Last night we had homemade pizza for dinner. That doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it was to me. When you have a kid who is allergic to eggs, milk, and soy, it makes it really hard to make a traditional pizza. I have in the past made cheese-less pizza for the Captain, but then it’s just bread with a little tomato sauce smeared on it, and hell, he may as well just have some crackers and Sunbutter instead, you know?
Luckily, we live in amazing times where scientists can create cheese-like products out of air and several chemicals. I do not even want to know what is in this stuff, but there’s a new “cheese” in town, called Daiya. I read about it on It Ain’t Meat, Babe and I assumed it would not be suitable for us, but IT IS. No milk, no eggs, no soy. No gluten either, for those who care.
That is VERY exciting.
So last night I made “cheese” pizza for the Captain and he loved it and had four slices and didn’t react to anything and I can die happy now because I was able to give my kid pizza. The triumphs of the allergic-kid mother are very small, indeed.
In other landmark news, I had to go to the mall last night to buy a new bathing suit. I’m sure I don’t need to write another word for you to imagine what that experience was like. Buying a suit in January is weird, because no one has suits in stock except The Bay, which has a lovely selection of matronly suits for Ladies Of Leisure who are embarking on cruises, and good ol’ Bikini Village, where it costs you $30 just to go in and look.
But it really was a necessity – a definite exception to the shopping embargo – because I take swimming lessons on Friday mornings. For the past several weeks I’ve been wearing my choice of:
a) a suit comprised of a stretched-out bottom half I bought for our honeymoon, fifteen years ago, matched with a top I bought while pregnant, which News Flash!, I am not anymore; or
b) a two-piece suit I bought to go on vacation with my sisters way back before I had kids, when I was at my skinniest ever, which News Flash!, I am not anymore, and trust me, seeing my belly button is a scarring experience; or
c) a matronly flowered top/skirted bottom number that I bought when desperate for our trip to Disney last year, which is rather low cut and slips sideways when we practice diving, giving all the elderly gentlemen in my class a peep show.
Now that’s classy.
So, I went to the mall and I approached the Bikini Village and I said to myself, “You will go in there. You will try on suits. You will NOT look at price tags, You will get something respectable. DO IT.”
And I came out with a very nice Speedo that mostly, sort of, fits me well enough not to shift while swimming, and mostly, sort of, makes my butt look huge, and mostly, MOSTLY, cost a fortune.
But at least I can swim now without burning the eyes of everyone else there. Whew!