Sunday morning, and it is quiet...

my boys are still snug in their beds, so I think I'm going to explain about a little something that happened last night which has me totally baffled. (This will probably make an appearance on Pick Up Your Own Damn Socks as well. That site is pure joy.)

9:00 - I order pizza. This is not unusual, except to say that it must be me that orders it. The husband will not order pizza himself. Experiments where Domino's number has been dialed and the ringing phone thrust at him have met with disaster and frantic pressing of the "Off" button.

9:40 - Husband asks me..."Where is the pizza?" Because I know exactly where the pizza is located in time and space, due to my incredible cosmic powers that I was gifted with during that last radioactive meteor shower I stood in.

9:42 - I announce that I am going upstairs, and he should listen for the door while I take 5 minutes to blow-dry my hair. I am met with refusal, and a startling confession. "I don't want to! You do it, I'm scared to!" After staring at him with my mouth hanging open for a few minutes, I remind him that there is nothing to fear from the nice man bringing the pizza, and that it is a simple process - hand over money, take pizza. I ask if there is something about pizza guy that I should know, and will my pizza be tampered with? He says no. I go upstairs anyway while he sulks and tells me I am mean downstairs.

9:47 - Hair dry, I come downstairs to a husband who gleefully announces that I made it in time to get the door myself. I decide to step out the back door for approximately one minute.

9:48 - While outside, the pizza man arrives. I listen, and it seems that no horrible beast has accosted my husband while he fetches our food. No gunshots, no screaming...things must have gone well. I step inside. Husband says "I feel bad." I ask why. He tells me that the pizza man got no tip. I ask why, and indicate to the neat pile of quarters that I had stacked for said tip. (I had no dollar bills, husband had no dollar bills. A tip is a tip, if you ask me.) He tells me that he did not give it to the delivery guy, as recieving change for a tip is insulting. I mention that possibly more insulting is no tip at all, and the husband tells me that next time I should answer the door.

9:50 - Pizza is enjoyed by the family, and no one dies of food poisoning.

The End.