What's Cookin' Wednesday: Pizza Therapy

You will not get a recipe today because, lets face it, me trying to make homemade pizza has fiasco written all over it. Nope, today I went for the cop out. Take out Pizza from Dominoes.

My ode to Dominoes began two months ago when they set up shop next to the liquor store 2 miles down the road. We live on the outer edge of town which means that any decent, heck ANY, pizza joint is too far for delivery and too much of a pain to drive to. I am sure some overworked and exhausted mom bulldozed her way into a zoning meeting to fight for a Dominoes at my end of town and secretly I am singing her praises. Every mom needs pizza. It's like therapy for all those hours of complaints about our dismal cooking and rants about the evils of broccoli.

Today is a pizza therapy day. I sit back and talk to my pizza as it disappears down my gullet because it's just one of those things that happens when you have a hot slice in your hands. Admit it, you've chatted it up with your food before. It's nothing to be ashamed of. My pizza got an ear full today

We have snakes in our yard. Some obliging rattler gave birth to a den of wriggling ick and little 6 inch babies have been curling up on my door step. This morning I heard the mini rattler, but didn't see it until after it became a silent pile of mush under my running shoes. It distracted me only for a moment because I became instantly aware that three massive fiddle back spiders were making a mad dash from the porch step to the front entrance way. I was stomping like a maniac to which the dog stared passively in consternation (I'm sure she will bark a "you will not believe what my owner did today" to the neighbor russell terrier and they'll have a good laugh about it). Upon returning from my run, I was fumbling with the dead bolt when a black widow came out for a morning stretch around the door bell. Nothing says, "ding dong my door bell, punk, and just watch what I'll do to you" like a widow!

I called pest control. They came, they sprayed, then re-sprayed, soaking my house both inside and out. They used my water main to mix their chemicals, but they used the wrong faucet. Cue the growing lake in my laundry room. The main broke. Time to call a plumber!

Plumber came two hours later to tell me about the crack in the faucet I had suspected and how difficult it will be to get to it and all that whine whine whine and blah blah blah. When two grown men give me a sob story about how difficult their job will be I don't feel too sympathetic. To me it sounds like a build up to a massive bill.

Hail! $700 plumber job. My jaw hits the soggy floor and he writes down all he will and wont do on a grubby receipt. He will fix it, but he wont cover the hole he'll put in the wall or fix the sheet rock he'd remove. Do I approve? Sign here?

Hell NO! My voice informs my ears that I spoke what was in my head. Are you out of your freaking mind? Do I look like I have a spare $700 laying around?

The plumber shoved his pen and clipboard at me and I found myself signing. What the...? I found my senses the moment I hear hammering on the mortar and my irritated hubby on the phone telling me to stop the job before they go any further.

Plumber gone. Headache turning into a migraine. Dog barking. My feet are soaked and the house smells like a mixture of musty wetness and bug off chemicals.

Hello? Dominoes? I need to order some therapy....to go.