We sit down to watch some mindless TV. FN show on fried chicken. Stomachs start to grumble. We had no “Plan B” for dinner. When I heard the music through the floor and the windows last night at -- well –- let’s just say it was actually this morning -- I should have known.
I was writing, researching, outlining. C., bless him, who can sleep through anything, was, well, sleeping. Music thumped, girls squealed, strobe lights flashed, elevators dinged. Lights. More music. Smoke wafting in through my window -- folks catching a butt out on the fire escape. Time to close that window a bit. Police come and go. Music quiets, then roars again.
Back to tonight. We can take no more viewing of people digging into various types of fried chicken. C. asks whether calling DiningIn would violate my principles. (see previous post: Confessions of a DiningIn 12 Stepper ) He knows how important "principles" are to me. Besides, there’s great fried chicken at one of their restaurants. I remind him I could make some fried chicken with the groceries he bought this morning, but it’s Giannone and that would be a shame. Plus, I don’t have the requisite marination time for my chicken.
He reminds me I’ve never made my fried chicken for him, though everyone else who's had it, swears it’s the best they’ve ever had.
We call. It’s around 7:40 pm. He places the order and is told, due to the rain it will be 75 minutes. We’re looking at around 8:55. He’s told they’ve temporarily had to add 50 cents to the delivery charge due to the rise in gas prices. Fair enough on both counts.
Our buzzer goes off at 9:00. Not bad.
The order is complete and even warm.
Damn you DiningIn and your intermittent reinforcement!!!
I’ll keep you posted on the saga.
You know what they say:
- One day at a time.
- Tomorrow is a new day.
- A fresh start.
And my call with the DiningIn CEO.
# # #
To be continued…