Been There, Done That by Laura Nethken

Published:

When I was growing up, I could've eaten pizza seven days a week. I loved it. There was a pizza shop in town that we went to every week after bowling. It was kind of a reward, although fortunately not based on bowling performance.

When I first got married, my husband and I lived in a little apartment in town and we made a habit of ordering from Singing Sam's on a regular basis. Let's just say not all of my cooking skills had matured by that point in my life.

We were what you'd call regulars at Sam's. So regular in fact, that the day we moved out of town, I called them for a pizza and offered to pick it up since I doubted they'd deliver to our new house.

They said "no problem" and they'd see us in half an hour. I called an hour later and was told the pizza was on its way. I called again in another hour.

It doesn't take rocket fuel to figure out they were beating the door down at our old apartment. So we said goodbye to Sam's and pretty much pizza delivery altogether for a while.

I called one place and asked if they'd deliver to us way out in the boonies. Of course they said it was no problem at all. Turns out the distance to our house wasn't the only obstacle to overcome in getting a pizza delivered.

A car pulled into the driveway with a pizza sign on top. Awesome. A girl got out carrying a pizza. So far, so good. She knocked on the door, the dog barked, she lost her mind, threw my pizza in the front yard and ran screaming for her car. They sent out another pizza, that I waited in the driveway for, and they never delivered there again.

When I worked at the factory, I was on mandatory seven-days-a-week. I'd work 13 and take the 14th one off and I rewarded myself on payday every two weeks with a pizza. That I picked up on my way home since nobody wanted to bring me one anymore.

We always ordered the same thing, family-size, half with sausage, onions, and double mushrooms and half with pepperoni, sausage and hot peppers. It got to the point where I didn't even have to say the order. As soon as I said my name, he'd say they'd have it ready in a half hour. I think if I had ever changed up on our order, it would've been like Singing Sam's all over again.

Occasionally, we'd order from one of the pizza chains because we were lazy and now and then we could get them to deliver. Once, when our youngest was a toddler, he insisted on being the one to pay for the pizza. OK, whatever, give the money to the pizza man.

The guy thought it was really cute until he was halfway back to his car and counted the money. Then he was back at the door again. I know I had counted it out right, so I looked at my son, who sheepishly pulled a five dollar bill out of the front of his diaper. The guy didn't know whether to take it or not.

When we first moved back to Ravenna, I thought I'd finally be able to get a pizza delivered. I called the same one that threw my pizza in yard years earlier. They had to deliver to me now, as long as they sent a delivery person who didn't need their brown pants just because we have a dog.

They said we were too far out. Are you kidding? We lived six miles out of town and they delivered to us then. Now, I could hit that place with a rock from my house and they didn't want to do it.

Maybe my friend was right. Maybe it isn't about our location so much as it is that they have a picture of our dog on their wall with instructions on how to abort that delivery if I ever get froggy and call them again.

No biggie. There are plenty of folks who deliver, even to my house. We no longer have small children with sticky fingers, we try not to let the dog answer the door first and we always tip well so I can get a pizza delivered in the middle of a blizzard if I feel like it.

Copyright 2014 Laura Nethken

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