really happy that I now 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 restaurantís
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 donít care as long as it
doesnít have black olives. My significant other doesnít care as
long as it doesnít have any meat. My daughter doesnít care as long
as it has pepperoni. My grandson doesnít care because he takes
everything off and eats only the bread anyhow. The dog doesnít 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
dogís vote, as he is not a certified voter, weíve pretty much got
it down to a large combination and a large mushroom and onion
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. Iím 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
"Where are they, grandma? Maybe they got
"No, honey, they never get lost Ė they will be
The phone rings. Itís the pizza guy. "Now where
exactly is your street?" he asks. I donít 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
whether to eat the pizza first 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 dogís 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.