Mozza-rella!

This weekend I was slicing some fresh mozzarella for salad while Kay cooked dinner, and out of nowhere I was belting in an Italian/Spanish accent the story of young girl whose step-mother (Colby Jack) would not let her go to the ball and dance with Prince Gjetost. Her name...was Mozza-rella! And, then, after like, seriously way longer than that type of thing should go on (ten minutes?) I looked at Kay who was trying to inch out of the doorway. Boop.

Yesterday morning I was running with my broken iPod, trying to gain a sense of peace about the day. Yes, I have officially become the kind of person who listens to spiritually motivating lectures while I run. Anyway, the iPod works, but the volume is permanently on full blast, so it's this peaceful woman's voice screaming into my ear. Anyway, I was running in the middle of the woods and I got a huge whiff of marinara sauce. It was overwhelming. What's weird is that out of all the millions of times I have eaten pizza in my life, the memory I apparently associate mariana smell with is the community pool I went to growing up. During adult swim, my sister and I would eat pizza and nachos and pretzels and ice cream etc. etc.

I began to think about the teenagers I thought were so rad when I was four. They were twelve to fifteen years older than me. That puts them in their late thirties now. I didn't like that. How on earth could those side-ponytailed gals and those big haired dudes singing along to Paula Abdul have kids and careers and do anything besides serve pizza!?


Lincoln Park Zoo, 2009