It was a Jonah day yesterday. Which, really is kind of a weird phrase. “A Jonah day?” It’s a biblical tale of a man who refused to follow the orders of God, was cursed, and so his shipmates pitched him overboard to save themselves and their boat. A giant fish swallowed Jonah (Pinocchio-style), in whose belly Jonah lived for three days before God ordered the fish to stop messing about and cough the guy up so he (Jonah, not the fish) could go forth and spread the word of God, like he (God) asked him to in the first place. That was a bad day.
But when I say I had a very Jonah day, I’m thinking of my patron saint, Anne Shirley. There was one chapter in which even more calamities than usual befall my Anne-girl, and at the end the of the day, she collapses, exhausted and tearful, into her bed in the East gable and bemoans her Jonah day.
That’s exactly how I felt yesterday. The day was bad enough. I got through the day. But what I really needed was to get home, collapse onto the couch, and watch a bit of TV with some wine. Instead, I got home, someone had forgotten to shut off the lights (again), put Fenway away, so there was trash strewn about, the toilet was clogged (again), and yet I still thought I could just take some tylenol, put my feet up, and when Jeff got home we could continue our Dexter marathon.
Right up until the time when I went to get the steaks ready for dinner.
The brussel sprouts and onion roasted potatoes were already in the oven cooking. But the steaks and chicken I bought this weekend? No where to be found. They weren’t in the fridge (where, I assumed, someone had stashed them while I was unloading groceries). They weren’t in the little freezer or the back of the car (I was afraid they had been overlooked). So. No meat for dinner. I always put my meat for the next few days in the fridge. No one else ever cooks, so wouldn’t they ask where the meat should go?
Still. Not having any dinner wasn’t the final straw.
Jeff came home, saw that I had given up on the day, and convinced me to order pizza. I told him he should just grab something – he was starving and it would take at least 20-30 minutes. But he was trying to fix things and insisted he could wait. I was told it would be 45-60 minutes. He almost reconsidered. I told him he should cancel it – with my day, the order would be wrong. But nope.
An hour and twenty minutes later, I called the pizza place to ask what was going on. The manager was insanely combative. When I said I had been told 45 minutes, she said “To an hour! I said an hour!”, not even realizing (or caring) that the hour-deadline had long since passed, too. She said one of their drivers had been rear-ended and they were short a driver. And then she let slip that our order hadn’t even left the pizza place yet. But it was “next” when she had a driver available. Seriously?! I asked politely if we could have a voucher for our next order and the deranged lady started arguing with me, saying they gave up that practice 25 years ago (uh, I’ve been given vouchers a time or two before), that it would promote speeding, and that this was an unfortunate rarity. I calmly agreed that I didn’t want to encourage speeding, that I hadn’t called right at 46 minutes wondering where my pizza was, and pointed out that no one had called to say that it could possibly be more than two hours before our food was delivered. She asked if I wanted her to heat it up before it went out. I think I blinked mutely into the phone. Then I politely told her I would no longer be ordering from Dominos if their policy was to no longer guarantee food delivery or customer service. Jeff left to grab some fast food from down the street. And when the order arrived (when Jeff was pulling in the driveway, natch), I politely declined it.
I can’t believe ranting about how rude a pizza delivery manager was to me is important enough for me to focus on for an entire blog post. I should let it go instead of caring for even one single second. But that would take something other than a very incredibly horribly Jonah type of day.