Special Delivery

I confess, my list of “Crap I Can’t Get in The Suburbs” is much shorter than I anticipated when we planted our flag in this uber-green little square of suburbia over a year ago.
I begrudgingly admit that. (I’d never admit it to The Mr., but to you? Ok.)

(Here comes my big old BUT again.)

There is a food delivery option shortage issue about which I can no longer hold my (hungry) tongue.
Pizza, or Chinese.
Pizza, or Chinese.
Pizza or Chinese.

Don’t misunderstand, you can get all kinds of wonderful TAKE OUT from delicious places that will box up faves from around the globe.

Except I am sick.
I seem to have ACTUALLY contracted the dreaded “man cold” that The Mr. claims to come down with each time someone sneezes within a mile radius of him, as I feel like he ACTS each time that happens.
We are talking “huddle-on-the-sofa-in-a-Jabba-the-Hut-sized-pile-of-blankies-and-whimper” sick.
“Call-the-hazmat-team-to-contain-the-used-tissues” sick.
Sicky sick sick.
Like whoa.

I don’t want to cook. I don’t even want to defrost one of the frozen casserole-bricks I have stashed in the freezer for just this type of situation. “Cooking” right now is pouring another glass of cherry 7-up.
Also, I am fairly certain that any public appearances at this point would be met with extreme disdain from those around me, as I have no intention of getting out of these flannel pants or doing anything else crazy like combing my hair or using some concealer to douse my Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer nose. Hell to the no.
If I saw me waiting for a to-go bag at the local sushi joint right now, I would turn right around and walk out, calling the heath inspector as I peeled out of the parking lot. I am super gross, yo.

HOWEVER, I am not one of those people who gets sick and loses her appetite. Quite the opposite. I lay in my blankie heap on the sofa in a NyQuil induced haze, drifting in and out of delicious dreams of the various food-stuffs I am convinced would cure me. Sometimes I get up enough energy to act on the desire, and defrost some green chile from the freezer – but inevitably I end up falling back on to the sofa and into a nap, only to find my defrosted, spoiled snack in the microwave hours later. (Eating food that has been hanging out in the “temperature danger zone” is NOT going to make me less sick, this I know.)

Who will bring me food? Yesterday I KNEW a cubano sandwich would FOR SURE have stopped this plague in its tracks. But that does not fall into the two categories that actually deliver a-way out here.
Pizza or Chinese.

I need a food truck hotline number that I can call in emergency situations – surely they would understand that a vat of white cheddar queso could mean the difference between life and death, right?


While we are at it, the liquor store at the end of our city block used to have a runner. Is it really too much to ask to have my Jack Daniels supply replenished? Mama needs a toddy tonight.

An open display of shameless begging request from a clearly dying woman (it really MUST be a “man cold”, eh?) someone, somewhere up here, open a joint that makes a little bit of everything and is willing to bring it to my door.

Bring me some more tissues while you are at it, k?

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Filed under Crap I can't get in the Suburbs, musing

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