I’m really happy to live in civilization. I used to live on the edge of civilization until urban sprawl caught up and I was absorbed. My definition of civilization is being within a pizza restaurant’s delivery zone. Not being able to order pizza and get it delivered is a genuine
hardship, comparable only to no water, no microwave, no cable, or no cell phone.
Friday night is pizza night at my house. Before we became civilized, we relented ourselves to ordering carryout and picking it up ourselves. Not the same at all as it was always cold by the time we got home and the cheese had turned to chewy leather that would have been perfect for making belts, wallets, or moccasins except for the chopped onions.
On pizza night the first problem is always what kind of pizza to order. Roll call shows that I don’t care as long as it doesn’t have black olives. My significant other doesn’t care as long as it doesn’t have any meat. My daughter doesn’t care as long as it has pepperoni. My grandson doesn’t care because he takes everything off and eats only the bread anyhow. The dog doesn’t care because he will eat anything that remotely resembles food.
As you can see, we already have a problem. Nobody cares but everybody wants something different. Disregarding the dog’s vote, as he is not a certified voter, we’ve pretty much got it down to one large combination and one large mushroom and onion two-topper.
I really hate calling in the order. They always put me on hold until I forget what I want, and then talk in fast-forward mode while taking the order. I’m positive they are making pizza with one hand and taking orders with the other. I fare better with ordering pizza online, no
pressure to hurry and decide between thin crust, hand-tossed and pan pizza.
“Is the pizza coming?” squeals my four-year-old grandson, so excited he is climbing on the backs of the furniture like a squirrel and turning flip-flops in the living room.
My daughter switches on the porch light and opens the door so the delivery person can find the house. My grandson presses his nose against the glass storm door and peers into the darkness straining to see if the car with the pizza flag is coming up the driveway.
“Where are they, grandma? Maybe they got lost!”
“No, honey, they never get lost – they will be here.”
The phone rings. It’s the pizza guy. “Now where exactly is your street?” he asks. I don’t believe it – he is lost! I explain the location and he remembers, or says he does.
A knock on the door and the dog is barking and knocking over furniture as he runs to the door attempting to decide which to eat first, the pizza or the pizza delivery guy.
Pizza! At last! The cheese and other toppings come off of a piece for my grandson. The dog wags his tail frantically as he knows who is going to get that leftover cheese.
I select a slice of the combination pizza, which looks pretty good after I pick off the black olives that I forgot to tell them to omit. Jalapenos! I forgot about jalapenos, Flames shoot out of my mouth and singe the dog’s fur. Mamma Mia, those peppers are hot! I nearly do a few flip-flops myself before finally quenching the fire with a diet cola.
“This is the best pizza in the whole world!” proclaims my grandson as he chews on his second hunk of pizza flavored bread, while the dog stands by waiting for the child to lay it down for a moment so he can grab it and run under the bed.
As I clean up the spilled dipping sauce, drag pizza out from under the bed, throw out the giant boxes that are too big to fit in the trash can, and check out the blisters in my mouth, I sort of wonder if civilization is such a great thing after all.