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.