On Compromise or Sacrifice

Well, we had a treat this evening. Pizza from the local party store. If you're wondering what a party store is (because I sure as heck did when we moved to glorious Michigan) then I'll explain. In New England we would have called it "the packy" or the package store, because it's where you can buy beer and what they refer to in the Northwest as "hard pop" aka booze. A party store is basically a liquor store but they also have lots of other crap. For example, this one that has the best pizza in town also has sandwiches, salads and burritos in a behind-the-counter kitchen right next to the massive coolers full of soda, beer and wine. Pizza and beer might make this a perfect store but it gets even better than that. At this particular party store you can buy hunting and fishing licenses, bait (including some weird fish egg dye), gloves, redneck ball caps, all-in-one camouflage make-up kits and Jones soda. Well, there's a ton of stuff there that I want to take pictures of (for proof, you know).

So, after all that blathering on about the damn party store, let me get to the point. We ordered pizza to pick up (they don't actually offer delivery, so this statement is moot, but it has a certain balance that I prefer). I prefer a pizza loaded with vegetables, including mushrooms. My husband wants the meat lovers and thinks that he is accommodating me by substituting ham, pepperoni or bacon for the sausage because he knows that I think that the sausage looks like dog food (and not the good kind either). Guess the whole "I like vegetables on my pizza" has gone unheard or dismissed over the past 15 years or so, because bacon is not a substitute for onions and ham is not a substitute for mushrooms and pepperoni is not a substitute for peppers (even if it does share six letters). So, I suggest that the boys get themselves a meat lovers and that I get a small veggie (I typically don't eat that many slices anyway). I think this is fair but what happens is this, we get a "veggie" pizza in which the mushrooms are replaced with ham and then a small pepperoni pizza for the boy (who doesn't like green peppers or onions). Really?

I shouldn't be surprised because I only like two kinds of doughnuts: glazed raised and chocolate glazed cake. That's it. That's all. If I have to eat one, it will be one of those. Not a Long John, not a Bear Claw, not a chocolate frosted, nor any of the other 50 million of fatty varieties out there. "I do not like it, Sam I Am." Very occasionally over the past 15 years, or so, my wonderful husband has allowed me to sleep in on a Sunday and picked up doughnuts. Guess how many times he has managed to pick up one that I like. None. Not ever. I'm serious.

So, I get torn between appreciating the gracious act and being radically pissed that this man, whom I love to bits, will not concede these small things to me. Before you think that I think that he is a total cad, I'll tell you, he has done plenty of totally thoughtful, unexpected and wonderful things for me (and does them quite often-seriously, he did get me this '65 Mustang when I returned from my first deployment and after this most recent deployment, it was fully restored). Of course, this only adds to my frustration at being irritated with his inability to get me my favorite doughnut or just letting me get a pizza with only vegetables on it (including mushrooms).

At the end of the day though, ham on my pizza is a small sacrifice that I'll willingly make with the knowledge that we can always make our own pizzas at home and everyone can have exactly what they want on them. I'll keep smiling and reminding these boys that they are my world.

Have a wonderful, stupidly stupendous day. Which reminds me, one of my very old friends (who I've been keeping in touch with on that evil facebook) has been performing an act of kindness each day as the opportunity strikes him. It has been a joy to see how much personal satisfaction he has gotten from giving freely of himself to perfect strangers. I'm thinking about trying it myself.