The Sleep Deprivation Continues
I thought I'd regale you with the hilarious tale of how it took me 20 minutes to order a pizza on Sunday night. Since all our plates, etc., were packed away in boxes and we were still trying to dig out of the chaos, there would be no
Our new neighborhood is fairly posh. We are not posh. But the neighborhood is. We live in the "wannabe posh" section of the neighborhood which is fine by me. It seems that posh people don't openly admit to eating pizza, because I've only seen one pizza place and that was in a posh little mini-strip mall with one of those ultra-posh names like Soothing Meadows or Whitby's Crossings. And as I drove by it, I thought, "I should remember the name of that place." It wasn't the usual big guys - but (I think?) a smaller chain. Maybe a local chain? Who knows.
We didn't have phone or DSL service Sunday night, so I couldn't type in "pizza" and "posh wannabe place" in the Yahoo! Yellow Pages and hope to have the name of the place revealed to me. Good Lord! What in the HAIL did we do before the Internet? How did we exist? Mr. J. said, "There are Yellow Pages in the garage if you want to flip through them." Not exactly what I wanted to do - how lazy are you when your fingers don't even want to do the walking!? But they did. And now my wee fingers are all tuckered out.
First of all, who the hell is eating all this pizza? How are there approximately 80 million pizza places in a 10-mile-radius? Pages of pizza listings. And yet! Only one in this stinkhole of a town that I now live in. I called a few places. First place: The phone rang and rang and rang (OMG - I just realized! What in the HAIL did we do before cell phones? All hail the gods of modern technology. Forgive me for recently cursing you) and no one picked up. Second place: "We don't deliver there." What? The Lexus-SUV driving-soccer-moms aren't good tippers? I can't believe that. Mr. J. suggested I call information and ask about the place in our 'hood. "What's it called again?" He said he thought it was called Pizza Johnny's. I wasn't sure that was exactly it, but it was Pizza Some Guy's Name. I call Verizon 411. Name and city please. There's no listing for Pizza Johnny's. "Okay, wait! Don't go!" I begged. At this point I was starving. (Hey, maybe that's why I hallucinated). I was desperate. Then I got engaged in one of the dumbest conversations of my life. (If the Verizon operator has a blog, you can bet there's a story about the idiot who didn't know the name of the restaurant for which they wanted the phone number.)
Me: How about Pizza Tommy's?
Verizon Operator: No listing.
Me: Um, Pizza Joey's?
Me: Okay, could you just try Pizza Jimmy's?
Me (Just randomly naming men's names in hopes she'll stop me): Pizza Timmy's! No, wait, um, Pizza Eddie's!
VO: No ma'am. No listing.
Poor woman. She should get promoted just for not hanging up on me.
I finally found a place one town over that 1.) Answered their phone, 2.) Was still open and 3.) Was willing to take my money. I was so proud of myself that after 20 minutes I had finally managed to order myself a pizza like a big girl until she said, "Oh - we're not doing deliveries tonight." I was completely flabbergasted and confused. "I didn't know you guys didn't deliver anymore." She said, "Oh, we do. Just not tonight." Now I thought I got it. "Oh, you don't deliver on Sundays," I said. "No, we do. Just not tonight." Mystifying! And par for the course after the week I've had.
And now, ladies and germs, I am going to try and get me some shut-eye. (So tired I just typed shut-up. Which would actually be a great thing to have. I'm gonna get me some shut up.) Please keep your fingers crossed and send me sleepy thoughts!
Labels: Baby's First Breakdown