Frozen Pizza Party!

For those looking for a way to “class up” their usual Digiorno’s experience, Digiorno’s Pizzeria has the solution for you. 

The image on the box looks truly enticing, with a more appealing pie than Digiorno’s typical puffed-up crust monstrosity. You find this “Pizzeria” pizza to be slightly more expensive than your original-flavor Digiorno’s, but the slight increase in price comes with the benefit of a big boost to overall taste. 

Staying in with a frozen pizza sounds pretty good right now.

But instead, here I am at a restaurant ordering a double whiskey as quickly as humanly possible. It’s my first drink of the night, and thankfully, it won’t be the last.

I mean... it makes sense that he would be here; he’s my brother’s father, after all. Still, this situation is...less than ideal for me. 

Everyone at the table is involved in their own conversations, but I’m content staying out of it, sipping on my whiskey and making small talk with the waitress who looks alarmingly like a porn star that people will pretend they don’t know, but they totally do. The most comfortable place for me right now is staying firmly inside my head, but unfortunately, the reality of the situation sets in fairly quickly.

It’s my brother’s bachelor party, and I’m sitting across from the man who used to hit my mom.

Like I said, this situation is less than ideal.

Sitting in silence and barely acknowledging each other’s presence would have been the best-case scenario for this night. This strategy has worked pretty well for the past 15 years or so. That fantasy was shot down roughly one hour into the night when he “wanted to ask me something.”

“Are we...cool?”

Did the man who slugged my mom because she “spent too much on makeup” one time really ask me that?

Luckily he repeated the insane question for me.

White-knuckling my glass, I was at a total loss for words, so I employed my favorite conversational tactic: staying completely silent and letting the other person talk. It’s an incredible trick. You should try it.

He hesitantly continued, “You know, it was a long time ago, and I’m not a perfect man...”

No fucking shit.

“The thing is, when you’re part of a blended family...”

What? No. Stop. Stop talking.

“I just want you to know that you were a great child. A wonderful child...”

Gee, thanks. Means a lot. Asshole.

He kept talking as I looked at my brother for an out from this nightmare, and he shrugged apologetically. I can’t blame him. It’s his dad, and he was too young to really remember anything that had happened. We didn’t really talk about it. 

It’s a beautiful Saturday night, and, technically, I’m sharing a drink with a man that I absolutely despise for completely justifiable reasons. This is deeply upsetting.

At this point, I have a couple of options. The most appealing option was taking my glass and fast-balling it upside his head. Then maybe he could be the one nursing a black eye.

I thought about walking away and bailing on the night. On any other night, this would have been my first choice, but it was my brother’s bachelor party. I was attempting to be a good brother. As much as it was destroying me inside.

The choice I eventually settled on was far less satisfying.

I said “Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok.”

Every part of me wanted to unload the wealth of rage I had been accumulating over the years. I wanted to verbally decimate him. For me. For my mom. For anyone else who gets home from school one day to find their mom with an ice pack on their face because they “ran into a door.”

But this man sitting across from me, rambling on about the past and blended families, was just a man. Weak, fallible, definitely drunk, kind of sad, and desperate for any kind of closure. We hadn’t talked in years, there was really no reason to. I tried not to think too much about anything that had happened, and after a while, successfully went on living my life. This had been consuming him for YEARS. His halfhearted attempt at an apology was probably something he had to roll around in his head for ages. I took some satisfaction from that. 

“So, are we fine?”

No. We’ll never be fine. Nothing about this is fine. 

I look at my brother again, and he’s talking to one of his friends with a smile on his face. He’s wearing a cheap top hat that signifies that he’s the bachelor. The Bacardi and Coke in his hand is nearly finished, and he looks ready to have another. He’s having fun, and we don’t really get to hang out too often. This is a really nice moment for him, and for me too. He’s really been looking forward to this.

So I turn to my brother, and say the only thing that feels right after this nightmare.

“Let’s get drunk.”

The one thing they don’t tell you on the package is that the “party” is only big enough for one. 

Totino’s pizza has one immediate standout: price. While many frozen pizzas range anywhere from $4-$8 per pie, I have never seen Totino’s priced higher than $1.50. Sure, you could find it at a higher price other places, but really, you shouldn’t be buying your frozen pizzas at gas stations, so that’s on you. If you buy your frozen pizza at a Shell station, you deserve to pay an obscene amount for it.

When you remove the pizza from the oven, it doesn’t look like much. In fact, it looks like someone’s idea of what a pizza should look like. There’s something resembling mozzarella cheese, upon which rests a smattering of what you assume are pieces of pepperoni that were haphazardly distributed via a shotgun blast. The sauce is the polar opposite of plentiful, almost looking glued on a flaky, paper-thin crust. A feeling of dread flows through your body: you have made a crucial pizza mistake.

But then you bite into this vague representation of pizza and realize your worries were totally unfounded. It’s delicious. You did well.

I glance at my phone and see “10:30″ staring back at me. I let out a deep sigh. Roughly 18 hours from now, my friend will be a married man. And I can’t think of anything to say. 

I take a sip of my rum-heavy coke out of one of the mugs the owner provided me. I’m sure it was intended solely for coffee use, but he probably doesn’t mind me using it more creatively. 

Are Wisconsin nights always this quiet? I’m staying at a renovated barnhouse “slightly off the main hub of downtown Kenosha”, according to the owner. The only noises I hear are the hum of a generator punctuated by the sounds of crickets. Honestly, it’s a bit unnerving. If I was to get murdered by the Kenosha Killer, I probably wouldn’t be found for a few days. 

I quickly lock the door.

I stare at the notebook on the table begging for me to write some words about friendship, my excitement for this new chapter in his life, anything. I used to LIKE writing wedding cards. I used to be better at this. 

I freshen up my drink, choosing to forgo the “Coke” part of the Rum and Coke combination. I peruse the delivery menus that were left out for me as part of my welcome package, all woefully out of date.

It would be easy to just write “SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!” on a card and just be done with it. But I promised a good wedding card, and now, unfortunately, I have to deliver.

Five cigarettes and two “Rum and Rums” later, all I’ve written is “I’m so happy for you” in barely-legible handwriting. Fuck. 

How do you compress over 10 years of friendship onto one sheet of paper? Is there enough room to fit every inside joke and crazy story? 

I’m four rums in and, creatively, I’ve peaked at “I’m so happy for you.” I crumple up the paper and add it to the pile at my feet. My English professor would be proud.

I don’t know how the wedding is going to turn out. I can’t predict if the marriage is going to last. I don’t know if his story will have a happy ending. I really hope it does, and I think it will. But I can’t put any of this onto a wedding card. 

So I go to bed with the one thing written on the page that I’m confident in:

“I’ve cherished these past 10 years, and wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Love you, man.”

And then I drew a picture of a dick. Old habits.

Anyone who knows me out there in the real world knows two crucial things about me.

One: FUCK Hot Pockets. Obviously.

Two: I LOVE big naturals.

This is probably why I was predisposed to liking Connie’s Naturals Cheese Pizza ($5.99). The sauce is incredibly rich and abundant, a rarity in frozen pizzas I’ve encountered. The crust is dusted with corn meal, something I had never seen attempted before. The only weak part of Connie’s game is the cheese, which is inoffensive, but seems pretty standard and unexceptional.

June brings a lot of fun items to the table: warmer weather, rooftop parties, the option to eat outside at most restaurants. June is representative of a start to the (hopefully) best summer ever. 

It also brings wedding invitations.

I don’t go to a lot of weddings, which isn’t too shocking, considering my friends and family group is small enough to fit into the kitchen of a modest studio apartment.  This summer, however, I’m attending roughly 200% more weddings than usual, which leads to an issue that has surprisingly never come up.

I have a +1.

I have TWO +1′s.

I have never been given a +1 option for any wedding I have ever been invited to, until now. This is marginally depressing, slightly frustrating, but mostly understandable. With a somewhat notable exception, I very rarely date anyone long enough to get to the crucial “wedding date” stage of the relationship. I mostly just kind of date people for a few months at most. That hasn’t always been by design, but it’s just sort of worked out that way. I can’t imagine a couple getting married wants to part with one of their precious seats for someone I met at a bar a few weeks ago and seems “pretty cool so far.” So I get it, even if I don’t like it.

On the other hand, I have been a +1, and a damn good one at that. I’ve made witty small talk with guests, drank a reasonable (but not excessive) amount, and danced like a man possessed by a ghost who was also an awful dancer. There was no pressure. But now that I had the option to bring someone along to a wedding I was going to, I was gripped with the paralyzing burden of choice.

I was talking to one of the soon-to-be-married friends yesterday about his nuptials. When I mentioned I would have to find someone special to take, he encouraged me to just bring what he called “anyone” to the wedding as my date. This nonchalant encouragement flew in the face of the attitude of every other event I had been invited to

I obviously needed clarification.

Me: So I can bring anyone? To your wedding? The one where you marry the woman of your dreams?

Soon-To-Be-Groom: Anyone. Seriously. 

Soon-To-Be-Groom: WAIT. As long as she doesn’t ruin the wedding or wear white or whatever, I don’t care.

Me: No promises.

Me: ...we probably shouldn’t be having this conversation on SnapChat.

Aside from “I love you,” the three syllables of “I don’t care” were the most beautiful three words I had ever heard.

There’s no need to bring a “forever love” to this wedding. I didn’t need to be dating someone for an arbitrary amount of time to earn coveted “+1 privileges”. I was totally overthinking this. 

I twirled the invitation between my fingers as I thought about the people I could bring as dates. A few names came to mind, remarkably intelligent women possessing incredible beauty and wit that would make perfect +1′s. We could have a good time together.

On the other hand, only one person truly stood out from the pack. It had been months since I had talked to them, and our relationship was complicated, even at its best. Money was involved. Feelings had been hurt. I don’t even talk about them to my friends, the feelings still feeling so fresh. 

Still, they had been there for some of the most difficult parts of my life. And some of the best. 

So, very complicated. I didn’t even know if they would pick up the phone, seeing my name on their Caller ID. 

Life is about taking risks. This is no exception. I would be alright if they said no, but I have to hope upon hope that they'll say yes. I deserve to take someone remarkable to this wedding. Luckily, I still have their number.

Fingers crossed.

As a (somewhat) fully functioning human being, I believe I have the capacity for personal growth and change. The possibility of a person being able to truly change is always up for debate, but there it is. The person I was ten years, five years, or even one year ago is not the same person I am today, and I take some pride in that. I have made efforts to be more open to new experiences, and with that, new perspectives. I try to be more empathetic to other people’s thoughts and beliefs, even when they don’t align with my own. You might even be able to change my opinion on something that I thought I had made my mind up on years ago.

I try to never tell someone how to live their life, but I think we, as a society, can always take steps to improve ourselves. Take a second to appreciate someone else’s viewpoint, even if it differs radically from your own. You’ll be better for it. 

There is one opinion I've never wavered on, however. It’s important, and you could not stray me from this. One statement of opinion that I am so sure of, it might as well be written in a journal as scientific fact:

FUCK Hot Pockets.

It bears repeating.

FUCK Hot Pockets. 

Hot Pockets Sandwiches: A Pandora’s Box without hope

As someone who frequently dabbles in the wonderful, nuanced world known as “garbage food”, Hot Pockets sandwiches have always been considered an outlier as literal, irredeemable trash. If you ate Hot Pockets, you were a trash baby. You might as well be eating out of a literal trash can, you trash baby. 

“Here’s a bottle, trash baby. It’s filled with Hot Pockets, not like you would know the difference from all the other, actual trash you eat.” 

I always assumed the creation of a Hot Pocket was akin to taking an old crew sock, filling it with the scrapings left over from other, better pizza products, then covering that monstrosity with the kind of breading pigeons turn their nose at. 

Then the onus falls on you, the consumer, to take that frozen pizza turd that you paid real, actual money for and shove it into a “heating sleeve”, then into the microwave. Set the time for 2 minutes. 

Maybe take some of that time to rethink your purchasing decisions. 

Then voila! Congratulations, you now get the opportunity to completely destroy the roof of your mouth, your taste buds, and I assume your ability to ever love anything ever again, on eating this disgusting imp of a pizza product.

But...I’m 30 now, and life is frankly too short to hold a grudge. Even though I was confident history would absolve me for my views on Hot Pockets sandwiches, I was also willing to give them another chance.

So when I spotted a “new” product from the noted nightmare-weavers at Hot Pockets, I took a second glance, whereas I would normally do the right thing and ignore them.

Hot Pockets “Snack Bites” ($2.99) are clearly aiming to take a “bite” out of Totino’s “Pizza Rolls” product. For some background, Totino’s Pizza Rolls are practically an institution in your frozen pizza aisle, and in my own personal household. They are so delectable, it is impossible to eat just one. Go on, try it. 

You CAN’T. Sure, Totino’s comes out with new flavors on occasion, but they don’t need to innovate. They have no real competition. Any potential competitors always come up woefully short when face to face with this giant. Totino’s PIzza Rolls are The Harlem Globetrotters to competitors’ Washington Generals. Nintendo’s GameBoy to SEGA’s Game Gear. As THE alternative to a more “traditional” frozen pizza, they are unassailable and untouchable.

Until today. Defying all of my preconceived notions and expectations, Hot Pockets Snack Bites have taken a direct warning shot across the bow of the Totino’s ship. 

The bites are considerably bigger than Totino’s offering, and the crust consists of a flaky, almost wanton breading. Unlike its sire, these snack bites do not need to be placed in any kind of barbaric “sleeve” to be ready to eat.

This crust is stuffed with sauce, pepperoni and cheese on par, if not outright better than Totino’s Pizza Rolls. The “recommended” preparation method is in the microwave, but I opted to heat them in the oven, which was a smart move on my part. Though they took considerably longer to make then the average pizza roll, the wait was well worth it. 

Hot Pockets Snake Bites were a revelation, and caused me to reconsider my hard opinions on the Hot Pockets brand, as well as life in general. Maybe I had been...wrong about Hot Pockets sandwiches. Maybe I’d...been wrong about a lot of things.

It was with some trepidation that I purchased Hot Pockets sandwiches from the store, so high off the new taste sensation that were the Hot Pockets Snack Bites. The cashier asked if I had “found everything I had been looking for.”

I looked up at her with what I imagine was the faint glimmer of hope in my eyes.

“I think so.”

NOPE STILL GROSS.

Hot Pockets Snack Bites - 5.0/5, Awarded the perfect “Fathers’ Five” for Crowning Achievement in Frozen Pizza Products

Registering as “thick” on the Crust-O-Meter, Palermo’s Rising Crust 3-Meat Pizza takes a bold step into an already dense deep crust market, and it mostly succeeds. It took a risk, but did it pay off?

I've been trying to do a better job at making myself more emotionally honest in the past year or so. I've never really had a problem speaking my mind on important subjects like TV shows, books, and frozen pizzas. But I tend to be a lot more emotionally reserved when it comes to more minor subjects like my state of mind at any given moment. I’d generally rather crack a joke then open up about my feelings. It’s just easier (and more fun) that way. Now, I’m trying to be a more “well-rounded” person. Put myself out there a little. Which is terrifying when you haven’t really tried it.

It was with that mindset that I went on a date for the first time in (scrolls left for several seconds on calendar app on phone)…a while. 

On most first dates, I would aim to present the "best version" of myself. That's not to say I would lie about any aspect of my life. But I would "temper" some of my personality so as to not be potentially off-putting to anyone that might be crazy enough to find my somewhat attractive. I would conduct myself like I was on a more casual job interview, but with drinks! First dates are weird like that. 

This date was different, though. I made sort of a mental promise to myself not to act like anyone besides the person my friends and family knew. Most people do this already. So I made dumb jokes and unleashed my love of terrible, terrible wordplay. I was open and forthcoming about my family and friends. God help me, I even talked about my love of professional wrestling a bit. 

After the date ended, an unfamiliar feeling washed over me: satisfaction. I had actually had a really good time, and she seemed to as well. I didn't over-analyze anything I had said or did. I left the night with no regrets. Presenting the actual, multifaceted version of myself, warts and all, was refreshing. I have no idea if we'll see each other again, and honestly, it's ok if we don't. I accomplished what I had set out to do. I was totally at ease with being myself in front of, essentially, a stranger.

The crust on Jack’s pizza is functionally no different than the flimsy cardboard it comes packaged with. There’s barely any cheese or sauce, and the pepperoni was sparse at best. Sausage seems to be added as an afterthought. Nothing about this pizza is of a high quality, but despite all this, it works. For $2.50, you sort of know what kind of experience you’re getting. This is not a high-end dining experience. It’s not a frozen pizza you set the table for. This is the trash you eat at two in the morning in a misguided attempt to stave off a potential hangover. This is the kind of pizza with crusts that you have no problem feeding to the dog. 

His name was Jager, and with all due respect to other dogs, Jager was the best dog in the entire world, and all other dogs were garbage.

Jager, Age 4

Jager would sit very patiently while I ate, staring at my food with an intensity that would be alarming if a human being was doing it. When this tactic didn't get results, he would gently lay his head on my knee, and glance up at me while I was chewing. This was a dirty trick, and he knew it. 

I would roll my eyes and discreetly feed him a crust, which he would inhale more than chew. What a dumb, wonderful dog. That motherfucker LOVED pizza.

I never wanted him, which is something that gets brought up a lot on his birthday (April 4th, two days after mine.) Our previous dog had ran away, so I was kind of burnt out on the dog front. My mom insisted that we had to go see this dog, though. He was different. I humored her, if only to get her to stop talking about it. The last thing we needed was another dog.

In one of those memories that remains crystal clear, even after all these years of destroying my mind with alcohol and frozen pizzas, I remember entering a now closed-down pet store and walking down an aisle of dogs in clear cages. The interior was almost blindingly white, and the stench of wet fur nearly crippled me. After nearly tripping over a leash someone had thoughtfully left on the floor, I took a closer look at all the dogs. Various shapes and sizes were clawing at their cages, barking and begging for attention from these new people who had just come into their lives. One dog kept headbutting the cage door in an attempt to, I assume, love us to death. Another dog decided the best way to get our attention was to shit as much possible. Winners, all. 

This was all fine and good, but I still had no desire to get a dog. Then my mom turned my attention to an motionless white ball in my periphery.

While every other puppy in the place was prancing, showboating and shitting, a yellow lab quietly snored away, face smashed up against the corner of the Plexiglass cage. He was sleeping standing up, and could not give two shits about the general situation he was in.

“That’s him.”

So I humored my mother and went in the play area to meet this puppy. I figured I would toss it a ball a few times, maybe it would roll around, and then we could be out of here in time for Jeopardy. Dogs and I seem to understand each other. We’re both just big dumb idiots who want unconditional love, and also like food. This was nothing personal, but this dog thing was not going to happen today.

I got down on my knees while this yellow ball of fur just stared at me. Then he cautiously walked towards me, blinked twice, and put his paws directly on top my head. 

Then he ran and hid in the corner. He kept glancing at me with sad eyes, waiting for me to make the next move.

Sighing, I turned to my mom.

“...we should probably get him before anyone else does.”

We took him home that day, and were shocked that he was so calm. Puppies are generally insane, but Jager was content to just lie around and occasionally eat. 

We shouldn't have been shocked when it turned out he had severe pneumonia. A few days after getting him, we learned that he might not make it past the weekend. 

But he did make it. This dumb dog was resilient. This would not be his first brush with death. 

One Halloween, the front door was left open, and Jager decided to find out what happens when a 70lb yellow lab collides with a 25 mph moving car. Apparently, nothing major. He was fine the next day, aside from a slight limp.

About six years in, he had kidney problems that forced him into a vet for a few days. He was given an doggy IV, which is equal parts adorable and terrifying. But Jager was up and running the next Monday. This dog could not be shut down. 

I had moved out to my own place in Chicago several years ago, but would always ask for updates on Jager. He would get excited whenever I came home, wagging his tail so hard his whole body shook. But he had seemed quieter and more lethargic each subsequent time I had seen him. He was getting old, though. That tends to happen. I figured he would pass on whenever he felt like it. Maybe he was immortal! I mean, he got hit by a car and nearly had his kidneys shut down, and walked away from it without a care in the world. Jager would go out on his own terms.

I got the call around 11:30 on a Saturday night. I wasn't really doing too much of anything at the time, so the phone ringing startled me out of my prone position on the couch. Not too many people called around that time of night. 

In a quiet voice, my mom began tentatively explaining that Jager had been throwing up a lot the past week or so, terrible bile-like stuff, and would barely move. Eating, one of the many passions the dog and I shared, was no longer a priority for him. Everything he did seemed to take an incredible amount of effort on his part. He wasn't really acting like Jager.

When they brought the dog in, the vet had told my parents that Jager had cancer, he had had it for some time, and it was only going to get worse. There were all kinds of medicines they could treat him with, but their effectiveness was arguable. They could keep him for observation for a few days, but there was no guarantee that it was going to yield results. Pet insurance would cover some of the treatments, sure, but not all, you could get a second opinion from a specialist, but those are difficult to get on short notice, then at that point quality of life become a conversation...

My mom kept talking, but I had to stop her.

“He’s gone, isn't he?”

That’s when she started sobbing.

I just knew. It was something we had always joked about. I had even made a joke to her on the phone the week before.

“You know when this dumb dog decides to die because it’s bored with us, you’re all going to be such a wreck.”

“Yeah, probably.”

I talked to my sisters that night, white-knuckling my phone in my hand, desperately trying to hold it together for them. He had been a huge part of their lives, he loved them. 

It was the right choice. He was in a better place. We didn't want him living in pain. These things happen. 

He was a good dog.

I hung up the phone.

He was dead.

He was a good dog.

He was dead.

Jager was dead.

The next few days were a bit of a blur for me. A couple of people noticed that he had died and gave their condolences, which I greatly appreciated. I joylessly went through the motions of going to work, going home, and going to sleep, with a healthy dose of drinking on the side. Other moments were spent looking at pictures of my dog and breaking down in tears, then repeating the process. I went to parties and went out with friends, but was on auto-pilot the whole time. No one suspected anything was wrong, and the last thing I wanted to do was tell anyone about it. My best friend was dead. What was there to talk about?

A couple of weeks later, my mom and sisters showed up at my place, carrying a yellow lab puppy named Jax. It was like seeing a ghost. I resented them for moving on so quickly. This was not Jager. This wouldn't bring Jager back. 

But my family was happy, not consumed with the melancholy that I was dealing with. He’s not a bad dog, really. Sure, he barks too much, and he lacks some of the personality of other dogs. Jax is still a dumb name, but that’s what happens when you let my Dad have naming power over a living being. But he’s a good dog, and they needed him.

I still think about Jager all the time, and sometimes feel guilty when I don’t. He was a good dog. Maybe the best dog. Every time I see a dog getting walked down my street, I think about getting a dog of my own sometimes.

If for no other reason to to eat these crusts.

Every few months, the cycle begins anew. All of the pieces fall into place, the players set in motion by forces beyond their control. The clouds are gathering. A dark wind howls through the night.

There is no use fighting it: we are fated to be here.

Mom: “I can’t wait till you have kids.”

Me: “nah”

We have some version of this conversation a few times a year. The words change, but the feelings do not. She means well, and I don’t fault her for wanting grandchildren from one of her kids. She’ll probably get them. They just won’t be from me.

Kids aren’t for me. That’s not to say I don’t like kids. Hell, I was a kid at one point. But the idea of having a kid is such an unappealing concept to me, and it has been for a long time. 

30 is the exact wrong age to feel this way, though. Friends are pairing off with their significant others, and kids are definitely on the horizon, if they haven’t already arrived.

Just like I’m sure there are many reasons to want kids, there are just as many for me to not want kids. And for me, the biggest reason is this:

I’m kind of a selfish prick.

John Cena: Commitment-phobe, attitude adjuster

Much like current WWE United States Champion/owner-of-a-perfectly-square-head John Cena, I feel like I live a very selfish lifestyle. I really enjoy the more-or-less absolute freedom I have to do, well, pretty much whatever I want on any given day. A night in playing video games? Done. Stay out till 3 am getting hammered on whiskey? No problem. Drop everything and go on a vacation? Absolutely. I can pursue almost any passion I want to do.

Having kids would sort of derail that for me, I think. 

Some people I’ve talked to are convinced that having children will be their legacy. I can understand that sentiment, even if I 100% don’t agree with it. We all want to be remembered for something good, even after we’ve passed. For some, that’s the end goal: married, kids, family.

Palermo’s is a brand concerned with its own familial legacy as well, which might have been the reason they came up with P’mos, the “pub” alternative to their regular pizza offerings. For them, their “Pizzeria” and “Primo-thin” styles weren’t enough. Palermo’s wanted to start a little pizza family.

I’m not sure what qualifies a pizza as being “pub-style”, (maybe the pizza falls on the ground at some point? Then you eat it?) but this pizza was unremarkable in just about every way. The pie gets style points for its totally unnecessary abbreviation of the word “Palermo’s. But it’s unreasonably expensive ($9.99!), and takes forever to create, much like children. 

(Calm down. I’m sure your kids are great.)

I’m 30 now, which should feel momentous, but really feels like just another day. That’s partly by my own design, though. Today is a very special day that’s just like any other day, really.

“And I...IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII don’t wanna say it”-Jon Secada, reluctant birthday party prince

I don’t remember my birthday being a huge event, at any age, but there are moments that stand out. Some have been fairly terrible. On my 13th birthday, I spent the day playing video games in my basement, hoping and praying that I wouldn't have to go back to a school where I was getting horrifically bullied. On the plus side, I got really, really good at Goldeneye. On the minus side, broken ribs, but eh.

The majority of birthday moments have been nice, though. On my 16th birthday, I remember dancing for my dinner at a TGI Friday’s (now Friday’s) because my friends told the waitstaff it was my very special day, and I guess that’s what you had to do to get mediocre cake. My dance moves have sadly not evolved past that age. Neither has Friday’s, to be honest.

I arrived home from school on my 18th birthday to find my sisters dancing to seminal 50 Cent classic “In Da Club.” It is something I relish bringing up to my sisters on every occasion, to their horrified dismay.

As is the tradition, I got absolutely wrecked on store-brand whiskey and cheap beer on my 21st birthday, and promptly forgot the majority of the night. From first-hand accounts of the night, I was probably better off not remembering.

Most of my birthdays since then have been a variation of “have a few drinks too much, sleep til 3pm the next day.” Oh well. Some people get huge presents and surprise parties, I get small, sweet moments and self-inflicted hangovers. They both have their merits.

Reggio’s Pepperoni Pizza is a pizza that has few merits. There’s not nearly enough sauce, and the butter crust tastes like any other crust. It’s packaged in a too-flimsy box, and the pizza itself is only wrapped in plastic, with no cardboard plate. That just reeks of cost-saving corner-cutting, which I cannot in good conscience endorse. I suppose the best thing I can say about it is that it is definitely a “pizza” which one can make with very little effort.

As such, it gets my lowest rating ever:

Doreen’s Mozzarella Cheese Pizza is a “gourmet” pizza that is anything but. For a premium price ($7.99) you get a pizza with a rigid crust, barely passable sauce and adequate cheese. It is a pauper posing as a prince in a kingdom ruled by legitimate GODS. It is the mediocre trying to pass itself off as majestic. A pretender.

(Ed. Note: You could have used a Foo Fighters picture. You chose this instead. Ugh.)

It’s not a very good pizza. 

My 30th birthday is coming up, and I’m actually in good spirits about it. I’ve never understood people who treat their 30th like they’re attending their own funeral. It’s an attitude I see at a lot of bachelor parties too: basically, your life is over. You are now 30. You are now married. You might as well be dead.

I like the fact I’ll be 30. It was around this age that my step-dad (for all practical purposes referred to by “Dad”) started dating my mom.

Not too long ago, when I was back in my hometown for the weekend, my dad and I decided to kill “a few minutes” by stopping in a bar for “one drink.” As tends to be the case, we spent considerably more than a few minutes and one drink at this bar.

I love my dad to death, but we tend to stick to a few conversation topics: work, my sisters, bourbon, our fantasy football prospects. You know, the important shit. Deep conversations are not our forte.

For some reason, that night was different. For two straight hours, my dad and I talked about life. I got to know him as a real person, not just as the occasionally brusque parent I had known for over 15 years.

I got to hear the kind of person he was when he was my age: a somewhat carefree guy who was pretty comfortable and content with the life he was leading until he met the woman who would change his world.

I got to hear about myself when I was 14:

Brandon: “How was it dealing with me when you starting dating Mom?”

Dad: (deep sigh) “You were like any 14 year old: a nightmare. You hated me!”

Brandon: “Oh yeah, I totally hated you.”

Dad: “Don’t worry, you grew out of it. Thank God.”

He dispensed some sound dating advice:

Dad: “Don’t end up marrying someone terrible, because then you AND the whole family has to deal with her.”

Brandon: (head explodes)

As the night went on, I told him I loved him and respected him for everything he’s done, and he got misty-eyed, which was adorable. It felt like a good time to say it.

He paused for a few moments and stared at his beer. Without any prompting, he told me I was one of the funniest people he’d ever known. That I was too talented to not use whatever gifts I had, and that he was proud of me. I was a good brother, and a good son, and that he just wanted me to be happy.

And that I needed a haircut.

It was my turn to get misty-eyed.

I finished my beer and glanced at my watch, eager to look at anything to distract me from the mutual admiration society we were forming. We were supposed to meet my mom and sisters half an hour ago. 

My dad didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy poring over the jukebox trying to figure out how to find Grateful Dead tunes. To anyone else, he probably seemed like a dude who had a few too many beers in his system, and was ready to make some questionable decisions with his money.

I smiled as I texted my mom that we were going to be late. My dad and I had work to do. 

Even if it killed me, I had to get him away from that jukebox.

I ordered us another round.

She was originally from Hawaii, a tall girl with soft brown eyes. Long brown hair framed an expressive and beautiful face. A shy smile was coaxed out of her after a drink and a joke. She playfully tossed an ice cube in my direction.

We had originally met in a warzone.

“War. War never changes. HEY GIRL your hot”-Dispatch from the front lines

A first date that started with small talk over drinks quickly turned into flirtations over a pool table. Our hands grazed as I thoroughly explained the rules of 8-ball, then proceeded to immediately lose at 8-ball. She laughed.

It was a good laugh. Thank God. I’m a complete sucker for a good laugh.

Sometime after dinner, but right before she excused herself to freshen up, she paused, and kissed me on the cheek. “What was that for?” I asked.

“Just because you’re really sweet,” she replied. This came as something of a shock to me.

“And because you bought me dinner.” I laughed. That seemed more reasonable.

We met up about once a week, usually involving food and/or drinks. She took me to a famous sandwich place in Wrigleyville where I had the audacity to order chicken tenders. I showed her my favorite pizza place, armed with the claim that it had the “spiciest pizza I had ever eaten.” (Apparently it wasn't that spicy.)

We played Yahtzee in bed and watched episodes of the Golden Girls after having sex, which is worth mentioning because I think it’s kind of cute and hilarious in retrospect.

She even met a couple of friends of mine early on, something that I am notoriously cautious about when I first start dating someone. They liked her. So did I. We were cute together.

And everything was fine. Good, even. 

That was it, though. It was fine, and comfortable. But after a few months, I came to the realization that I never really missed her when she wasn't around. I never had the urge to call her, even if just to hear her voice. I just wasn't drawn to her. The pull wasn't there.

She pushed for us to spend more time together, but I never felt the same way. I was content to have alone time, or more accurately, time away from her. I liked spending time with her, but never felt the need to.

She was gorgeous, charming, and one of the nicest women I had ever met. There were no games, which was refreshing. In a city full of terrible dates with questionable women, she was this beautiful exception. I can’t speak highly enough of her. She tolerated and even accepted my unique quirks and distinct brand of bullshit. On paper, it was everything I had been looking for. But I didn't love her, I probably never would, and I felt absolutely terrible about this.

I suppose I could have stayed with her, hoping that some kind of spark would magically appear. There’s a whole unexplored timeline where we go on double dates, maybe get married, possibly have kids. There are dinner parties, date nights and play dates. 

I saw myself there, living that life. I could have settled with someone who I cared about, but didn't feel passionately about. I understand that mindset. People do it all the time. Take a look around. You know people like this.

I've never felt terribly about breaking up with someone. Honestly, I’m not usually the one breaking up with someone, but if I do, there’s usually been a good reason for it. She was different, and it absolutely gutted me. She never knew how much it gutted me, but it did. This was heartbreak of a different kind for me. I can only imagine how she felt, but I’ll never know, being that she for lack of a better word disappeared from my life right after that. I don’t blame her. I've done the same thing.

When people asked about her, I was nonchalant about it. “Oh, it just didn't work out. These things happen. I’m fine.” My parents STILL ask me about her, two years after the fact. “You could have stayed with that nice girl who cooked you pot roast instead of going on bad dates.”

Digiornio pizza ($5.00/sale) is like meeting that girl that everyone else thinks is going to change their life. The rising crust looks appetizing, and the sauce is inoffensive. It takes almost no effort to make. It looks great. You SHOULD love it. It’s the exact pizza you've always wanted. Except in the end, it isn't. Not really. It’s a pizza that’s safe. You could probably eat it forever if you really wanted to. Maybe I could have, in a different time in my life.

I moved on, still trying to find that perfect frozen pizza, but I never did. For a while, I stopped trying. But I think I’m more ready now.

I always remember my grandfather as a giant. He was a tall man, and cut an imposing figure whenever he entered a room. Or even when he was sitting in his armchair, calling contestants on Wheel of Fortune "dummies". (This was including Pat Sajak. Especially Pat Sajak.)

"What a dummy. He seems like a real shit. I hate him."-Grandpa

He was from Winnipeg, Canada, and had the thick, frankly comical accent to prove it. His favorite drink was a "VO on the rocks", a Canadian whiskey that had the benefits of being really cheap and really terrible to drink. We lovingly referred to it as "Grandpa's Water."

I don't remember him ever being a particularly warm man, though. Don't get me wrong, I had no doubt that he loved his family. I just don't recall him being particularly forthright about it. The only emotion I remember from his was mild irritation, or anger. He was our lovable grump.

I was just about to leave for college when we got the news that he had cancer, pancreatic cancer at that. At a going-away dinner thrown for me the night before I left, Grandpa seemed to be taking the cancer news in his usual taciturn way. He told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to work hard and get a degree. "College is expensive. Don't futz around," he said. "You have a great opportunity. This is where you start making a future for yourself. It should be a life-changing experience."

I proceeded to not do any of that.

It wasn't a complete waste, but I was really never happy when I went off to college. About half a year in, I was actively hating the experience, and unfairly resenting the people who were having the experience I had hoped for. 

Of course, I didn't think of my grandfather very often during this self-pity party. I would get updates when my parents called, but I don't remember the specifics. He was either "looking better" or "looking tired." Pancreatic cancer is notoriously difficult to treat, and I could tell it was getting more difficult for my mother to come up with different ways to put a spin on "Your Grandpa is, like, super mega sick."

So when I came home for Spring Break, I felt compelled to do what every college student does on their Spring Break: visit their dying grandfather in the hospital.

My dad warned me that it would be hard to see him in the condition he was in. I wasn't concerned, because I was essentially an idiot child who thought he knew better.

I walked into the too-white room to see the complete shell of a man who used to be my grandfather. He looked more machine than man at that point, with all of the tubes and wires connected to every part of his body. He looked like the most uncool cyborg ever created.

I asked for my mother to let me be alone with him for a few minutes, because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. Once she was safely out of the room, I completely broke down into tears, and immediately hated myself for it. My grandfather lay prone in his hospital bed, unable to move. I was cowering in a corner unable to move for entirely different reasons.

Well, he wasn't completely prone. He was awake, but couldn't lift his head, or speak. His eyes were the only mobile part of his body at that point. Minutes that felt like hours later, I was able to pull myself together enough to actually look at my Grandpa, and attempt to talk to him. But what do you say to someone when they're immobile in a bed, dying from a disease that you don't understand?

So I decided to lie to him.

I told him that college was going GREAT. I had made a ton of new friends (the real number was closer to zero). I was doing pretty well in my classes (This is more or less true.) I was writing for the school paper (a few articles for the online edition, including two album reviews which are fairly embarrassing to look at now.) I was even dating a girl that he'd really like (100% false, unfortunately.)

I told Grandpa everything I'd thought he'd want to hear, and everything I'd desperately wanted to believe myself. I didn't want him knowing that the college experience that he worked so hard to give me was seen by me as a total waste. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I told him he was going to get better, and that everything was going to be ok.

I might have tried to crack a joke at some point, but it probably didn't land. My Grandpa wasn't really known for his deep appreciation of goofs.

After my yarn-spinning, my Grandpa remained silent. I somehow got the courage to look into the eyes of a man who used to be the strongest person I knew, now reduced to this broken husk of a human being. The man who taught me how to make scrambled eggs and play cribbage. The man who urged me to work hard, even when it was easier not to. This man, this incredible giant of a man. A complicated man I wish I knew better, before all of this.

Tears were streaming down his face. I held his hand for a few minutes, then left when it looked like he fell asleep. The next time I saw him would be at his funeral.

I couldn't speak at the funeral. How could I? There was no way I was topping the Greatest Lie Ever Told.

There's also no "topping" Freschetta Naturally Rising 4-Cheese Medley Pizza, which currently reigns as the frozen Pizza King. While many would scoff at a pizza with a lack of additional toppings, Freschetta uses its four cheeses to create a perfect harmony of flavor. The crust is incredibly puffy, almost begging to be stuffed with a fifth cheese.

It's hardly the cheapest frozen pizza on the market ($6.99), but sometimes you have to pay for quality. You work hard. It's ok to treat yourself.

I had never seen my grandfather eat a frozen pizza. I can't even remember him having frozen pizza in the house. But I'd like to think that he would have really enjoyed this one.

The Palermo’s Pizzeria packaging boasts a “medium crust” and, just in case that wasn’t evident, also features a “Crust-O-Meter” in the bottom-right-hand corner of the box. To date, I’ve never seen a Palermo’s pizza that charts on the “Thick” end of the scale, and I shudder to think of what that would look like. What terrible dark arts must the Palermo family wield to create such a thick crust?

Crust conundrum aside, it’s a very competent frozen pizza. The pepperoni was distributed fairly evenly, and the sauce was plentiful enough without overpowering the other flavors. It’s the perfect pie for dining alone, or even dining with no other people around.

At a purchase price of roughly $4.00, you get a pizza that exists in some forsaken limbo between thin and thick crust, never quite knowing where it belongs.

Gretchen Weiners, upper crust, has no patience for medium crust

That’s actually a scene in Mean Girls which resonates pretty strongly with me. Cady (played by an at-the-height-of-her-powers Lindsey Lohan) eats her lunch in the bathroom because she has no idea where she’s supposed to sit among the sea of people in the lunchroom. This was a scene I literally lived out a few times during high school.

This isn’t meant to be a “people were mean in high school, woe is me” piece. I think everyone goes through some version of this, and about half of my issues were probably brought on by my own neuroses. I eventually made great friends, the majority of which I’m still close with to this day. I look back on my high school years pretty fondly, all things considered.

But I’ll never forget those isolated few lunch periods where I felt so self conscious, overwhelmed and lonely, the only place I felt like I could eat was in a bathroom stall.

It’s important to note that, in retrospect, this is fucking disgusting.

I can sort of understand the thought process behind choosing the bathroom as a impromptu dining room. You get your own little food nook where no one has eyes on you. There’s easy access to running water. For real audiophiles, the acoustics in there were incredible.

All of this should not distract you from the fact that, perhaps mere seconds ago, exactly where you’re sitting, someone was pushing out the food that you are currently putting into you.

I only ended up having toilet lunch three times in four years, which I suppose is a pretty good ratio as far as eating where you shit. I still can’t in good conscience recommend it.

Palermo’s Pizzeria Pepperoni Pizza-3.0/5

The apartment is cold this time of year.

My hands are trembling, likely one of the many potential side effects of taking anxiety medication. I'm a relative newcomer to the mental health medication game, so I'm not entirely sure if this is normal. On the one hand, taking medication to affect my brain chemistry is an intimidating thought. On the other hand, it gave me the idea for a terrible Destiny's Child parody song called "Pills, Pills, Pills."

                            Independent women, mental health advocates

I tell myself that this is just some test, a small mountain to climb before getting to view a beautiful sunset. I try not to think of the horror stories I've heard about; the wild fluctuations in mood, the wild fluctuations in weight.

I catch a glance at myself in the mirror.

The potential weight gain is a concern. But I soldier on.

I feel cold this time of year.

Unlike my oven, which has soared to the required 425 degrees necessary to make the Gino's East of Chicago's Thin Crust Sausage & Pepperoni pizza ($3.33/sale price).

In a little under 12 minutes, this once frozen husk of pizza potential was fully realized as an attempt at pizza perfection. 

That's not to say it's a flawless pie. The crust has a tendency to warp in the oven unless properly monitored, and the sausage was a bit lacking, both in size and flavor.

In the end, Gino's East of Chicago's Thin Crust Sausage & Pepperoni pizza makes a valiant effort to argue for thin crust pizza in a deep dish city. Honestly, for the price, you could do a lot worse.

To accurately recreate the Gino's East dine-in experience, I scribbled a whole bunch of garbage on my apartment walls with a Sharpie. Will I get my security deposit back? Unlikely, but we all have to make sacrifices for our art.

"Food, in the end, in our own tradition, is something holy. It’s not about nutrients and calories. It’s about sharing. It’s about honesty. It’s about identity."-Louise Fresco

Entering the workforce as a teenager with no skills should be difficult, but in reality, it was super simple. All you needed was a father kind enough to drop a grocery store application on your 16th birthday cake.

"Time to get a job, Brandon!" my father exclaimed. This was a big moment for him. It’s not everyday a father can gently shove their son into the welcoming arms of minimum wage grocery retail. There were tears in his eyes. His son was going to be a bagger.

Tears slowly welled in my eyes.

The cake was chocolate, delicious, and perfect, until Papa Butterfingers spilled application all over it.

I worked at that grocery store for five years.

I never quite forgave him.

Culinary Circle’s “Rising Crust Five Cheese Pizza” has a tomato sauce base and is “topped with mozzarella, provolone, fontina, Gouda and Parmesan cheeses.” Cooking the pizza proved to be simple with Culinary Circle’s easy-to-remove packaging. 

I found the cheeses to be blended evenly, and the sauce surprisingly robust. The crust was a little lacking in flavor, but that’s to be expected of a store-brand pizza offered to customers at $3.99 (sale price). The pizza itself is large enough to feed at least two people, or one extremely dedicated-to-his-craft writer.

I purchased the pizza at the very same grocery store chain that I had worked at all those years ago. Even with all that had happened in those five formative years, and after moving from my home in the suburbs to the hustle and bustle of Chicago, I felt myself continually drawn to this place. There had been some good times, after all. It wasn’t a total nightmare factory. The store and I simply could not escape each other. Perhaps we didn’t want to.

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw someone who looked remarkably like the girl I had a crush on at the store, picking out her own frozen delight. She had worked at the service desk while I toiled away as a cashier. We would flirt as much as two people working at a grocery store could, which is to say, a lot. I had made her laugh, and she had a pretty bangin’ body, but alas, the timing was never right for us. I thought about her often.

Could she really be here, at my store, in this aisle, after all this time? I felt her staring at me as I held Culinary Circle’s “Rising Crust Five Cheese Pizza” in my hand. Was she staring at me because she recognized a face from her past? Or was she staring because I had been in that freezer door going on four straight minutes without moving?

Was this…fate?

I mustered all of my courage and turned to meet her gaze.