Sometimes you have to wonder if the vegetarians* are the smart ones...
Last night The Hater took me to try a different local Japanese restaurant and sushi house. We found a sushi place that we liked, but this one was closer to our apartment. We figured that if it was as good, we might as well patron it instead.
Now is a good time to illustrate an important aside that The Hater is more of a seafood person than I am. But I am making efforts to venture outside of my net of safety; pun intended. Even though I'm willing to try sushi, at this point in my life I'm only willing to try the cooked kind.
We ordered a spider roll, which is a cooked sushi with soft-shelled crab, cucumber, avacado, rice, and rolled inside nori. Both cooked and low-key; right down my alley. I also ordered a nice vegetarian avacado roll. We ordered a tornado roll, which ended up having a super hot sauce that I didn't eat and The Hater could barely eat. We also ordered a tiger roll, which consisted of fried shrimp and rice rolled with rice, avacado, and eel. And what followed will be one of our more memorable dining experiences...
The waitress brought our plate out, which looked very pretty with the different sushi rolls on it. We began our novice identification test for the different rolls. The spider rolls looked both scary and intriguing, as two of them had legs coming out of them. Legs with feet.
The legs bothered me, but they didn't seem to bother him. I figured I'd eat other things and leave those to him to eat. I ate most of the avacado rolls. I ate one of the footless spider rolls and ventured to the tiger rolls, even though I hate shrimp. Again, the shrimp swam in my mouth, which grossed me out to the point of not even noticing that I was eating eel on purpose. I was in the special place where you attempt to chew and swallow without tasting anything, except I tasted it all. I tasted the shrimp trying to swim away from being swallowed, and it grossed me out.
Tiger roll: 1, genderist: 0.
I tasted the sauce on the tornado rolls and told The Hater it was hot. He picked up a roll and ate it, saying it wasn't that hot. Then, a few seconds later, he reached for his water and told me I probably shouldn't try to eat the hot ones. His face turned red and he looked uncomfortable, but he continued to eat the hot sushi. I am not a hot-eater and watched him instead.
The plate slowly emptied until only two tiger rolls remained, the ones with the little cooked crab feet coming out of them. The Hater pointed out that I hadn't eaten much. I told him I was suddenly full and couldn't eat any more... and then pointed out for the first time during dinner that there were legs still attached to our food.
He calmly pulled a leg out of one of the rolls and bit it. He made a face and put it back on his plate. We tried to pull the legs out of the rolls with our chopsticks and decided that at least the other sushi place didn't have feet still attached to is food.
We noticed that another person ordered the tiger rolls. He, too, was pulling the legs out of the center and setting them aside. In the car we questioned form and function and the art of serving food - if we were supposed to eat the feet. We decided that fish feet were not something we were ready to include in our diet.
And as we went to bed last night, after the lights had been turned out and moments before we fell asleep, I rolled over...
me: Honey?
him: Yeah?
me: I don't like feet on my plate.
him: That's okay. You don't have to eat them.
We laughed and relived the dinner. He confessed that he noticed the feet being served immediately and secretly hoped that I wouldn't say anything about it. He had plans to avoid them to see what happened.
me: Did you think I'd just pick it up and eat it? Feet and all?
him: No. But I wasn't ready to eat it, either.
me: I don't like feet on my plate.
him: Next time we'll go back to the place that didn't serve feet. Or go back to that place and nor order fish feet. We'll get something else.
me: I think I'll stick with the vegetarian sushi.
him: That's okay.
me: Avacados and cucumbers don't have feet.
* Vegetarians taste like chicken.
** Feet on my plate leads me to question the "culture card"...
I didn't even mention that the whole time we were eating there was a fish in a tank next to us, watching us the whole time. It was strangely wrong. He didn't seem to be bothered by the feet.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
moo
Tonight I went to an educational dinner about lymphoma and some new-ish treatment strategies with monoclonal antibodies. It's all very exciting stuff, if you're into CD-20s and killing cancer.
The meeting was held at a super nice and ritzy restaurant. The kind of place where the waiter scrapes the bread crumbs for you between courses. The Hater, self-touted cooked-meat-judge, says they have the best steaks in town. I have to agree.
I ordered steak, seeing as how ordering anything else at this place would be an abomination. Medium-well. (Don't make faces... I don't do pink.) At heart I'm a well-done-meat-eater, but occasionally I venture out of the box.
The steak they brought out to me was not medium-well. It was very medium. Very medium. Pink, Pink, Pink. I didn't want to interrupt the speaker to announce to the waitstaff that my plate just blinked at me, so I took this as an opportunity to venture further outside my comfort zone. That, and the people around me were diving into their pink meat... and I figured that if they'd lived this long eating pink meat, I might make it through the meal, too.
I had no problem saving half of my plate for The Hater. He likes it when I go to these fancy meetings because he gets the leftovers. And he was very proud that I ate Pink. I told him about how it didn't slice smoothly; it really needed a saw, not a steak knife. He says it was the tendons that caused those problems, which is really too much information.
He says he is very proud of me, but I can assure you that next time I'm given the option, I'll be leaning more towards my comfort zone. I don't care for meat that moos at me.
The meeting was held at a super nice and ritzy restaurant. The kind of place where the waiter scrapes the bread crumbs for you between courses. The Hater, self-touted cooked-meat-judge, says they have the best steaks in town. I have to agree.
I ordered steak, seeing as how ordering anything else at this place would be an abomination. Medium-well. (Don't make faces... I don't do pink.) At heart I'm a well-done-meat-eater, but occasionally I venture out of the box.
The steak they brought out to me was not medium-well. It was very medium. Very medium. Pink, Pink, Pink. I didn't want to interrupt the speaker to announce to the waitstaff that my plate just blinked at me, so I took this as an opportunity to venture further outside my comfort zone. That, and the people around me were diving into their pink meat... and I figured that if they'd lived this long eating pink meat, I might make it through the meal, too.
I had no problem saving half of my plate for The Hater. He likes it when I go to these fancy meetings because he gets the leftovers. And he was very proud that I ate Pink. I told him about how it didn't slice smoothly; it really needed a saw, not a steak knife. He says it was the tendons that caused those problems, which is really too much information.
He says he is very proud of me, but I can assure you that next time I'm given the option, I'll be leaning more towards my comfort zone. I don't care for meat that moos at me.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
bad/good/great
My boss came into work today late. She immediately set her purse down and announced that she was very sorry, but pulling into the parking lot she hit my truck. Hit my truck. She hit Harrison, who happened to be sitting where he was supposed to be, directly between the two yellow lines of his favorite space.
me: How bad is it?
her: Well, it's pretty bad.
I dropped everything I was doing and went to the parking lot to attend to poor Harrison. I found him still between his two lines, and she pointed to the dent on his left side. It indeed was a big dent, but the good news is that it was exactly under a previous dent he acquired in 2001 after a MTSU hit-and-run that happened while I was out of town (I was supremely upset when I found that honker.). It didn't interfere with the door or the gas tank. But she was right; it was ugly.
She offered to call her insurance. She said they might could hook the plunger up to it and suck it back out. I pointed out that it was a metal truck, not a plastic car, and the probability of that messing up the paint was high; and a paint job would be more expensive than getting the dent out. I told her not to worry about it. She insisted we call insurance. I told her it was next to the previous dent and was not a huge deal. I told her not to worry about it; it was a dimple that would only make Harrison more suave. (Would you really call the insurance company against Nana? No way.)
(Clarification: Bad news... Harrison earns a new dimple. Good news... it was next to his previous dimple, and compared to that one, it's really not that bad. But it would look awful to you if you didn't know the previous dimple existed. And the great news? Read on!)
We went back to work. About fifteen minutes later she called me to her desk. Before the dimple fiasco I had turned in a time off request for some days around Christmas weekend to go home. She pointed out that I had requested the 25th, which is already a company freebie. She insisted I take another day off to make up for that day. One of my coworkers agreed, and I quickly changed the dates on my form to gain another day home for the holidays.
At the end of this story everybody wins: My boss' insurance premiums won't be raised. She won't have to fool with extra paperwork or explainations. I gain another day at home during the holidays. Harrison's debonaire jaw line received a sophisticated dimple enhancement.
Nothing's to say that the extra day was even related to the accident. They have been talking about me taking some days off to be home for the holidays already... but it makes a better story if I imply that the events are related.
The Hater agrees that the new, bigger dent, still isn't a big deal. It worked out well that she actually hit Harrison at the previously existing dent, which made the accident look way worse than it probably was.
And what's a ding to a sexy farm truck anyway?
me: How bad is it?
her: Well, it's pretty bad.
I dropped everything I was doing and went to the parking lot to attend to poor Harrison. I found him still between his two lines, and she pointed to the dent on his left side. It indeed was a big dent, but the good news is that it was exactly under a previous dent he acquired in 2001 after a MTSU hit-and-run that happened while I was out of town (I was supremely upset when I found that honker.). It didn't interfere with the door or the gas tank. But she was right; it was ugly.
She offered to call her insurance. She said they might could hook the plunger up to it and suck it back out. I pointed out that it was a metal truck, not a plastic car, and the probability of that messing up the paint was high; and a paint job would be more expensive than getting the dent out. I told her not to worry about it. She insisted we call insurance. I told her it was next to the previous dent and was not a huge deal. I told her not to worry about it; it was a dimple that would only make Harrison more suave. (Would you really call the insurance company against Nana? No way.)
(Clarification: Bad news... Harrison earns a new dimple. Good news... it was next to his previous dimple, and compared to that one, it's really not that bad. But it would look awful to you if you didn't know the previous dimple existed. And the great news? Read on!)
We went back to work. About fifteen minutes later she called me to her desk. Before the dimple fiasco I had turned in a time off request for some days around Christmas weekend to go home. She pointed out that I had requested the 25th, which is already a company freebie. She insisted I take another day off to make up for that day. One of my coworkers agreed, and I quickly changed the dates on my form to gain another day home for the holidays.
At the end of this story everybody wins: My boss' insurance premiums won't be raised. She won't have to fool with extra paperwork or explainations. I gain another day at home during the holidays. Harrison's debonaire jaw line received a sophisticated dimple enhancement.
Nothing's to say that the extra day was even related to the accident. They have been talking about me taking some days off to be home for the holidays already... but it makes a better story if I imply that the events are related.
The Hater agrees that the new, bigger dent, still isn't a big deal. It worked out well that she actually hit Harrison at the previously existing dent, which made the accident look way worse than it probably was.
And what's a ding to a sexy farm truck anyway?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
gag a maggot
Tonight I am supremely and utterly gagged after I was led through a two and a half hour wild goose chase.
Last month I received a flyer from a local medical-type group that said there would be a training meeting tonight at 6pm. I left work a little early so that I could get down town and find the meeting room without being late. Imagine my surprise when nobody was there, but it was about 5:35pm, so I figured nobody was there because it was still early. A hospital security guard told me he thought the meeting began at 7pm. I waited. At 7:05pm I was still the only person in attendance.
I came home and sent an email to the person in charge of the group. I asked him to please understand my frustration. "Tonight I had to choose between a continuing educaiton activity that actually pertained to my job and your meeting, and I had to argue with my coworkers to defend why it was more important for me to attend the meeting that neither included CEUs nor a steak dinner. And tomorrow when they ask how my meeting went, my honest answer will have to be that I left early, drove downtown and waited an hour and a half on a meeting that did not happen. "
I understand that nothing can be done to change the outcomes of the meeting tonight. I understand that things happen and schedules change. I understand the expense that would follow a mass remailing of updated information, changing previously published schedule and date changes. However, the least that anybody could have done is post a sign at the door of the meeting room that said the meeting had been cancelled.
This is poor planning and leads me to question why I should attempt to reconnect with this group. I told him that in my letter, too. I read the letter to The Hater twice to make sure it wasn't too bitter. I wonder if there will even be a reply.
The Hater has shown the appropriate amount of sympathy gagness with me since I've been home. He also says that he knows when I'm really mad because I keep my lips clenched and when he asks if I'm still angry or if he mentions the topic, I only answer with a repeated, short headshake. It's picking up on context clues like those that keep him in the best of graces.
Last month I received a flyer from a local medical-type group that said there would be a training meeting tonight at 6pm. I left work a little early so that I could get down town and find the meeting room without being late. Imagine my surprise when nobody was there, but it was about 5:35pm, so I figured nobody was there because it was still early. A hospital security guard told me he thought the meeting began at 7pm. I waited. At 7:05pm I was still the only person in attendance.
I came home and sent an email to the person in charge of the group. I asked him to please understand my frustration. "Tonight I had to choose between a continuing educaiton activity that actually pertained to my job and your meeting, and I had to argue with my coworkers to defend why it was more important for me to attend the meeting that neither included CEUs nor a steak dinner. And tomorrow when they ask how my meeting went, my honest answer will have to be that I left early, drove downtown and waited an hour and a half on a meeting that did not happen. "
I understand that nothing can be done to change the outcomes of the meeting tonight. I understand that things happen and schedules change. I understand the expense that would follow a mass remailing of updated information, changing previously published schedule and date changes. However, the least that anybody could have done is post a sign at the door of the meeting room that said the meeting had been cancelled.
This is poor planning and leads me to question why I should attempt to reconnect with this group. I told him that in my letter, too. I read the letter to The Hater twice to make sure it wasn't too bitter. I wonder if there will even be a reply.
The Hater has shown the appropriate amount of sympathy gagness with me since I've been home. He also says that he knows when I'm really mad because I keep my lips clenched and when he asks if I'm still angry or if he mentions the topic, I only answer with a repeated, short headshake. It's picking up on context clues like those that keep him in the best of graces.
Monday, October 09, 2006
downward facing spiral
Over the weekend The Hater and I went to see a movie. While in line waiting to purchase the tickets we noticed a young girl standing next to the ticket window with a group of pepole. She was maybe 11 or 12 years old and was sucking her thumb while holding a baby doll that was draped in a baby blanket.
We were disturbed.
Upon further thought, I asked The Hater what disturbed him more:
I was distubed that she was not only holding the doll, but she was also rocking back and forth with it, patting its back, and keeping the blanket over its shoulders. Why would a pre-teen carry a doll to the movies anyway? This doll appeared to be a well-loved treasure, not something new that you'd think she was proud to take out and display to the masses at the mall. And why was she coddling it?
We obviously didn't stop her and ask her these questions. We didn't even ask the adults with her. But we asked each other.
We wondered if she felt loved. We wondered if she thought that if she had a baby, someone would have to love her and depend on her. We wondered if the people who failed to teach her not to suck her thumb had picked up the slack and taught her, instead, that she was loved. That she could be successful. That the future was hers, and there would be time for babies later.
But we didn't actually ask them. Instead we stood back and made our own assumptions, painted our own story to justify the scene that truly disturbed us. We stood back and wondered if our visions really illustrated a torrential cycle ... or one of the many random pre-teen phases ... or something that had no deeper meaning at all.
We were disturbed.
Upon further thought, I asked The Hater what disturbed him more:
A. the pre-teen sucking her thumb to the hiltHis answer was D. But he was also disturbed that nobody had reinforced that thumb-sucking was something she should have quit doing ten years ago.
B. the pre-teen holding a plastic baby
C. the pre-teen making sure the plastic baby was draped in a blanket
D. the pre-teen holding said baby and sucking her thumb to the hilt at the same time
I was distubed that she was not only holding the doll, but she was also rocking back and forth with it, patting its back, and keeping the blanket over its shoulders. Why would a pre-teen carry a doll to the movies anyway? This doll appeared to be a well-loved treasure, not something new that you'd think she was proud to take out and display to the masses at the mall. And why was she coddling it?
We obviously didn't stop her and ask her these questions. We didn't even ask the adults with her. But we asked each other.
We wondered if she felt loved. We wondered if she thought that if she had a baby, someone would have to love her and depend on her. We wondered if the people who failed to teach her not to suck her thumb had picked up the slack and taught her, instead, that she was loved. That she could be successful. That the future was hers, and there would be time for babies later.
But we didn't actually ask them. Instead we stood back and made our own assumptions, painted our own story to justify the scene that truly disturbed us. We stood back and wondered if our visions really illustrated a torrential cycle ... or one of the many random pre-teen phases ... or something that had no deeper meaning at all.
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