How to Say No to a Date

Leonard is about to lay down some of the best advice you're going to get.  But first, a small story to serve as an example.

Last semester, I was sitting in my office (with the door open) chatting with the one office mate I see regularly.  Said office mate left, so it was just me and my colleague across the hall.  His door was open, too; sometimes we chat across the hallway.

So my colleague says, sort of out of the blue, "Do you like to drink wine or beer?"
Me:  "Oh, I like wine.  I'm not really a beer-drinker."
Him:  "Would you like to drive me to get a drink some time?"

At least, that's what it sounded like he said.  I think he actually said, "would you like to join me for a drink sometime?"

And I was caught off-guard and rather nonplussed.  I was momentarily confused because I had first thought he was asking for a ride (to a bar??  Who does that??), so my brain was catching up.  I was taken aback because I realized I was just asked out on a date.

Don't you see this ring on my finger?  Haven't you heard me talk non-stop about my partner??

Granted, it doesn't look like a traditional engagement right, but still!

More than that, I was shocked because I had somehow thought that in a professional, collegiate environment, I'd be safe from being asked out by random men.  Especially men who do the same job I do.  And especially men, doing the same job, who are quite literally twice my age.

Words tumbled out of my mouth in response as I was on the spot.  "Umm, I dunno, maybe.  It depends.  I often have rehearsal."

I do often have rehearsal in evenings.  I also have a forty-five minute commute to school, so when I'm done teaching, I have no desire to hang out; I want to get started on the long drive home.  I also don't socialize too much with co-workers.  Perhaps if a group was going out for a drink, where we'd discuss work type things, maybe.  But work is work and my friends are my friends, and the two don't usually intersect.

My colleague soon left to teach his own class, and I was still dumbstruck by what had happened.  One of his office mates had come in during the tail end of our conversation, so I asked her if she overheard.  "Did he just ask me out?" I asked her.

And I hated asking her.  Because it sounds arrogant to "assume" someone has asked you out on a date, right?  Besides, what's the big deal, right?  Shouldn't I be flattered?  Besides, maybe it was completely innocent, right??  (I'll answer these questions at the end.)  The office mate said she hadn't heard, and added, "Besides, I think he's married anyway."
You and I both know that doesn't stop a lot of people, but I thanked her and wandered back into my own office, trying to keep my embarrassment and discomfort to myself.

Fast forward to this semester, just a week or so ago.  Our office doors are open, and my office mate and I are laughing about the awkwardness of student crushes (they do happen).  Then she leaves.  And older male colleague across the hall again speaks to me.

"Hey, Lenny, so would you like to have that beer this weekend?  Did I tell you about the microbrewery --"

"I'm sorry, I can't.  My partner is going out of town, and I have to take care of the dog.  We got a new dog who can't be left alone."

While it sounds about as plausible as "I have to wash my hair," my statement was absolutely true.  Our new forty-pound puppy cannot be left to her own devices, and my Unit was indeed going out of town for work.  When we're not home, Dogzilla has to be in her crate (which she HATES), and she can only be in there for a limited amount of time.

I was also irked because 1) he said my name wrong.  It was the equivalent of calling someone named "Caroline" -- someone who has "Caroline" printed on the sign on the office door, on the business cards, and everyone else calls "Caroline" -- the equivalent of calling her "Carol."
2)  I had already said I don't drink beer, which is true.  Wine?  Yes.  Hard liquor?  Yes.  Anything pretty with an umbrella in it?  Hell yes.  Beer?  No.

I was not unprepared this time, though he once again waited until I was alone to approach me.  And my reason was absolutely legitimate.  There was a brief pause, and then he said, "I didn't realize you had a partner."

Me (super bright-cheery-chipper):  "Yep, I do!"
End scene.

So here's the point (yes, there is a point).  I shouldn't have to have an excuse or reason to say "no."  Actually, I shouldn't have to worry about being asked out at my place of work (don't shit where you eat, people!), but that's another rant entirely.

Somewhere, somewhen, we women were taught that we must have some "reasonable excuse" for turning down a potential date.  I don't know when this happened.  I certainly don't remember anyone telling me this when I was younger.  But nonetheless, the thought is there.  And if we don't have an immediate, logical reason, we should "give the guy a chance."  It's the same logic behind trying new foods:  how do you know you don't like it until you try?

Here's how:  fuck you.

No, seriously, there does not need to be a reason or an excuse.  You can simply say "No thank you" to an offer for a date of any kind.  You, be you male or female, do not need a reason to turn someone (be they male or female) down.  Even if, like the above example, it is not explicitly stated that said outing is a date, you can simply say "No, thank you."  You are not required or obligated to hang out with people socially for any reason whatsoever.

And sometimes, we do have a reason.  Sometimes things just don't feel right.  Call it intuition, or your gut; I like to call it the "silent alarm."  It's that nagging feeling, sometimes almost a physical sensation, that for whatever reason this person does not jive with you.  For me, it's usually been because said person is psychotic, but that's another story.  Listen to that alarm.  It's there for a reason, no matter how tiny.  That alone is enough for you to say "no, thank you."

I repeat:  you do not need to give a reason or an excuse.  You do not have to be in a relationship or "have other plans" that night.  You can simply say no.

I am so tired and frustrated of hearing stories from my female friends about feeling bad for turning someone down or worrying about "hurting their feelings."  And I'm really angry over my own past examples, like the one above and many, many more.

1)  We all take a risk when we ask someone out.  Disappointment is one of the potential outcomes.
2)  You are not responsible for how someone else reacts to your answer.  That's on them.

And if you're polite (but firm), you've done nothing to really hurt their feelings.  Yes, they might be disappointed, but like I said, that's a risk we know going in.

While this is mostly directed to women, it applies to anyone and everyone.  We need to stop feeling obligated to other people for no good reason.  We need to stop feeling bad for saying no.

Now, I'll address the questions you might have about my anecdote:

1. He was just being friendly.  Really?  Then why wait until I'm alone and cornered?
2. He just meant it as a social thing.  That's entirely possible, but I'm still not obligated to go be social.  Also, see #1.
3. He meant as a group with other colleagues.  Then he should have said so.  Also, see #2.
4. You should be flattered.  Maybe and maybe not.  While I fail to see what's flattering about someone twice my age crossing work boundaries, maybe it would be flattering to you.  But the discomfort I felt about being cornered and put into an awkward position, plus getting my name wrong, etc. outweighs any potential flattery.

But none of the above really matter; I am allowed to simply say no.  And that does not make me a horrible person, a frigid bitch, or a cunt with a stick up her ass. 

I hope women -- people, really -- read this and take this advice to heart.  I wish I had learned it years ago; it would have saved me some trouble in the long run.  In fact, not listening to that silent alarm and simply saying no, will take us into our next topic:  Dealing with Stalkers.
And that's not hyperbole; I do mean stalkers.

The Bathroom Story

It began as any other morning.  I stumbled from my bed to the bathroom, still not awake yet.  In those days my mother was working ten-hours days downtown at City Hall.  This meant that she left early in the morning, often before I was out of bed (which is impressive since my first period started at 7:45 a.m.).  She would leave, and my friend Teresa -- well, Teresa's mom, really --would give me a lift to school since neither of us could drive yet.

Click to embiggen

I would get up, do my bathroom routine, then go back to my bedroom and get dressed.  I'd open the blinds on my bedroom window because Teresa (and her mother) and I had a system.  They would pull up to the building and honk.  I would wave from my window four floors up, and then take the old-fashioned, non-computerized, original-with-building Otis elevator down to the main floor, run down the sidewalk, and hop in the car.

You see, during my four years of high school, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my mother.  The apartment building had been built in the 1920s and had a beautifully renovated ballroom in the basement which was rented out for wedding and dances, including my own high school's prom.  Yes, prom was at my house (but that's a different story).  The building was U-shaped.  If you stood on the sidewalk facing the building, you'd be at the top of the U, looking down its center; a long sidewalk ran down the center of the U.  Four floors up (still at the base of the U) was my bedroom window.

So again, on this chilly winter morning I began my process as per usual.  It involved stumbling out of bed and blearily walking to the bathroom.  Because it was built in the 1920s, the entire building used delicious steam heat in the winter.  The radiator in the bathroom never turned all the way off.  As a result, 1)  it was always a bit stuffy in there, but 2)  I could put my towel over the radiator, and it would be nice and toasty when getting out of the shower.  Oh, and 3)  the bathroom door was permanently warped from the heat.  It would not completely close unless one slammed it.  We never closed it completely, let alone used the ancient turn lock.

So I stumbled up the step (yes, the bathroom had a step) into the bathroom and closed the door.  I have no idea why I closed the door when I was the only one home, minus the cat.   These days I never close the bathroom door, and I'm always surrounded by cats and dogs.

The bathroom routine involved peeing, of course, and then washing my hands and face.  I'd pop my contacts into my blind eyes and brush my teeth.  I would moisturize.  I would exit.  So I did all of those things, except the last one.

I went to open the door, and I couldn't.  The knob wouldn't turn.

Maybe I moisturized too much?  I wiped my hands on a towel and tried again.  Still no go.  The door was stuck.  The knob would not turn.

I tried again.  And again.  And again.  And -- was it getting hotter in there?  Or was it just me slowly panicking?  The radiator dutifully kicked out its steamy heat.  I was sweating, and my hands kept sliding off of the white ceramic door knob.

I must have tried for ten or fifteen minutes before the cold realization set in:  I was stuck in my own bathroom.

I was fifteen, home alone, and stuck in my own bathroom.

I tried not to cry.

How will I get out?  How will I get ready for school?  Who can let me out? 
I couldn't call anyone.  This wasn't Wayne Manor or a James Bond set; there was no phone in the bathroom.  Cell phones hadn't been invented yet.  I was cut off from communication.

Who will find me?  What if the fire department has to come and chop down the bathroom door with one of those giant axes?  My hair is unbrushed.  These were my concerns.

It'll be okay, I thought.  Soon Teresa and her mom will show up, and they'll see that I'm not upstairs in the window, and they'll know something is wrong.

Except my bedroom blinds were still closed.  I hadn't reached that part of my routine.  It happened after getting dressed, which happened after the bathroom routine.  Incidentally, hair-brushing also happened after the bathroom; I kept the brush on my dresser in my bedroom.

Whose bright idea was it to give me baseball pj's?

How will they know I am stuck??  My mind raced until I realized I could crack the bathroom window just a bit (it, too, was warped and only opened a couple of inches) and yell out.  The window glass was thick and frosted, and the window itself obscured by the shape of the building; they wouldn't be able to see me, but hopefully they could hear me.  What other choice did I have?  I resigned myself to my fate, and, in my pink flannel jammies, knelt down on the bathroom floor, put my head on the fuzzy peach toilet seat cover and dozed until I heard the honk of the car horn.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later -- or maybe it was only ten -- I heard the telltale honk of my ride.  I stood up and  put my mouth to the crack in the bathroom window.  "Teresa!  TERESA!"

Eventually a car door opened, and Teresa walked down the long sidewalk, looking around confusedly.  "TERESA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

Trying to find the source of the yelling, she looked around.  "Leonard?"

"TEREEEEEEEEEESAAAA!  I'm stuck in the bathroom!"

"WHAT?"

"I'm STUCK in the BATHroom, and I CAN'T get OUT!"

"You're stuck in the bathroom?"

"YES!  And I CAN'T get OUT!"

I honestly hadn't thought past this moment.  My goal was to tell someone I was stuck.  I had achieved that.  I had no idea what Teresa would do with this information.  Like any good girl, she went straight to her mother, who was waiting impatiently in the car.  Soon, I spied the two of them making their way down the sidewalk, Teresa's tall, lanky figure next to her mother's large, waddling one.

They will save me!  But how will they get in?  They didn't have a key.  No one had a key except me and my mom.
And the building manager.

The building manager was ninety years old if she was a day, and she intensely disliked anyone under the age of sixty.  The fact that she leased an apartment to a woman with a teenaged daughter was nothing short of miraculous.  (I'm sure it helped that I was an exemplary teenager.)

I can't imagine the story Teresa and her mother had to tell Pat to get her out of her apartment, probably wearing a housecoat and slippers.  But within minutes I could hear the front door of our apartment opening, and all three of them trudging in.

Both Teresa's mother and Pat the building manager jockeyed for control of the situation, shouting instructions to me from the other side of the warped wooden door.  I tried opening the door again.  They tried opening it from their side.

"It's locked," the building manager said.

"But I never use the lock," I said.

"Try turning the lock," she said.

"But I didn't lock the door," I insisted.

"Try turning it anyway," she said.

I tried.  The lock was stuck, too, possibly in the "locked" position.  How did that happen?  I didn't use the lock.  I never used the lock.  But the door was nevertheless both stuck and locked.  Stu-locked, if you will.

This comedy of errors continued for a bit with no real progress.  "Turn the lock again!" Pat barked.  I did, and it turned as smoothly as a hot knife going through butter.  No problem.  It unlocked, and I was free.  I stared blankly at the women gathered in front of the bathroom door.  Now what?

Teresa's mom would take Teresa to school, for which she was now late while I got ready for school.  Pat the building manager said she'd drive me to school.  I shuddered at the thought of her elderly self behind the wheel of a car.

No, Teresa's mom insisted, she'd come back to get me.  Teresa's mom didn't like me all that much (in fact, she still doesn't), but heaven forbid someone else do her job.  Or get credit for my rescue.

I was able to get dressed and brushed and packed in the twenty minutes it took Teresa's mom to drive to school and back.  Once at school, I had to head directly to the dean's office for a note to admit me to class because I was horribly, horribly late.  I had already missed first period, second period, and homeroom.

I sheepishly entered his office.  This was not my first encounter with dean, nor would it be my last during my four years there.  He already knew me on sight.

"Why are you late?" he asked, getting out a pink slip to admit me to class.

I dutifully said, "I was stuck in my bathroom."  Two seniors who were working in the office during their study hall, collecting attendance slips and things, started snickering.

One of them said, "Yeah, a pink elephant sat on my car this morning; that's why I was late."

The dean managed to keep a straight face the entire time.  "I'll need a note from your mother," was all he said before sending me on my way. 

I don't know about you, but in my high school, when classes were in session, the halls were absolutely silent.  There was none of this "hanging out in the hallway" bullshit I've seen nowadays.  You were in a classroom or in the library.  If you were in the hallway, you better damn well have had a note saying why.

I clutched my note in my sweaty hand as my footsteps echoed loudly on the beige linoleum floors.  I think all Catholic schools have that same floor and the same beige wall tiles, too.  I had to go down the hall, down a flight of stairs to the second floor, then down another hallway to get to my third period class, Honors Biology.

I opened the door and tried to slip in as unobtrusively as possible.  But the teacher still looked at me, as well as twenty-four other pairs of eyes from their lab tables.  There was no way to not be obvious as I walked in late, even though I tried to be invisible (all five-feet, one-hundred pounds of me).

Mrs. B. regarded me and said, "Welcome, Leonard.  Why are you late?"

And again, I responded, "I was stuck in my bathroom."

While the classroom snickered, she, too, took it all in stride.  "You may take your seat," was all she said.  I slunk into my seat.

And forever after that, long after she had forgotten my actual name, ten, fifteen, twenty years later, she still remembers me as the girl who got stuck in her own bathroom.

Epilogue:
Teresa and I both produced notes the next day from our mothers proving our story was true.  We were so terribly late to school because I was stuck in my bathroom. 

Fun with Words: Polyp

At my doctor's appointment on Tuesday, the OB/GYN announced that I have a polyp in the lining of my uterine wall.  Not a huge deal, but it was news to me.  At our last visit, she only discussed the hemorrhagic ovarian cysts.  She kept talking about how the location of said polyp is making it difficult to control my bleeding, even with the birth control pills (hence why Leonard has been leaking bodily fluids for nearly two months now -- oh, TMI warning!), but I was still focused on the word "polyp."

Polyp.

Polyp.

Say it with me:  "polyp."

Make sure you enunciate; I want to hear those p's -- polyP.

I once saw a picture of nasal polyps when I was looking up some sinus symptoms.  They look like little sacs you could pop.  The combination of the illustration and the word "polyp" made me think of oranges.  Specifically, the fact that you can break an orange slice down into itty bitty segments and "pop" them.  Plus the word "pulp" has similar letters to "polyp."

Image courtesy of MayoClinic.com

Polyp.

When I was in grade school I also used to "pop" the unopened hosta flowers that lined the path from the school to the church.  I'm sure God didn't appreciate it, but they made such a satisfying little "pop" that I couldn't help myself.

Image courtesy of Knitspot.com

Pop!

Polyp.  Polyp.  Polyp.

The word has practically lost all meaning now.  The term, by the way, for that (when saying a word over and over again makes it nonsensical) is jamais vu.  It is the opposite of déjà vu, which means "already seen" (from the French).  Jamais vu translates to "never seen."

I think I'll name my polyp Fred.

Ranty McRantersons: Baseball Edition

So there's a petition going around (I've seen several friends post about it on Facebook) to make the MLB's Opening Day a national holiday. Anheuser Busch has even endorsed it (hello, publicity stunt!). There's something about this stunt that I find beyond ridiculous, even offensive. "But Leonard, it's just a day off of work! Who doesn't want that?" I don't, not when it costs this much.

While I would never begrudge someone his or her enjoyable pastime, it is just that: a pastime. And while it is a colloquialism to say that baseball is the U.S.'s national pastime, it's just a fun thing to say; there is no official pastime. More than that, what about other pastimes? I'm sure the fans of football, soccer, hockey, basketball, etc. would like the openings of their seasons recognized nationally. Hell, perhaps I think National Knit in Public Day should be recognized officially so I can participate. Like many sports, knitting too requires skill, talent, dexterity, practice, eye-hand coordination, spatial recognition, and (gasp!) math.

And what about the myriad of different art openings? There are many, many of us who do not enjoy any sport at all. Surely those seasons and offerings should be recognized as a part of our culture, too.

But here's the part I really, REALLY dislike: I am tired of the inflated status sports continue to have, not just in this city, but in this country -- especially when budgets for arts programs continue to be slashed across the country, at both local and federal levels. Combine that inflation with the god-like status many players receive (or take upon themselves), add in the culture of hypermasculinity that pervades both college and professional sports, and we get things like accused rapists, murderers, animal abusers, and homophobes.
And I find nothing in that that I want to celebrate. That "free" day off of work isn't so free after all.

So, by all means, please enjoy your "sportsball" and your pastimes and your hobbies, but also please stop trying to foist them on the rest of us.
Thanks.

Review: The Night Circus

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Wow. This book fascinated me; I read it in two nights straight. I even dreamt about it in between. The description of "behind the scenes, a fierce competition is underway: a duel between two young magicians" doesn't half do it justice. Indeed, that's all I ever read of the description, and then stopped reading because it sounded silly. The book is anything but silly. Something about it, and about the circus itself, just resonated with me. The way the chapters are laid out and the stories overlap kept my brain intrigued.

My only regret is that I read it on my nook. The dates at the beginning of each section are important, and if I had been reading a hard copy, I would have been able to turn back and double-check dates more often. My first edition nook makes that nearly impossible (and when it is possible, very cumbersome).

One thing about downloading the eBook from the library is that it has to "prepare" and then open the file on my laptop in Adobe Digital Editions. The message for this book said: "Preparing The Night Circus," which led to visions of a tiny circus in my computer (and made me giggle).

I may have to purchase a hard copy to reread again.

View all my reviews

Why I Don't Say 'African-American'

Just in time for Black (not "African-American") History Month,...
I do not use the term "African-American."  As with most things for Leonard, it breaks down to semantics.  And, per usual, we'll break this down bullet-point style.

• Africa is not a country.  It's an entire CONTINENT.  So when you say someone is "African," yes, they might be from Kenya, Somalia, or Nigeria.  They might also be from Egypt, Libya, Sudan, Ethiopia, Morocco, or one of the 55 recognized countries that make up the continent -- including the island of Madagascar, where we like to move it move it. 
•  America isn't quite a country either.  This gets a little tricky, but bear with me.  The full name of this country of my origin is The United States of America.  That preposition "of" is  important.  These United States are part of America.  Given our location, we'll have to presume that we mean North America, which is a continent.  So "America" in this instance can also mean Mexico and Canada.  And if we don't use the adjective "North," we're also left with Latin America and South America.  So even though we might say we're "American," the word itself is rather ambiguous.
• Not all black people are from the continent of Africa.  What about Haiti?  Or the Dominican Republic?  Or a thousand other places around the world where non-Caucasian people are found?  You might say, "But Leonard, all of those black people originally came from Africa."  To which I'll say, "Fine, and if we trace back far enough, we ALL came from that same region before the phenomenon of continental drift."  You'll say, "It's ridiculous to go that far back!"  And I'll say, "Exactly."  I find it ridiculous to assume to trace all black people back to Africa.
• Did you ever stop to think that perhaps that person doesn't want or is unable to trace their heritage back that far?  Perhaps he or she would simply like to be known as a person in the here and now, as a citizen of the United States.  Speaking of which... 
• What do they call black people in other countries?  They certainly don't say "African-American" in Ireland, do they?  Here, I'll put it in the form of a joke:
• Q:  What do you call a black person in Great Britain?
• A:  British.
• That's the thing of it.  I think perhaps country of origin is more important in terms of identity than race.  Which reminds me, race is social construct.  I'm sure you've all heard that there could be a larger difference in DNA between a (white) blonde and a (white) brunette than between a white person and a black person.  But what about this?  Y'know in those demographic boxes we sometimes fill out (I check "white"), well "white" is a relatively new option.  A hundred years ago or so, the U.S. of A. was the Great Melting Pot, so the demographic options were things like "Irish," "Polish," "German," etc.  "White" did not exist.  That we have it now as a concept is part of why it's a social construct.  (This is, of course, a very simplified explanation of a larger concept.  This article by Ta-Nehisi Coates gives more insight into the discussion.)

I could fill this page with more anecdotes about times the term "African-American" has backfired, but here's the one that sticks out:  a student at a prominent university here applied for and was almost granted a scholarship for "African-American" students.  The university started to renege on the grant upon learning that said student was originally from Egypt.  That's not the kind of "African" they meant.

When we/you say "African-American," what we/you really mean is "black."  So why not just say that?

"But, Leonard," you'll say, "'black' sounds so crude.  Maybe even...racist," you'll whisper, hoping we're not overheard. 

"African-American" is way for people to assuage whatever guilt they might feel over "race" while still sounding "politically correct," or, as I like to call it, "pretentious."

If you're uncomfortable saying "black," ask yourself this question:  why do you feel compelled to say it (or "African-American") at all?  Is it somehow necessary to the story you're telling that we know the skin color of the person involved?  Let me put it this way:  would you still say it if the opposite were true?  Would you say, "I ran into this white guy today..."?  Probably not.

Similar to when I discuss heteronormativity with my students, I point out that we do not feel compelled to say "I was talking with my straight friend at work" because we assume the person is straight unless told otherwise.  Similarly, we might assume a person is white unless told otherwise.  Black people, gay people, are not the "Other," defined only by their non-straightness or non-whiteness.

I suggest instead that, unless it is somehow imperative to the idea you're trying to get across, you not say "black" or "white" or "gay" or "straight" at all.  Let your audience's assumptions fall where they may; that's on them.  You  might be amazed at how your speech changes.

Kill Da Wabbit

Well, I can finally say that I've tasted rabbit meat.  Not that it was on my "To Do" list or anything, but now I've done it.

Perhaps I should back up, though, and explain how we buy meat in this household.

We buy meat in bulk -- but not from Sam's Club or any such nonsense.  Being the hippies we are -- well, they are (my Unit and in-laws; I consider myself "half-hippie" at best) -- we buy our delicious, organic, grassfed beef from local farmers half a cow at a time.  Let me repeat:  half a cow.  That's a lot of meat.  (Make your own jokes.)  We split that "half beef," as it's called, between our three families (during a process I like to call "meat poker"); each family ends up with approximately 60-80 pounds of red meat deliciousness.  That is roughly one regular freezer full of meat.  My Unit has to play "meat Tetris" in order to put it into our freezer.

We order chickens this way, our Thanksgiving turkeys, and now most recently, rabbit.

I should add that I did not order the rabbit; I had no interest in eating rabbit.  My Unit ordered it.

After making a certain number of jokes about bunnies in our freezer, she roasted the rabbit in the oven with carrots and potatoes.  While it did smell good (not unlike roasting a turkey), I could not bring myself to try any when it was done.  Just couldn't do it.

The next day, she took the leftover rabbit meat and made rabbit and dumplings.  Now I love her chicken and dumplings -- LOVE IT.  Hell, I just love dumplings!  A wad of delicious carbohydrate goodness dripping in gravy?!?  What's not to like??

This, too, smelled delicious from the stove top.  I finally called up enough courage to taste a spoonful, with a large dumpling right on top.  It was warm, and the initial flavor was what I remembered from chicken and dumplings.
But then...

Then there was this taste, clinging to the roof of my mouth.  A kind of tangy burnt-ness I didn't like.  I described it to my Unit, even saying, "It almost tastes like it's burnt," and she said the taste I was describing was probably the "gaminess" of rabbit.
Eww.

I said, "But I still like dumplings!"
She said, "So just eat a bowl of dumplings!"

I took another spoonful of broth and just dumplings, but no go.  It still had that weird, "gamey," rabbit-y flavor on the roof of my mouth.  All those dumplings that I couldn't eat -- it still makes me sad (and hungry) thinking about it.

So there ya go.  I've tasted rabbit, and I didn't care for it.  I guess it goes to show that not everything tastes like chicken.