As I sat on the sofa in our basement listening to the Domino’s delivery guy ring the doorbell on Black Friday, exhausted from online shopping and ready to eat anything that didn’t come with gravy, I found myself wondering how I got to this point. And why wasn’t anyone answering the door?

I blame it on Aaron Montgomery Ward.

It all began with the Montgomery Ward catalog, which first brought the department store to the home 130 years ago. How excited Ma must have been the day that first Shoppers’ Bible arrived. Throwing the kids into the back of the wagon (horse-drawn, not station) and driving into town to check out the newest home appliances (hand-cranked, not electric) were no longer necessary, for Ma could shop at home in peace.

Sears and Spiegel followed, and soon we were inundated with page after slick page of items we needed in order to be complete.

By the mid-’80s, catalogs were all the rage. But turning hundreds of pages from dozens of stores each day soon grew tiring. And lonely. And that is when God invented QVC.

QVC gave us that piece we were missing while alone in the living room with a stack of catalogs: friends. With QVC we could still sit on the sofa, avoid the crowds (unless we were put on hold for the next available agent) and never be alone. Our new BFFs were on TV, telling us how much our lives would improve with just three E-Z payments.

Obviously QVC had its flaws, though. Either you had to record an entire broadcast on your VCR or stay within earshot of the TV all day.

Fortunately, Al Gore and his Internet were not far behind, which is why I will never again awaken at 4 a.m. on Black Friday to hit the mall and stand in line, still digesting my 600-calorie slice of pecan pie from the night before. Now I can roll out of bed anytime I choose, pour a cup of coffee and finish shopping well before I decide it’s time to brush my teeth and wash my hair.

Which brings me back to Black Friday. Just when I thought high-tech shopping had reached its peak, I saw a commercial for Domino’s Pizza. Suddenly a message appeared in the corner of the screen from TiVo, telling me that if I pushed the green button on the remote control, they would deliver to my door. Thirty minutes later the doorbell rang, and I was still in the basement, watching the very TV that had summoned three medium pizzas and side of CinnaStix to our home.

So I pulled out my cell phone and called our home line. My third-grader answered. I wish I could have seen the look on the guy’s face when an 8-year-old boy, apparently with TiVo and a major credit card, opened the door.

(Sigh.) But that would have required effort.