Are you looking for a new condition you can mention at a party to earn a small amount of pity and make you more interesting? It's not debilitating, but it is chronic. You already might be a sufferer, and there's only one way to find out: Order a pizza to be delivered.
Usually I pick it up, because the delivery guy might have six stops between the oven and you. It's the difference between hot and semi-quasi-hot. But it was a chilly night, and I felt lazy. After an hour, though, I was curious, and called the store.
I was met with a prerecorded message that touted the joys of working for the company, followed by a pitch for adding pop to my order. Never thought of that. You have pop? Really? I finally got a human being who probably was ringing up an order with one hand and making a pizza with the other and folding boxes with his feet, and I asked for a status on my order. He looked up my phone number and said the words I did not expect to hear:
"It was delivered, left outside your door."
What? No one knocked.
"The delivery person knocked and no one answered, so it was left outside the door. "
Define knock. If you mean he produced an ostrich feather wrapped in silk and brushed it against the door, that's not a knock, and even then the dog would have gone into full kill-the-mailman-mode. The dog barks if anyone gets close to the house. The dog barks if someone is looking at the house on Google Street View.
There's a doorbell, and it didn't ring. There's a big doorknocker that makes a sound like a nail gun firing a railroad spike into a gong, and I didn't hear it.
