Week 23: The “Inn”-laws

We’re off to North Carolina to attend a wedding, but more significantly I am meeting Ryan’s family for the first time. My mom always tells me to be careful because when you marry a man you marry his family. I want to tell my future husband that he should be the careful one, because when he marries me he marries MY family, and that is scarier than anything someone else’s family can bring forth.

I’m not too worried. After all, I do have some redeeming qualities such as my willingness to dedicate time and resources to charity every month, a piece of property, and my college studies in Holland. Seeing as his family is Dutch, they may appreciate that. It’s the strange and sinful qualities being uncovered that I’m remotely concerned about, such as the fact that I eat kiwis with the furry skin on, that I own cats, or that I have a second cousin who is a self-proclaimed wiccan and got married on a broomstick.

I hope my encounter with Ryan’s family is not as awkward as his was with mine. My father, upon meeting Ryan, told him that they have a lot in common: Ryan grew up on a cow farm, and my dad was a cow for Halloween. Just when I thought that was an unnecessary statement, my father took it to the next level, proclaiming “Ya can’t milk me!!!”

When we arrived in Beaufort, North Carolina, I was pleased to immediately feel at home. The town reminded me of Cape Cod, but with nice southern accents instead of obnoxious northern ones. We were sharing a hotel room with Ryan’s sister Susan and her husband Rusty and someone thought it would be a great idea to go for a 4 mile run within minutes of arriving. Yearning for acceptance, I joined. You know what they say though, “The family that runs together……..” Nothing. They say absolutely nothing of the sort and the idea was outrageous.

If we can fast-forward through the 72 hours it took to get to brunch on Sunday, I’d like to stress that A. It was a beautiful wedding B. Southerners are much nicer than Northerners C. His mother makes amazing banana bread. D. I won’t be curling my hair in humid environments anymore E. I love pigs, everything from the t-shirt I bought at Piggly Wiggly to the hotdog I inhaled at a family cookout. And, F. I’m not the only one who pee-proofs a room before Ryan arrives home from a late night of drinking.

So, Sunday morning comes and we’re debating where to go for brunch. I begin to imagine shrimp and grits, southern platters, and fried seafood. It takes approximately five minutes before everyone has decided on “Pizza Inn.” We are Beaufort, North Carolina, a waterfront haven for the notorious Blackbeard Pirate, and the kids want pizza. I bet Blackbeard didn’t eat fucking pizza.

A sense of concern comes over me. Having never been to Pizza Inn, I begin to worry that Pizza Inn is related to Village Inn. Even if they are distant cousins, the place will suck. My thoughts are interrupted by Ryan who overeagerly shouts “This is going to be fucking awesome!” Well, that’s the attitude, let’s do this. Mushrooms, all I want are mushrooms. And not the kind you put in peanut butter sandwiches.

When we walk in I’m slightly confused as to why their employees are wearing shirts with cartoon drawings of Hitler. I don’t bother asking and just stare at the buffet of endless pizzas while we wait to be seated. To be honest, I was worried that Pizza Inn was going to have a selection similar to Cici’s pizza buffet, but Pizza Inn is on steroids. They are far from the soup kitchen for soccer moms that serves pizza and calls itself Cici’s.

Once we’re seated I order a beer, it’s after noon anyway, and then the execution of food begins: buffalo chicken pizza, potato pizza, cheese pizza, bacon pizza, sausage pizza, chocolate pizza, pudding pizza, ham pizza, taco pizza, hawaiian pizza, everything pizza. No mushroom pizza but I forgot all about it anyway.

My eyes were so much bigger than my stomach. I wish I could have went back up 3 or 4 times but eventually I was in a food coma zoning in and out of consciousness and staring at the staff as they walked back and forth. Ohhh that’s not Hitler. That’s a tiny pizza man. Is he supposed to be Italian?

Just when I thought I couldn’t move, Ryan let one rip and our entire table evacuated. He is the only person I know that is capable of physically clearing a table of 7. He is disgusting and I love every bit of it. I actually appreciated the evacuation because it forced me to get up and make a few loops around the place before it was safe to sit back down. Sunday’s exercise: check.

While Pizza Inn was amazing, I don’t think I’ll be back. It’s one of those places you have to limit yourself to once a year…or maybe lifetime. They are entirely capable of making you gain weight and the effects are immediate. At a minimum of 340 calories for a simple thin crust pepperoni slice, I think I’d much rather gamble my carbs and calories on the Chinese buffet. Somehow, there is always more room for them.

Week 22: Ricks on the River

I assure you the desire to be a twig is buried within my chubby little heart, and I often yearn to have a pre-pubescent body, but as we get older our priorities change…. and they absolutely take a turn for the worst when you find your significant other. I’ve always been someone who sets individual fitness goals and adheres to them on my own, but in the past year I’ve spent 90% of my life running around between work, Ryan, volunteering, networking, a new phenomenon called reading, and boozing. I’ve learned that the window of opportunity to exercise is my time spent with Ryan, and while I’d much rather inhale a double bacon cheeseburger or engage in a game of spin the bottle, I just need to work out. Somehow, he never seems to lose his motivation and it may have taken a year for him to rub off on me, but I’m gonna follow in his shrinking, skinny footsteps. That’s right, even his feet are shrinking before my eyes.

Saturday morning we ran 5 miles with Miles for Moffit, and when I say “WE” I mean that we both attended. Ryan finished the race within 36 psychotic minutes and I took 51 pitiful minutes.  I haven’t been running so my only goal was to survive and to putt along without stopping. I would have actually reached my goal of 10 minute miles had I not stopped to puke on a tree just 200 yards from the finish line. As a stranger rubbed my back and told me to “Get it all up” and that “I’m almost there” I desperately wanted to let him know that I was “FINE” and that puking and rallying is actually a recreational tradition of mine, on and off the pavement.  However, I was unable to tell him off while the previous night’s shrimp and grits were exiting my nostrils.

So, moral of Saturday’s race is to never just go out there and “wing” 5 miles. With knots literally tying up the back of my thighs, we're venturing out on round two of our fitness weekend: kayaking to Sunday brunch. When you can’t use your legs, use your arms. As we pulled up to my condo to grab my bathing suit, we encountered a pirate looking for something in the trunk of his Lexus RX. There was also an extremely large spitting image of Mr. T riding a moped that was designed for a dwarf and/or child. It’s characters like these that remind me why I live in Ybor City. I’m not sure I ever want to leave. If it wasn’t for the lack of space in my two bedroom condo and my desire to raise an army of 6 Swedish meatballs, then I’d probably stay forever.   

Soon after, we arrive at Bayshore Blvd  and drop the kayaks into the water. We plan to get brunch at Ricks on the River which is a 3 mile kayaking adventure down Bayshore, through downtown, by the University of Tampa and then down the Hillsborough River. Naturally, I’m concerned for large sting rays, alligators, bull sharks, carnivorous dolphins, and pelicans.  Most people aren’t afraid of Pelicans but if you took just one minute to study them, you would be. Not only do they look exactly like their pterodactyl ancestors, but they dive down into the water at rapid speeds, using their beaks as fishing nets and swallowing their prey whole. So here’s my thing:  since any animal can develop bad eye sight with old age, who is to say I am safe swimming or kayaking underneath the wings of these beasts. What if one day I find myself tragically placed below an elderly pelican and then BAM, there goes my head, swallowed whole by this modern day dinosaur.

While my concerns mainly surrounded wildlife, I should have been more concerned with what my arms would feel like after the 2 hours it took to reach our destination. Sometimes I have a funny way of letting Ryan know I love him, like by screaming at him that “my arms f’in kill and this idea sucked” and “the last tenth of a mile has smelled like cat piss.”  Ryan knows all too well what cat piss smells like because this morning he decided to help me with my chores which included cleaning the litter box. Helping with chores may have gained him brownie points with me, but they literally, no pun intended, gained him real brownie points when his sunglasses fell off of his head and straight into fresh cat shit. While he didn’t find it funny at all, I internally chuckled all day.

I’ve never been to Ricks on the River but have heard it’s a local dive offering boat slips, live music, a bar and mediocre food. Once the kayaks were secure, we walked (stumbled) in to the glorious melting pot. Mullets, rat tails, motorcyclists, handicapped, camo hats, fishermen, Gators fans, mixed race children, a living breathing red head, couples, elderly men, jimmy buffet shirts, a waitress with a knee brace, a cowboy,  lesbians, river rats, rockers, and more.

As the band sets up, a bedazzled midget twirls around on stage. She has rhinestone denim pockets and sparkling high heels and I’m ecstatic to have my first Meatball Chronicle with a performing midget.

We were going to do a little boozing at Ricks but I just couldn’t do it. I was exhausted and dehydrated and needed water more than anything. Ryan got a beer and we ordered some jalapeño poppers for an appetizer. We also ordered a buffalo chicken wrap with cole slaw and fried oysters and fries. The jalapeño poppers came out relatively fast and while I was eating them I disappointingly noticed that I had mistaken someone’s fat child as the midget on stage. No midget performances today.

I take a while to analyze our immediate surroundings. The motorcycle chick next to us has huge fake lips and a leather pony tail holder to prevent her hair from blowing and tangling in the wind. Her dominatrix look intrigues me and as I sit here with knotted hair I find myself wishing that I had one of those horse tail things for the windy trip home.  The woman in front of me is smoking her cigarette and has put her tropical drink’s umbrella in her hair as an accessory. It looks like shit. She has skinned knees and for a second I wonder why, but Ryan informs me that she is probably a hardworking housewife who has been scrubbing her kitchen floors and gardening for 20+ years now. Oh.

I’m not a huge fan of fried oysters but when they arrive at our table Ryan is very excited about them. I don’t feel like trying them but he informs me that they are fantastic. My buffalo chicken wrap came out looking like it went through a garbage disposal but that didn’t affect its fabulous taste. It was loaded with chicken and having to conquer it with a fork didn’t bother me.

Aside from the primarily redneck crowd, I wonder why people talk so poorly about Ricks. It may be a dive but their food is fantastic and their staff is rather welcoming. They are the first establishment we’ve visited where I’ve actually wanted to stay all day. Actually, I wanted to stay all day to avoid kayaking home, but that’s a moot point. The journey home was long but we made it (as I am sure you have assumed with my ability to recap). Rick… whoever you are, I was pleasantly surprised and I’ll be back. Maybe by foot next time.  

Week 21: The Village Rehab

It's said that the volatility of your innate short temper is exacerbated by the aftermath of your abuse of illicit drugs. Fair enough. But what if we weren't doing drugs? I sit here wondering why Ryan is in such a piss poor mood on this sunny and promising morning in St. Petersburg, Florida.   Most people like to avoid others when they are in a bad mood or indirectly targeting their frustrations, but I wouldn't miss it for the world. I love his unyielding tone. 

Recently his shaved head and manly beard have me fantasizing that I'm dating Kevin Youkilis. Ryan is much better looking than Youk, but I can't help making the connection. There are some striking similarities between the two. They both have young brunette girlfriends, they both have beards and shaved heads, and they are both known for their ability to get on first base, even if it takes a walk to get there. Youk was actually called "roly-poly" by his high school baseball coach and even called "fat kid" by general manager Billy Beane, and that alone makes him fabulous. I've tried writing Youk letters about my relevant inner struggles with being called a "meatball" and my ability to overcome the banter and turn into a bitch-talking bombshell, but he never replies.

Ok, I've never done that. And the bombshell days were actually short-lived. They went away as quick as they came. Today I am missing 3 toenails and have hair that keeps turning a hideous shade of brown despite dying it black time and time again. Oh and  I am feeling the wrath of those evil high school tanning beds you deem necessary at 17. You know what they say though, love is blind. Ryan clearly loves me for my warm hearted soul. 

Oh yes, Ryan, back to Ryan. We’re in the car and he’s in an awful mood. As we approach the toll booth we realize we only have 3 pennies in the car. Ryan’s wallet is in the trunk, so he puts the car in park in the middle of the toll plaza and proceeds to get out of the car. The toll man is screaming “SIR YOU CAN’T GET OUT OF YOUR CAR. SIR! SIR!” Ryan plays deaf and continues to pop the trunk. The guy screams like a broken record until Ryan literally tosses a dollar at him without saying a word. As we drive off I look at him with a smirk and don’t say a word. Ryan flips out: “WHAT? I’m hungry and that man had no business telling me to stay in my car if he wanted his 50 cents. He was contradicting himself- GIVE ME 50 CENTS. STAY IN YOUR CAR WHERE THERE IS NO MONEY AT ALL. He is not the law Michelle.”   I try to hold back laughter but I can’t. He’s just so funny when he’s mad.

I consider this a fair warning that Ryan’s on a mission for food and suggest that we pull in to the first place we see. Within seconds, he immediately bangs a right into Village Inn. I immediately regret suggesting this and know right away that our first turn was a mistake …However, I’m too afraid to tell him that we may have to try a second place. I’ve been here before in the wee morning hours to chase some Popov with pancakes, and even then I thought they were disgusting.

We enter and Ryan stares at the huge pies in the glass display. I hold my breath hoping he doesn’t want one and just in time a hideous hostess comes over to seat us. It takes Ryan a total of about 5 minutes before he realizes that we are in a dive. The customers are quite disgusting and so is the staff—they sure are nice though and I hear that inner beauty really makes a person.

I’m staring directly at an old man who thinks it’s appropriate to pick his nose here. His wife talks to him as if nothing is wrong. A waitress walks by with a mole on her face that could easily be mistaken for a raisin if there were not hairs growing out of it. Whatever. Raisins are cool. They include relief from constipation, fever and sexual weakness, but something tells me this waitress offers none of the above.

I am fortunate that Ryan has his back to all of this, including another old man who is now staring at me. I let one stinkin’ areola slip while adjusting my bathing suit and all of a sudden the geezer is glued. I let Ryan know that once again I mistakenly thought I was being proposed to last night between the amazing concert, the beautiful hotel, and the intoxication that caused me to chest-bump a stranger the size of an adult Augustus Gloop. Ryan had no intentions of anything of the sort and let me know that I ruined his morning and I’m responsible for him being in such a bad mood. He said he envisioned a great morning together following a great night and my lack of interest in running together combined with the dehydration that made going to a street fair seem unbearable “simply ruined his day.” 

I know what he needs: a cheeseburger. A big fat cheeseburger. Ryan orders a double cheeseburger and it comes with bacon, cheese, and an onion ring on top. He gets fries on the side.  I get the Santa Fe Breakfast Burrito which comes with sausage, egg, black beans, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, melted cheeses, sour cream, salsa, jalapenos and pork green chili.

A woman with a spiked mullet walks by and Ryan says “Michelle we are in the shittiest establishment on St Pete Beach. I don’t know why anyone would ever choose to come here.” No shit Sherlock. So I’ve made a mistake…but I refuse to accept responsibility and change the topic. Our food arrives shortly after and thank the burger lord that Ryan’s burger is delicious. My burrito tastes like a frozen $0.99 gas station burrito that was not fully thawed based on the frozen potatoes I kept finding within it. It is disgusting but I’m starving and as long as Ryan’s happy I know the day ahead is much more promising.

Ryan enjoyed his entire burger in silence and once we were done eating we had a fast jog towards the exit. Ohh poor poor Village Inn: In your defense I should have never walked in your doors. I knew you were bad to begin with…. But eating in your establishment is similar to eating in a bus shelter of downtown St. Pete without any alcohol. Being forced into accepting the reality of it all is quite depressing.

As we leave, Ryan blurts our “NOW I KNOW WHY PEOPLE GO TO VILLAGE INN!!” Why Ryan? “FREE PIE ON WEDNESDAYs!”  Today is not Wednesday. Why are they here today? “THEY’VE ALL BEEN FOOLED!”

Week 20: Eat Better, Love Life, Live Longer.

It’s 5:15 AM and this my friends is true love. Ryan is running the Xterra Claw race at Alafia State Park and 1 volunteer = 1 free registration. Why the hell not? Why wouldn’t I want to wake up at 5:15 on a Sunday and hand water to 300 people? I can’t actually explain it, lately I’m just nicer. I’m signed up for 26 hours of volunteering in the month of May alone and surprisingly it’s not issued by the state.

We need to be at the park by 6:45. No problem, if it wasn’t an hour away, we weren’t saki bombing last night, and Ryan didn’t need a pair of sneakers. I’m always great at being ready within 5 minutes and being on time. It’s Ryan I’m concerned for.  He has a shaved head these days so we’ve knocked off about 15 minutes of hair time, but the duration of time associated with “I’ll be ready in 10 minutes” is more often than not 20 or 30.

We decide to take my Audi on this off-road adventure because I’m trading it in tomorrow. Why keep it clean any longer? I’m getting a Saab 9-3 Aero and the man who sold it to me let me know that there is a Saab Club in Tampa. A Saab Club? Sounds like a bunch of Cape Cod yuppies that have relocated to Florida and are getting high off their turbocharged rushes. They probably buy Saabs with their parents’ riches and have lawn parties with bocce ball and finger sandwiches. Maybe they yearn to feel culturally connected to Sweden and think that a Saab accomplishes that. Maybe I will join. A while ago I read the book “Stuff White People Like” and now that I think about it, “Saabs” should be its own chapter.

Surprisingly we are only 15 minutes late, but I am almost instantly shuttled off to my volunteer role. They drop me and two other volunteers off literally in the middle of nowhere. We’re at Alafia State Park and I’m stationed at the 5.3 mile mark, at a table where I’m supposed to hand out water and Gatorade to every single person who passes and lets me know that I’m a bag of shit and they are in great physical shape. 

MERRRRRRR!  What the shit is that? The other girl volunteer immediately says “oh it’s probably a deer.” Listen, I understand that I may look like a bit of a dumb floozie this morning with my day old makeup and lack of interest in your statements, but I know that is not a deer. I don’t like animals but I know a few things about zoology. Just a second ago I was capable of recognizing that my mascara caked eyelashes were spontaneously generating into some species of tarantula, and right now I am properly analyzing that mating call from miles away. That my Czech princess is not a deer; it is a frigan Tyrannosaurus Rex.  

She didn’t have much time to analyze the Tyrannosaurus Rex comment because within seconds her husband was running towards us. In first place. You’ve got to be shitting me. I was secretly wishing that Ryan was in second place and about to kick his ass. Her husband had the head of Kurt Cobain, the torso of Kate Moss, and the legs of a Kenyan. Who is this super human and more importantly how does he straighten his hair that well in this humidity? Much to my surprise Ryan ran by shortly after. He ended up finishing 29^th out of 218 people.

We’ve been up for 6 hours now and haven’t had a single bite to eat. We hop in the car and Ryan is driving… I decide to take a 10 minute powernap in the passenger seat. When I open my eyes I realize we are lost.  We are on MLK Boulevard and more often than not, no matter where you are, when you see MLK Blvd you are on the wrong side of the tracks.

We quickly evacuate MLK Blvd and its quaint surroundings and stumble upon Fred’s Southern Kitchen. Everyone working here is approximately 17 years old and I wonder if they are all Johnson’s, Fred’s family who has supposedly brought three generations of classic dishes and southern hospitality to Plant City.

The menu says “Eat Better, Love Life, Live Longer” and I find it quite ironic because we’re sitting next to a huge greasy buffet. Nobody is living any longer after that. I’m not really excited about the buffet this week because we’ve actually been to too many lately. I’m buffet-ed out, but I still fill my plate with a hefty portion of corn bread, bbq ribs, cole slaw, sweet potatoes, mac and cheese, beef stew and corn casserole. The macaroni and cheese is some of the worst I’ve ever had. It looks and tastes like someone put a slice of American cheese over a bed of microwave-boiled noodles. However, the corn casserole is marvelous. I savor every last bite of it and although there is an unlimited supply just steps away, I stay put with exhaustion. Ryan eats fried pork chops, fried chicken, corn casserole, fried green tomatoes, stewed tomatoes, cat fish and bread pudding.

I zone in on the table next to us which is pretty much my dream table, they have 4 adorable munchkins. I adore their family until I realize that they’ve named their boys Christian, Lorenzo, Vinny and Giovanni. Who the hell are these people, the Plant City mob? Even my Italian-rooted self thinks that’s pitiable. Couldn’t you have just named the damn kid Ted or something? 

When it’s time to leave, I notice that Ryan has a hush puppy left on his plate. I tell him it’s a sin to waste food and he needs to take it home in his pocket. I didn’t really feel that way, but I wanted to see if he’d do what he was told. I watched him as he wrapped the hush puppy in a napkin and placed it into his pocket. Unbelievable.

To be honest, I was too tired on this brunch adventure to enjoy much. All I could picture was home, bed and air conditioning and when I got it, I forgot brunch ever happened. Next week, we’ll explore some riveting coupons and see where we can get the best bang for our buck.