Location, Location....

*

They say location is everything in real estate, so we kept that firmly in mind when we bought a house last year. As in, it's located in town, instead of way out in the sticks like our ranch, which will come in handy now that our son is getting old enough to be involved in after school activities. It's actually an apartment building, and we reserved the smallest unit for our infrequent stays, when either the weather or our schedule demands. 

We call it the Townhouse. Original, right? It is four blocks from my office, three blocks from my son's school, and in the past month I've gotten lost twice driving there from work. What can I say? It's a gift.

Last Sunday evening I had a meeting in town. As usual, we dawdled around until the last minute, then threw stuff in a suitcase and dashed out the door. I couldn't find my cell phone, so I grabbed my husband's. We arrived at the Townhouse with a school backpack for the kid but no lunchbox, three pairs of socks but no clean jeans. Like I said, as usual.

Ordering pizza seemed like the simplest way to deal with dinner. One quick phone call. Easy peasy.
Except right off the bat, the girl asked, "What's your phone number?"

Uh…good question. I don't dial my husband's cell phone number, just click his name in my contacts list. I stammered, stuttered, and said, "I think it's…"

"Oh—kay," the girl said. "Will that be delivery, or carry-out?"

Wait. Delivery? I hadn't thought of that. It was three degrees outside, so I said, "Delivery. Definitely."

"What's the address?" she asked.

I rattled off a street number and name.

"Um…." She poked at computer keys. "Are you sure? According to my system, that street doesn't exist."

"It's right up the hill from the high school," I insisted.

"On the south side of town, then."

"Yes. Oh. Sorry. I said north, didn't I? I meant south."

There was a quiet sigh, the sound of a woman thinking, Why do I always get the morons? "Got it," she said. "Apartment number?"

"Uh…" Huh. The back door we habitually use doesn't have a number, and I've never bothered to notice which apartment was which. "The one on the bottom," I said. "At the back."

Another sigh, but she clicked more keys and said the delivery person should be there in forty minutes.

Thirty-eight minutes later, it occurred to me I'd failed to specify the street was south east, and I'd given them a faulty phone number so if the driver was wandering aimlessly around town, she wouldn't be able to ring me and ask for guidance.

I called the restaurant again. "Hello? This is the person who ordered a large Canadian bacon delivered…"

"Oh." You, her tone implied.

"I may have given you the wrong address," I said. "And phone number."

"Yeah. We noticed."

I hastily gave her the correct information, then hung up and went out front to meet the delivery driver at the curb since I still didn't know the apartment number. She pulled up and warily got out of the car, as if she feared she was dealing with someone who might have a tenuous grasp on reality.

"I was here before. They told me nobody lives in the bottom rear apartment." She clutched the pizza to her chest and darted a glance at the house, her expression suggesting that it had occurred to her I might just be a hungry burglar.

"Well, we don't. I mean, not really. Just sometimes, when the weather is bad…" Uh, not helping. I gave up, pried the pizza out of her hands and said, "Never mind. What do I owe you?"

I tipped her extra to offset the possibility that she would dial 911 as soon as she got in her car. And next time, I'll just pick up the stupid pizza. It'll be a lot less stressful for everyone.

*