Sushi or Poor Lynda

I love sushi and I've found that it's kinda like heroin (not that I've ever tried heroin). You have a little bit and then you crave sushi until you can have it again. I've been known to have sushi for lunch and absolutely not be able to contain myself, and have it again for dinner. I have a feeling, that if it was financially feasable, I would have sushi at least 2-3 times a day.
So it was one of those times where I had sushi earlier in the week and it was getting to be lunchtime and all I could think about was sushi. Are we sure they're not sprinkling cocaine on that stuff??? So I had found a place near my office and talked my co-worker Lynda into joining me.
You need to take into consideration several things before reading the remainder of the story. 1.) I wasn't really listening to what was going on. I was too busy trying to decide what, of all the glories of sushi, I was about to consume. It was only after what happened that my brain pieced together what I had heard. 2.) There were 3 accents going on at the table. Mine- West TX, which really doesn't matter but we thought we'd throw it in there just for kicks. Lynda's- Russian, she's lived here for about 6 years and speaks fabulous English but her accent is still there. Our Waiter's- Japanese.
So, while I was trying to decide between 2 different lunch combos and ended up getting both (miso soup, 4 pieces of Yellowtail, a spicy tuna roll, and a spicy salmon roll, yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm), the following conversation is going on
L: I would like 5 ikura
W: 5 ikura?
L: Yes 5 salmon
W: You want 5 salmon roe?
L: Yes I want 5 salmon rolls
Now, if you eat sushi you have already figured out the end of this story. Lynda had ended this conversation thinking that she had ordered 5 pieces of salmon. The waiter had thought otherwise. As the waiter returns w/ our plates, I see the 5 very seaweed wrapped piles of salmon eggs. I saw the look on Lynda's face and realized that she was hoping that those 5 pieces were coming to be, but as she counted the individual pieces the, lets say shock for lack of a better word, came over her face.
I have to give her this. If it had been me, I would have probably started crying or begged the waiter to take back the big orange balls that stared up at her. But instead she said, "Well at least in Russia it's considered a delicacy." And popped it in her mouth.

My Dad

My Dad
I'm sure that most girls feel this way about their Dad. There's something about little girls and their Daddy's. We fall in love and our Dad is our hero from the moment we're born. Our Dads are larger than life, and there's nothing they can't do. In my mind my Daddy could kill a bear w/ nothing but his own two hands if he had to. lol
When I was baby I fell asleep every night on my Daddy's chest. I didn't even have a pacifier, instead I sucked on the end of his pinkie finger. At the age of 2 he would take me up the deer stand w/ him and let me sleep on the floor until it was time to wake up, and then he'd let me sit on his lap while he hunt. And of course afterwards I always got to take pictures posing w/ the days "kill". He didn't give me a hard time when I was 8 and begged him to let me shoot the next coyote we caught in a trap. B/C when I held the pistol in my hands at point blank range I just couldn't do it. He taught me early on that you always respected what you were hunting, and that shooting animals just to shoot wasn't right. That a real hunter only hunted for a useful purpose.
My Daddy has always been there to rescue me. When I was a little girl there was a stray cat that mysteriously disappeared after my Dad caught it attacking me. He was there to save me the day I was attacked by a ram in our horse pasture. (Those were the only 2 times I was ever attacked by animals, I swear) When it came to the big stuff he taught me how to take care of most things on my own. But when circumstances arose that I just couldn't take care of myself, Dad was there to fix it. And he never got on to me for getting into the situation. He just told me how proud he was to have a daughter that was strong enough to get out when it was time to leave.
Don't get me wrong. My Dad's not perfect and we've been known to butt heads every so often. There have been times in my life that I wanted nothing more than to pinch his head off and throw it down on the ground so I could stomp it into a little bloody pulp. My mother says that out of all 4 children, 3 boys and me, that I'm the one most like my father. We're both headstrong and stubborn, we always think we're right, and the day God was handing out tact we both said no thanks for fear that it was something sharp that we might accidentally sit on.
But at 29 years old my Daddy is still my hero, my knight in shining armor, my own personal John McClain.