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It's a
Tuesday night. I figured this was the perfect time to snag a grill in the
commons area of my apartment complex. I had my chicken marinated, my veggies
washed - I was good to go.
I peeked out the patio window - no one was around. Perfect!
I gather up my food, bbq utensils, seasonings and my sippy-cup of pinot grigio
(don't want to spill it you know
and skip
down the stairs...dreaming of the grilled goodness that was to come.
Then it happened. The neanderthal that lives across the commons had somehow
beat me to the grill (the one working grill that is). How did he get there so
fast? And he already had it fired up?
He hadn't seen me appear in the courtyard. I spy what it is he is going to
grill. I think to myself, "if it's something good, I'll forgive him".
He then proceeds to take the cheapest, scrawniest looking hotdogs out of a
generic-printed package and tosses them on the not-yet-hot grill. I cringe.
So I lug my food and utensils back up to my apartment and turn on the oven.
Such is life in an apartment building complex. I'm wishing now I had opted for
Chef Anthony's Shrimp Creole and put the chicken back in the
fridge.