Hating pizza

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When I was about 5 or 6 years old, I remember having a distinct dislike of pizza --- the smell, the taste, even the sight. That hatred eventually passed. I don't recall when exactly. But, by 12 years of age, I could impress my friends as my scrawny frame easily devoured a large - with the works - pizza.

A few years ago, my mother began to die from leukemia. During our subsequent talks, I asked her about many memories of my past to reconcile my versions with hers.

We talked about my youthful dislike of pizza. She said that incident had surprised my parents because, until that moment of our lives, I loved pizza. Eventually, we realized that my parents would give me pizza on the nights that they were going out on the town. It was a simple, childish feeling of abandonment. And, being a ignorant child, I had associated abandonment with the pizza.

This year, pizza is beginning to get a bum rap from me again. The sight, the smell, the taste is almost nauseating. I have to be staving to eat a slice.

But again, it isn't the food that is at fault. The problem lies with me. I have reached a point of such resentment at having to work a Domino's. And the only thing that I can take my frustration out on is the innocent pizza. The only reason I have to keep working is to untangle my life from the mess that once was my marriage. After 25 years of supporting "her", there is a intertwined mess to undo.

The deadline to get my ex's half of the property as part of the divorce settlement is a week away. The irs and my cpa seem to be playing with each other and delaying my refinance of the property. If my ex had signed the loan paperwork back in July, all would be much, much better! But no, she listened only to her lawyer and ignored all the answers to her questions from the loan people and my cpa. Anyway, I don't know what will happen if I can't make the deadline.

Maybe I'll choke to death on slice of pizza ...