Saturday, December 16, 2006

How was your pizza?

My children hate using the telephone.
"It's the instrument of the devil..."
"It's an invention made by someone of your generation..."
"It's an ineffective form of communication..."
Today's kids rely on Instant Messaging and Text Messaging. Talking is for old people.

Their desire to avoid all use of the phone was something they inherited from me. Never-the-less, in that annoying way us mothers have perfected, I force my boys to use the phone once in awhile so that they can be familiar with the instrument should a medical emergency arise.
"If you place the order, I'll go pick it up." I say regarding our traditional Friday Pizza meal.
"I'm not phoning, Max, you do it."
"I hate talking on the phone, get Drew to call."
"I'm too little. I don't want to. Make Clint."
"You just do it mom. Why are you forcing us to do your job?"
And so on.
We? Here at the O Home, the home of the O's? We fight about everything. Battle lines are drawn hourly.
It was a long, blood-filled war (which I eventually won. Go mom!) before I could get one of them to make the weekly phone call.

A few months ago, after each of them had taken their mandatory court-ordered turn at dialing 310.0001, they talked about their experiences with each other in our daily Circle of Trust sharing time (also known as supper).
"Have you ever gotten a girl that sounds hot?"
"No..."
"Oh."
"I don't think those order takers know where our Panago is, I wonder where the switchboard is?"
"Probably Quebec."
"Or Prince George."
"Yeah. I wonder if they're even in BC?"

The following Friday night, we went through round 67 of the same squirmish, it was no ones turn to call. They all had done it last time. Frustrated with the idiocy of these never-ending fights, I picked up the phone and dialed myself.
"Hi, I'd like to place an order for pick up..."
I gave her my name and phone number then placed some version of our usual order. She confirmed it. And then, just before we disconnected, I asked, "Hey, what city are you in?"
All three of my boys died. Right there on the floor in the front entrance.
Wild hand gestures and looks of fatal embarassment crossed their faces on their way down.
"Pardon?" the order taker asked.
"My boys and I were wondering what city the Panago switchboard is in. Like, are you in BC?"
Clint is looking for the phone jack to rip out of the wall. Max has his hands covering his face and Drew looks like he may never recover from my-mom-is-a-retard- disease.
The Panago girl giggled and said "Burnaby."
I said thanks, and that was that.
Well, not totally that was that. I had to listen to them berate me for embarassing them so thoroughly.
As if the Panago girl would ever know who we are. She's in Burnaby for heaven's sake. And even if one of my boys should ever bump into her, what was the big deal? All she really knows about us is that I'm pretty lazy and not all that inventive with our Friday night meals. We like plain cheese or Hawaiiaiian pizza. With Coke and rootbeer.

I got an e-mail last night at 10 pm from a friend from my Bible school days. We get together about once every two years and have kept in touch via hotmail.
This is how last night's e-mail conversation played out:
"How were your pizzas?"

"G o o d? Huh? Did you remember me saying that Friday night is pizza night around here? (Jokingly, because I know she is a Middle School teacher, I added:) Or are you employed part time at Panago and you took my order?"
Her reply, which I read after watching the final two episodes of the sixth season of West Wing:

"I'm not, but my daughter (who reads your blog) is! She liked your voice, and said I should have you over for dinner. Let's do that!"

OY.
The Panago order girl DOES know more about me than just what type of pizza we like to eat. And she wants me over for dinner.

1 comment:

My Thots said...

My oh my this world is small. And way to go mom-embarassing your boys like that!!! I would never do that Hahaha Okay meaybe everyso often.
Seriously though, how weird that the world is so small