Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

where the hell is marconi when you need him?

I don’t know what it is about a Friday and a rousing game of musical restaurants, but Mike and I were at it again tonight.  I wasn’t picky. All I wanted was a slice of pizza.  I wasn’t even particular about where it came from as long as it wasn’t my own kitchen.  The damn fruit flies had regrouped and called for reinforcements, and were now staging a full on revolution.  My only recourse was to spray everything and run. 

It would be impossible to cook in there for at least several days.  I'm sure of it.

So we piled into the car and headed out on a quest to find good pizza…and WiFi.

Now, if you’ve read my blog before, you know this quest was doomed from the beginning.  We hopped into the car at seven, right in the height of the dinner hour, and without a plan.   After a short ride, we were surrounded by several of our favorite restaurants.  None of them served pizza. 

So I asked my husband, “Where are we eating?”

“You didn’t tell me where you wanted to go,” he replied. 

Ok…back up.  Did you see where I said I wanted pizza?  I know I said I wanted pizza at least three times.  I said, "I just want a slice of pizza and I don’t really care where it comes from. Oh as long as they have WiFi." Yes this is what I said.

He didn’t remember any of that conversation. He said I should have been more specific as to where we were going. 

So I said again, “I want pizza.  Just a slice of pizza.” 

The closest place was one we both hated.  But at this point, I was ready to eat my own flip flop…the one Indiana Jones had already chewed half through. I was still wearing the flip flop because it is my only pair, and I don’t really care if it has teeth marks in it.  I will simply tell people I was starving because my husband didn’t listen when I said I wanted pizza. 

So we parked and I hauled my laptop bag into the restaurant with me only to discover that a) they were packed to the gills, and b) they didn’t have WiFi.  This was the easiest decision we have ever made at the dinner hour.  We turned around and went back to the car.

“Pizza.” I reminded him. 

We drove quite a ways away to the historic square, to one of the best places in town.  We drove around for ten minutes looking for a place to park. There was absolutely no parking, and the pizza place was overflowing with people, so we turned around and headed toward home again.  My husband said we were starting fresh close to home.  It was almost eight by then, and I had actually taken a bite out of that flip flop. 

As we drove back to our own side of town, he asked me what I wanted to do.  “Pizza.” I droned, like a zombie.  “I want pizza.”

As we got closer to our own stomping grounds I told him where we could get pizza.  Nothing fancy, but it was definitely pizza.  He looked right at me.  He watched my lips move.  He even made a grunting sound, which all women understand as confirmation.   Then he proceeded to drive right past the turn. 

“Hey!” I whined, coming out of my zombie fog to protest.  “Pizza!  That way!” I pointed. 

He looked at me like I was a crazy person.  “What are you talking about?” 

I replayed the conversation from less than three minutes earlier and he had no recollection. 

“But you looked at me.  You watched me say things.” I argued. 

The blank look on his face told me everything I needed to know.  He had not heard a single word.  And he had looked me right in the face when I was talking.  I decided right then I needed a new system to talk to my husband.  I needed a Marconi wireless telegraph system. 

Wife want pizza. Stop.  Confirm understanding that wife want pizza. Stop.

He would send back his confirmation and the conversation would go on.  Of course, when I explained this to him, he blanked out again and I knew he was thinking about other things while I blathered on.  This is why I have a blog…at least there is someone out there who listens when I type.

Oh yeah, we got the pizza.  Or rather I did.  He had a taco and then we went home.  Two hours in the car to eat at the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut around the corner.  That’s what we call date night around here.

Until the next time…I’ll channeling Marconi in the bedroom tonight!

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