Last night we went to the California Pizza Kitchen. I felt that I had been catapulted into some kind of live advertisement for the chain. Is your house under construction? Do you feel bad about work? Are both your children whiny fucking toads? Then come on down to the California Pizza Kitchen where we’ll Pizza your cares away. Warning: Actual pizza is pretty gross.

Oh yes, we Pizza-ed our cares away. Henry colored in his California Pizza Kitchen-themed coloring book and asked if he could keep the cup they gave him (He could! It was his to take home) and I was offered a stiff drink, which I stupidly declined, and even though the California Pizza Kitchen found it was beyond its powers to soothe John into a state of happy cooperation and he spent the twenty (California Pizza Kitchen! You devil!) minutes we were there lolling around the booth, ignoring his food, and threatening us all with his drink, I left the California Pizza Kitchen feeling more hopeful than when I entered it. I thought of going there again tonight.