Now, maybe the title of this blog is misleading. I mean, I’m *pretty* sure there is some soft porn, late-night-on-Cinemax movie where a woman orders pizza, and is delivered a HOT LOAF with some creative camera angles and 1970s jazz playing. Not that I’ve ever SEEN one of those movies, mind you, just…you know…I can imagine.
This is not that story.
Here's the real story:
Kealoha is off on a business trip (for real!) and I’ve been on my own with the kids. So tonight, deciding on a dinner that meant little to no effort on my part, I ordered pizza. They’d deliver the food to us and I could just focus on getting the kids to do homework. I could also drink a glass of wine. Brilliant!
And who should the pizza boy be…but…my ex-next-door neighbor back when I was a stay-at-home mom trying desperately to be so perfect that I even made crackers from scratch. (I’d have made the wheat from scratch too, but it failed in the garden.)
This was back when I gave up writing and acting and decided that I could totally be a housewife and talk about running and marathons and whatever was important to my husband. (I know. I know. BIG mistake.) Anyway. I knew on some level that to be a perfect stay-at-home wife, I needed to be friendly. And I hate being friendly. I just suck at it. I should have a t-shirt that says “I’m not a bitch. I’m just a recluse.” But I was determined.
So. On one weekend, I noticed that my next-door neighbor was on his own and his wife was gone. When his wife returned, I saw her in her back yard and I tried to talk to her. Here is that conversation:
ME: So your husband has been moping around all weekend without you.
ME: Yep. He just seems so lost without you. He just sat in the backyard all weekend. He must be so happy to have you home!
HER: Huh. Interesting.
That was the conversation. It felt weird. And awkward. And OFF somehow. The next week, the wife packed up all his bags and threw him out. Later, I found out that on that weekend she was gone, she’d given him an ultimatum to find a new job. He wasn’t supposed to be home at all. In fact, he’d told her he’d been to a job fair, and I, essentially, blew his cover. This is what happens when I try to talk to people. I make their marriages implode.
Of course, my own marriage imploded a year later when I realized I hated making crackers from scratch and I hated running and I wanted a career and I was empty without writing, so maybe this is just the way the world works.
It is also how MY world works. I order pizza to make things easier and come face-to-face with the man whose marriage I feel responsible for ending. I didn’t try to make small talk with him. I just thanked him for the pizza, gave him a nice tip, and quickly shut and locked the door.
It’s better if I don’t talk to anyone. Trust me.