I went out with my adopted kid sister and her girlfriend last night. We decide Hibachi was the order of the evening so we went to Hinode. Hinode is kid sis’s FAVORITE place to eat and I must admit I do love the Hibachi Scallops.
As it was Friday, the place was packed. We were seated at a grill table with two older straight couples. The waitress did us a favor by placing us on the opposite end of the table, as it was immediately apparent the seven of us had nothing in common. These folks were very uptight.
The one older woman, who was wearing what appeared to be a dead poodle dyed brown around her neck, had this pinched expression on her face. It truly looked as though she had to go through life smelling a cat turd.
We settled in and placed our orders. The hijinx began immediately. I noticed a woman helping her elderly mother back to the Ladies’ Room. Grandma looked like she probably would have been able to get around fine if it weren’t for the seven inch wedge sneaker contraptions she was wearing on her feet.
I nudged Sis, “Did you SEE those shoes?”
Sis, being quite the shoe aficionado, whirled, “Where?”
I explained the woman had just gone into the Loo. So for the next five minutes our heads kept swiveling around every time there was movement in that direction.
Sis’s girlfriend quipped, “You two look like hyenas on the prowl for prey.”
Sis nudged me and said, “Yeah, you get the weak one.”
At the end of the table, Poodle Woman arched a contemptuous eyebrow.
When our chef came out, he looked like he was about 13 and said his name was Scott. Scott was about as close to being Asian as I am (and there’s a reason they call me the Irish Hand Grenade) and he was having technical difficulties with the grill. He informed us it’d be a few minutes before it would warm up.
At that moment, one of the older male codgers at the end of the table came to life. “What kind of Japanese name is Scott?” He said guffawing at his own comedic brilliance. It was my turn to arch the angry brow.
He continued to berate poor Scott until he changed Scott’s name to Chuck, because that sounded German. And THAT was HILARIOUS. Not so much.
Finally, Scott got to making hibachi and we all fell back into conversation. Sis started asking me about Portland, ME. I spent a lot of time in Maine during my straight incarceration. It really is a cool city.
I told Sis as much then warned, “But you don’t want to go this time of year. You’ll freeze your hooter scooter off.”
Why is it, just as you say something really provocative or embarrassing, when you think the noise of the restaurant will shield you, some how at that moment it just gets quiet?
Yeah. It got quiet.
Scott’s head whipped around, nearly losing his spatula and perhaps a zucchini, “WHAT did you say?”
Sis and her girlfriend were collapsed in gales of laughter. So it was down to me.
Sis made a joke about me not being right in the head. I followed it up with, “Well, the hospital GAVE me a PASS.”
Scott was cracking up. We were cracking up. The geriatrics at the end of the table were NOT amused.
They were now all eyeing us in that way some straight people do, when they realize they’re being confronted with The Gays. My friends and I don’t make a point of pointing out who we are but we aren’t ashamed either. We’re obviously lesbians and sometimes I think it really troubles people that we’re so OK with it.
Sis giggled, “They just figured us out … kind of. The one with that poodle thing is mentally checking through her Dyke Diagram and wondering where our flannel is but is convinced because we talked about dogs and there was a mention of a cat.”
I chortled, drawing more attention to us and cast my eyes down embarrassed. Then I looked right back up and smiled directly at Poodle Woman. There was a lot I wanted to say:
No, I don’t give a damn you don’t approve of me or my friends. I’d hate to live in that stuffed shirt prison you call a life. I laugh and I love and I know who I am which I’m gathering is a far cry from who you are. So pay attention to your own kind down there who’ve made just a big of an ass of themselves as we have and leave us be.
It was her turn to be uncomfortable and she did turn her attention back to her group. I guess the Irish Hand Grenade can still be menacing.
Scott was just relieved the attention was off of him for the moment and gave us some extra steak. I like that kid.
Showing posts with label Requisite smitings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Requisite smitings. Show all posts
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Biting diabetes back
Continuing with the bitter theme, our own Disgruntled Whistle Pig has a gripe or two of her own.
My dog is a portly fellow. Ever since we had him neutered he has had issues with his weight. Early last spring, I began to suspect his thyroid might be the culprit. When I took him to the vet on an unrelated issue, they immediately landed in the middle of my back about my “morbidly obese” dog.
Ham dog was 70 pounds, which is WAY overweight for his breed. I’d cut him back to two cups of food a day and a couple of slices of very thin lunchmeat turkey. His weight hadn’t budged. When I suggested to the vet he had a thyroid problem, the vet insisted it was my fault and said I should put him on a vegetable soup diet.
No. I’m not kidding.
I’ll spare you the details except to say, it REALLY didn’t work.
Just after Christmas he started drinking an obscene amount of water and having accidents in the house. This is totally unlike my dog so I took him to the vet, a different vet.
Within moments of having a urine sample taken, I was told they suspected he was diabetic but a blood test was needed to confirm. I agreed and asked if a thyroid test was in that round of blood work. The vet said no, but that he could run that test if I’d like
Oh yeah. I’d like.
Sure enough, now diabetic, Ham dog also has a thyroid problem. I can’t help but wonder if this simple test had been done months ago when I’d asked if he might not have become diabetic. The vet tells me that once we get his weight down he may be able to go off his twice daily insulin shots.
On the positive side, I’m now taking Hamish to the Grant Avenue Veterinary Clinic and I’m thrilled with them. They couldn’t be nicer and have taken very good care of my baby.
Grant Avenue is located at 1037 S. Grant Avenue, 417-869-1581, if you’re in the market for a vet.
While I’m not naming the vet who suggested the soup diet, because my hope is that all the staff at that office aren’t that daft, if you want to know where not to go please email me. I’ll be glad to share the details.
Hammy is now doing quite well with his shots and his thyroid meds. He's biting the disease that bit him He's lost two more pounds since has last vet visit a week ago. He's also my happy, peppy, bouncy puppy again and I couldn't be more relieved.
My dog is a portly fellow. Ever since we had him neutered he has had issues with his weight. Early last spring, I began to suspect his thyroid might be the culprit. When I took him to the vet on an unrelated issue, they immediately landed in the middle of my back about my “morbidly obese” dog.
Ham dog was 70 pounds, which is WAY overweight for his breed. I’d cut him back to two cups of food a day and a couple of slices of very thin lunchmeat turkey. His weight hadn’t budged. When I suggested to the vet he had a thyroid problem, the vet insisted it was my fault and said I should put him on a vegetable soup diet.
No. I’m not kidding.
I’ll spare you the details except to say, it REALLY didn’t work.
Just after Christmas he started drinking an obscene amount of water and having accidents in the house. This is totally unlike my dog so I took him to the vet, a different vet.
Within moments of having a urine sample taken, I was told they suspected he was diabetic but a blood test was needed to confirm. I agreed and asked if a thyroid test was in that round of blood work. The vet said no, but that he could run that test if I’d like
Oh yeah. I’d like.
Sure enough, now diabetic, Ham dog also has a thyroid problem. I can’t help but wonder if this simple test had been done months ago when I’d asked if he might not have become diabetic. The vet tells me that once we get his weight down he may be able to go off his twice daily insulin shots.
On the positive side, I’m now taking Hamish to the Grant Avenue Veterinary Clinic and I’m thrilled with them. They couldn’t be nicer and have taken very good care of my baby.
Grant Avenue is located at 1037 S. Grant Avenue, 417-869-1581, if you’re in the market for a vet.
While I’m not naming the vet who suggested the soup diet, because my hope is that all the staff at that office aren’t that daft, if you want to know where not to go please email me. I’ll be glad to share the details.
Hammy is now doing quite well with his shots and his thyroid meds. He's biting the disease that bit him He's lost two more pounds since has last vet visit a week ago. He's also my happy, peppy, bouncy puppy again and I couldn't be more relieved.
An Open Letter to GO Magazine
Dykes with forks will be brought to you this week by Disgruntled Foodie. In fact, expect lots from her. She's far meaner than we could EVER be. This week she shares an email she sent to the editors of GO Magazine.
Dear GO Magazine:
Please GO away.
This weekend, I stopped in the Coffee Ethic for coffee and a bagel to kick start my Saturday. I picked up a copy of GO to read while I swilled my caffeine. My intelligence was immediately offended.
From the ridiculous puff piece on dive bars, (and you make it readily apparent you wouldn’t know what an actual dive bar was if it walked up and bit you on your pretentious hind end) to the completely out of date, and somewhat offensive, blurb on the now defunct JR’s bar under the Gay and Lesbian bar section I was appalled.
Just so you know, JR’s closed months ago. The bar is still a gay friendly place, but it’s now under new ownership and is called Trick. It has been since sometime in November. And the catty little comment about it being “the nicest gay bar on Commercial Street” (because I’m guessing it’s the only one) is petty and childish.
But I digress.
What REALLY got me was your “review” of The French Quarter restaurant.
I grew up in a town where food reviewers worked hard to maintain a low profile so that they could go into dining establishments without notice. The idea, you see, is to not only get a sense of the food but also the service. As a food reviewer, the job is to let people know what they can expect when they go spend their hard earned cash on a night out. Another part of the job is to have the cajones to say a place sucks if it’s warranted.
Review, you see, means to critically examine. Your “review” of French Quarter is no better than a third rate recommendation. And I’m certain your experience at the establishment would be far different from mine as the average customer because I’m reasonably certain your profile while visiting was anything but low.
How? Because you dragged Jeff Jenkins with you. Jenkins, in addition to being Mr. Skinny Improv, must have his nose fairly far up the GO Edtior’s posterior given his name and photo are sprinkled liberally throughout the publication. I wonder what kind of discount the two of you got as well?
Regardless, Jenkins was likely recognized and I doubt you were treated the same as Joe or Judy Ordinary Customer.
I also got to wondering if this was just a one off thing. I’m willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Until, that is, I combed through the online GO Eats archive. I found nary a “review” there. I found a few quirky and unreliable “rating systems,” a ridiculous number of articles on hot dogs, a comparison of Ocean Zen and Wal Mart’s sushi offerings, but not a single review.
Clearly, that’s because you don’t know how to write one. You’d be doing your readership a far bigger favor by simply printing the Health Department reports. At least then they’d know where it was SAFE to eat.
Now look, I realize you’ve got bills to pay and that means advertisers to keep happy. I also realize a fair number of your advertisers are restaurants … and Jeff Jenkins. At least, I hope he’s paying you. Otherwise, you’re getting raped on free press for the guy.
If you want to write favorably about local eateries, that’s just groovy, but don’t insult our intelligence by calling them reviews.
Sincerely,
An Insulted Foodie
One point of clarification: I've never eaten at The French Quarter and have no predisposition to how the food or service is at said establishment. My complaint was NOT with the restaurant, rather with the way the restaurant was "reviewed" er, recommended.
Dear GO Magazine:
Please GO away.
This weekend, I stopped in the Coffee Ethic for coffee and a bagel to kick start my Saturday. I picked up a copy of GO to read while I swilled my caffeine. My intelligence was immediately offended.
From the ridiculous puff piece on dive bars, (and you make it readily apparent you wouldn’t know what an actual dive bar was if it walked up and bit you on your pretentious hind end) to the completely out of date, and somewhat offensive, blurb on the now defunct JR’s bar under the Gay and Lesbian bar section I was appalled.
Just so you know, JR’s closed months ago. The bar is still a gay friendly place, but it’s now under new ownership and is called Trick. It has been since sometime in November. And the catty little comment about it being “the nicest gay bar on Commercial Street” (because I’m guessing it’s the only one) is petty and childish.
But I digress.
What REALLY got me was your “review” of The French Quarter restaurant.
I grew up in a town where food reviewers worked hard to maintain a low profile so that they could go into dining establishments without notice. The idea, you see, is to not only get a sense of the food but also the service. As a food reviewer, the job is to let people know what they can expect when they go spend their hard earned cash on a night out. Another part of the job is to have the cajones to say a place sucks if it’s warranted.
Review, you see, means to critically examine. Your “review” of French Quarter is no better than a third rate recommendation. And I’m certain your experience at the establishment would be far different from mine as the average customer because I’m reasonably certain your profile while visiting was anything but low.
How? Because you dragged Jeff Jenkins with you. Jenkins, in addition to being Mr. Skinny Improv, must have his nose fairly far up the GO Edtior’s posterior given his name and photo are sprinkled liberally throughout the publication. I wonder what kind of discount the two of you got as well?
Regardless, Jenkins was likely recognized and I doubt you were treated the same as Joe or Judy Ordinary Customer.
I also got to wondering if this was just a one off thing. I’m willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Until, that is, I combed through the online GO Eats archive. I found nary a “review” there. I found a few quirky and unreliable “rating systems,” a ridiculous number of articles on hot dogs, a comparison of Ocean Zen and Wal Mart’s sushi offerings, but not a single review.
Clearly, that’s because you don’t know how to write one. You’d be doing your readership a far bigger favor by simply printing the Health Department reports. At least then they’d know where it was SAFE to eat.
Now look, I realize you’ve got bills to pay and that means advertisers to keep happy. I also realize a fair number of your advertisers are restaurants … and Jeff Jenkins. At least, I hope he’s paying you. Otherwise, you’re getting raped on free press for the guy.
If you want to write favorably about local eateries, that’s just groovy, but don’t insult our intelligence by calling them reviews.
Sincerely,
An Insulted Foodie
One point of clarification: I've never eaten at The French Quarter and have no predisposition to how the food or service is at said establishment. My complaint was NOT with the restaurant, rather with the way the restaurant was "reviewed" er, recommended.
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