Week 37: Revenge of the Exes

“Made out with him.”  “Slept with him.”  “Dated him.”  “Poured a beer on him.” No, no, no. Not me. As I sit back and relax at Jackson’s Bistro, ready for brunch, I’m puzzled by how many exes Sean and John-Paul are running into. It appears that every ex boyfriend in their life has received a memo to show up at brunch this morning. John-Paul: “Happens all the time actually.”

I don’t like to think of myself as the jealous type, but I could never deal with that. If Ryan’s exes came out of the woodworks to attend Sunday brunch, or even if they just decided to swing through the same zip code, I’d probably lose my mind. All geography aside, Ryan and I are fortunate we both used to be fat, so our pasts don't include anyone of great threat.  The only girl in Ryan's life that I know of, I actually hate for no reason and refer to as "Barbara Streisand" because I can’t think of anything better to call her-- I have never even met her. All of my exes are married, so Ryan doesn’t have to worry about them. I'm like that one last girl that teaches the boy it's time to settle down... with someone else.

Jackson’s is an interesting venue. On the weekends, particularly Friday nights, they “elevate the standard for Tampa clubbing.”  VIP tables, waterfront cabanas, lounges, 80’s music inside, house music at the bar, and then a DJ mixing the top 40 outside… oh and bottles of booze, men with hair gel and women with much bigger boobs than my own…everywhere. With intoxication taking over nearly every attendee, and the dark atmosphere lit by strobes, it’s easy to forget you are not on drugs. Call it confusion or curse of the cabanas, but if you’re there past 11PM, you’re getting laid. Everyone’s a supermodel.

By Sunday morning, the venue undergoes a complete identity transformation, and is clean, lit by sunshine, and filled with food and families. Wealthy families. No one at Jackson's goes home to a brown lawn.

As we approach the buffet I brainstorm my strategy. As I’ve discussed in previous chronicles, it’s all about quality, not quantity…but you can have both if you make room. Making room can be done by stretching in privacy, or throwing the good ole’ finger down the throat. I’ve never opted in for the second option. I instead go to the bathroom and do every yoga position I can think of. If we are sitting in a booth and no one is across from me, I just do a reverse plank under the table. Call me gangster. Planking used to be a real exercise until people of a certain decent started daring one another to “plank” in unusual places.

To “plank” in the modern day form, you must lay horizontally, straighten your body and point your fingers and toes down (towards your feet). Then you must post a picture on Facebook to make a real asshole of yourself. For real life examples, click here.  So yes, I do that, but reversed with my stomach to face the sky. And I don’t post pictures. 

Ok back to the buffet: carving station, steak, sushi, pastas, eggs benedict, scrambled eggs, donuts, bacon, sausage, ice cream, candy, nuts, pasta salads, ceasar salad, neptune salad, fish, tuna shooters, omelet station, hash, potatoes, finger sandwiches, fruit, biscuits and gravy, and so much more.

Between the 4 of us, approximately 15 trips to the buffet is on the agenda.  Every time I walk back to our booth I pass the table of exes and give them a filthy poo-gas face to let them know I am John-Paul and Sean’s fag hag… and they would be gay toast if they tried to initiate a squabble.  I have much better hair than the women in their group too. They clearly got hosed on recruitment day.

It’s strange but while we're on a roll with ex-flings I can help but associate some of mine with the food in front of me-- the international spread reminds me of a worldly fellow I used to see. He never liked me but we enjoyed doing "worldly" things together like eating sushi, reviewing art and photography, and discussing Japanese threesomes. I think my only real future with him would have involved a Japanese wife, for the two of us.

Oh and the spaghetti. The poor spaghetti. Proof that nothing, regardless of secret sauce, can survive the strain of tension if there's just no strength holding it together. Lady and the tramp had it all wrong. Spaghetti doesn't hold you together.  Nobody's that content. People (and dogs) are starving; the spaghetti would have broken long before the kiss because each one of them would have wanted more.

A large bin lays ahead—perhaps ice and sodas?  Nope, just the trash. The trash can speak for itself. The one ex-fling I can’t relate to food. For a brief period in time I forgot my family comes from khakis and Saabs. Perhaps it was high school in the city, or the movie 8 Mile, but something dared me to dabble with delinquency.

The only thing I can complain about is the sushi spread. All the tiny rolls taste the same and there isn’t much of a selection. I’m disappointed because I had a real craving for sushi prior to arriving and have heard nothing but good things about Jackson’s sushi. I can make anything delicious with spicy mayo though… Where the hell is the spicy mayo?!?  FAIL.

We were all so busy eating that the only thing we could find time to talk about was acquired immune deficiency syndrome and how it sometimes kills cats. Jackson’s, you let me down on the sushi but made up for it in every other spread. Get some spicy mayo too. It would have been a fabulous addition to numerous items beyond the sushi, including those lovely little finger sandwiches. We’ll all be back as a group, so long as you pass a law of segregation to keep all exes outside.