I don't really care.
I feel bad that a baby died, be it intentional or by accident, but babies die every day by both causes, and this just happened to be one that we focused on. I won't play the race card and tell you that I was intrigued by an opinion piece that asked, "If Caylee Anthony was black, would we care?", because truly... I don't care. Sorry.
I know, this sounds harsh. I guess I hate saying "I don't care", but I know so little about the case, its hard to form an opinion one way or the other. Since 98% of Facebook got their law degrees on the same day of the acquittal (why else would everyone else have the right answer?), it would be easy to ascertain that Casey is guilty... though a few rogue opinions say its Grandpa. Heck, I didn't even know the baby died in a pool until after the verdict was read. So, instead of coming late to the baby party, I figured I would just... well, not pay attention to it. Or for lack of a better term, not care. That's just me.
So the other night, its all kind of raining, and The Lovely Steph Leann comes in from her weekend away with Mama Ruthless, and we are both pretty hungry. What to do? Order a pizza!
Hop onto Papa John's online and order our pizza... now, I'm easy when it comes to pizza. The perfect pizza for me includes four things... first, pepperoni. Not too much, don't kill it, but some is good. Next is mushrooms. Next, black olives. And its all baked atop a thick layer of extra cheese.
We typically go the Papa John's route because its more often than not cheaper than Pizza Hut, and neither one of us are fans of Dominos. Little Caesar's is only a choice if you are desperate, broke or at church . Or all three.
Anyway, The Lovely Steph Leann makes it easier because she is very low maintenance--she just wants cheese on it. She used to go pepperoni, but now its just cheese. So when I order, I get extra cheese on the whole thing, pepperoni, black olives and mushrooms on one side. That's it, that's all, order, click, submit, and wait for the pizza to get there.
Forty five minutes later, a ding at the door tells me it has arrived. I tossed on an overly priced 2 liter of Coke... it was $2.29, when at CVS about 1/5th of a mile away, its $1.09, but that would require me to get up, and we can't have that, can we?
The bill was just over $16, I gave the guy a 20 and told him to keep it (if that doesn't seem like a big tip, please know that I could walk to the Papa John's in about 15 minutes--and I only mention the bill and tip because this parlays into the story a little later). I immediately walked it into the kitchen, pulled out a couple of cups, iced them, poured in some refreshing crisp Co-Cola for myself, and some lame caffeine free Co-Cola for her, took the drinks and napkins into the living room, then went back to the kitchen for pizza.
The aroma of cheese filled the air, the heat from the box emanating and warming my hands even before I touched that sacred cardboard, that holder of dinner, that box that would soon bring forth, upon opening, a cornucopia, nay, a cavalcade of wonder, flavor, fat and taste... I opened the box and immediately took a whiff of the cheese, the pepperoni, the onions...
(cue record screeching sound)
...the onions?
I glanced on the right side, and its just cheese. Doesn't look like extra cheese, just cheese. But on the left side... there are onions. And peppers? Peppers! Peppers!! I don't do peppers! Peppers! Not only do peppers infect the entire pizza with their spicy destruction, the mere presence of onions signifies so much time spent rooting and pulling out onions...
I called Papa John's immediately, was put on hold, waiting about 90 seconds, hung up, called back and predictably was put on hold again. Finally, they came back to me, and I told them, very nicely I might add, "So, I was delivered the wrong pizza. Wanted to call you back and let you resolve it."
Was put on hold. Again. Finally, a dude that sounded as if he had a little more authority came back on. He asked my address, and I answered. He asked me what was actually on the box that was delivered, and I replied, "Martha Calen, 1124 Inverness Cove Lane. Not me." He told me they'd send another one out pretty quickly.
I knew The Lovely Steph Leann was hungry, so I cut her out a piece from the cheese side of the mistake pizza... she expressed concern, but my argument was simply that they delivered the wrong pizza--surely they weren't going to take it back. I certainly wouldn't want any pizza that had been in someone else's house... I mean, I trust us, but I don't trust strangers in strange houses.
I brought her a plate with a few pieces of cheese pizza, and sat down, awaiting the other pizza, the right pizza, to arrive. A few minutes later, I got a phone call... from the driver. He asked me what the box he'd delivered had printed on its front. I told him the Inverness Cove Lane address, and he said, "Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I only had two on this route, yours and theirs... and I must have just grabbed the wrong one. You mind if I swing back by?"
"I hope you don't mean to pick up the other pizza, cause... well, eew," I replied. He said, "Naw, I was just going to drop this one by."
Now, I know mistakes can be made, and certainly it is to be expected that anyone delivering a few dozen pizzas night after night is bound to make a mistake. But at the same time, I did pay for my pizza, and I wanted it to be as hot as possible, and by this time, it had been at least 30 to 40 minutes since he'd dropped off the wrong pizza. Meaning my pizza had been in his car for at least 50 minutes, maybe an hour.
"Well, that's fine, but I already called Papa John's and they are supposed to send us another pizza." Got a "Oh" on the other end.
A little while later, our delivery guy showed up and rang the doorbell. When I opened the door, he just kinda tossed it at me, said, "Here ya go, no charge," and walked off. I actually cannot be positive it was the same guy, he was gone so fast. I closed the door, and The Lovely Steph Leann looked up.
"I would sure hope its free," she remarked.
So, dinner was finally here, and it was tasty.
You may not care much about my pizza story, but I really didn't want to talk about Caylee Anthony. Partly because I know so little about the case...
...and partly because... well, I don't care. Does this make me a bad person? Hope not.
The Summer of Blogging Day Thirty Six
