Well, this is a first. Wife and I decided to order pizza, as the thought of cooking seemed less desirable than base-jumping off our roof using plastic Market Basket shopping bags as parachutes, but it’s not exactly going according to “plan.” First of all, we ordered our heated objects (I don’t think you can legally call Franchise Pizza Chain Menu Items “food”) almost an hour ago. Whatever happened to that whole thirty minutes or less thing? Did that only exist in movies? Actually, I’m finding more and more that that question applies to pretty much everything in my past. For instance, did I throw a high school party, against my parents’ wishes, only to be caught because my neighbor found a video store receipt, signed by me, amidst a pile of beer cans? Or am I thinking of the movie Weekend at Bernie’s? But I digress. Finally, after much anxious yearning by the kitchen window, like a sea captain’s wife scanning the horizon from a widow’s walk, the pizza delivery guy appeared. Without our objects. As he explained he would have to drive back to the store for our order, the corner of my eye twitched involuntarily. Fast forward to the following morning. I was clutching my abdomen, wincing in pain, as the objects metastasized inside my body, when something unusual caught the corner of my eye. There, on the front step, was the delivery guy’s pizza box carrying case. Or was it? I don’t know–maybe I’m thinking of the movie E.T.