HOW I SPENT MY SPRING VACATION

On Monday night, I ended up at Pizzeria Uno. This is not uncommon. I am a H U G E fan of deep dish pizza. This is where, if you have ever been with me in a restaurant, you are waiting for the reveal. When it comes to ordering food I have a pattern that involves scrolling down a menu and finding something to strip down. I don't like a lot of colors, I don't like food touching and vegetables generally make me wince in terror. If a soup or salad comes with the meal and I am asked "...and what kind of dressing would you like on your salad," I generally give out a hearty, but see-through, sarcastic laugh, "SAL-ad? Oh, stop you're making my sides hurt!" Yah. I'm not a fan of the chunky or stewed tomatoes that generally gets flopped on top of traditional deep dish. I am not alone; many do not like the 'fleshy' tomatoes, either.

I took my laptop with me. Which is uncouth and unseemly, but when you are eating alone in a restaurant, it's better to do something than look like a freak. A productive freak, I suppose.

I actually didn't order pizza because I got pizza the night before. The four cheese pizza without the tomatoes. The second time I had pizza this year. I had pizza once in Arizona. At Pizzeria Uno. The four cheese without the tomatoes. Instead, I ordered the shrimp and sirloin. I don't usually do that. If you want, you can openly question why I ordered seafood in Wisconsin. I asked the waitress. She was tall and blonde and thin and nice with a decent sense of humor. I did get a mint lemonade. This sounds better than it actually was. Or is.

There is a pattern when writing and eating, usually, no chewing when typing. It's not really an etiquette issue, more of a rhythm thing. Chew-chew-chew can get mixed up with click-click-click. Proper planning and strategy when ordering can save you from extensive logistics and leave a simple tactical approach. Eating with cutlery is preferred over eating with your fingers in general. Yes, french fries and pizza, too. Cutlery is preferred just so you won't get grease or other things on the keyboard. Of course, you have to pick up the cutlery and stop typing which could ruin your train of thought. The next time you are at a computer, at work or a friend's, turn the keyboard upside down and shake it. Witness the clumps and crumbs, the pollution, of hours of clickety-clacking tumbling out.

I was stuck in the aquarium, the table at the front of the restaurant with the big viewing window. I was also loaded down with some gifts I bought from Pop Deluxe. Pop Deluxe is a cool shop that has a lot of stuff you might normally buy online. It's a cool place since they don't jack up the price and they often have stuff on sale. If you show that you know something about the items you are perusing or ask about something, they go out of their way to try and find it for you or grab something out of the back to make you happy. I was looking at some of the Shag wrapping paper, and I was giving my four-year-old frowny face. Thinking ahead, how am I going to justify carrying rolls of wrapping paper on a plane?

The chick that was helping me pointed out that it was 50% off. Still.

"They stopped making it a few years ago."

Sold.

Tell me that nobody else can get it and I usually start paying closer attention.

The best gift to give is one that the person wants but can't acquire themselves. It has nothing to do with money but of resources and opportunity. I was able to acquire something for someone as a gift recently. First, it was something that she wanted. Second, she had probably forgotten that she even mentioned it to me. Next, they stopped making the item years ago. Finally, I had to call in a few favors to acquire the item. It made me feel good just to pull off the feat. Also, I hoped that I could rectify the cute and coy debacle.

I don't think it worked.

A few months ago, I did something stupid, and I did it stupidly. Then there was a miscommunication and misunderstanding that puts the Zimmerman Telegram to shame. Then I made matters worse. Two weeks later, I tried to be cute and coy with a gift and ended up making an ass of myself. Even so, I wrapped the gift in wrapping paper that I had been saving for three years. It was Shag wrapping paper, too.

"There's also this photo album . . . it's supposed to be on sale, but I can't find out how much . . . let's call it 50% off, too."

Sold.

I felt like an old lady walking out of the shop. It was in the 20s, cold, some ice on the ground, and I was on State Street. For those who have not been to the Harvard of the Midwest (University of Wisconsin), State Street runs to the heart of student life in Madison. It's where a majority of the arrests are made during homecoming, Halloween, and the other events that make it a top party school. I think the point I am trying to make here is that I was loaded down by packages, might slip on the ice, and those damn kids with their new wave disco and Rubik's Cubes wouldn't bother to help me up if I took a spill.

Then I realized that I wasn't 78 years old and/or retarded, so I just made accommodations and kept moving toward Pizzeria Uno.

There is something about walking in the cold. It's fun. Madison is a different type of cold. Beyond being REALLY cold, it's just different. My hands were still burned from Arizona, and as I would dip my hands into my pants pocket for protection, the knuckles would scrape against the fabric. At normal temperatures, it would not be a big deal. In the cold, at that moment, it felt like I had shoved my hands through an industrial paper shredder. Pain is only a relative term in context. I guess it hurt, when it feels like the flesh on the top of your hand is being rolled up to your forearm it probably should hurt, but it was just so unusual that it really didn't register as 'pain' or 'being in pain'.

When I was four-years-old we moved into the house in Redding where my sister, brother and I grew up. There were family and friends chatting up my mom and step-father on the acquisition of the home and helping move stuff in. The carpet had been ripped up and, as it was the 1970's the decision was to put white carpet in over the hardwood floors. That was to happen later. I was four-years-old, so I took it upon myself to run through the house; in the front door, out the door to the garage, and circling back through the front door. After a few laps, I stopped to catch my breath. Or get noticed. Four-years-old.

Some bright visitor for the moving-in process made the discovery, "Hey, there are a bunch of red spots over here."

I could probably drag this out with dialogue.

"Oh, do you mean these red spots by the front door next to the exposed carpet nails still sticking up through the hardwood floors that your son, in his bare feet, keeps running over as he repeatedly tramples through the house?"

But I won't bug you with that.

Pain? I screamed like hell because everyone made that face when they saw the blood and the number of puncture holes on the bottom of my feet, but I can't remember if it hurt. Adults have the worst "tell" when it comes to kids and injuries. Kids pick up when someone thinks they should be hurt. Why force the issue? I've heard some good parents get the child's attention, stare them down, and clearly state, "You're fine, you're fine - go play." The child acknowledges and continues playing. Otherwise, there's enough crying to beat the band, or the band may want to beat the child.

My mother still lives in the house in Redding with the two brown dogs and the rabbit, " G.O.B.". In high school my mother ripped up the carpet and the floors were re-finished. When I would stumble into the house, usually drunk on a Friday or Saturday night, or any night during the summer or my senior year of high school, Sadie would pound her wagging tail against the floor. If that didn't wake most everyone up, then the jingling of her collar as she came to greet me more than likely did. Or my talking to Sadie.

My mother, I think, once referred to it as "a subtle notice that I hadn't died that night".

After I escaped Redding, I came home every so often to see Sadie. And my family, I think. The last time I was with Sadie, I slept on the hardwood floor with her. She couldn't get up, something was wrong, but none of us knew what. She had slipped in the snow years before and she had an issue with her back since. Eventually, a tremendous cyst grew around her spine. It's not supposed to snow in Redding and if it does a dog isn't supposed to be permanently injured. The next morning, I spent as much time as I could with Sadie. My mother was going to take her to the vet. I left to get back to school. That night, my brother called me and told me Sadie had died.

The only thing worse than the pain a pet might feel dying is the pain of not being with the pet as they die. As horrible and gruesome as it is, you would rather be there facing the pain with them because they were always at your side. The circumstances are always different but the feeling is usually the same. When you love someone that much it shouldn't be able to just slip away. Especially when they loved you. Unconditionally. And often without reason.

After I got back to the hotel, I wandered down to the gym but I couldn't do anything. I sat on a bench in the gym and just stared at the glass protecting the pool from the weights and treadmills. Eventually, I wandered back upstairs, read and replied to e-mail and returned phone calls. I didn't sleep well that night, but I had a dream my therapist is going to love to hear about.

. . . Continue to Part IX . . .