Half is Half unless it's the wrong half

We had dinner at Vinny's East Coast Pizza tonight.
It's new for Champaign and it promises to be real east coast.
East, maybe.
Coast, sadly no.
Pennsylvania east, at best. Not NJ.
Not even Hunterdon county.


Still, it's the closest we're going to get here where they for some reason think pizza should be as thick as pastry and cut into odd shapes.

I called and asked for an extra large pie.
They told me they don't sell pie. I said "right, sorry, Extra large plain pizza".
"You mean no sauce?" or no cheese?"
"No, no - a regular normal pizza."
Okay. Anything else?
"Do you have cheese sticks?"
"No. We do have mozzarella sticks."


"Yes, an order of mozzarella sticks please," I say rolling my eyes.



This night we choose to eat at Vinnys when arriving to pick up dinner. Hoping in vain that eating it there will make it better. It doesn't but we're out of the house and that counts for something.

Almost done with a whole PIE, Lucio says he wants half of a slice.
I give him a whole one. He says half.
I am distracted by Jack having too much cheese in his mouth. Fearing our son could choke, I focus on the child.
When I look back Lucio has torn the pizza in half - taking the whole end with crust and leaving the triangle of cheese.


I am shocked at what I see.

"That's not half."
"Of course it is."
"That's not how you half a slice of pizza. You cut down the length, leaving an equal amount of crust on each slice. That's the rule."
"Whose rule?"
"EVERYONES!"
"Half is half. Ask anyone"

I go for my phone and call Caye. She worries rightly that settling a domestic dispute is not in her best interest. She wisely says my halfing is correct. I thank her and move on to call Jamie. He doesn't answer so I leave our dilemna on his voicemail.

Two hours later we are saying goodnight to Jack. I hear my phone tink to let me know I have a texd message. It's from Jamie.

It reads.

Lucio is right. He usually is. Half is half.

Doing his smug little dance down the hallway, Lucio calls out "Jack, I love your Uncle Jamie."

Rightly guessing he is not going to get an extra book tonight unless he chooses sides, Jack yells, "It's not half Daddy."

3 books for Jack. No Friday special for Lucio.

Writers Note: Portions of this have actually happened to other people. But these are people who love me. And know that I would never let the frivolous things like "facts" get in the way of a good story.

Fine. So the mozzarella was my story.

The pizza? Caye. Still a great story. She should blog too.

eye key ah

Since moving in June, the PC is in the basement. It's on a cluttered desk also holding the dehumidifyer, an item I've never owned before. I never had a room inclined to moisture that didn't have an exhaust fan in the ceiling and a toilet. In fact, I've mostly lived in buildings that needed moisture added. My room in graduate school was so parched, I would put a bowl of water on the radiator each night and it would evaporate while I slept. If it's not odd enough that we elected to put our most expensive electronic item next to an item that absorbs water, the chair at the desk is surely enough to make anyone take notice. It's one of the small chairs from my 5 year old son's drawing table. In the first weeks of classes, I would go down to the basement to get laundry or bring Lucio some tea and there he'd sit, a 35 year old man with a human development text book propped up on his knees which were 13 inches below the keyboard.

Lucio is never going to move the computer to the larger table I've suggested. It's not his nature to be concerned about this sort of thing and I think he actually uses the discomfort to keep himself awake. But after 4 weeks of classes, it now bothers me. I decide I will go to Ikea and buy him a new rolling chair. I will make his desk more appealing because isn't that what a nice wife should do. I will do this because I sold the old rolling desk chair at the garage sale when me moved in June so maybe this is my fault. I arrive home with the new chair in a box. I ask Lucio to get it out of the car. He asks, "What is this for? We have a rolling desk chair."
"We do?"
"Yes."
"I thought we sold it at the garage sale. Where is it?"
"In the back of the garage. Been there the whole time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"So you're sitting at the little chair on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's ridiculous. You cannot be comfortable like that."
"I am fine."
"But you look ridiculous."
"Who cares how I look?"
"I do."
"I don't."
"Well, that's stupid. Can you get the rolling chair and use that."
"As you wish," he tells me, leaving me feeling way more annoyed than Buttercup anyday.
"

With a forced smile, I say a quick, "Thank you."

He doesn't look back, but I hear, "Happy wife. Happy life."

"Oh. Well, I can return the chair. Maybe we can go to Ikea together? I'd like you to see this ottoman."

Having managed to get his attention, He says the old rolling chair has a tear in the seam and maybe we do need this new chair. I ask him to show me. The tear is small and can be fixed. But now Lucio doesn't want me to make him go to Ikea. I assure him I will not make him go.

Deflated, we put the box back in the car. And there it sits for a week or so. Finally, I have work that will take me near enough to Ikea that I can make it work. I love the idea of Ikea. I am the wife and the idea end of our agreement. I know the execution end of the relationship does not share my love for Ikea. He still laments the day I found the corner computer unit with doors and storage in 2004. He swore he'd never take that thing apart after 17 pages of that little cartoon person mocking him through 57 separate instructions. We bought it at the Ikea in College Park, MD when Jack was born in 2004. We've moved twice since then and I am looking right at it. And now it's been painted. My idea. Much softer and it really works with the furniture now.

So, I get to Ikea, I don't have the time or funds to do anything more than make my return. I march in, pushing my cart with the chair, take number and wait. Number 12. There is one person behind a counter assisting a customer. The red sign above says they are serving Number 11. Lookin good. But there's a woman in front of me with a living room contained in three large boxes. I think she has a door or two, and a large mirror and some sort of ottoman. She is certainly in front of me. But she is not being helped, so I gather she is not Number 11. I remain quiet. Not my fault living room lady cannot follow instructions.
Number 11 is not going quickly. Living room is starting to to rock back and forth. Huffing and breathing rather deliberately. She catchs my eye.
Rolling her eyes, she tells me "This is a nightmare."
I choose silence.
She says it again.
More eye rolling and watch checking. She is now on her tiptoes looking towards the doors.
"I had to practically take my car apart to get this stuff in it and now my car is open. This is a nightmare."
Still I am silent. She left her car open? What does that mean? Who does that on purpose?
More huffing. More puffing.
"I have to get my kids. I have to leave this here. I have to leave. This is a nightmare."

Really? Where the fuck are your kids, lady? In the open car waiting to be stolen along with your GPS?

I silently congratulate myself for not engaging this lunatic and even try on a smoosh of empathy as no one has ever accused me of being overly patient.

Sidebar that proves my point - Julie and I were in Walgreens one time and we SWORE we were being punked because there was this man with coupons at the photo lab counter who had the wrong dental floss for the coupon. And then the wrong toothpaste. And then the wrong size. And the check out lady at the front was in her early 100's and was actually scanning items while sitting in a lawn chair. Really?
I can totally go back there as long as grandma is not working. Or after December when I assume she'll have forgotten completely that I was, um, vocally impatient.

Huffi Puffinster is really pulling out all the stops now.

Just don't make eye contact. All I can think is please leave your paid for stuff here. Please. I can find something to do with the doors and mirror, and I know that's the ottoman I wanted anyway. Hell, I'll leave the doors there for someone else to have. I just want the ottoman.

After about 5 minutes, number 11 is done.
"Number 12," calls the yellow and blue clad Ikea employee.
"That's me," I call, standing up.
Huffi Puffy implodes. "No way! I WAS HERE FIRST! YOU KNOW I WAS! WHAT THE HELL - THIS PLACE IS A NIGHTMARE!"

I smile and nod. "By all means, ma'am. Please go first" I say in my quietest extremely superior elitist voice I usually save only for my mother on the 4th day of her 7 day visits.

She bought the damn stuff on her debit card and had to get reimbursed in cash. That almost killed her. A couple more puffs and she is RUNNING out of the store, literally screaming "EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GET MY CHILDREN."

Like they are outside playing hopscotch with Manson.

"Number 12."

I walk up. I hand Ms. Ikea my receipt and say. "Hello. I'd like to return this item. And I am sorry you had to deal with that woman."

Oh, man, I love my moments of elitism.

Judge all you want - we all do it.

Miss Ikea smiles at me. "Her? She'll be back. She forgot her car keys," she says motioning to the keys on the counter. WHich she promptly picks up and tosses in the cart with all the stuff Huffybitch returned.

Turning on my heel with my receipt, I walk swiftly towards to door.

And there she is - screaming from the back of her Escalade that she cannot find her FUCKING KEYS!!!


I stop to fill out a compliment form about Miss Ikea. I hope she gets a raise.
And I pointed her out to Lucio the following Saturday when we were there to buy the ottoman.

it's all up here...

All day I do it. I cannot help it. I have to do it or I will forget. I have to write myself little notes of things I know I need to think about or say outloud to Lucio, but if I don't remind myself with a note then and there, I will forget later. Occasionally I have too many things in the note and I fear I will forget the priority order. At that time, I call Lucio and do a data dump. I ramble on for a few minutes and he tells me quickly and assuredly that he is both listening and retaining.
Three days later I will get a call about the missed haircut for Jack or the field trip money that was due this morning. Always one thing forgotten.

Tonight I came home with a sizable list of things I need to do - Jack's thank you notes for his birthday party (a terrible exercise but every other party we've been invited to did them. Technically, they did it when delivery meant dropping a note in a cubby at daycare and I need to mail to home, but whatever, I'm a team player.) A few sewing projects and some ironing. And I need to remember to see if I can find two more panels like the silk ones I used to have in the old bedroom and now want to hang in the dining room. And I want to play tennis before it's too dark.

There are some things that have occurred to me over the course of the day that I would like Lucio to do. Schedule appointments with certain people - his advisors at school, both financial aid and academic, the chick at his former office that can roll over his 401K, John to see if he can help install the new mirror, the carpenter guy who is supposed to do something in the attic so the exhaust fan works in the 2nd bathroom. No one could remember all this for someone else and remember all the things they themselves have to do. No one.

After dinner, while changing into a tee shirt, I ask Lucio if he had a notebook somewhere where he writes down all the stuff I ask him about. Maybe next to where he keeps his schedule of what he wants to accomplish each day?

Without looking up from his reclined position on our bed and with his eyes closed (I really want to look for new bedding - something crisper and rich looking...add that to the list), Lucio simply taps his head. It's all up here.

Not 20 minutes later, the phone rings and it's Tina. She cuts Lucio's and Jack's hair. They were due 10 minutes ago.

Running out the door with Jack trailing behind trying to eat his chicken tenders and put on his crocks Lucio tells me I never reminded him of this. And he is sure he because he remembers everything I tell him.

Really? Really.

Walking back into our room, I stand staring at our bed thinking I know there was something I was thinking about...