Forget I asked that. It probably is.
But lately the only people I seem to talk to- besides my kids, which, unless you want to call "Get down from the table!" a conversation, I don't actually, really 'talk to'- strictly speaking, are food service workers.
I order pizza for supper.
"Hey, it's Randine," the pizza guy calls out to some other guy when I phone in my order. "We were wondering where you've been. I've got a two word joke for you: Midget Shortage."
I laugh. Not even a fake laugh- I'm ashamed to say it. This is the best conversation I've had all day.
"Will you be getting the pepperoni again?" he asks.
"You know it."
And when I get there to pick it up they tease me by telling me that my total is $35,000.25
"That pizza better have golden pepperoni on it!"
And we all laugh.
And then they say "Just kidding, it's 35.25."
"Oh, you got me again!"
I take my pizza and ribs, and notice that they (accidentally?) gave me two pounds of ribs instead of one.
This is the problem.
The pizza people fall for me.
I had to dump my last pizza delivery person for the same reason.
Am I just too irresistible in my sweat pants and pony tail?
Or are they watching too many *ahem* 'mature' movies with a pizza delivery inspired plot??
Or maybe they mistake my bi weekly pizza orders as some sort of romantic interest??
But it's not. I'm just that lazy.
And possibly slightly delusional.
And then today, I go to pick up my lunch at EE Burritos, which is also generally a biweekly occurrence.
I see the cook/server/maybe part owner sitting on the couch nursing a baby. A baby!! I couldn't believe it. I feel so out of the loop. I feel like Geoff, except with more hair.
"Wha? You had your baby?" I ask her, sitting down next to her, taking in the baby, who is, incidentally attached to her nipple.
This does not deter me.
She tells me all about her-- 7lbs 6ozs, a great sleeper, a good nurser.
"Her latch looks great," I can't help but comment. "But I can't believe you had her- you were just here last week!"
"I know," she says. "My water broke in the kitchen! I probably shouldn't be telling you this- I know you eat here all the time." ("But we're down like that", is the implied message.)
Honestly, I'm starting to get a vision of my funeral: a roomful of people from various fast food places, all sobbing gently "I'm going to miss her Quesidalla order every Wednesday.", but then checking their watches and sighing "I've got a delivery to make."
No one will eat the finger food.
It will be a disaster.