I'm nearing 13 months with a great guy, and I only occasionally want to hit him with a frying pan.
In the year I've known him, Jason has been in constant home remodel mode. Not that I haven't offered to help. Not that he hasn't allowed me to on rare occasion. But it's not just one project...
The guest bathroom--and only working one in the house--has been two colors already, and evidence remains on the ceiling of a third previous attempt with disastrous effects. (Hint for homeowners: Small bathrooms + deep red = BAD IDEA!) His bedroom floor lacks one 6" strip of having finished flooring--IF you don't count the currently concrete walkway into the room. The living room stores mounds of painting supplies. One smaller bedroom stores a shop vac and an air compressor (it's safer to not ask). There are two rooms to which he has refused me entry, upon penalty of death (one is the master bath, locked from the inside!). The two-car garage we see from the curb does not exist; rather, it's his woodshop.
Now I'm not naive on this. My parents had an old farm house, and throughout my childhood and teen years, I have helped with the remodeling, repainting, re-wallpapering, or recarpeting of nearly every room. And yes, it can be a source of tension for couples--but it's also a barrel of laughs, with the right attiude!
While visiting Jason last weekend, I convinced him to take advantage of my being there for an extra day. We could finish the bathroom completely. We just had crown moulding, the tub fixture, a cap over the tiles at the tub, some caulking, and the various ecoutrements of a toilete (towel racks, mirrors, cabinets...). I figured if we worked really hard, we could at least get the more difficult tasks done, and he'd be ready to go get the ecoutrements.
I was wrong.
Four hours we worked on crown moulding. In that time, we nailed up two pieces of eight. Both were wrong. Right length--wrong end cut. He needed a coping saw (the one saw he did not own!). Or some other thing he saw in a wood working magazine (he's really kind of handy--just not great on the follow-through). At the point we were ready to start using the air nailer on one another I decided we should probably go for a walk and get ready for dinner.
He called the other night all excited. "I think I finally got it!" He figured out how to get the moulding to line up properly, and arrange it.
I'm going to see him again tomorrow night for the weekend. We have a date with his bathroom ceiling.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
For all you late bloomers out there
In the interest of community, I started a message board for women who have come out later in life. I've run into a number of us in my travels and I decided it was high time those of us who are local had a virtual place to congregate. Hopefully we'll even have an actual place to congregate and talk soon.
And even if you aren't a late bloomer, just struggling with being gay in the Queen City or just looking for some new friends feel free to stop by. The site is QueenCityLesbigaggle.myfreeforum.org.
And even if you aren't a late bloomer, just struggling with being gay in the Queen City or just looking for some new friends feel free to stop by. The site is QueenCityLesbigaggle.myfreeforum.org.
Her assed
I have a love/hate relationship with MySpace. Sure it’s a good way to keep in touch with friends and there’s all those great quizzes and tests to pass the time. But it’s also very cliquish and has the maturity level of the ninth grade … and there’s all those quizzes and tests that are such time vampires. Ahem.
One of MySpace’s latest tools to keep up with your friends is a little application that compares your Friends List with the Friends List of the people ON your Friends list. Say that three times fast. The application then coughs up people you might know in common that you haven’t already “friended.”
In theory, I’m sure this little app is very useful and sometimes helpful. However, in the incestuous lesbian dating world it can also be painful.
I wandered into the living room yesterday afternoon and the GF was chuckling. “Guess who MySpace thinks I might want to friend?”
Tired from a workout, I shrugged. She gave me a few hints. I was a bit slow on the uptake but then it dawned on me that it was HER.
In our dating lives, we all have that one “special” someone. The person we regret ever having thought was worthy of our time or even just hot. The person you may have had sex with twice, but gave you a lifetime of grief. In other words, HER.
I shook my head. “What picture did she have up?”I asked bemusedly.
The GF chuckled, “Her posterior in a short skirt.”
A number of wry remarks tumbled forth in my brain before I said, “So she’s showing her good side?”
One of MySpace’s latest tools to keep up with your friends is a little application that compares your Friends List with the Friends List of the people ON your Friends list. Say that three times fast. The application then coughs up people you might know in common that you haven’t already “friended.”
In theory, I’m sure this little app is very useful and sometimes helpful. However, in the incestuous lesbian dating world it can also be painful.
I wandered into the living room yesterday afternoon and the GF was chuckling. “Guess who MySpace thinks I might want to friend?”
Tired from a workout, I shrugged. She gave me a few hints. I was a bit slow on the uptake but then it dawned on me that it was HER.
In our dating lives, we all have that one “special” someone. The person we regret ever having thought was worthy of our time or even just hot. The person you may have had sex with twice, but gave you a lifetime of grief. In other words, HER.
I shook my head. “What picture did she have up?”I asked bemusedly.
The GF chuckled, “Her posterior in a short skirt.”
A number of wry remarks tumbled forth in my brain before I said, “So she’s showing her good side?”
Monday, March 23, 2009
Just an observation...not a comment.
I’ve visited my boyfriend in his hometown four hours away probably between a half dozen and a dozen times in our year together. The southern metropolis simply doesn’t have an outspoken GLBT presence. My partner can’t even name a gay bar in the city. (He might have to tell someone where it is if he could!)
Apparently my boyfriend missed the memo this weekend. It’s like there was an unspoken convention everywhere we went.
Saturday night, we headed out to a wine bar. Unfortunately, it was a little crowded, and our stomachs were starting to grumble. We looked down the strip, and certain enough, there was a newly opened establishment, specializing in Turkish/Mediterranean cuisine. He had wanted to try it, so we parked and went in.
The little place was crowded, for its size. Of the six booths and half dozen tables, five booths were full and one table was taken. A waitress—a bubbly teen type, chipper as can be—stated that if we’d give her all of a minute, she’d finish clearing off the remaining booth for us. We happily consented.
During the meal (which was excellent, by the way!), I did what I have always learned to do in public settings: casually observe the other patrons. Mostly, it was what many would expect: husbands and wives out for a Saturday evening meal. One group at a table. Two relatively “comfortable” looking guys in a corner booth. WHAT!? (I swear my internal dialog was something akin to a Scooby-Doo cartoon! “AROO!?”) Okay. Moving along…another married couple, two guys just walked in the door…
It was at this moment my mind really started turning. What the hell is going on here!?
I posed my observation to my boyfriend by saying, “I’m just observing, not commenting, but there are an awful lot of two-male tables here.” (Let’s do the math: Several pairs of guys dining in corner booths on a Saturday night in an intimate restaurant with some rather unusual cuisine for the location. Typically you can leave this with “the gays”.)
While we dined, I had the view of the exterior window. At least two pairs of males walked by during the meal. And not goofing off, have nothing better to do teenage types. Two pairs of adult males. And there were no women nearby. And they were definitely headed in the direction of “trendy”. Again, I’m not commenting—just observing.
We finished our meal, and we headed to Target for the second time that day. While wandering aisles, I walked past the cleaning goods section, an area where you rarely see two straight men at the same time, unless they are using separate shopping carts. Besides, these two were obviously gay. The trendier side of Emo and the verbalized “totally wow” gave it away. Well, that, and the nearly dry-humping closeness of the couple.
Again, I’m not saying that the southern city has made a turn for the better, but it did my Queen City heart proud to see a few people that could easily pass for gay out and about.
Apparently my boyfriend missed the memo this weekend. It’s like there was an unspoken convention everywhere we went.
Saturday night, we headed out to a wine bar. Unfortunately, it was a little crowded, and our stomachs were starting to grumble. We looked down the strip, and certain enough, there was a newly opened establishment, specializing in Turkish/Mediterranean cuisine. He had wanted to try it, so we parked and went in.
The little place was crowded, for its size. Of the six booths and half dozen tables, five booths were full and one table was taken. A waitress—a bubbly teen type, chipper as can be—stated that if we’d give her all of a minute, she’d finish clearing off the remaining booth for us. We happily consented.
During the meal (which was excellent, by the way!), I did what I have always learned to do in public settings: casually observe the other patrons. Mostly, it was what many would expect: husbands and wives out for a Saturday evening meal. One group at a table. Two relatively “comfortable” looking guys in a corner booth. WHAT!? (I swear my internal dialog was something akin to a Scooby-Doo cartoon! “AROO!?”) Okay. Moving along…another married couple, two guys just walked in the door…
It was at this moment my mind really started turning. What the hell is going on here!?
I posed my observation to my boyfriend by saying, “I’m just observing, not commenting, but there are an awful lot of two-male tables here.” (Let’s do the math: Several pairs of guys dining in corner booths on a Saturday night in an intimate restaurant with some rather unusual cuisine for the location. Typically you can leave this with “the gays”.)
While we dined, I had the view of the exterior window. At least two pairs of males walked by during the meal. And not goofing off, have nothing better to do teenage types. Two pairs of adult males. And there were no women nearby. And they were definitely headed in the direction of “trendy”. Again, I’m not commenting—just observing.
We finished our meal, and we headed to Target for the second time that day. While wandering aisles, I walked past the cleaning goods section, an area where you rarely see two straight men at the same time, unless they are using separate shopping carts. Besides, these two were obviously gay. The trendier side of Emo and the verbalized “totally wow” gave it away. Well, that, and the nearly dry-humping closeness of the couple.
Again, I’m not saying that the southern city has made a turn for the better, but it did my Queen City heart proud to see a few people that could easily pass for gay out and about.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Never forget the Green
While I could post a few rantings about how I was really missing money about now--and really,who ISN'T missing money about now???, my thoughts this morning drifted back. Way, WAY back to the time of elementary school.
It's St. Patty's, of course. And like any wide-eyed kid who knows nothing better, I wanted to fit in. In elementary school on St. Patrick's day, that means one thing only: be like a leaf in late Spring. Wear green, green, GREEN, and only green. In fact, if you can just temporarily tatoo yourself green, all the better. Think of it as camoflauge, and the pending war is nothing less than a pinch-fest by any bully, girl who had cooties, boy who wanted to get too close, or teacher who has it out for you.
My mom taught in my school, often within a few classrooms of my own. I'm not sure if that was coincidence or planning on her part. My mother has always tended to be a bit over protective. So you'd think that when days came around that might cause physical harm to her youngest, she'd be right out on the front, making sure that strategy was played out. As mentioned, it was all-out war on St. Patrick's day. Every man to himself, and keep your eyes out to taunt others, lest you be taunted.
"LOOK! Jane's not wearing green!!! GET HER!"
(Says Jane) "Dick's not wearing green, either. Get him!"
But it was too late, alas, for poor Jane. Her addiction to bright colors caused her to forget that holidays trump fashion. Ergo, the god-awful Christmas sweaters Grandma provided "with love" and your mother forced you to wear for the holiday photo.
In my mom's class, if you forgot to wear green, she had a construction paper shamrock already prepared with your name on it and a straight pin, ready to affix said shamrock to your shirt.
And lo, the many woes to one who pinches another who WAS, in fact, wearing green. I say unto you, there will be great wailing and gnashing of teeth, not to mention a yelp of pain when they get to pinch back. And let's not forget, the revenge pinch is ALWAYS harder than the one for the color faux pas.
As I got into high school, there were more classmates who decided to get creative in their attacks and their clothing. Attacks, with drastically changing hormones, became more sincere, more violent. A young man had to be careful. A tight pinch on the ass, a nipple twister, even a pulled arm hair could be your fate if you forgot the green.
A simple green tee was no longer creative enough. Not by a long shot. If you wanted to impress, you had a shirt that had small patches of green sporadically placed, so as to ensure a false attack from an enemy. That guaranteed you a chance for a revenge pinch.
If female (or the class-clowning male), some tightly-striped sock with green was a good start. Mostly hidden by jeans, it could go unnoticed. Further, the tight striping caused confusion regarding the justification of a pinch attempt. Therefore, it was best not to try. Females who had blossomed into young women were given a second advantage--hide your green, save a thin bra strap, showing through the neck of your shirt.
Guys, of course, had their way of dealing with this color hiding, as well. When we got into our adolescent years, we somehow gained a miraculous realization that basic white briefs no longer cut it. You had to find color briefs; boxer briefs, if you were really cool. Boxer shorts were okay, but not convenient in gym class. And the only time anyone saw those was when your pants started sagging or when you were undressing in the locker room. (Gee...wonder if this is where a fetish began for some people...hmm...)
I have faithfully tried to wear green every year, even after I found out that wearing green on St. Patrick's day showed your loyalty to the Catholic Church in Ireland. At least, that's one of the legends. And since I was raised Catholic, they kind of expect me to show loyalty...blah, blah, blah.
So, I was a little sad when I drove to the bank this morning, and not one of the employees had made a conscious effort to wear green. Where's the Irish spirit? Where's the heart? Where's the DAMN GREEN!?
Fortunately, I went to Starbucks on my lunch hour. To strange to be mere coincidence, all the employees drug out their aprons special for today! I sat back, enjoyed my chai, and laughed to myself of the memories of green.
It's St. Patty's, of course. And like any wide-eyed kid who knows nothing better, I wanted to fit in. In elementary school on St. Patrick's day, that means one thing only: be like a leaf in late Spring. Wear green, green, GREEN, and only green. In fact, if you can just temporarily tatoo yourself green, all the better. Think of it as camoflauge, and the pending war is nothing less than a pinch-fest by any bully, girl who had cooties, boy who wanted to get too close, or teacher who has it out for you.
My mom taught in my school, often within a few classrooms of my own. I'm not sure if that was coincidence or planning on her part. My mother has always tended to be a bit over protective. So you'd think that when days came around that might cause physical harm to her youngest, she'd be right out on the front, making sure that strategy was played out. As mentioned, it was all-out war on St. Patrick's day. Every man to himself, and keep your eyes out to taunt others, lest you be taunted.
"LOOK! Jane's not wearing green!!! GET HER!"
(Says Jane) "Dick's not wearing green, either. Get him!"
But it was too late, alas, for poor Jane. Her addiction to bright colors caused her to forget that holidays trump fashion. Ergo, the god-awful Christmas sweaters Grandma provided "with love" and your mother forced you to wear for the holiday photo.
In my mom's class, if you forgot to wear green, she had a construction paper shamrock already prepared with your name on it and a straight pin, ready to affix said shamrock to your shirt.
And lo, the many woes to one who pinches another who WAS, in fact, wearing green. I say unto you, there will be great wailing and gnashing of teeth, not to mention a yelp of pain when they get to pinch back. And let's not forget, the revenge pinch is ALWAYS harder than the one for the color faux pas.
As I got into high school, there were more classmates who decided to get creative in their attacks and their clothing. Attacks, with drastically changing hormones, became more sincere, more violent. A young man had to be careful. A tight pinch on the ass, a nipple twister, even a pulled arm hair could be your fate if you forgot the green.
A simple green tee was no longer creative enough. Not by a long shot. If you wanted to impress, you had a shirt that had small patches of green sporadically placed, so as to ensure a false attack from an enemy. That guaranteed you a chance for a revenge pinch.
If female (or the class-clowning male), some tightly-striped sock with green was a good start. Mostly hidden by jeans, it could go unnoticed. Further, the tight striping caused confusion regarding the justification of a pinch attempt. Therefore, it was best not to try. Females who had blossomed into young women were given a second advantage--hide your green, save a thin bra strap, showing through the neck of your shirt.
Guys, of course, had their way of dealing with this color hiding, as well. When we got into our adolescent years, we somehow gained a miraculous realization that basic white briefs no longer cut it. You had to find color briefs; boxer briefs, if you were really cool. Boxer shorts were okay, but not convenient in gym class. And the only time anyone saw those was when your pants started sagging or when you were undressing in the locker room. (Gee...wonder if this is where a fetish began for some people...hmm...)
I have faithfully tried to wear green every year, even after I found out that wearing green on St. Patrick's day showed your loyalty to the Catholic Church in Ireland. At least, that's one of the legends. And since I was raised Catholic, they kind of expect me to show loyalty...blah, blah, blah.
So, I was a little sad when I drove to the bank this morning, and not one of the employees had made a conscious effort to wear green. Where's the Irish spirit? Where's the heart? Where's the DAMN GREEN!?
Fortunately, I went to Starbucks on my lunch hour. To strange to be mere coincidence, all the employees drug out their aprons special for today! I sat back, enjoyed my chai, and laughed to myself of the memories of green.
I love the smell of patchouli in the morning
I was barely awake, pre-coffee and just trying to prepare my breakfast sandwich in the break room at work. Why do they ALWAYS sneak up on me at those moments?
A co-worker meandered in and loudly sniffed the air. She looked pointedly at me.
“Are you wearing patchouli?”
I could hear Maggie Bitter groaning in sympathy. (And yes I know only Karen gets that joke)
“No,” I said, hoping that would end it. I’m such a foolish dyke.
She stepped closer, “Are you sure? I swear I smell patchouli.”
While I don’t wear patchouli, I do use a sea salt soap that has a very distinct fragrance. I told her as much, prompting her to grab my shirt and take a big whiff.
“It smells really nice,” she said, and then gave me a look.
I wanted to scream, “Do you NOT have the first concept of personal space?? Do you not see the BAND on my left hand? We’re you dropped on your head as an infant??!”
But even I know discretion is the better part of valor. I told her about the store where I got it and told her how to get there. Then I grabbed my sandwich from the microwave and ran.
I’ve been taking a breakfast that doesn’t have to be heated these days. It’s just safer that way.
A co-worker meandered in and loudly sniffed the air. She looked pointedly at me.
“Are you wearing patchouli?”
I could hear Maggie Bitter groaning in sympathy. (And yes I know only Karen gets that joke)
“No,” I said, hoping that would end it. I’m such a foolish dyke.
She stepped closer, “Are you sure? I swear I smell patchouli.”
While I don’t wear patchouli, I do use a sea salt soap that has a very distinct fragrance. I told her as much, prompting her to grab my shirt and take a big whiff.
“It smells really nice,” she said, and then gave me a look.
I wanted to scream, “Do you NOT have the first concept of personal space?? Do you not see the BAND on my left hand? We’re you dropped on your head as an infant??!”
But even I know discretion is the better part of valor. I told her about the store where I got it and told her how to get there. Then I grabbed my sandwich from the microwave and ran.
I’ve been taking a breakfast that doesn’t have to be heated these days. It’s just safer that way.
A year older and bitchier
Oh, hello. Yes, I know, where the hell have I been? All apologies, but my time hasn’t exactly been my own of late. That and I had a birthday last week.
The GF and I went out for a celebratory birthday dinner as a matter of fact. She took me to Kai, because that’s my favorite place and she’s cool like that.
We arrived a few minutes early and our table wasn’t ready. We went to the bar, as instructed, to wait. A few minutes later another couple came and sat next to us.
The man started in immediately, “Did you see what those idiots in California are doing? The voters voted against Prop 8 and now they’re fighting it …” he trailed off because at this point I was staring at him. He looked at his feet. Fortunately, the hostess came and got him and took him to his table.
Unfortunately, when they came and got us, they put us at the table right next to him. If you’ve never been to Kai, the tables are mere inches apart. It’s a cozy place.
This could be a story about discrimination or being treated poorly by some jackass straight man, but I’m happy to report it isn’t.
Instead of being intimidated and uncomfortable, the GF and I continued our conversation. We traversed a number of current topics and when Jackass wasn’t treating our waiter like dirt he was glowering that we two uppity lesbians were proving that we were just a couple just like he and his wife.
Then the hostess brought an obviously gay man and his female dining partner up and seated them at the next table. By now, Jackass was fuming. He continued to take his ire out on the waiter.
The final straw was when our food was brought to the table. Of course, two of our dishes were flaming and Jackass’s wife could not help but ask us what they were. He glared at her as if her talking to us might give her a case of the gay.
He barked at the waiter to bring his check. They had barely finished eating. While I didn’t clap when he left, I did chuckle loudly.
And speaking of married couples, I mentioned I’d been a twee busy of late. The GF and I are in the process of planning a commitment ceremony. Now, now, no ugly emails about burying the lead.
The announcement comes lately and quietly in the post for a reason. It’s going to be a very quiet event. The GF and I are, as a friend quipped, not exactly people people. We’re having a very small ceremony with just family at my parents' home. We plan to celebrate big with friends a little later on this summer.
The GF and I went out for a celebratory birthday dinner as a matter of fact. She took me to Kai, because that’s my favorite place and she’s cool like that.
We arrived a few minutes early and our table wasn’t ready. We went to the bar, as instructed, to wait. A few minutes later another couple came and sat next to us.
The man started in immediately, “Did you see what those idiots in California are doing? The voters voted against Prop 8 and now they’re fighting it …” he trailed off because at this point I was staring at him. He looked at his feet. Fortunately, the hostess came and got him and took him to his table.
Unfortunately, when they came and got us, they put us at the table right next to him. If you’ve never been to Kai, the tables are mere inches apart. It’s a cozy place.
This could be a story about discrimination or being treated poorly by some jackass straight man, but I’m happy to report it isn’t.
Instead of being intimidated and uncomfortable, the GF and I continued our conversation. We traversed a number of current topics and when Jackass wasn’t treating our waiter like dirt he was glowering that we two uppity lesbians were proving that we were just a couple just like he and his wife.
Then the hostess brought an obviously gay man and his female dining partner up and seated them at the next table. By now, Jackass was fuming. He continued to take his ire out on the waiter.
The final straw was when our food was brought to the table. Of course, two of our dishes were flaming and Jackass’s wife could not help but ask us what they were. He glared at her as if her talking to us might give her a case of the gay.
He barked at the waiter to bring his check. They had barely finished eating. While I didn’t clap when he left, I did chuckle loudly.
And speaking of married couples, I mentioned I’d been a twee busy of late. The GF and I are in the process of planning a commitment ceremony. Now, now, no ugly emails about burying the lead.
The announcement comes lately and quietly in the post for a reason. It’s going to be a very quiet event. The GF and I are, as a friend quipped, not exactly people people. We’re having a very small ceremony with just family at my parents' home. We plan to celebrate big with friends a little later on this summer.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Katie Couric ain't got nuthin' on you, hun.
Last autumn, my partner and I went to one of our favorite establishments, where we had an exceptionally great time. It was the first time we'd been seated in this particular section, and we had been given an outstanding waitress. She was fun and energetic, bringing out the best in him and me as patrons of their establishment. She was so good, in fact, that I ended up getting more than I usually do to drink, which meant we stayed longer. Which meant we bought more food. (She's VERY good at her job!)
You know how sometimes you remember life a certain way, and when you encounter a similar situation, you realize you're kind of wrong. Yeah, that was tonight with me.
I arrived earlier than my guest this evening, so I asked to be seated--no use losing our reservation for some silly reason like not being on time! I was excited to see that this bubbly waitress was going to be in our section, and immediately, I thought to myself Great! She might be our waitress again!
Well, I was right about her being our waitress...
Ms. Bubbly jumped over to our table, excited as she could be (I swear there was a hug looming in her eyes.) The hostess had neglected to pass along a drink menu, so I couldn't order wine, beer, or mixed drinks--and after today, I really wanted one. So while Ms. Bubbly fetched the menu, I politely waited.
Once my guest arrived, we placed wine orders and our appetizer was served within minutes of her arrival. (I had taken the liberty of ordering a personal favorite.) The waitress looked at us, and I started fawning about how much I was glad to see her again, and how my partner and I had enjoyed her courtesy in our last encounter. Having friends in the food industry, I know that it's a great idea to ask to be seated in a particular waiter or waitress's section. They get good customers and you get good service. It's fantastic.
About 3 minutes after the appetizer arrived, I remember why I sometimes dislike dining out. Yes, there's an unwritten rule about checking on your patrons about 2 bites in, then again about 5 minutes later. But do you realize how difficult it is to hold a conversation when your waitress interrupts you every five minutes. And on an alternating schedule, the busboy fills the water every five minutes. So, pretty much on average, you're limited to a two-and-a-half minute conversation before an interruption.
I'm a courtesy junkie, too (my momma taught me well). So when the busboy comes by, I have to say "Thank you," even if he only needs to fill my fellow diners' glasses. I feel an equal pull from the courtesy police in my head to be polite and say "thank you" to the waitress every time she stops by. Picture the most annoying phone conversation with the Verizon wireless guy, except instead of "Can you hear me now?" it's more like "Thank you so much."
Yes, I'm disfunctional. I don't care.
At one point, I finally asked the waitress if it was ever tempting to throw a plate at a customer. She said only in her last job--she had worked for a major seafood chain. Little girl, big platters of food, and a crowded path between kitchen and tables. Do the math. It's not pretty.
Yet she manages to be perky all day. I guess it's a good thing this girl didn't decide on a career in journalism. She'd have given Katie a run for her money on "perky" news.
You know how sometimes you remember life a certain way, and when you encounter a similar situation, you realize you're kind of wrong. Yeah, that was tonight with me.
I arrived earlier than my guest this evening, so I asked to be seated--no use losing our reservation for some silly reason like not being on time! I was excited to see that this bubbly waitress was going to be in our section, and immediately, I thought to myself Great! She might be our waitress again!
Well, I was right about her being our waitress...
Ms. Bubbly jumped over to our table, excited as she could be (I swear there was a hug looming in her eyes.) The hostess had neglected to pass along a drink menu, so I couldn't order wine, beer, or mixed drinks--and after today, I really wanted one. So while Ms. Bubbly fetched the menu, I politely waited.
Once my guest arrived, we placed wine orders and our appetizer was served within minutes of her arrival. (I had taken the liberty of ordering a personal favorite.) The waitress looked at us, and I started fawning about how much I was glad to see her again, and how my partner and I had enjoyed her courtesy in our last encounter. Having friends in the food industry, I know that it's a great idea to ask to be seated in a particular waiter or waitress's section. They get good customers and you get good service. It's fantastic.
About 3 minutes after the appetizer arrived, I remember why I sometimes dislike dining out. Yes, there's an unwritten rule about checking on your patrons about 2 bites in, then again about 5 minutes later. But do you realize how difficult it is to hold a conversation when your waitress interrupts you every five minutes. And on an alternating schedule, the busboy fills the water every five minutes. So, pretty much on average, you're limited to a two-and-a-half minute conversation before an interruption.
I'm a courtesy junkie, too (my momma taught me well). So when the busboy comes by, I have to say "Thank you," even if he only needs to fill my fellow diners' glasses. I feel an equal pull from the courtesy police in my head to be polite and say "thank you" to the waitress every time she stops by. Picture the most annoying phone conversation with the Verizon wireless guy, except instead of "Can you hear me now?" it's more like "Thank you so much."
Yes, I'm disfunctional. I don't care.
At one point, I finally asked the waitress if it was ever tempting to throw a plate at a customer. She said only in her last job--she had worked for a major seafood chain. Little girl, big platters of food, and a crowded path between kitchen and tables. Do the math. It's not pretty.
Yet she manages to be perky all day. I guess it's a good thing this girl didn't decide on a career in journalism. She'd have given Katie a run for her money on "perky" news.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Happy Anniversary, Dear...Here's Your DVD.
When I began dating a highly-educated professional, I figured that this relationship would be slightly different from my experiences of dating guys I met in a bar. (And as sad as those experiences were for me, I'm ultimately better for them. Besides, if it helps my friends to find reasons to laugh at me...well, they just found extra reasons to with this!)
Back to topic, my other half and I have made it to a full year in our relationship, as of March 1. And we've had one roller coaster ride of a year. Between meeting online, dating long-distance, and his ability to endure my family--ever--we're doing quite well.
Several friends were concerned how Mr. Man and I might spend our 366th day together. Most were shocked, if not dismayed, that my response was not entirely enthusiastic. I usually do get excited, but our relationship has "timing issues". Who knew that dating a professional had its drawbacks? All that money he makes means people expect him to be working until they're done--not until he is. This one fact makes planning things like dates kind of problematic.
Well, that and his somewhat saddending inability when it comes to romance. My background is literature. I'm expected to "Get" romance. He's in the medical field. He is NOT expected to get romance. He is, however, expected to make a hell of a lot more money than me in the long run.
So, while in my head we were enjoying a weekend of blissful moments with great food, friends, drinks, light socialization, and heavy "alone time", that wasn't quite reality. Reality was more like me waiting on my couch until he arrived at 10:15 p.m., takeout in hand. We went to bed with barely a "welcome home" kiss. (Don't feel bad...I love him. And with a 4-hour commute between us, it's understandable. I'll get more used to the late nights when I can lounge at home all day while he earns the living...or whatever.)
***I should interject. He and I have a history of buying DVDs for one another randomly. For our 6-month celebration, we both ended up with a copy of Dexter Season 2. It came out the same week. Onward.***
When I asked if he wanted his present the next day, he informed me that he wanted to wait. (Allow me a brief translation: "No exchanging gifts until I actually get your gift.") So, instead, we spent Saturday at bookstores and lunch. In the early afternoon, we came home and watched DVDs before going to dinner. After dinner, it was a rough night. We stayed up until 11:30 so we could see the "Weekend Update" segment on Saturday Night Live. (We're rebels.)
So we waited until Sunday, our actual anniversary, to exchange gifts. Mine came with a pre-emptive, "Don't be mad." (Just for anyone out there--gay, straight, bi, bi-curious, married, or single--DON'T START YOUR ANNIVERSARY GIFT WITH THIS PHRASE. It tends to yield very negative results.)
"Okay. I won't be. I can already tell you have wine in here." (Yes, I'm a lush. And there's little a good bottle of wine won't resolve with me, or at least get me in a better mood!)
"It's just that I looked all over to find what I wanted to give you and I couldn't find it."
Somewhat jokingly on my part, "Well, if you keep looking at Barnes & Noble for a ring, you're gonna be disappointed!" (I'm a man with a goal...)
"Ummm....no. I mean, I just couldn't find the DVD I was going to get you."
No, this is not the point when I get some random fetish film...
Although...
No.
What did he find? The Dinosaurs seasons 3 & 4 combo pack. Funny, yes. Romantic? No. Certainly glad he paid attention when I mentioned that my father believes he might have gone to school with the show's creator, but still not an ideal gift for your anniversary.
I think for his birthday he will be getting romance lessons.
Back to topic, my other half and I have made it to a full year in our relationship, as of March 1. And we've had one roller coaster ride of a year. Between meeting online, dating long-distance, and his ability to endure my family--ever--we're doing quite well.
Several friends were concerned how Mr. Man and I might spend our 366th day together. Most were shocked, if not dismayed, that my response was not entirely enthusiastic. I usually do get excited, but our relationship has "timing issues". Who knew that dating a professional had its drawbacks? All that money he makes means people expect him to be working until they're done--not until he is. This one fact makes planning things like dates kind of problematic.
Well, that and his somewhat saddending inability when it comes to romance. My background is literature. I'm expected to "Get" romance. He's in the medical field. He is NOT expected to get romance. He is, however, expected to make a hell of a lot more money than me in the long run.
So, while in my head we were enjoying a weekend of blissful moments with great food, friends, drinks, light socialization, and heavy "alone time", that wasn't quite reality. Reality was more like me waiting on my couch until he arrived at 10:15 p.m., takeout in hand. We went to bed with barely a "welcome home" kiss. (Don't feel bad...I love him. And with a 4-hour commute between us, it's understandable. I'll get more used to the late nights when I can lounge at home all day while he earns the living...or whatever.)
***I should interject. He and I have a history of buying DVDs for one another randomly. For our 6-month celebration, we both ended up with a copy of Dexter Season 2. It came out the same week. Onward.***
When I asked if he wanted his present the next day, he informed me that he wanted to wait. (Allow me a brief translation: "No exchanging gifts until I actually get your gift.") So, instead, we spent Saturday at bookstores and lunch. In the early afternoon, we came home and watched DVDs before going to dinner. After dinner, it was a rough night. We stayed up until 11:30 so we could see the "Weekend Update" segment on Saturday Night Live. (We're rebels.)
So we waited until Sunday, our actual anniversary, to exchange gifts. Mine came with a pre-emptive, "Don't be mad." (Just for anyone out there--gay, straight, bi, bi-curious, married, or single--DON'T START YOUR ANNIVERSARY GIFT WITH THIS PHRASE. It tends to yield very negative results.)
"Okay. I won't be. I can already tell you have wine in here." (Yes, I'm a lush. And there's little a good bottle of wine won't resolve with me, or at least get me in a better mood!)
"It's just that I looked all over to find what I wanted to give you and I couldn't find it."
Somewhat jokingly on my part, "Well, if you keep looking at Barnes & Noble for a ring, you're gonna be disappointed!" (I'm a man with a goal...)
"Ummm....no. I mean, I just couldn't find the DVD I was going to get you."
No, this is not the point when I get some random fetish film...
Although...
No.
What did he find? The Dinosaurs seasons 3 & 4 combo pack. Funny, yes. Romantic? No. Certainly glad he paid attention when I mentioned that my father believes he might have gone to school with the show's creator, but still not an ideal gift for your anniversary.
I think for his birthday he will be getting romance lessons.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Fighting Prop 8
Arguments went before the California Supreme Court to overturn Proposition 8 Thursday. California’s gay marriage ban is being closely watched by Gay Rights Advocates and opponents alike. Interviewed on NPR Thursday morning, San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom remarked that Prop 8 is dangerous because it took away rights from the 18,000 gay and lesbian couples married while gay marriage was legal in the state.
Newsom asserts that is a dangerous precedent to set, "If in this country a simple majority of people can start stripping away the rights of a protected class in the minority, that's a pretty alarming thing," Newsom said.
The backlash to Prop 8 was swift. Gay Rights Advocates protested loudly, and when the listed of donors to supporters of Prop 8 was published, the protesting and boycotting got specific.
Donors interviewed were shocked when their businesses that had thriving gay client bases suddenly dried up and picketers showed up. Once person even said he was surprised because they previously had good relations with gay customers.
To which I can only reply, “Really.”
Major donors to campaigns are always reported. This is not new. And if you expected to support something that controversial and not show up in the news you’re just about too dumb to breathe.
There are a lot of gay folk in California. They also have good deal of disposable income. Sadly they didn’t spend it working to defeat Prop 8, but at least they’re voting with their dollars now and probably in a way that is far more detrimental to gay rights opponents.
Newsom asserts that is a dangerous precedent to set, "If in this country a simple majority of people can start stripping away the rights of a protected class in the minority, that's a pretty alarming thing," Newsom said.
The backlash to Prop 8 was swift. Gay Rights Advocates protested loudly, and when the listed of donors to supporters of Prop 8 was published, the protesting and boycotting got specific.
Donors interviewed were shocked when their businesses that had thriving gay client bases suddenly dried up and picketers showed up. Once person even said he was surprised because they previously had good relations with gay customers.
To which I can only reply, “Really.”
Major donors to campaigns are always reported. This is not new. And if you expected to support something that controversial and not show up in the news you’re just about too dumb to breathe.
There are a lot of gay folk in California. They also have good deal of disposable income. Sadly they didn’t spend it working to defeat Prop 8, but at least they’re voting with their dollars now and probably in a way that is far more detrimental to gay rights opponents.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Something fishy
Word has it that James Clary, former owner of now defunct restaurants Clary’s and Fish, is working for Price Cutter. Clary is their Culinary Director. The biggest change I’ve seen thus far is my Price Cutter now has an obscenely obnoxious man who screams at me about fish of various and sundry variety as I shop.
The guy is tall and wears one of those headset microphones made chic by Garth Brooks and the Gap. He has a grating voice that can only be described as early used car salesman and his sales pitch only makes me want to flee the store. I’m not alone. I’ve yet to see one customer at his cart. In sharp contrast are the group of folks from Oscar’s barbeque who quietly sit at their cart, often with a line of customers, smiling politely.
The Queen City is such a weird culinary place. We’re landlocked, but enjoy a proximity to Gulf States from whom we get fresh fish, leading to copious amounts of wonderful sushi restaurants, but no real seafood restaurants. The aforementioned Fish went under quite some time ago and there is very little fresh about the seafood one can get at Red Lobster.
Red Lobster isn’t a bad place, mind you, but it isn’t exactly good either.
With the proximity to good seafood and the number of lakes with good fishing in the area, you’d think a local fish place would take off. The concept of Clary’s Fish was a welcome one, but he didn’t really pull it off. I ate there a few times and found there were a great variety of seafood dishes, but the food itself fell flat.
Conversely, places like Ocean Zen, Haruno and Mijuri don’t have the big fish dishes, but their dizzying array of sushi offerings are delightful. But sometimes, I just want a regular seafood dish: Shrimp Scampi, Trout Almandine or even something local like Fried Catfish. I’ve yet to come across anything in the Queen City that isn’t a chain that has such an offering.
Tragic.
I’m sure the weak economy has more to do with Clary’s change of occupation than his skills as a restaurateur. Sadly, I imagine it will be quite sometime before anyone has the capital, know-how and patience to try such a venture here in Springfield. But make no mistake it’s sorely needed.
In the meantime, I guess I’ll whet my appetite with all that sushi, but I’m not going to stoop so low as to buy fresh fish from a stale salesman with a Garth Brooks complex.
The guy is tall and wears one of those headset microphones made chic by Garth Brooks and the Gap. He has a grating voice that can only be described as early used car salesman and his sales pitch only makes me want to flee the store. I’m not alone. I’ve yet to see one customer at his cart. In sharp contrast are the group of folks from Oscar’s barbeque who quietly sit at their cart, often with a line of customers, smiling politely.
The Queen City is such a weird culinary place. We’re landlocked, but enjoy a proximity to Gulf States from whom we get fresh fish, leading to copious amounts of wonderful sushi restaurants, but no real seafood restaurants. The aforementioned Fish went under quite some time ago and there is very little fresh about the seafood one can get at Red Lobster.
Red Lobster isn’t a bad place, mind you, but it isn’t exactly good either.
With the proximity to good seafood and the number of lakes with good fishing in the area, you’d think a local fish place would take off. The concept of Clary’s Fish was a welcome one, but he didn’t really pull it off. I ate there a few times and found there were a great variety of seafood dishes, but the food itself fell flat.
Conversely, places like Ocean Zen, Haruno and Mijuri don’t have the big fish dishes, but their dizzying array of sushi offerings are delightful. But sometimes, I just want a regular seafood dish: Shrimp Scampi, Trout Almandine or even something local like Fried Catfish. I’ve yet to come across anything in the Queen City that isn’t a chain that has such an offering.
Tragic.
I’m sure the weak economy has more to do with Clary’s change of occupation than his skills as a restaurateur. Sadly, I imagine it will be quite sometime before anyone has the capital, know-how and patience to try such a venture here in Springfield. But make no mistake it’s sorely needed.
In the meantime, I guess I’ll whet my appetite with all that sushi, but I’m not going to stoop so low as to buy fresh fish from a stale salesman with a Garth Brooks complex.
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