Pizza Pizza

On a whim, I made pizza dough and pizza for my coworkers today. Jefe sprung for the cheese and sauce, Charlie picked them up (along with some spinach, mushrooms, and pepperoni; plus I grabbed some roasted onions from the walk-in) on one of his deliveries, and Brad gave me some advice, and there you have it: pizza. The spinach/mushroom/onion was more popular than the pepperoni/mushroom/onion, and one coworker requested some black olives on the spinach next time. So, hey, no problem--pizza every Saturday, as far as I'm concerned. If Jefe springs for the cheese and sauce and other stuff, I'll whip up the dough when I come in on Saturday.

Meanwhile, either I (a) have cancer, (b) have a hormone imbalance caused by stress (unlikely, if you ask me, given that stress hasn't caused that before), or (c) am galloping into menopause. I'm betting heavily on (c), but it's a pain, people, let me tell you. Who really wants to have a period every other week? And the fibroids I had embolized two years ago are still around--smaller, yes, but still around--and they probably don't help matters, either. Apparently I am not bleeding from quite enough places, so I managed to cut myself yesterday, too.

And, yes, Dave did, in fact, lose his job. He has a lot of contacts in his field, several of the businesses in his field are in or around this city, he has a lot of experience and talent (a tremendous amount of both, actually--he's done a LOT of stuff), and there are lot of people who know him and think highly of him (and rightly so), so here's hoping someone is smart enough to hire him.