you don’t understand. they know me.

I refuse to go pick up our orders anymore from the Johnny’s Pizza down the road from our house.

They know who I am by sight.

I barely get inside the door – and it’s not exactly bright inside…more like a subtle lighting scheme – but the guys at the oven making the pizzas somehow recognize who I am before the door shuts behind me, yell “PICK UP FOR BOLD!!!” and start reaching for my order before I even make it to the counter to pay.

And I don’t exactly get all decked out to pick up pizza.

As in, usually something resembling sweats.

And that, to me, is a problem.

I’m a girl.  And I don’t want to be “remembered” as the one who stumbles in, hair all a mess, no makeup and picks up a pizza and wings and a salad and those garlic knots… I just know they speculate that I must be bulimic because there is no way I could put all that down and not currently be in the shape of a gelatinous blob.

The last time we ordered from Johnnys, I told Tim I wasn’t going in.

He said that was ridiculous.

I asked him how he would feel if his business was yelled out in the middle of a public facility and heads of strangers whipped around to see what the commotion was all about and employees start shooting curious glances at you and try to hide the betting pool tally posted on the wall of  “number of times Bold will pick up pizza in June.  May winner was Sam with 9 times.” 

He went in to get the pizza.

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2 Responses to “you don’t understand. they know me.”


  1. 1 C. Bowie Photography June 8, 2009 at 1:04 pm

    Ah, maybe you should just be happy that someone knows you? 😉

    I kinda think it is a badge of pizza honor.


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