Week 33: Catchin’ the Spirit!

As I sit in a tastefully decorated wooden pew, eating macaroni and cheese, I anxiously await the arrival of Mr. Jesus. Ryan and I are in the final stretch of a weekend getaway to Whorelando and the trip has been nothing short of fantastic.  It is amazing what you can experience in just 48 hours after being removed from the Tampa bubble. Living in Ybor, I am prone to ass clowns. But marching ducks, a winning scratch ticket, bourbon-infused sweet tea vodka, mimosas and now a Sunday gospel brunch…. Have I died and gone to heaven?

The whites are low in attendance today, but black and white alike are uniting today, in one bible thumping concert hall, under God. I’m not going to be personally uniting with anyone because I’m in my own private pew on the second floor balcony, overlooking Jesus’ dance party downstairs.

Let me try and describe this.  House of Blues, Orlando. A concert hall/temple of sorts. A stage surrounded by white-clothed tables, a second floor with a balcony and pews. God’s children everywhere, catchin’ the spirit. One woman caught the spirit so hard she found it necessary to wear an all white body suit and dance in a one woman exorcism party of some sort. No really...watch the video clip below.  

Ryan keeps finding it funny to dance and clap uncontrollably and the sad part is, he actually fits in. This experience is 100% preposterous. I keep taking pictures with my phone and sending them to my circle of unholy friends and the only replies I receive back are “what’s wrong with you,” “you’re an idiot,” and “where the hell are you, Sister Act?”   

Our backdrop is an endless buffet that I can’t get enough of. This beats Holy Communion fo’ sho’.  Bread crumb topped mac n’ cheese, fish sticks, eggs, sausage, bacon, collard greens, bbq chicken, jambalaya, potato salad, biscuits and gravy, waffles, strawberries, creamy broccoli salad with crispy bacon, cocktail shrimp and remoulade, a carving station with prime rib and ham and a dessert station pies, cobblers and bread puddin’ with whiskey cream sauce.  I broke up my bacon and mixed it into the macaroni and cheese like a real fat ass. It was to die for. Ryan inhaled 4 full plates of food.

Surely this is not serious. But as I look around the room I realize this is fact serious. I can pregame the apostle’s show with mimosas, practice gluttony, and party with a bunch of black people…. And get away with it. Praise the lord!  Earlier this morning we watched a bunch of live ducks make a red carpet grand entrance into the Peabody Hotel lobby, led by a marching “Duck Master” (named Donald) and I thought that was strange—not anymore.

 

Week 32: Pach's Place, Pronounced Pa-ches, No Rappers Here.

Ok, maybe you’ve noticed, maybe you haven’t…. But after, thirty-one straight weeks of brunch, we actually skipped eating last Sunday. It was an all-liquid Sunday Funday for John-Paul’s Birthday Extravaganza. He turned 28 and only John-Paul and his boyfriend Sean think that turning 28 is a big deal. I, like other adults in the world, stopped celebrating and arranging birthday adventures at the age of 13. Most people just wait for milestones like “21” or “80.” I didn’t buy him a present. Being his friend and putting up with his gay antics is my everyday present.

We surprised John-Paul with a group trip to Adventure Island, the wonderfully overpriced, drug infested, water world located in Tampa, Florida. If you are looking for a soaking wet degenerate, go to Adventure Island. Adults in life vests, recirculated piss pools, and mediocre security that permits you to sneak your own booze into the park…They’ve got it all. Great place.

It was a fun day but I hope we didn’t let him down. Part of me thinks he was expecting more. Before arriving at the water park, we were all waiting outside of a convenience store for everyone to finish packing up their road sodas. A state cop approached us on his way into the store. John-Paul immediately got excited and screamed “WOOHOOO, YOU ALL BOUGHT ME A STRIPPER!” Fortunately the cop ignored his incongruity, but John-Paul looked slightly disappointed upon realizing it was not a naked law enforcement fraud. Now that I think about it---that was a ridiculous thought. Do you know your friends at all JP? We would never purchase an overweight stripper of non-white decent. Get a grip. Adventure Island was much more entertaining anyway.

So, Sunday has come once again and Ryan and I are back to business: brunch. We’re on our way to Pach’s Place on Bay to Bay Boulevard because we haven’t been this wonderful establishment in almost a year. As I enter Pach’s, memories flood my brain…. flood my brain like nasty recirculated sewage water, definitely not beautiful blue tides. I think back on who I used to be and it’s hard to imagine that today I’m sitting here, respectably dining with a boyfriend and a leg free of probation electronics. Joking. That is not actually a staple of my past, although it should have been.

Pach’s Place was our go-to Sunday brunch joint in college. There were 6 of us Holly Hangovers that used to go together, until one week when we made too many Hellen Keller jokes in public and offended our friend Christine. We then became a pack of 5. We were never sober and we were rarely dressed appropriately. More often than not we’d be wearing our clothes from the night before or even worse, pajamas. We’d always have to make a slight detour to pick up my roommate on the way. She tended to go missing at night. We’d find her waiting on a curb somewhere, beautiful as ever, and ready for coffee. She was a gem.

The ultimate fail of Pach’s Place came my senior year of college. I had been partying all weekend (all year, really) and my parents were in town and wanted to take me to brunch. The waitress sat us at a table in a high-traffic area near the door and I took the outside seat near the aisle, letting my parents hug the wall. While sitting there, minding my own hangover and trying to have an adult conversation with my parents, a woman came darting through the front door with her baby thrown over her shoulder. I felt something splash and start to slightly drip down my forehead. My mother’s face didn’t need to provide any explanation. The tiny human had puked directly on my head. At breakfast.

Anyway, not even projectile vomit throughout my hair could stop me from loving Pach’s Place. They are one of the most fair-priced establishments in South Tampa and their greasy diner atmosphere sure hits home. They even have a waitress who resembles Dolly Parton and she’s here today. I usually get their massive omelets but I’ll mix it up. For $4.85 there’s a fabulous combo of 2 eggs, 2 sausage patties, toast and grits. DONE! Ryan ordered a fabulous combo as well but his included country fried steak with sausage gravy, home fries, a biscuit, 2 eggs over medium and a side of smoked chicken/apple sausage, What the f is smoked chicken apple sausage!?   

It is at this point I would like to review the food but I am too distracted by the man sitting across from us with his hand up the leg of his shorts, scratching his balls. I wonder if he is aware the tables have no clothes and I’m getting a peek at the mouse in the cage. He’s wearing a Snow White shirt that says “Don’t Worry, Be Grumpy,” and let’s be honest dude, the only thing worse than an adult in a Disney t-shirt, is an adult who engages in public scrotum scratching. I’m watching you, you swine.

Speaking of swine, my sausage patties were frigan amazing, but I can’t say the same for Ryan’s “chicken apple sausage.” Although the flavor was great, I couldn’t stand wondering whether each crunchy bite was a chunk of apple or a chunk of cartilage.  The grits were fantastic as well. I took my scrambled eggs and sausage and used the toast to make my own breakfast sandwiches like a true food monster. Ryan’s country fried steak and gravy was slightly orgasmic and so were his home fries. You never let us down Pach’s. I’m glad we finally got around to visiting you once again. I purposely forgot to order the potato pancakes because I’m doing this thing called “watching my weight”… so I’ll be back!

Week 31: Chelsea Handler’s Vagina

Where has time gone? At just the tender age of 25, the depression of age has encompassed me. It’s my birthday week and I’m miserable. I’m just not where I wanted to be at 25, which was supposed to be parading around my mansion in an apron-only ensemble, cooking pot brownies for my hardworking rich husband, and throwing midday tea-parties with my white and proper suburban friends… all while the kids take an 8 hour nap.

I’ve spent the entire week running like a psycho, in 6 mile intervals from my place to Ryan’s. I figured if I can’t control my destiny, I will control my personal well-being and maybe even lose 40 pounds while I’m at it.  So, my week has consisted of running and then wrapping myself up in Big Pink.  Big Pink is kind of like a childhood blanket, except she is my comforter from college. Similar to the childhood blankets you may find in a Catholic Church, she’s been violated several times. From spilled alcohol, to fudgesicles, to adult foreplay, she’s seen it all.  Because she is locked up in my armoire during the day and only comes out at night, Ryan refers to her as “Big Pink the Vampire.”  I like the ring of that. She is a blood sucking beauty, draining anyone she entraps of life, energy and friends. I need to move on from this week, focus on the positives, and get the hell away from Big Pink and seek some sunshine.

Sunshine it is; but first we’re going to need a coffee stop. We walk down the street to La Creparia, Ybor and I order us two iced coffees to go. Ryan flips out like a gay man who has some special frappuccino with light whipped cream that needs to be ordered. “UM EXCUSE ME. I never said we wanted drinks to go, and I certainly did not say I wanted an ice coffee.” Like a real bundle of twigs bound up, he orders himself an iced caramel something with whipped cream on top. We sit in La Creparia for about 15 minutes before the menu catches my attention. What the hell is this? A menu for ants? The menu is pocket sized and even my young eyes can’t read it.

Coffees slurped down, shit brewing, and we’re off. Back towards home. We’re mixing things up this week and cooking out by the pool instead of hitting up a local brunch. Perfect. I won’t be tempted by biscuits and gravy or a heaping mound of hash. I can stick to my fitness and diet goals. 25 is not a fat year. It's a year of fitness, pre-pubescent physiques and hopefully getting mistaken for an Olsen once or twice.

As usual, the pool is full of shady characters, many whom do not live in my condo complex but just hop the gate and utilize our pool for showering or something of the sort. A woman with fake boobs, a thong and heels catches my attention immediately. She is clearly a stripper. She may just be foreign, but my first thought is stripper. Her sugar daddy has an offensively large chest and I wonder if he has boob implants as well, or pec implants, whatever you call it when a man dabbles with silicone.   

A few familiar faces are here including “Areola Woman,” who is always drunk and can’t ever seem to keep her utters in the barn. And then there is a plethora of tattooed folk in the corner. Most of them never actually enter the pool because it’s either bad for their dreads or they’re freshly inked and can’t get into the water for 72 hours. And Sean. Ahh Sean, I’ll lay next to him fully clothed and read my book like a true and modest adult.

I’m sweating my ass off in a full-length sundress because I can’t expose my legs today. Or maybe for the next week. An awful bug bite attack occurred on Friday night. I volunteered for some stupid wilderness race so that Ryan could run for free.  Since then, I have started to count the amount of bites on my right leg alone, below the knee: 33 bites. Not counting my right thigh which is far worse and my entire left leg which is also covered. I also haven’t shaved my legs in a week so a full-length dress is my best option right now. I’ve estimated about 100 bug bites and 100,000 hairs.

Ryan has been grilling for what seems like hours, or that may just be because I’ve recently taken up this new trend called “reading” and “paperback books” and it’s taken the majority of the morning to make it through three chapters.  Reading about Chelsea Handler’s one night stands makes me feel a lot better about myself and my past. What an old and aged beat down tramp. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. But as I stare at my large plastic Tampa Bay Lightning cup, I begin to imagine her vagina having a similar shape.

Finally, food is ready. Round steak cooked London broil style, red, yellow and green bell peppers, grilled onions, swiss cheese and chipotle mayonnaise stuffed into submarine rolls. Mine is in a whole wheat wrap to support my new eating disorder.

I immediately pretend the meat in my wrap is too tough and replace it with shrimp that was used earlier as h’orderves. Truth is, the meat was delicious but again, 25 is not going to be a fat year. I imagine my plethora of flavors tasted a hell of a lot better than their’s anyway. There’s something so sexy about shrimp that’s been sitting out in the sun by the pool all morning.

We rarely take weeks off from brunch and I must say it felt great. I didn’t spend a dime and enabled myself to eat like a bird. I also didn’t end up in a food coma like I usually do on Sunday’s by 2PM. However, all great food aside, there is a convenience that comes with eating out and I like being served. Ryan served me today and while I appreciate it, I don’t enjoy it. He’s almost too good at it and it makes me concerned that one day he’ll drop everything and become a waiter. That wouldn’t be good for our reputation, future or bank account so I’ll keep that thought in the back of my head. Next week, back to the grease.

Week 30: Love's Artifacts Bar and Grille - Less hoarding more cooking

Our imaginary house hunt continues, except this weekend we’ve actually managed to find an affordable house on Davis Island to look at. I love Davis Island and its yuppy atmosphere. It reminds me of Cape Cod in the sense that any resident of the island could probably afford to buy your life, yet they practice an imaginary low-maintenance lifestyle that includes local pubs, live music, a lack of shoes, and love for sailboats. Come Monday, they will all drive their luxury SUVs to work, to make the immense amount of money they will need just to pay their mortgages, since nothing else on the island costs anything. It appears as if everyone is constantly having an identity crisis and I like it.

I have already imagined myself becoming part of this community numerous times.  So much for wishful thinking though, because upon arriving at our “dream home” we realized that it was planted right next to a daycare in addition to having some other piece of commercial property as a backyard. I immediately lose interest despite the fact that my new pretend neighbors have Saabs as well. I want to fit in and join their parade of cookouts, fake boobs, and car seats but I also don’t want to be the cheapest one on the block.  Ryan seems to think the daycare would be noisy and busy all the time, but my primary concern is for stealing children. I love babies so much and sticking me in a house next to a daycare center while my biological clock is ticking just isn’t safe. Why would I stretch out my privates and give birth to 6 children when I could just walk next door and steal 6 perfectly cute white babies.

So now we’ve lost interest in the house we previously loved via the interwebs. Good thing there is a beautiful and unaffordable castle across the street for sale. We will set an appointment to see the inside of that house next weekend and revert back to our imaginary hunt. For now, we’re off to another great destination for white people: Marshall’s.  Marshall’s is a perfect clothing store for white suburban people yearning to be city slickers. You can purchase the hottest styles from last season and even a pair of pants with one leg longer than the other if you wish. Everything is always sale price and even if you only enjoy your new wardrobe for a few weeks that is fine, because chances are you will be able to return it. They also have great shoes, purses, and home décor. One would think it was Ryan’s birthday. I had a gift card for $100 and Ryan spent $70 of it. All I got was one top that Ryan keeps calling an “Indian smock.” That is fine, I will wear it with my other boyfriend; he is Indian.

Brunch time. We’re on our way to Love’s Artifacts Bar and Grille and I’m not too thrilled about it. We’ve been to Love’s once before and had a miserable meal but Ryan is full of forgiveness and believes that every restaurant deserves a second chance. It’s very Christian of him. My inner being is repeatedly saying screw ‘em and their shitstacks of food.

Love’s continually gets raving reviews but I genuinely wonder if these critics have ever actually eaten their food. Love’s atmosphere pulls at your heartstrings and has you believing you are sitting right in the middle of your grandmother’s living room (your grandmother who is a hoarder and doesn’t have air conditioning). Between the mismatched furniture, collection of eclectic shit everywhere, and the loving wait staff, you’ll never lack a warm and fuzzy feeling while dining at Love’s.

However, their food is another story. And so is their buffet brunch. If you’re into cold pancakes, room-temperature sausage gravy, runny eggs and having a limited selection when it comes to your breakfast options, then Love’s is your place. Regardless of the above, their tiny sausage links are fabulous, but so are the Jimmy Deans in my freezer. If the gravy was hot I would have smothered them and raped about 20.

Ryan loves their fried chicken, along with everyone else who visits Love’s. He also loves their bacon because it’s soft. I personally prefer mine erect. I tried the fried chicken and trust me, it’s something I’ve been struggling with all my life. It really is good and while I want to continue ripping the crispy meat off of its bone, I can’t get over my fear of accidently biting into a bone or getting a tiny chicken vein or tendon stuck between my teeth.

Normally I would make two or three trips up to the buffet but sadly I found myself content with one plate and not wanting any more. Again, Love’s has failed me. Good thing we’ve got a coupon for dinner at Blue Dog’s Bistro…

Week 29: Over-Easy Egg Tits

Life on the island isn’t so bad. I really enjoy the absence of certain things I encounter on a daily basis, such as the horny rabbits living in the condo above me. Every now and then it’s healthy to seclude yourself on an island, find your own rabbit, and tell the rest of the world to f off.

We kayaked away from the mainland and have been living here on Shell Key since Friday.  The weekend has been quite special thus far. Just yesterday, I was informed that no matter what, Ryan will never leave me. Yea, it’s romantic. And while I’m only “ten pounds away from being put on a plan,” he has no intention to dump me as a result of the tan hotdog roll collection I’ve been calling a stomach lately. As I sat around the campfire and inhaled a can of hash I wondered if he was serious about putting me on a plan…you just never know with him.  “I wouldn’t love you any more at 105 pounds, but I’d certainly take you to more populated islands.”  Okay, yup, he’s serious. I’ll start working out Monday. Actually, it’s the 4^th of July. Let’s make it Tuesday.

Our first night on the island was great because we were the only people for miles (with exception of one man who was engaged in a self-proclaimed survivor challenge). Saturday morning our secluded weekend getaway plans shit the bed. We woke up to more than 30 individuals arriving by boat to take over our island. They must have been looking for wild watermelons because I can’t think of any other reason this particular group would have colonized here.

Ryan didn’t seem phased by all of the action and built a wonderful shell-rimmed fire pit and benches made of sand. As I stared at his adult sand castle, wondering how bored he must be, he interrupted my thoughts by saying, “I was going to write WILL YOU MARRY ME in shells, followed by a tiny line that said just kidding, but I didn’t know if you’d find that funny.”  I didn’t answer him but I believe my blank stare let him know just how funny I would have found that.

These invaders had clearly failed to see the “No Trash” sign before settling on our island and their loud drunk cursing and lack of education was really pissing me off. Ryan made an amazing campfire dinner of macaroni and cheese, ribs and clam chowder and with the box of wine we were crushing, soon enough I had drowned them out.

We awoke this morning to find all of the invaders, watermelon free, departing our island. They must be going to Church’s Chicken for brunch. While I packed up a few things, Ryan took a pleasant shit in the gulf. With the current being so strong, there was no risk of anyone ever encountering it, except the dolphin that may have eaten it. Ryan often cracks himself up but today he’s really losing it. He chuckles to himself and keeps saying it was a “bidet in the bay!”

Speaking of Church’s Chicken, we need to find our own brunch but we’ve got an hour kayak back to shore before we can even consider it. Our kayaking journeys always go as follows: Ryan 100 or 200 yards beyond Michelle, Michelle’s arms burning in attempt to keep up, Ryan arriving on shore 5 minutes before me. When we arrive on shore, we decided on Skyway Jacks since we camped relatively close to the Skyway Bridge. Skyway Jacks has won numerous awards and comes highly recommended so we’re giving it a shot while we’re in town. Hopefully they are not receiving the same awards as The Refinery because we all know how the food is going to taste if that’s the case. 

Upon arriving at Skyway Jacks, I instantly know I’m going to enjoy our time here. The waitresses all have a pair of over-easy eggs screen printed across the chest of their uniforms, there are fat people everywhere, and it smells of grease. Finally, another great diner.

As always, Ryan has trouble with the menu and goes back and forth in his decision making process and cravings for everything. The waitress approaches us about 3 times before we’re actually ready to order so Ryan distracts her by ordering a beer. I let the waitress know that I’m not the reason for the hold up, I know what I want and I’m easy. “Oh honey! Don’t go tellin’ everyone!”  Her joke is followed by a sympathy laugh from Ryan and a fake smile from me. Honestly lady, I’m not too concerned about it. I’m not the one wearing over-easy eggs on my tits.

We finally order. Ryan orders one of the specials: ribs and shrimp with a side of fries and macaroni salad. I go the breakfast route and order a separate special, which is an Italian sausage skillet. Before our waitress can walk away, Ryan makes sure to order a side of biscuits and gravy. He may not be that hungry, but Southern Living Magazine claims that if you die while eating Skyway Jack’s biscuits and gravy, you will die happy. We’ll have to see for ourselves, and just skip the whole death part.

There were several things that we could have been brave and ordered, but after a weekend of camping we didn’t want to take any risks. Their Hobo Hash is apparently to die for and consists of scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese, potatoes, pepper and onions smothered in sausage gravy with biscuits on the side. They also have a highly recommended Philadelphia Scrapple Platter and I’m a huge fan of that grey mystery meat--- I’m surprised I didn’t order it. And then, there is the Pig Brains Scrambler. Use your imagination. Ryan says we’ll be back for all of those.

Despite our order of minimal risk, our meal is to die for, just as Southern Living Magazine has claimed. Ryan’s macaroni salad was absolutely perfect, with just the right amount of mayonnaise. My skillet had nacho cheese mixed into it and I made huge gooey egg and sausage sandwiches out of the whole wheat toast I had on the side.

Skyway Jacks, we’ll be back. Your waitresses aren’t funny (or hot) but your food is phenomenal and that’s worth a trip or two across the bay.