I have an update to my old Those Wacky Civilians post.
I ordered pizza recently. The bubbly, bouncy, beautiful girl (BBB) who delivered my pizza needed my driver's license number.
Oh, can you help me out? Which number is the license number?
Oh, it's the top number right there, I say, and point it out.
You know, people think I'm crazy sometimes when I ask, but they're all different.
Oh yes. Yes they are. I should know, I've had enough of them over the years.
Oh? Why's that?
We're a military family.
Oh, yeah, I bet you have.
Move a lot, I guess?
Yes, we sure do.
All that packing.... BBB shakes her gorgeous head of hair.
The Army has people who pack us when we move.
Oh, well, then, not so bad?
Grit teeth. Breathe deeply.
Well, it's still a pain, even though we have packers and movers. Every move is stressful.
BBB contemplates. I think she decides I'm lying, but I'm not sure.
I closed the door behind BBB and had visions of her telling her friends, "hey, the Army actually packs and moves those families, they don't have to do any of that stuff." BBB was a nice gal, really she was, but she had the misfortune of delivering a pizza to the home of an Army wife who recently completed a disastrous PCS move. But I should thank her, she gave me something to write about. Heh...