Bloaty ate too much pizza….
I know. It’s my own fault. Was planning to cook dinner for the family tonight. But, a tempting email came through the inbox and I just couldn’t help myself.
Domino’s Pizza offering 50% off any pizza if you order online now through Sunday night.
I remember when Domino’s Pizza was called the “Disk of Death” and other not-too-polite names. Domino’s was awful. Didn’t matter which one you ordered from — you were guaranteed a round thing resembling a crust with something on the top that you hoped was what you actually ordered, covered in a slime of cheese and floating on what grease hadn’t already soaked through the bottom of the box.
Now, however, they’ve gotten a lot better. And healthier, if you can consider pizza healthy.
So, each of us decided to order a pizza since they were so cheap. Youngest Son got a pepperoni abomination of some sort that could clog your arteries just by looking at the amount of meat and grease on it. Husband made up a pizza he would like to have because nothing on the menu ever totally agrees with his middle-age tummy anymore. And I ordered a Hawaiian pizza because I love ham and pineapple together. We each made sure to get the super-thin crust pizzas so we wouldn’t feel nauseated for the next few days. And by each ordering to our own tastes, we could ensure that we got what we wanted. We each got enough of what we wanted and if there was any leftover it could be stored in the refrigerator for lunch tomorrow.
Only Youngest Son, who normally scarfs down anything not nailed to the table, didn’t finish his. Husband and I both ate ourselves silly and soon realized we had none left for tomorrow. It was good, though. We both were very pleased with our selections and they were well-made and tasted excellent.
It’s just now, about five hours after eating it that the bloaty-ness sinks in….or out….or whatever it does. It’s hot and humid outside and having not listened to my brain when it was trying to tell me that my stomach might actually have a message for me other than “Aren’t you going to eat the rest of that?” is the result I’m suffering now. I don’t want to see another pizza for a while. I don’t even want to look at the boxes ours came in tonight. They’re like little talismans of shame to remind us of our sins.
I think I’ll have some milk and go to bed. Maybe I’ll wake up and it’s all a bad dream. Or, more likely, I’ll have pizza-dreams all night (the really weird ones about which every therapist hopes to sell a best-selling book) and wake up even hungrier than usual in the morning.