The "treat"
It’s been an interesting few weeks, “interesting” in the sense that not doing much of anything isn’t really something I’m used to. It’s already gotten to the point that venturing out to the Safeway pharmacy is one of the highlights of my week, the other being when Caroline brings groceries and we chat, properly distanced, in the carport. In other words, I’ve been doing as instructed, taking care of myself by mostly staying home and mostly doing nothing.
Thus, I decided to reward myself with a treat: I called and ordered a pizza to be delivered. Scandalous, I know, but what the hey. Anyway, a half hour later the door buzzer sounded, the old one where the intercom was disconnected when the new fob system was installed (the system that allows me to buzz the door open for deliveries). Figuring that the driver wasn’t going to hang around long I put on my shoes, switched to the portable oxygen, donned my face mask, grabbed my cane and headed down the long hallway and up the stairs, opening the door to find the delivery guy waiting with my pizza. After signing for the pie I pointed to the sign that directs people to the new keypad next to the door; he just shrugged and said he doesn’t like those new things. He left, and I eventually figured out how to hold the pie flat while juggling the oxygen and cane. Got back to my apartment and sat down for a few minutes to catch my breath, then got a plate and opened the box, taste buds happily anticipating my treat. And it was the wrong pie. Nothing but cheese. Noooooo!
So, got on the phone, called the pizza place. She was very apologetic, said she remembered taking my order and would personally make the new pie. Half an hour later, phone rang, I answered and said I’d buzz him in. Waited. When nobody showed, I repeated the bit with the shoes and the oxygen and the cane and the mask, and headed back down the hallway and up the stairs. And there in the foyer was the very frustrated delivery man, frantically signing to someone over his phone. Clearly, he simply could not hear the buzzer. He handed me a pen to sign the chit, and we both laughed when, on top of everything else, the pen refused to work. We got it sorted out. He did seem a bit surprised when I handed him a tip, so I dropped the mask a bit so that he could see me smile as I signed “thank you.” He left, and there I was again, juggling my way back to my own front door.
Gotta tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard to get out of cooking a meal. At least there’s only one plate to wash. But I’m determined that my next reward will be considerably less strenuous.
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