We have neighbors that, for some unknown reason, see us as something of a charity case. And, not just any charity. No, instead of dropping by with checks or warm winter coats or boxes of filled with canned food, they bring us their leftover pizza.
I don't get it. It's not like they caught me gazing longingly at the pizza boxes in their trash can one early morning, my lips smacking at the thought of pepperoni I wasn't able to eat. It's not like we were talking to each other over the fence and I said, "I feel like I'm a pretty good dad, but I just wish we weren't so poor that we can't afford pizza. My son deserves pizza, damnit! He deserves it! Sob! Sob!" It's not like we even had the "what kind of food do you like?" conversation and I screamed back at them, "Pizza, and lots of it! Hey, if you ever have leftover pizza, you should totally drop it by!" And yet, this morning, what do our neighbors bring with them when they drop by for coffee? Leftover pizza.
In theory, I'm all for it. I happen to like leftover pizza more than most grown men should, but something about this situation leaves me feeling vaguely uncomfortable. I mean, why have we been singled out for this kind of treatment? Why not the neighbors to their east? Why not the scientist across the street, that also works in my building? And, even more importantly, why pizza? Why not, say, chili dogs or tiramisu or that midwest staple I grew up with, "hot dish?"
The only rational theory that I can come up with is that they're plying us with pizza so that we'll eventually join their cult. If the pizza continues, I'm completely fine with shaving my head and giving away all my personal belongs.