It's been awhile since I've had a "where I'm at post", and just when I think that I'm past that glorious cognitive dissonance that can only come from moving across two classifications of Canadian regional literature, something happens to reinvoke that "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore" feeling.
Last week, it all started with the unbearably banal act of trying to order in dinner. In an extraordinary display of passive-aggressive posturing, Abby and I had both tried valiantly to guilt the other one into doing the cooking, pulling all the strings in what was sure to be the "'You're hungrier than I am' Fakeout 2005":
"Oh, I ate lunch at four, so I'm fine."
"I live on air and poptarts - don't worry about me. I'll probably won't be hungry again, EVER."
"Liar."
"Shut up. You get up and cook."
"No."
This lasted about four hours, until finally Abby's father put a stop to it, from Calgary.
"What did you girls eat for dinner?"
"Nothing. Sarah won't cook."
"You tell your father that your lazy ass won't cook either!"
"Why don't I just buy you girls dinner, then?" (Dad, are you reading this?)
All passivity was forgotten as Abby and I raced to the takeout menu drawer, salivating over glossy photos of pizza and chop suey and fried chicken. It was a cornucopia of foldable plenty, punctuated with erasers and twist ties. But now we had a new problem.
"What do you want to eat?"
"I dunno. What do you want to eat?"
After kicking each other across the sofa cushions for another hour or so, it was now about 10:30pm, and ravenous hunger demanded the cessation of all "I eat nothing" posturing.
Abby fondled the dog-eared Swiss Chalet menu with a lover's caress, stroking a quarter-white meat with a manicured finger.
"Chicken?"
"Chicken. Order it up." I threw the phone at her. She dialed expectantly. Visions of steaming french fries dipped in Chalet sauce filled my head. I contentedly turned back to the television.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Abby's brow furrow. A single tear ran down one cheek. "That's it," I thought. "No more John Waters movies for you."
"What?"
"They're....closed. They close at ten. Ten. On a Wednesday."
"Well, okay. We'll just order Chinese food."
But that was closed too. And so was the next restaurant we tried, and the next. All closed at ten pm, except for the ones that closed at nine.
"Why isn't anything open?" I wailed.
"Because we're in Fredericton. That's why," said Abby, pouting. "We should make a sign."
We made two. Now all we have to do is point.
The Diplomat's open all night, and they have decent Chinese food. :D
Posted by: Mr. Kong | October 25, 2005 at 19:37