or any of the fine states full of obnoxious people from whence the delicacy of pizza sprung? And how long must I live here before I learn this??)
Me [yelling from driveway, through open window into house]: Hey, is Spruce Avenue still closed?
Him: What?
Me: Is Spruce still closed?
Him: Uh... I don't think so.
Me: Did you come home from work that way?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Really?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Then I guess it's not closed.
A veritable Algonquin round table, we are.
At least we have an excuse: Last night, some most excellent friends of ours had a dinner party to celebrate S.'s birthday - she turned a miniscule (yet mature and lovely and not neurotic at all) 26 yesterday. Methinks we are way too old to have such young'uns for friends... especially when it means celebrating until 11 p.m. on a Tuesday. You'da thunk we spent the night carousing and kicking ass, as D. likes to put it, by the 937 times I hit snooze this morning before slamming the damn thing off.
And all day the brain cells just haven't fired quite right. Almost sent the paper off to the printer today with a MAJOR typo on the cover. Thank g-d for the perky, 24-year-old assistant who caught it. Stupid young people.
D.'s giving up and going to bed. I think I'm about to follow, with plenty of magazines to entertain me in the approximately 45 seconds before I fall asleep.
So in lieu of any actual cooking - or any running, for that matter - I provide you with this exchange between the mostly fabulous husband and myself, as I was leaving the house to pickup the aforementioned pie. (Minor rant: Why don't people in New England recognize that "pie" is the same as "pizza," and that "plain" is the same as "cheese"? Have they never been to New Jersey, New York or any of the fine states full of obnoxious people from whence the delicacy of pizza sprung? And how long must I live here before I learn this??)
Me [yelling from driveway, through open window into house]: Hey, is Spruce Avenue still closed?
Him: What?
Me: Is Spruce still closed?
Him: Uh... I don't think so.
Me: Did you come home from work that way?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Really?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Then I guess it's not closed.
A veritable Algonquin round table, we are.
At least we have an excuse: Last night, some most excellent friends of ours had a dinner party to celebrate S.'s birthday - she turned a miniscule (yet mature and lovely and not neurotic at all) 26 yesterday. Methinks we are way too old to have such young'uns for friends... especially when it means celebrating until 11 p.m. on a Tuesday. You'da thunk we spent the night carousing and kicking ass, as D. likes to put it, by the 937 times I hit snooze this morning before slamming the damn thing off.
And all day the brain cells just haven't fired quite right. Almost sent the paper off to the printer today with a MAJOR typo on the cover. Thank g-d for the perky, 24-year-old assistant who caught it. Stupid young people.
D.'s giving up and going to bed. I think I'm about to follow, with plenty of magazines to entertain me in the approximately 45 seconds before I fall asleep.
posted by mc at 9:58 PM
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