The Great Pizza Caper

If meals are served in Heaven, I’m quite sure it’s pizza.

Recently, my friends Paul and Frank had a group of people over for an impromptu pizza party. They are the premier party hosts in the Detroit gay social world. If you are invited to one of their parties, you do everything you can to attend. I’m not sure if it’s their talent for putting together the best guest list, or the party games mixed with wine, but everyone at their parties immediately turn into alcohol induced five-year olds on their first day of kindergarten.

This particular party was on a Thursday night and was very casual. We work late on Thursday’s so we arrived at the same time as the pizza delivery man-perfect timing!

There were about 20 people, so they had ordered six large pizzas with various toppings; Pepperoni, Pepperoni and Onion, Sausage, Cheese, Vegetarian (which hardly anyone touched) and Chicken, Onion with Barbecue Sauce.

Anthony and I had been dieting that week, so not only was I starving; I was craving pizza. When Frank put the boxes and salad on the kitchen counter, I played the “wait twenty seconds to see who is going to go first” game before I ran to the counter to dig in. It’s always good to be the first person in line at a pizza party; you have full choices before all the good ones are gone.

I grabbed my plate and made my way along the buffet line. First, I piled on some salad (just to make it look like I care about healthy choices), and then I made my decision-Chicken Barbecue. My friend Bill was right behind me and was eyeing the same pizza. Since I was first in line, none of the pieces were taken yet, so not only did I have my choice of pizza; I had my choice of slices too. My mouth was watering and I was so excited to finally eat something decadent. I took my fork and gently lifted up the perfect slice, when something mortifying happened; as I was transferring my piece of pizza to my plate, it was somehow connected to the toppings on half of the pizza and they all slid off and onto my plate. I now had one tiny piece of pizza bread and an entire mountain of barbecue chicken and onions (plus my salad) covering my plate. Bill gasped as he saw what happened. “You have to put some of that back", he said in quiet but definite voice. “I know”, I replied, “but how?” “I don’t know, just figure it out, you can’t take all those toppings”, he continued. And he was right, I had to do something fast, because there was now a line of people behind us waiting to get to the pizzas.

I was desperate, so without thinking it through, I picked up the toppings and began to quickly reassemble the mutilated pie. “Don’t use your hands”, Bill said as I was trying to spread the glob of mozzarella cheese and chicken along the top. “Well, I don’t have any other choices” I whispered back, “it’s not like I’m frosting a cake”. After I did my best to hide my mishap, I knew one piece wouldn’t be enough, so I decided to take another piece from the other side of the box. This was a HUGE  mistake; this one was connected to every single topping on the entire pizza. By the time I was done, I had a plate overflowing with gross looking chicken and cheese and the rest of the pizza was left in a pathetic looking state, void of everything except a splatter of pale red sauce.

.

By now, the mob of angry people wanted to get their hands on the rest of the pizzas and I was holding up traffic so I panicked. All I could think of to do was close the lid and hope no one saw what happened and make Bill promise not to say anything.

I almost got away with it too; until Paul made his way into the dining room, holding up a bald slice of pizza announcing, “Look what someone did! They took all the toppings from my favorite pizza”.  And with that, other guests started chiming in about the mysterious pizza thief. I knew I was in trouble; I looked around the table and everyone had empty slices of pizza on their plates while mine was piled up to the ceiling.

I had no choice but to blame Bill. “It was me”, I announced, “but Bill encouraged it; he saw what I did and he didn’t stop me from taking it!” I could tell they weren’t buying it, so I decided to try and blame Paul “I knew you wouldn’t like it if I manhandled all the food, that would be gross, so I had no choice”. This didn’t go over very well either. “Fine”, I said in another desperate attempt of pointing blame, “it was the pizza guys fault. He probably drove so fast that all the toppings got all mixed up and made he made it impossible to take a normal piece”.

None of these excuses worked and my friends love me anyway, but I’m sure I won’t be invited over for pizza anytime soon.

Doctor Jeff Saves the Day

Last week, Anthony had hernia surgery. Before I begin, I have to commend the staff at Henry Ford Hospital in Downtown Detroit. The whole experience couldn’t have been better. Not only did his surgery and recovery go well, but everyone, from the Doctor cutting him open to the person parking our car was very professional and more importantly, friendly.

His surgery was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning, but we had to be there at 5:30. Knowing that it wasn’t all about me, I only commented twice about the early appointment and only once about it being the coldest day of the year (-24 degrees according to my car’s thermometer).

Other than that, it was Anthony’s day.

As he was called into Pre-Op, he was allowed to bring in one family member so he had no choice but to let me in.

The whole thing was sort of surreal. They brought us into a tiny cubicle with nothing but a thin curtain with a terrible plaid pattern separating us from the other inmates. And you could hear every word they were saying. I think the man next to us was having some sort of brain surgery and the lady across from us was having some kind of metal plate inserted in her stomach. But for whatever reason, both of them seemed to be getting much more attention than we were and we were starting to feel neglected.

The man getting the brain surgery was asked so many questions, you’d think he was a candidate for the Nobel Prize and “Stomach” woman was extremely needy. “Seriously, how many doctors does she need, ” I whispered to Anthony as the fifth person asked her about her allergies. “I think she’s making it up, how can one person have so many things wrong with them”, I continued. It also didn’t help that the doctors were leading her on. “You don’t have any sensitivity to penicillin, doooo you?” one of the attending physicians ask the hypochondriac, in which, she of course replied “why yes doctor, I think I might” then “You aren’t feeling any pain in your lung area are you?” “Oh, only when I breathe, Doctor” We hadn’t even been seen by a nurse yet, and Little “Miss Over-Reactor” was holding court with every doctor in southeast Michigan. 

This went on for some time and we were both starting to get a little jealous, until our Anesthesiologist came in to introduce herself. I think of all the people you don’t want to make angry, it’s your Anesthesiologist. They literally are in charge of putting you into La-La Land and making sure you don’t wake up at the precise moment when the Doctor begins slicing and dicing.

 She seemed like a friendly person, so I started off with a little humor by asking her if she knew Michael Jackson’s guy and if she did house calls. It worked because she laughed. At least I think she thought I was funny, it’s either that, or she was evilly contemplating putting Anthony out of his misery so he wouldn’t have to live with me. But my guess is she liked me.

Following her entrance, many people suddenly surrounded us. One was taking Anthony’s temperature, another was checking his blood pressure, another was sticking in his I.V and a fourth (I think the head nurse) was asking him all about his medical history. I looked over at little “Miss Plate in Her Stomach” and she didn’t look very happy. For the first time in an hour, she didn’t have even one person giving her attention and we had tons. “Ha! Not so fun now, is it?” 

Anyway, finally it was my turn. The head nurse asked me if I was the person who’d be waiting during the procedure. “Yes”, I said. Then she asked me for my number and assured me that they’d call me as soon as he was in recovery. I asked how long the whole thing would take, where I should wait, etc. It was all going very smoothly until she told me how nice it was that I accompanied my DAD to his surgery.

“Oh yes she did. DAD!”

Anthony was too busy being poked to hear her, but I did.

 I had to think quickly and try to correct her without Anthony knowing and without her feeling embarrassed. He was just moments away from literally being turned inside-out, so the last thing I wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable, but I also thought it was important for her to know that I was his spouse. I had to come up with something fast, that was both witty and understanding. I don’t know how or why I said it, but somehow the words, “I think it’s illegal to marry your Dad in Michigan” came out. I then put my fingers to my mouth like saying “Shhhhh, he didn’t hear you, so let’s keep this our little secret” (wink-wink).

Long story-short, Anthony is still alive and doing well and he hasn’t a clue that it’s all due to my quick wit and charm.

Isn't that Special?

Today, as I was headed to my Botox appointment, a nice woman with two kids was walking into the building at the same time as me. For those of you that don’t get Botox, when you’re due for it, your wrinkles appear deeper than you like and you just feel old.

Anyway, she had the nicest little boy; not only did he hold the door for his mom, who was carrying his younger brother in her arms (at least I think it was his brother), he came back and held it open for me. Mind you this sweet little boy was only four or five. Then as we all entered the elevator, he asked me what floor I was going to and pushed the button for me. I remarked to the lady how polite her son was, and then I asked her is she ever seen the movie “Elf”. I told her that his pushing the button for me reminded me of the scene where Elf pushed all the buttons on the elevator for the man riding with him making it stop on every floor.

Then she looked at me funny and asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Dana Carvey?” I said “NO” and then her sweet little boy turned into a demon and started jumping up and down chanting “CHURCH LADY! CHURCH LADY! CHURCH LADY!”

When the elevator door opened on the fourth floor, I ran to the office and demanded extra injections.