The latest installment of The Cold That Won’t Die has left me feeling run-down and miserable, so instead of getting out and about, and clocking up new Random Acts of Stupidity to amaze you with, here’s one from last Saturday when, as you know, Terry and I had some friends round for a small soiree.
Last time on “Ways to Totally Screw Up Your Party”, the scene had been set: everything was in place, including my massive Second Head, the heating was on the blink, and I was busily trying to use wine to take the edge off my latest cold. (Note: it kinda works!) All but two of our guests had arrived, so when there was a knock on the door, I, of course, assumed that it must be them. After all, who else would be knocking on my door on a Saturday night?
Terry was upstairs trying to fix the heating, so I headed to the door and threw it open, a welcoming smile upon my face. There, standing looking at me expectantly, and clutching bags full of what looked like food and drink, was a complete stranger.
The stranger looked to be about 18 or 19, and seemed to think I should be expecting him, so I quickly wracked my brains and concluded that SOMEONE must have invited him to the party. It could’ve been the friends we were still waiting on, it could’ve been Terry – hell, it could even have been me, posting a general invitation on Twitter or Facebook and then immediately forgetting all about it.
The young man at the door clearly HADN’T forgotten all about it, though, and so, rather than embarrassing him by admitting I had no clue who on earth he was, I decided to try and fake it. Note to self: never do that.
“Hiiiiiiiiii!” I said brightly, opening the door a little wider, and stepping back, making that universal arm gesture that says, “Hello, and welcome to my humble home! Won’t you come on in and pull up a seat?”
Instead, the young man simply handed me one of his carrier bags which did, indeed, contain some soft drinks and what looked like party food. This merely served to confirm my suspicions: he was here for my “party” and so I glanced into the bag and made some appropriately grateful noises. “Oooh, lovely!” I said. “Thanks very much!” And again I stepped back from the door and made my “come on in!” arm gesture.
Well, my new friend looked at me a little funny at that point, so I guessed I hadn’t been effusive enough in my thanks. When he handed me a SECOND bag of food, then, I made a point of cooing over it and thanking him profusely. And then I stepped back and gestured for him to come in again.
By this point I was getting cold standing at the door, and my guest’s reluctance to enter the house was starting to feel a little awkward. I don’t know what it was that prevented me from actually saying the words “Come on in!” rather than just making the gesture – perhaps I was just trying to put off the inevitable moment when I’d have to introduce him to the rest of the guests (My hastily concocted plan for this, by the way, was to usher him into the living room, shout, “Hey, everyone, look who’s here!” and then run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom), but by this point enough was enough. I had just opened my mouth to finally just come right out with it and ask him to COME INTO THE DAMN HOUSE ALREADY, when he reached into the rather large bag I now noticed he was carrying, and produced…
Yes, it was the pizza guy. Bringing the pizzas and other items Terry had ordered not thirty minutes earlier. I’d use this as my excuse, but actually, I’d heard him make the call and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t. GOD.
And that’s the sorry tale of how I came to try and entice the pizza guy into my home on a cold, dark night. It’s also the tale of how we had to find a new pizza delivery place, because I somehow don’t think that young man will have gotten over my “Mrs Robinson” act yet. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Terry can never get a pizza in this town again, unless he goes and picks it up himself.
Sorry, Terry. (And sorry, Pizza Guy, whoever you may be…)