A Takeout Fiasco

(First off, I feel like a liar. Here in Melbourne, most of us say “take away” and not “takeout”, but hey, I was aiming for a global audience.)

I am going to recount for you the events of last evening, when my sister and I innocently set off to buy some food for dinner, blissfully unaware of the escapades that we would meet downtown. It had taken us ten minutes of back-and-forth politeness — “What do you want for dinner?” “No, I honestly don’t care, what would YOU like to eat?” “No no no no, YOU choose. PLEASE,” — before we even made it to the car.

In the end we made the bold decision of chicken burgers. Yummo. It was only as I was pulling the car into park outside the chicken shop that the disappointment began to set in. “Um, Lyss…,” my sister started. “They are closed. So totally closed.” I cursed the chicken gods and with a sigh said, “No. Um. Okay. Plan B.” “Which is?” A grin came to my face. “Pizza.”

There’s this great pizza shop in our town that opened up recently, their crusts are to-die-for and the souvlaki pizzas are our favourite. I turned the car around and navigated a street over to the pizza shop, appropriately named after that Italian gangster movie or whatever. This second car park was a few metres up from the shop in question, so Tegan (my sister) and I resolved to order a small souvlaki in the front seat of the car before she went in, leaving me and the radio alone. But oh!, dreaded doom. Less than 40 seconds later, Tegan was making her way back the the parked car, souvlakiless. She didn’t have to say a word. “Unbelievable,” I muttered as she closed the passenger side door. “It’s because it’s so close to Christmas. They’re closed until January 9. It was so embarrassing, I just had to turn around at the door, and everyone knew I wanted pizza.” “Okay, regroup,” I said, mustering all the strength I had left. “Fish and chips takes too long.” “And I am NOT having Chinese,” Tegan said. That left us with the second chicken shop (which I had already decided deep down was CLOSED because the chicken gods were on break) or the new McDonalds, which we had been trying to avoid to be slightly healthy and mature. Since our last two options were in the same street, Tegan told me to do a driveby of the chicken shop and then — if all else failed — Maccas it is.

“TEEGS. You’re texting. You’re not even LOOKING. THIS IS NOT HOW A DRIVEBY WORKS, OK? Are they open?” Nope. They weren’t open. And so, with a heavy heart, and knowing that we had done all we could to avoid the Golden Arches (nothing against McDonalds, except that it’s usually a salty, bloaty let-down), I turned left into the McDonalds car park. Not too long later, Tegan came back with the goods, informing me that “McDonalds always came through for us.”

So after all that driving around, seeking sustenance and deliciousness, we returned home, where I declared I had “THE BIGGEST OF MACS” and we ate on our new beanbag chairs and watched The O.C. and life was good.

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