Skip to main content

Dishing on Fish

Lord, help me. Not only am I overwhelmed by inactivity, I am also currently on a mission to try every restaurant I haven’t visited yet on the Vineyard. This is hard to accommodate without a steady job. But I’m no pushover. I’ll keep on eating.
The husband and I went out for sushi the other day. First of all, I can’t believe he finally tried it and second of all, he loved it. In fact, he preferred the plate of sashimi. The wonder of it all.
         This was at the Lookout Tavern, which of course looks out over the pier in Oak Bluffs. Seeing how the place was packed and there was a wait for the cool tables, we opted to sit at the sushi bar and watch the knives fly over all that raw fish.
         It was pretty awesome.
         It was even better when accompanied by rum punch and the “happiness is…” margarita.
         While we were dining, my better half, as he has been known to do, decided to engage in conversation with any and all of the sushi chefs who could speak English.
         I found out that all of the sushi fish that they use comes from . . . you guessed it . . . New York City, just like the salsa in that inane commercial.
         This was hard to take for a girl who prides herself on eating scallops that come fresh from the next town over. Apparently New York is even the go-to for seafood.
         Anyway, this was a sort of date because my son Dan is off to summer camp. That means two weeks of solid “woo-hoos” interspersed with “What the hell? Danny’s gone. What are we going to do?”
         I’m always conflicted at camp time. On one hand I want to fly to Vegas and see male strippers or at least the Cirque du Soleil. On the other hand I want to stay home and snuggle up with my husband in the air conditioning while watching ridiculous Netflix movies. What’s a girl to do?
         This time it’s been pretty darn sweet. We’ve managed to spend some great time together doing absolutely nothing, with a little sushi on the side.
         I haven’t yet gone to my go-to activities: Nairing my legs and painting my toenails. But they’re on my list.
         A camp vacation wouldn’t be complete without a couple of issues of People magazine, a brownie sundae from DQ, and a big bag of plantain chips.
         This all leaves me wondering what Dan’s doing during his break from me. I wonder if he’s just having a really chill time without me climbing up his ass. Probably. Who wouldn’t?
         I should go now. I want to grab my husband from his workshop so he can warm up the couch, and Netflix has decided to work tonight.

        Like the seafood, you can’t count on the Internet connections here. Better grab the good times while you can I always say. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Like to Call Them Ow-Bows

   It’s a toss-up. Do I write about the fact that if you search “jobless goddess” in Google the dairy goddess and the library goddess come way ahead of me, or do I write about the fact that my husband is incapacitated due to a broken elbow? I guess I’ll go with the broken elbow. Besides, who the hell breaks their elbow anyway? My husband of course.    It started out innocently enough. I, in my desire to lose weight and become the wrinkly, thinner woman I was meant to be, decided we should start up the morning walks again. I prodded him while he was still under the covers. “Come on, let’s do it. You know we have to do this,” I said while tugging on my really sexy yoga pants (which, by the way, never get used for yoga).    To his credit, he got up, pulled on his pajama pants and went with me. We got about a 16 th of a mile past the driveway before he landed in the gravel. I’m talking a bed of gravel. Gravel embedded in the palm of your hand. Gravel ...
2 comments
Read more

He sells sea shells, I wish

   So now rather than being obsessed with fake fingernails I can’t afford, I’m becoming obsessed with checking this blog. I’m pretty sure all 52 views were made by either me or my husband.   That leads me right into the current situation at hand. We need friends. We’re desperate for them. I’ve started handing out my telephone number to people I meet while doing my meager freelance work. They think it’s for the story I’m writing but really it’s in hope that someday they’ll find a reason to call and then I can hit them with, “By the way, do you play cards? Bingo? Gin Rummy?” If I wasn’t so arthritic I’d throw Twister in there.    It’s not so much for me, it’s my husband who likes to have people around. I have become hermit-like since moving here while he has become convinced we could die here and not be found for months. He had friends back in Syracuse but he chose to stay home at night with his loving wife. Now all of a sudden I get the impression he’d h...
6 comments
Read more

Parish the Thought

     I love small towns. When I lived in Parish, New York, there was no end to the reverie, not to mention the constant parades.      We had a Halloween parade through town featuring people of all ages marching in costume along a rather abbreviated parade route. It all culminated at the fire barn where a couple of old draft horses would pull along a hay wagon. Most all town festivities featured the fire barn.       Monday night bingo held there. The caller was a volunteer firefighter prone to bringing on fits of laughter when he drew N 44…which he pronounced as "N farty-far," whereby producing great gales of cackling from the middle-aged women who showed up every week, I think maybe just to flirt with the caller and the other male volunteers who collected their money. Don't get me wrong, I'm not making fun. I spent more than a few Monday nights there myself.      The gas stations served as restaurants in Parish. You...
2 comments
Read more