#frozenpizzaparty

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 I peruse the delivery menus that were left out for me as part of my welcome package, all woefully out of date.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

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.

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:

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.