August 31, 2003
Growing up my family went out to dinner a lot. It still surprises me to find out that this is not the norm.
We went to Chinatown nearly every Sunday night to eat at this hole in the wall restaurant called King Wu. It was down a very long, very steep flight of stairs, the type of place unique to New York’s Chinatown, though I’ve been to similarly located restaurants in London–basement places.
We went to this seafood place called Lundy Brothers in Sheepshead Bay all the time. It was at Lundy’s that I developed a taste for lobsters and steamed clams. I’m sure my dad is thrilled that I have had a varied pallette since a very young age.
As a teenager in LA, one of our regular stops was Little Tokyo. I always dreaded Japanese food night. I never developed a taste for sushi. Sure, I could get tempura, but everyone around me was eating raw stuff and I thought it was yucky.
In my mid-twenties a boyfriend and I went for sushi. I figured it was worth a go to try it again. We sat at the sushi bar at some funky Westside place. We got absolutely tanked on saki and Sapporo’s and I realized I’d developed a taste for raw fish. That taste lasted about two weeks. We went to the same restaurant two weeks later. We sat at the same seats at the sushi bar and I started to slowly re-order the same kinds of things I’d had two weeks later. But this time–yuck.
So that was it for me with sushi for about 15 years.
About four years ago, as an anniversary gift to my husband I agreed to go to sushi with him. My husband, Mr. Meat and Potatoes, loved sushi. I would eat California rolls, and unagi (eel, which is cooked) and see if there was some tempura on the menu. I’d manage. It was for him.
But then I tried a couple of more items and found that once again I’d developed a taste for sushi. And this time without getting completely shitfaced, so I thought it might be for real. We went to sushi again a week or two later and the taste for it stayed with me.
Now I’m all about sushi.
We’ve been taking Zoe for sushi since she was a baby. We order her miso soup, edamame, sticky rice, and maybe some California rolls. She’s been happy with this fare for quite some time. Besides, I didn’t really figure it was such a faboo idea to be giving a small child raw fish. It’s a parasite thing, ya know.
Well, last Thursday, Zoe and I went out for sushi with my dad. We went to our new favorite sushi place. I ordered Zoe her usual California roll, and her new fave, a Philadelphia roll, which is cream cheese wrapped in nori, with raw salmon around it. I’m a Jew. Raw salmon is lox without the smoking, so I wasn’t having issues with this.
My dad ordered a spicy tuna crunch. This is a salad with chunks of raw tuna, chopped tomatoes, and smelt eggs, in a sort of spicy saucy concoction, with pieces of fried wontons sprinkled over it. It’s Oh-My-God delicious. Zoe wanted a taste. (You just have to love a kid who is willing to try just about any food on the planet, at least once.) She loved it. She ate a good portion of it. She then ate some of my dad’s tuna sashimi.
I guess the ban on raw fish is over.
When faced with what to have for dinner we found ourselves choosing between Cuban and sushi. Fifteen minutes later we were seated at the sushi bar.
Zoe ordered her usual California roll. I ordered the spicy tuna crunch thing which Zoe insisted was for sharing, and then she proceeded to eat half of and then order herself some tuna sushi, which the chef made for her without wasabi.
My kid is all about sushi.
She’s a monster of my own damn making.
August 29, 2003
So I was online playing dominoes earlier this evening. I’ve never actually played dominoes but there always seem to be a lot of people playing, so I thought I’d check it out.
So I sit down at a table with someone who had “man” in his name. OK, I’m game. This person asked how old I was. (I can guess where he’s going with this, but I’m up for some fun and feeling a bit mean.) I told him 27. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Then asked if I was a man or woman. My answer (still feeling feisty here): all woman. Then this person proceeds to tell me he’s 14. Shit, I could have a 14 year old kid. He asks where I am….I think fast. I check my profile to see if I’ve actually said, which I haven’t. Las Vegas I tell him.
I then proceeded to tell him that I was a showgirl. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I told him the only reason I was home and not working tonight was that I had fallen down and have a broken ankle.
I asked him if he knew what a showgirl was and he said no (but that’s a crock of shit if ever I’ve heard one) so I told him a dance in a revue in Las Vegas and wear lots of sequins and feathers. Cuz they do, don’t they?
Then this poor boy who had surely cum in his pants a dozen times by now asks me if I take my clothes off. I assured him that I wasn’t a stripper but that I don’t really wear a lot of clothes to start out with.
“Oh,” he said. He left shortly thereafter (I’m sure to clean his trousers up).
So you know I’m gonna fall down and break my ankle tomorrow, right?
I will say that when it comes to playing games I’m very competitive. I’m competitive but very good. So much so that there are members of my family who refuse to play backgammon, cribbage, or Scrabble with me anymore.
I’m also good at games of chance. I’m still ahead lifetime over Las Vegas, and much to the chagrin of my husband, don’t really feel the need to go back there and ruin my record.
I’m particularly good at picking the ponies. I’ve had this skill since I was a teenager. I would go to the racetrack with my stepmother and her friend. I’d get a $20 budget and invariably leave the track with totals in the hundreds (OK, you can’t make a mint on $2.00 bets). My methods are extremely scientific–it involves considering the colors the jockey is wearing, how the horse looks, and the position of Mars.
So yesterday I pop into my friend Cindy’s office. Her husband, Pete, called while I was in there. Come to find out Pete is at Del Mar with a bunch of his friends. Jokingly I told her to tell Pete to put $5.00 on the number three horse in the next race.
Pete starts hemming and hawing that he’s not going to because if it loses he’ll never see his $5.00. I promise I’ll give him the $5.00 if I lose.
I came in this morning to find the following e-mail:
Sent: Thursday, August 28, 2003 5:10 PM
To: Beth Reinstein Atkins
Subject: You won
$5 paid $14. Pete has $9 for you!!!
She gave me the actual $9.00 Pete got from the racetrack.
I think I’ll go buy some lottery tickets this afternoon.
August 28, 2003
Well, it’s been just short of 96 hours since I had a man stick a 14 gauge needle through my stomach so I could adorn it with little sparkly things.
So far, so good. Night one was a bit dicey. I didn’t even want the bedclothes touching my tummy. Night two was much better. And night three, even better still.
It’s a bit achey and I don’t want anthing but the loosest of cotton tops touching it, but no sign of infection. I am comforted to know that at least right now my stomach is not going to fall off (although come to think of it, that might not be so bad).
On the plus side (of which there are many plusses, quite frankly) I’ve come to embrace my poochy tummy.
I’ve had a poochy tummy my whole life. In size six pants, still had poochy tummy. Before I had a baby I had a poochy tummy. One baby and an extra 45 pounds of pregnancy weight gain (that is now gone, thank you very much) did nothing to improve the poochy tummyniess of it all.
But now I have a cute little ring in my belly button, right over the little poochy bit, and you know what? It’s really cute.
August 27, 2003
My bosses stepfather-in-law recently passed away. And apparently one of the things he bequeathed to my boss, his stepson-in-law, were his dress shirts. Lovely Hong Kong tailor custom-made, monogrammed shirts. My boss wore one of them to work today.
The thing is, the monogram is on the right breast pocket. The initials monogrammed on the shirt are not even remotely those of my boss.
Tacky, tacky, tacky.
August 25, 2003
Well, I did it.
Click on the pic to see the fabulous new belly ring even bigger.
Oh, and btw: I’m *much* tanner then I look in this picture.
I have this overwhelming urge to get my belly button pierced. Like tonight. Like on my way home from work. Like I’d go now if I could leave the office.
Now, entry 1 in what will likely become a regular feature. You’ll get to know a little more about me…maybe. Thanks to Unconscious Mutterings.
Boarding school:: Zoe in 7th grade
Riddle:: me this Joker
Interest:: free checking
Scrabble:: triple word score
August 24, 2003
A thing I’ve discovered about my husband: if vegetables or salad are put on the table in a communal bowl he will not take any, and therefore will not eat any; however, if vegetables or salad are served to him on his plate, he will eat them.
August 22, 2003
I am genetically predisposed to having colored hair. It runs deep on both sides of my family.
So it should have come as no big surprise to my mother when I started changing my hair color at the tender age of 12. Sun-In. Yeah. Me too. But I was lucky, my hair turned a lovely golden blonde, not the brassy orange of Sun-In lore.
By 16 my stepmother was trotting me off to the salon for “streaks” as they were called in the 70′s. Either foil or that dreaded cap, the one they use the crochet hook with to pull the hairs through the tiny little holes.
I’ve had color done in the salon. I’ve colored my own myself. My sister, mother, and best friend have helped me. I’ve colored my sister’s. My mother’s. My best friend’s. Henna, black, blonde, red, highlights, lowlights. You name it, I’ve done it to someone or had it done to me.
Now I only have my hair done professionally because now it’s by necessity, rather than choice that I color my hair. And frankly, I have the disposable income to pay someone to take care of it for me.
But that’s not the case when you’re seven, as my daughter is.
I think it was two years ago when we decided pink streaks would be a good choice for her. So Zoe and I purchased hot pink dye and gave her hot pink streaks. They looked cute and faded after a while. I guess Chuck was fine with it. It wasn’t like we consulted him or anything.
Then last summer when I was getting a “weave” (streaks for the new millenium), I had the hairdresser put some in Zoe’s hair. It looked darling. Chuck had a bit of a fit over it. I guess he wasn’t as fine with the blonde as with the pink. Oh well.
All summer Zoe has been bugging me to streak her hair again–blonde. I keep meaning to do it while Chuck is out of town, but frankly, we’ve never quite gotten around to it.
Today is Freaky Friday at camp. Zoe came home last night asking for me to color her hair. Hot pink. She knew we still had the hair dye. I said maybe. Then we went out for sushi where I discovered the cure for my sleeplessness–excessive consumption of saki (I slept 10 hours last night!). When we came home from dinner I was a bit tipsy and in no condition to color anyone’s hair. Chuck then informed me that he was going to color Zoe’s hair for her. I found all the supplies necessary and left them alone.
Now my daughter has hot pink hair. She’s also got a hot pink back, forehead, butt, cheeks, and neck, but that’s a story for another time.