maydecnc

How many times do you check the adhesive label on your newly delivered pizza box to make sure it is, in fact, your pizza? Particularly before you sign that all-important credit card receipt? I thought so.

Busy people that we are, last night I ordered a pizza and Coke from an establishment that shall remain nameless. Okay, here’s a hint: old men like to play games with them, and some people like to set them up just to knock them down. My husband was on his way home to grab a bite and then go back to work, and our daughter and I had just come back from day care. (Never mind that, during the ride home, she spilled a tall, cool glass of water all over herself and had to be changed as soon as we arrived…) Anyway, usually this establishment does a wonderful job of not only delivering what we order, but also delivering it in a timely manner without several calls to the effect of, “Where are you?” Last night, something must have been in the air…

When the delivery arrived, my husband volunteered to sign for it since our daughter was screaming for me, so to quiet her down, I agreed. He signed, carried in the food and drink, and opened the box. “Why did you order pepperoni?”

(Of course it’s my fault, right?)

I replied, “I didn’t order pepperoni. Did you check the label to see if it was ours?”

Then, he examines the credit card receipt he signed. Of course it is not ours.

So, some poor schmuck in a nearby hotel got our tasty creation, and we were stuck with his because of the short time that my husband had to gobble down his dinner and head back out the door to work. Nice. The goal today? Go back to the delivery tracker page and complain, and hope my stomach settles.

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