Bitchy McBitcherson's Blog

Author: mstori

  • A Proclamation

    An anniversary of sorts.

    On September 13th, 2001 The White House issued a proclamation –National Day of Prayer and Remembrance for the Victims Of the Terrorist Attacks on September 11, 2001.

    On that day, things changed for me.

    I was born an atheist, and although my family tried to change that, it didn’t work. I have spent a great many hours in church, and even enjoyed a considerable amount of the time spent there, but there was never belief. When the Christian monotheistic concept of their god, and all that entailed was clearly never going to click for me, I looked at all the other possibilities and eventually came to the conclusion that I was [filled in completely with indelible ink] choice Z) none of the above. However, this was not something I spoke about. When pushed into a situation where it really made sense to answer, I would try to answer something as neutral as possible. It was not that I was embarrassed about being an atheist, I just didn’t see it as a decent topic of public discourse.

    By neutral, I mean that I would typically state that I do not practice a religion (definitely true) and also that I am agnostic (also true). Many people seem to think of agnostic as the middle ground between theist and atheist. I did not, and do not, view it that way. I consider it a position on knowledge, not a position on deities. However I let them see it through their eyes and be more comfortable about it. Not because I wanted them to feel more comfortable, but because I wanted them to be comfortable enough to shut up so we could move on to a more interesting topic.

    I consider religion to be a private and personal matter. I don’t want to hear about the beliefs of other people, much less have them pushed upon me, and I want to keep my own private thoughts and business my own private thoughts and business.

    For instance, I am about to write something that I do not believe I have ever said or written before.

    I am not a lesbian.

    Now, I think a great many people already assumed I was likely not a lesbian. I am married to a man. We have a daughter together. These are little aspects of my life that do put out into the public realm that there is a plausible likelihood that I am not a lesbian. However, I basically consider this to be a private matter and none of the business or concern of the majority of the population. This is something that should matter to an extremely small number of individuals. I am not embarrassed that I am not a lesbian. I am not proud that I am not a lesbian. I just simply am not a lesbian. I find it to be on the tacky side to be bringing up this fact in public. However, it is relevant to my feelings about being an atheist. It wasn’t a secret, it just wasn’t something I saw as being a subject up for general discussion.

    There are so many things on this planet that I find more interesting to discuss with people than religion or sexual orientation. While my sexual orientation, life style, political beliefs, thoughts on religion, and many other things do play a part in what I do, and how I do them, I find the actual things that I do to be the more worthwhile topic.

    It was a quick change. In less than a week I went from always trying to avoid the discussion, and giving a very neutral response, to just flat out stating that I was, am, and always will be, an atheist. My personal feelings about such discussions haven’t changed. I still would prefer it to be a private matter, and I don’t go out of my way to bring it up. I am going against my own gut instinct every time I say it, but I say it. I decided that my own personal comfort level was less important than the need to just say “Hi. We are here.” I still hope people find pretty much anything else about me more interesting.

    There were other things, within my family that also changed in that short stretch of time, but I do not feel those are my stories to tell.

    I am including a letter that I sent to essentially all my government officials on September 14th, 2001. (Of course, I desperately want to rewrite it now, ugh I HATE rereading what I have written, it can always be improved! It was written quickly and I was upset.)

    Why couldn’t we have a National Day of Mourning? As heart breaking as the events of Tuesday were, I find myself even further emotionally devastated by the President of the United States telling me once again, that I do not count, that I am not a real American. He had to declare it a National Day of Prayer, despite the fact that, more than ever, the United States of America needs to be UNITED. There is not a single Webster’s definition of prayer that does not include mention of some god or religion. Not every citizen of the United States has a god, gods, goddesses or religion. Labeled, by ourselves, and others, in a variety of ways, including atheists, infidels, freethinkers, humanists, and skeptics. We aren’t united under a single name, for reasons just as varied, but including a belief in individual rights and responsibilities, and the fact many of us consider it to be one of the least interesting aspects of our life.

    On a National Day of Mourning, those who do believe in such things, could attend services, it wouldn’t have changed that. The President and former presidents could still have attended such a service, he wouldn’t have to hide that he personally finds comfort in prayer. The only difference is the rest of us would be included and acknowledged, and I don’t know how much that inclusion would have hurt him personally, but it would have made me feel immeasurably better. Asking people to “attend religious services of their choosing on their lunch hour” just tells us that even at this time of tragedy, even as a representative of our own country, President George W. Bush, gives the politically correct lip service to religious tolerance, but for those without religious belief he cannot open his heart and arms to include us just a little bit. Directing everyone to pray is thoughtless, inappropriate, hurtful and divisive. Yet few people will challenge this unconstitutional act, because we are a group that so many find it absolutely acceptable discriminate against. Because of this, our government should be working all the harder to protect us from discrimination, rather than participating and even promoting it. Yet this is the second Day of Prayer that he has forced upon us.

    Does he think that only those with religion can feel sadness? That only those with religion think life is precious? Does anyone not grasp just how precious we think lives are? We do not believe in heaven, or any kind of afterlife or eternal reward. We do not believe in reincarnation, nor that we continue on in another dimension, on another planet, or become one with the cosmos. We believe this life is what we have. We value life fervently because of this. We can take no comfort from thoughts that the victims are in a better place; we believe they were robbed of the thing that matters, life. We do not have the solace of believing that one day we will be with our lost friends and loved ones again. Of course we are grieving. We are grieving deeply.

    He shuts us out and turns his back on us even as he remembers a tragedy that would have been far less likely to happen if not for the religious beliefs of the terrorists. I do not blame the religion, I blame the individuals, but let’s be realistic, their belief that they would be rewarded for this act in the next life, did not make it more difficult for them to commit the act. With his constant “God is on our side” wording, is he hoping to whip this country up into a holy war? Have we learned nothing from a history full of deaths on such crusades?

    I weep at the recorded images of those planes crashing into those buildings, and believe me, I am not weeping for the loss of a bunch of metal, concrete, glass and wiring. I am not weeping for the financial damage. It is the loss of the lives inside that I mourn so deeply. I shudder when thinking of the people who had extended periods of terror to live through before being brought to a hideous end by events beyond their control. I am heartened by the evidence that some of the individuals on flight 93 were able to at least take some control of their lives back and save countless other lives even though still tragically unable to save their own. I weep again at the images of young children in another country waving flags and celebrating this blow to our country.

    I seek comfort in the prospect of tomorrow, in the laughter of children, in seeing the red white and blue being displayed around my city. I am glad to drive past a local mosque and not see protesters lined up outside. I am proud to see people of varying political backgrounds uniting because they are all proud citizens of the United States of America, proud that they are fully allowed to have varying political backgrounds.

    My friends and I argue over whether our military should just start bombing people without finalized proof, what proof is enough proof, whether those behind it should be publicly executed, whether those who say “it wasn’t me but you deserved it” should be bombed too, whether there should be a trial and imprisonment not execution, whether we should be doing our best to avoid any further loss of life, even the lives of those responsible. We worry about the implications for the future of individual freedom, and argue over the cost of real safety, or whether such a thing is even possible. We worry about how to keep the wrong people from getting training at facilities in our own country, without making judgments based on the way someone looks, their names, accents and religions. We are horrified by the idea of more terrorist incidents, and also terrified that such concerns could lead to things like Manzanar. We frantically called friends and relatives. We hold our loved ones close. We try to reassure our children. We just don’t pray, or turn to any kind of religious leader for support or comfort. Does that really discount every other contribution we make to our community and country?

    Statistics being what they are, some of the victims of this tragedy also had no gods or religion, and no want for prayer on their behalf. Can the President of the United States and all the other countless politicians making statements and singing songs not find enough room in their hearts to just give those victims a little acknowledgment and respect even now. I don’t begrudge anyone his or her comfort in prayer. I am not asking them to consider the idea that we might be right, just consider that we are citizens of this country and are part of humanity. As a Christian, President Bush already firmly believes we will suffer in the next life. Is it really so important that he make us suffer in this one? Are we to tell our children that they can grow up to be anything they want to be, but only those with proper views on religious matters can be full-fledged citizens of the United States of America?

    Today I am in mourning, for the victims and their family and friends. I am in mourning for all the people in the world who feel a little less safe today. I am also in mourning because this country, which I love so dearly, thinks so poorly of me.

    So that’s it. Because of a proclamation by George W. Bush, I now state loudly and clearly:

    I am an atheist. I am many other things, but I am also, absolutely, an atheist. That, is my proclamation.

  • Cheese and Lack of Crackers (AKA – Why I prefer to shop online)

    Today, I left my house.

    Cashier: (holding up our two bottles of wine): Mystery wine and happy face wine, you have interesting taste in wines, don’t you?
    Me: *mumble noncommittally*
    Cashier (surveying all of my items): You’ve bought a lot of cheese here, but no crackers.
    Me: Yeah
    Cashier: (looking through my items more carefully): No crackers.
    Cashier: (scans a few more things): What are you going to do with the cheese?
    Me: Just eat it.
    Cashier: (continues scanning): How are you going to eat it?
    Me: *blink*
    Cashier: Are you doing a fondue?
    Me: No, I just like cheese.
    Cashier: So you just set out an assortment of them?
    Me: I just eat it.
    Cashier: Oh oh, you just like cheese.
    (scans a few more items)
    Cashier: You don’t need the extra carbs I suppose.
    Me: *raises eyebrows*
    Cashier: (begins bagging my stuff, looking at it all again): I see you even got [couldn’t make out the word], you just really don’t like crackers, do you?
    (she finishes bagging and sends me on my way)
    Cashier: Enjoy your selection of cheese!

    My face obviously looks too approachable. I need to work on that.

  • Open Letter: Stop Helping Me Edition

    Dear Everyone and their Little Pony and especially Belkin and Linksys,

    I am so sick of all the “help” being offered to me in the form of crappy little specialty programs. All I want is a device driver. A driver that will tell my computer how to talk to your little piece of hardware. I do not need an interface with pretty colors and rounded corners and attractive buttons, that hides away all the “complicated” stuff and makes it so that it takes me 30 times longer than it should to make your specialty extra wonderful whiz bang wireless card work with MY network setup.

    The OS already has an interface to deal with wireless networking. Don’t disable it and make me use your bloated piece of shit instead, I do not care how many shades of blue you can use to decorate the UI.

    Fuck off.

    -Me

    Dear Microsoft Office Product Team,

    While you are busy imagining what new features I will never ever want out of Office suite, you might want to consider actually making it, I don’t know, IMPORT my settings from previous Office products when I “upgrade”. Word is essentially unusable out of the box for me. It is impressive that you have managed to turn one of your few functional products into a piece of shit with all those helpful features.

    If you really want to help, make sure the next version you release auto-composes and sends a hate letter from me to you or one of the other Microsoft groups at least once a month.

    Congratulations on making Office 2007 the upgrade to avoid of the decade. Enjoy your trophy.

    Thanks,

    -Me

    Dear Apple,

    The fact that a few people have chosen to place content that I really want to see in QuickTime format means that I do have QT installed on my computer and I do need updates on occasion. It in no way at all means that I ever ever EVER want you to install iTunes on my computer, so stop trying. It also does not mean that I want you to autosneak in the association of every fricken type of multimedia file with your program. The only thing I ever want to use QT for are the things I cannot access any other way. Fixing your helpful changes to my associations took up far more time than you are worth.

    Sincerely wishing you a crap day,

    -Me

  • Open Letter: CNN Edition

    Dear CNN,

    I began following <a href=”http://twitter.com/cnnbrk”>cnnbrk on twitter</a> with notifications on, because it seemed like a good way to find out about breaking news which might be of importance or interest to me.

    Admittedly things like some guy hitting a ball with a stick further, in the right direction, more times than some other guy hit a ball with a stick in a similar fashion, is of zero interest to me, but I am willing to consider that it is of interest to a large chunk of your other twitter followers.

    However, I think it is important to point out that Jenna Bush getting engaged IS NOT BREAKING NEWS. It isn’t. There are a handful of people for whom it is breaking news, and I doubt any of them are even on twitter, much less following cnnbreak.

    Do you know whose engagement I would actually care to be notified about RIGHT AWAY? No, you don’t, because it wouldn’t be anybody that CNN would know anything about.

    Do not feed the bridezillas.

    Thanks,

    Me

  • Body Acceptance and Lack Thereof

    Part of the reason I wrote the fat post was because I really wanted to write this post, but needed those other thoughts out of the way first. Then my life got in the way and it took me a little bit to get back to this post.

    I don’t like my body. I do not have a warm relationship with it, and I am not very motivated to improve my feelings toward it.

    I get that YOU may believe that loving my body is a SHOULD so strong it is almost a requirement, but frankly, your shoulds hold more annoyance than interest to me. It is me, and my body. From my perspective our relationship should only concern you for the seconds you choose to expose yourself to my words. If it really hurts you to hear about my body hatred, or you feel that you must give me a pep talk. You might want to quit reading.

    The current source of our problem relationship has little to do with appearance. I won’t claim to have always been comfortable looking the way I happen to look. I won’t claim that I will age gracefully, and never even consider a visit to a plastic surgeon for some little bit of something. I certainly won’t claim that I do not have flashes of appearance insecurities, or worse. However, on the majority of days, I am fine with my appearance.

    I like the theory of body acceptance. Especially as the mother of a teenage girl, it is a big part of what I want to impart to her. It is made far more difficult by the fact that in all honesty I am so uncomfortable in my own skin.

    Literally uncomfortable.

    I have been in pain since I was 10 years old. Some days it is less, some days it is more, but I am always in pain. Chronic pain, they call it. Really fucking annoying, I call it.

    Yet, most days it isn’t really all that annoying, because I am so used to it. It is just a part of life for me. So, if it is just background noise, why do I hate my body? Most days I tend to ignore my body. I focus on the billion other things going on in my life and I don’t think much about the aches, except the brief instant it flares sharply as I change position. When the concept of body acceptance comes up though, I think about my body. Once I think about it, it all crashes over me in waves. The significance of our bodies is so much more than how they look to us, and it is sure as hell more than how it looks to others.

    Yes, I get it. I’ve heard it all. “At least you can walk.” “Look at all the things you can do.” “Look at your beautiful family.” “You should be grateful.”

    I can already detail out all the positive aspects of my body, and there are many. Certainly, I appreciate that things are not worse, and I know very well that they could be, but does it go so far as to wipe out the pain and frustration that is still there. No. Not for me. Have whatever opinion you have to have about my attitude, but it is mine, and I am not looking for your help or inspiration to change it.

    Then there are the surgical scars. Occasionally I happen to honestly and casually mention that one bothers me. This is invariable followed by somebody telling me how it doesn’t look bad, or is barely noticeable. The thing is, I do not mind the scars because I think they are ugly, or I am worried what other people see. They bother me because they remind ME of the physical, mental and emotional suffering that surrounded their creation. Also, they still physically bother me. My nerve regeneration is poor. I tend to end up with large patches of numb and tingly with occasional sharp pains. I can have those spots even when the scars are completely hidden from view.

    Now I am sure that many people reading this feel curious about the causes, background and nature of these pains and surgical scars. If you spend enough time with me over the years, you’ll hear about it here and there. The reason I am not detailing it out here, is that it just doesn’t matter where the subject at hand is concerned. What I am talking about is how I feel about my body, not the journey my body has taken to arrive at this status of under-appreciated anatomical structure.

    This week has been a marginal one. I’ve been able to get out of bed every day. I have not had to avoid any of the things I needed to get done. I was able to function physically. It was definitely not a pretty bad, bad, really bad, or seriously fucked up week. It was just one of those weeks where things were a step and a half above the I almost completely block it out I have so much practice level of pain.

    This week I was reminded at every move and twitch about the pain, but I wasn’t reminded with a chainsaw.

    Also, for anyone who would like to believe that any pain is caused by my being overweight, and would be solved if I dropped 50 lbs. You are wrong. No, I don’t need to detail out why. You just are.

  • My Confidence Cup Runneth Over

    The AC repair boy is here (finally). He speaks with a heavy (Russian?) accent.

    Him: So, what is wrong?
    Me: It does not blow cold air, and when I came to look (gesture toward the furnace/blower portion in the garage) it was dripping water all over the place. I’ve used a fan to dry it but you see the entire enclosure has water damage marks.
    Him: So, what is the problem?
    Me: Umm…?
    Him: What is the problem? Is the problem that it is not cold, or is the problem that it is leaking?
    Me: They are BOTH problems. I need my house to be cold, and the garage should not be flooded.
    Him: Hmm…

  • Fat Chick Typing

    I am overweight according to medical professionals, our government, the fashion industry, the media, and society in general. Sometimes more so, sometimes less so. I am curvy. I am soft. I have flesh covering all my bones. If you ever see me with a small ass or any bones poking out, assume that I am ill.

    I am fat because of genetics, lifestyle, emotional issues, psychological issues, medical issues and personal history to varying degrees. These are my business. I do not need to justify or explain to you which one is the current primary factor.

    Sometimes I am even fatter because of genetics, lifestyle, emotional issues, psychological issues, medical issues and personal history to varying degrees. These are my business. I do not need to justify or explain to you which one is the current primary factor.

    Sometimes I lose a chunk of weight because of genetics, lifestyle, emotional issues, psychological issues, medical issues and personal history to varying degrees. These are my business. I do not need to justify or explain to you which one is the current primary factor.

    I FUCKING HATE TO TALK ABOUT IT. There are a teeny tiny number of people on the planet I do not mind talking about it with, and chances are, you are not one of them.

    I am not saying that I am embarrassed about being fat. I am fat. I am okay with that. I am just beyond mother fucking tired of the concept that there is some value placed on the number of pounds or the number of lumps or the amount of jiggle. If the only thing that interests a person about me is the way I look, I really wish they would Go. The. Fuck. Away. It just isn’t that fucking high up on the importance scale for me, and I would rather converse with somebody that I have more interests in common with.

    The fact that acquaintances will stop to gush if I happen to be on a downward trend is to my ears unwanted, uncomplimentary and actually RUDE. I do not care if you think I look good. I do not care if you don’t understand that saying *that* is the same as saying that you used to think I looked bad. The fact that we live in a society that has it shoved up their ass that “you look like you’ve lost weight” is a compliment does not excuse you in my mind. I live in the same society and my brain can still think for its fucking self. Statistics show that whatever I drop I will most likely pick up again. What goes down, most likely will go up. If you only like me when I am less fat, you might as well go away now, because I AM FAT.

    Let’s not even hide behind the concern for my health bullshit. The fact of the matter is that I am usually HEALTHIEST at a “sweet spot” in the middle of my (very large) low and high range. As in that is the spot where my blood tests and blood pressure are at their supposed medical best. When I am lower and getting all the compliments is when my blood pressure is at the worst and my cholesterol levels are highest, yes, higher than when I am my fattest. I don’t give a fuck whether or not you believe me. I have to get blood tests regularly, so I know.

    I do not lose weight to impress you. I do not gain weight to disgust you. I do not care which side of your personal “acceptable weight” line I am hanging out on. “Oh, YOU’RE not fat!” is not a compliment to me, no matter what some stupid talk show taught you. You might be shocked at just how tiny a shit I give about your opinion of my looks and politically correct concerns about my “health”. It is so small, calling it a fart would still be an exaggeration.

    I am not “fat and proud”. I am not “fat and embarrassed”. I am fat.

  • And that has made all the difference

    The one more travelled by

    This is where I live.

    I don’t have my mail delivered here. There is a mailbox out in front of a place that bears an address, to which my bills go to.

    Yet what you see before you speaks of Los Angeles to me. Day in, day out, on the freeways crisscrossing the landscape, the traffic piles up and crawls along. It colors everything about my experience here.

    I am tied with these ribbons of roadwork and road rage. They leave me off balance. Will 15 miles take 15 minutes or an hour? I often arrive at my destination very early. I often arrive at my destination late. Occasionally when I get where I am going, I can find a place to park.

    It has made a difference. It has altered my personality and my activities, and even my friendships. There are people I would no doubt be more involved with, if only they lived 30 miles North, rather than 30 miles South.

    The 405. The 101. The 5. The 10. My brother in law visited recently and he asked us why do you call it “The”, isn’t it just 405? He was teasing, but I was serious in trying to explain why these expensiveways deserve a definitive article. They are more than a means to an end. They color moods and determine timing. It is not a road, it is a relationship. My husband spends more waking minutes with the 405 on most weekdays then he does with me. She can be a harsh mistress, but she treats us equally unfairly.

    And this, this is what passes as my love letter to Los Angeles.

    That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.

    Los Angeles has been good enough to me. I am better off in every way than I was when I arrived. I have plans for things to get better still. I do not believe that anyplace else would have been a better move for us, when we made the move here, even though the traffic often barely moves at all.

    It is not my true home. I expect to go elsewhere when career matters matter less.

    People mover, parking lot, bearer of friends and enemies, source of frustration, porter of goods, enabler and inhibitor of interaction – this is where I live.

    The one more travelled by

  • Perhaps you were somehow unaware

    When you bump into a chair that has a person sitting in it, they feel it. It does not matter which part of your body you do this with. They feel it. When you rest your feet, or knees, or anything else, on a seat that has a person sitting in it, they feel every single little shift that you make. At that point you are taking up more than your allotted space and you are affecting the enjoyment of another human being.

    If everyone could spread the word about this, that would be lovely. I’d like to be sure everybody knows.

  • Volcano Lunch

    My birthday is next week and a friend of mine took me out for a mani/pedi and lunch yesterday as my gift. The mani/pedi went without incident. We sat next to each other in the massager chairs and tried to converse while people tickled our feet and manhandled us.

    For lunch we went to a sushi place that neither of us had been to before. Some people, especially when treating a friend to a birthday meal, might prefer to go with something “tried and true” but both of us enjoy checking out new restaurants in hopes of finding a new gem.

    This sushi place was chosen based on the fact it was very close to the nail salon and a couple of HER friends eat there regularly and like it.

    We arrived and were given a choice of sushi bar or table. I almost always prefer the bar, however it had been more than a month since the last time my friend and I had seen each other or really spoken. A lot had gone on in that month and we had things to talk about. Some of what I wanted to tell her about, I did not want people to overhear. We chose the table.

    They brought us menus and the sushi ordering form. We carefully opened the menus with our newly manicured and not really dry nails. The menu was the type that is filled to the brim with specialty rolls, a great many of them in combinations that have little thought put into them. Each roll was listed by number, name, ingredients, photo and price. It was a full color menu. It makes for a very crowded design, but gives you a decent idea of what you are ordering. We discussed our order and as we settled on what we wanted the waitress came by to check on us. We told her we had decided, but had not marked the sheet yet. She said she would do it for us.

    We ordered. We ordered by number, name, and pointing at the item on the menu. Triple specificity.

    #8 Crazy Boy
    #10 BSCR
    #11 Volcano Scallop
    #24 House Special
    #26 Sexy Roll
    #39 Sashimi Salad

    The waitress went to give our order to the sushi chef and we started to go over some of the topics we needed to cover.

    Before long the waitress reappeared announcing “Sexy Roll,” and placed it on the table. The overall presentation was not the same as in the photo, but I am fine with that. Each chef has a slightly different style for things and I do not expect plastic food that looks exactly the same. We dug in. It tasted good. We continued to talk.

    We were not finished with that roll when the waitress reappeared carrying two more items. “Crazy Boy,” she tells us. She pauses stressed because she is not sure where to put both plates down. Mind you, we are two people sitting at a 4 top and only have one item on the table so far, but it is apparently exactly where she wanted to put the other plates. I move what is left of the Sexy Roll and she puts down the Crazy Boy and the Sashimi Salad. She does not tell us the name of the Sashimi Salad since she had gotten distracted by the placement problem. I could easily tell what it was, because there was lettuce involved and there was nothing roll like involved in it, and everything else we ordered was a roll.

    Crazy Boy looked similar to the photo. Sashimi Salad did not. Again, I am not overly concerned with the look matching the photo, but when that difference in looks is caused by a change in ingredients, I am less excited. The Sashimi Salad in the photo has hunks of fresh fish, atop mixed greens with a non-creamy salad dressing. The mixed greens on our plate did have an oil and vinegar dressing on them, but the fish itself was tossed and slathered in creamy sauce. Had that information been on the menu in some form, I would have told them to leave it off. I made a mental note to be sure to alter the order if I ever came again. I was in no mood to complain, and just wanted to get back to our chat. I didn’t eat any of the Crazy Boy, but my friend liked it.

    A different waitress brought two more plates, announcing, “Scallop Roll and Lobster Roll,” as we made room for them on the table. My friend and I exchange looks and stare at the plates. (Huh?)

    I stopped her, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we ordered a Lobster Roll, and this Scallop Roll, is it the BSCR, or the Volcano?”

    “It’s the Volcano,” she informs us. “You ordered the Lobster Roll, right?”

    “No, I don’t think so.” (No, I definitely did not order the Lobster Roll. Nothing we said SOUNDS like Lobster Roll.)

    She goes to get the waitress who took our order and they consult the piece of paper and come over to the table.

    The waitress we ordered from says, “You don’t want it?”

    “Well, we didn’t order it.”

    “Sorry,” she tells us as the other waitress takes it and gives it back to the chef.

    I point to the roll on the table and inquire, “Is this the Volcano Roll?” I am asking again because it does not look like what I was expecting.

    “No,” she tells me, “it is the BSCR.”

    “Okay, the other lady said it was the Volcano. So the Volcano is still coming?” I ask.

    She looks at me confused, “You want the Volcano?” My friend and I exchange looks. (What’s happening?)

    “Yes, we ordered it, right?” The waitress looks at the piece of paper and nods and walks back to talk to the chef. My friend and I start up our conversation again expecting the rest of our order soon, but we only get a few words in before the other waitress interrupts again.

    “Do you want the Volcano?” she asks. My friend and I look at each other again. (Obviously somebody is confused. Is it us?)

    “Yes, that’s the spicy one, right?. We like spicy things.” I tell her.

    “Oh, you like the spicy sauce?”

    “Yes.” I smile at her encouragingly. She goes away and talks to the chef again and we get back to our conversation.

    In a flash, she returns. “You want the Volcano Roll too?” My friend and I exchange looks again. o.O

    “Right, we still have two more rolls coming, right? How many rolls did we order?”

    She looks at the paper, “Six. So you’re okay? You want 2 more?”

    “We’ve had four so far, right?” I say, trying to get us all on the same page. She nods. “So you are bringing two more? We still need the Volcano Roll and the House Roll?” At this point everything seems questionable.

    “Okay.” She goes back to talk to the chef again, and once again we try to get back to our conversation.

    She brings us a roll that looks ABSOLUTELY NOTHING like any of the photos of what we ordered, not even close. “House Roll,” she announces and sets it on the table. The House Roll on the menu was a roll completely covered with three kinds of chopped up raw fish GOODness. This thing was a small, very plain roll with two types of fish, all wrapped inside. My friend and I look at each other. (WTF?)

    “Can I see what we ordered?” I gesture toward the paper. She hands me the paper.

    I look over the checked boxes.

    #8 Crazy Boy
    #10 House Roll
    #11 BSCR…

    What? These numbers do not match up with the menu numbers. Also the prices on this piece of paper are all considerably higher. For instance this #10 House Roll is $9.75 instead of $7.75.

    I look down the rest of the sheet and see a mark by #26 Sexy Roll. #24 is not called the House Roll and is not marked. Written at the bottom in a box is Volcano Roll and Sashimi Salad.

    “Oh, House Roll on the menu is number 24, and this looks different,” I mention.

    The waitress nods happily, “We changed it, but I checked the right name.” I smile at her. She smiles back. “The BSCR and the Volcano Roll are the same,” she tells me. My smile fades.

    “What? They are not the same on the menu.” I point out.

    “Just two different names. They are the same. See, BSCR is short for it. B. S. C. R. It is the initials,” she explains cheerfully to me. “See? That’s why the chef is confused.”

    My friend and I look at each other again. (B S C R is short for for Volcano Roll, yes, it all makes perfect sense now.)

    “But they are different on the menu, the Volcano Roll is spicy. Also, the House Roll is different on the menu.”

    “Yes,” she agrees. “They have changed it. They have the wrong picture. We keep trying to tell them to change the menu.”

    The chef speaks now, “See? The Volcano Roll and Scallop Roll are the same.”

    “But, on the menu they are different.” I reply. I am not trying to be argumentative. I am speaking in a polite tone of voice and am genuinely feeling confused, sort of as if I have wandered into The Twilight Zone.

    “No,” he tells me.

    “No?” I ask.

    He motions at the waitress to bring him the menu. He looks at the menu. “See? It is the same. The BSCR has scallops, and the Volcano has scallops and lobster and spicy sauce. They are the same,” he states firmly.

    (Perhaps we do not have matching definitions of the word same. ) “Oh. Okay.” I tell him. (I don’t want to talk to you anymore.)

    “I can make it for you.”

    I glance at my friend and raise and eyebrow. Her answer is written on her face, as clearly as if she had used a Sharpie (OMFG Let’s just Get. Out. Of. Here.)

    “No thank you. I think we’ll be fine.” I tell the chef.

    “No, I can make it for you.”

    “No, it’s okay,” my friend tells him.

    “Are you sure?”

    “Yes. We’re fine. We’ll be fine with what we have. Thank you.” I respond.

    “What about the other one? You don’t like the other one?”

    “It’s fine.”

    He says something I can’t hear to the waitress and she shows him on the menu. He gestures toward our table. “Bring it here, I can make it like that.”

    “It’s okay. We’re fine, really.” (We just want to finish and go far away now.)

    They drop it and we try to go back to our conversation.

    A loud voice interrupts, “What’s wrong?”

    We look and another man has come out from the kitchen and is staring angrily at us.

    “Nothing, we’re fine. Just some confusion with the menu.”

    “What’s wrong?”

    “We’re fine now, everything is…”

    He cuts me off, “What’s wrong?!”

    The waitress steps in and starts talking to him. I cannot hear what she is saying, but he is sufficiently distracted.

    We go back to lunching and talking, but soon my friend interrupts me and says, “I think they are talking about us.” I glance back at the sushi bar. Both men have angry faces and are waving their hands around. The women are standing there looking uncomfortable. The men get louder and louder. Soon the men are yelling at each other. They are yelling loudly. They are yelling about us. The man from the kitchen yells at the man who made our food. This pisses our chef off and he begins to yell back about some other customer who was there earlier. They get louder and louder, and more and more angry. The women start arguing also, but not as loudly. I cannot make out what the women are saying. All four of them are just standing up at the bar arguing while we try to eat our lunch.

    Eventually the man who had been in the kitchen storms back into the kitchen in disgust. The other man begins to clean up his workspace with a vengeance, slamming and banging things. The waitress comes over to ask if we want anything else.

    My friend smiled, “Just our check, and a to go box, thank you.”

    My friend scooped into boxes, paid, and we left as quickly as possible. As we walked out the door the waitress called out, “Thank you! Come again!”