Pizza Wars

The other day I got stranded in my husband's matchbook sized car with two contentious teens for nearly two hours.

I have yet to recover from the 120 minutes of continuous bickering. As each minute passed, the car seemed to shrink, their voices grew louder and like many times before, I truly understood why so many mothers go AWOL, leaving their minivans to rust in mall parking lots throughout the country. I had to fight the urge to run.

I got a flat at 5.15pm-perhaps the most unsuitable time for rubber puncture, but then again, is there ever a good time for a flat? When I heard that familiar thud, thud, kerplunk noise coming from the front end of the car, I admit I uttered a few colorful expletives.

I'd raced out of the house looking like an old dishrag left in the kitchen sink too long. This is what happens when you work from home- you get very, very lazy when it comes to throwing on a set of clothes.

Some of my get-ups even scare me.

With a cardigan that looked like Swiss cheese ,(if you see any chubby moths around, its because they have skeins of my sweaters in their guts) the layers of my hair sticking up like wayward sails, no make-up and wearing that ultra fashionable white sock and athletic slide look, I grabbed teen girl and told her to come along while I fetched her brother in Wood's Hole, a 30 minute drive away. She didn't come to keep me company, but rather to make a beauty and junk stop at the CVS to buy another batch of nail polish and candy corn. Nothing would make this girl happier than to be in bed, reading a book, cell phone in hand, completely surrounded by giant bags overflowing with candy corn.

Think Veruca Salt.

The rim resting on the asphalt confirmed my suspicions- Michael had obviously run over something earlier in the day. As a woman who prides herself on being self reliant, I took the jack and spare tire out and got to work. It must have been quite a sight- me in my fashionista attire, teen boy standing over me with his hands in his pocket, hood pulled down over his face, blank look on his face and teen girl in the car with her taffy like legs stretched out the window, her big feet still in her white soccer cleats, painstakingly applying a coat of passion purple on her nails. After a few minutes of trying to take off the those thingys that hold the tire on, I belched out another round of naughty adjectives and phoned AAA.

"He'll be there shortly," the lady said.

And then the fighting began.

"What are we going to have for dinner?" asked teen boy.

I know, someday I will miss that question but for now, it goes right through me like a bad curry.

"I can tell you one thing we are not having. My cooking," I said.

"Can we get pizza?" asked teen girl.

And this is where it got ugly.

We're a family of pizza lovers- but the teen offspring can never agree on where to get the pizza. Both the hubby and I love pizza and although I really haven't found the ultimate pizza here on Cape, a pizza for dinner sure beats whipping up a meal at 8.00 at night. As long as it comes hot in a box and I don't have to fire up the range, I am happy. But this comes from a woman whose male babysitter used to broil up his own version of pizza using Wonder bread, ketchup and American cheese.

But these darn kids.

"Can we have Sweet Tomatoes," teen boy asks, knowing full well that his sister hates the chunky thin crusted pie.

"Can we have Domino's," says teen girl, knowing full well that her brother hates that pre-formed doughy discs.

"I hate Sweet Tomatoes" teen girl hisses. "It's gross."

She has no idea what a gross pizza tastes like until she tries the Wonder Bread Delight.

"Well I hate Domino's" teen boy puffs. "It's disgusting."

Ditto for Teen Boy. A soggy piece of white bread drenched with ketchup- now that's disgusting.

And so it went- for two hours- we went through every pizza place this side of the Mason Dixon line, both unwilling to make a concession.

"Okay, that's it," I shouted. "I am never, ever ordering pizza again until you guys leave for school," And like so many other outlandish threats issued over the past 17 years, it had as much bite as the tooth fairy.

They just stared.

"Well, then, Daddy and I will order pizza and you guys will have to fend for yourselves." I said.

"I call leftover macaroni and cheese," yelled teen boy.

"No fair," screamed teen girl.

"Okay, that's it. I don't know why we ever gave you the choice," I said, reminding them for the hundredth time that my parents always ordered the pizza in our house. No "It's your turn this weekend, darling." Nope, they had full reign since they were picking up the tab. The only time we were given the choice was on Friday night when they went out for dinner and left Sissy in charge. Sissy ruled over us with a titanium fist, deciding where we got the pizza and how many pieces she would let us have. But what really made us mad was her calling "first choice" which meant she opened the box and slowly scanned the whole pie until she found the biggest slices.

"Those are mine," she'd shout.

She'd leave us to fight over the misshapen slices, the ones that slide around the pizza box and lost half their cheese. She'd leave us the ones with those giant bubbles on the crust- according to Sissy, they were pizza warts and she wasn't eating any of those.

I don't know what to cook for dinner this evening, tumbling through my mental recipe files, I can't come up with anything that won't provoke a dispute. I don't know what I'll manage to throw together but one thing is for sure, it won't be pizza.