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.  

Week 36: Two Lonely Housewives

Our boyfriends are out of town and John-Paul and I are left wondering what to do with our Sunday. Thankfully with work on Monday, we can’t get into too much trouble. The past year or so has been spent double dating and whenever John-Paul and I get the opportunity to be alone together, it’s remotely dangerous.

I woke up sad for the first time this morning. With Ryan in North Carolina the majority of the week, I finally realized why he’s important to have around: to eat with. I’ve been busy remodeling my bedroom all weekend and the only time I stopped was to occasionally text Ryan and then to attend Friday night’s shitshow with some of the Ybor rats.  Actually, the majority of Saturday was spent lying face down on my new bedroom carpet due to Friday’s activities. But, I was back to Extreme Home Makeover, Meatball Edition, by late afternoon.

With John-Paul out partying until 5:30 AM, I started to consider my options for dining alone. I was shocked when he returned my call at 11AM, as all bets were against him actually being awake. Eating alone is a very great fear of mine, alongside my fear of full grown men in overalls and dry rocks. I don’t really want to get into detail with the dry rocks, but if you’ve ever been at the beach with dry bare feet, and stepped on a dry rock, you know what I’m talking about. Oh and the word “moist.” That word is also a fear of mine. I cringe when people say it.

Daytime in Ybor is so nice. Aside from the bums that grace the cobblestoned roads, you can really breathe in the unique culture and architecture. As John-Paul and I cross the street, our conversation is interrupted by our observation that a sixth church has opened in the neighborhood. I have no idea why people think we need such saving. “Oh wow, just what we need, another church in Ybor,” I say to John-Paul, only to be bombarded seconds later by a stranger “HEY, what did you just say?”  As I struggled for a response, the man attempted luring us in with some reference to Jesus and something about Sunday football, as if I’m interested and as if John-Paul’s a real man’s man.

Upon escaping religion, and arriving at La Creparia Ybor, John-Paul and I begin raping the menu. This is a real date and I’m the man. I have to pay for John-Paul because he spent his disposable income on a few worthless things this week such as cat food, Nair and 8 or 9 HBO movies.

I’m craving not one, but two iced coffees. Something about iced coffee (or any kind of coffee) makes me feel skinny. We go on to order the Jambalaya Crepe and the La Creparia Special. I add an egg to La Creparia’s Special to transform it into a breakfast crepe.  John-Paul and I discuss weight, diet, blogging, cats, the future, and the hideous curly Mohawk attached to the head of the metro beside us.  Just two single girls hitting up the town and enjoying a gossipy brunch together.

When our food came, we dove in. Savory sex of the mouth. La Creparia has created dozens upon dozens of delicious alternatives to your “ordinary crepes.” They’ll put anything in a damn crepe and I think it’s fantastic. From savory to sweet, from fulfilling to treats (Hey, I should do their advertising), they’ve got it all.

When your boyfriend’s out of town, and all you’ve got is $30 and a gay best friend, visit La Creparia. You won’t be able to drink booze, but you will be able to drink what I consider the best iced coffee in all of Tampa Bay and maybe even the United States. They have booze, you just won’t be able to afford it if you only have $30 (I included a generous tip in that). Skip the tip, you’re golden. But I don’t recommend that. Oh yes and their crepes are pretty frigan fantastic as well.

Week 35: Datz F’in Fantastic

First of all, before we eat, I’d like to address something. A grace of sorts:

Thank you for this lovely meal and for this light-hearted life we lead. I truly believe that in every aspect of life, whether amusing or boring, happy or sad, humor can be found. It’s humor that keeps us young, keeps us merry, and prevents us from listening to gothic rock. Lately it has been brought to my attention that some people are using the Sunday Meatball Chronicles' “offensive content” to get their panties in a bunch. We can take life with a grain of salt my friends, or we can simply eat shit. You shall be the judge.  

Back to business, Week 35, Datz. To be completely honest, in the two times I have visited Datz, I did not become a fan. If you take a few things I don’t like, such as long lines and overpriced alcohol, and put them in one spot, chances are I’m going to be a tough sell. Datz has an interesting crowd, as does South Tampa in general. Perhaps a crowd I’d like to be a part of some day. Some refer to the type as thirty-thousand dollar millionaires. Thirty-thousand dollar millionaires are the type of people that make peanuts, yet drive a foreign car, live in an overpriced home, and are willing to pay $11 for a mimosa. I like to simply call that “hood rich”… kids in private schools, a $175/month gym membership, a home theatre…. and $15 in the bank. I have nothing against the frauds. My father Bobby has played this game for a long time, and calls his strategy “the fat man’s wallet.” He always folds a stack of one dollar bills, but leaves a hundred dollar bill on the outside, to imply that he has a massive stack of cash at all times…when in reality, he may only have $114.

Datz… words ending with Z give me anxiety. I’m not sure who the hell Dat is or whether or not this is Dat’s restaurant, but in other instances, “girlz,”  “watz up” and “love yaz” has really bothered me. Fuckin Z’s. Ryan believes you need to give a restaurant more than one or two chances, because sometimes you just can’t avoid their “off days.” Deep breath, open mind, game on.

There is a good crowd today, because I selected it. Ryan, John-Paul, Sean and Erin. Although we talk every single day, I haven’t hung out with Erin in quite some time. Now that she is right before my eyes, I realize that her 6 weeks of crossfit training have probably enabled her to bench press me. I use this observation as an opportunity to make a mental note: keep Erin on your good side, or just avoid her at all costs. I just dyed my hair black and I’m wearing an off the shoulder skeleton tee. I feel like a real jetsetter, a Kardashian with contacts. No one else seems to agree, as my ass is not big enough, my upper torso has not reached puberty, I haven’t starred in a porno (yet), and I’m not frigan loaded.

As we sit down, the waitress (named China) hands us some reading material and it takes me a full 5 minutes to realize that this newspaper in front of me is actually the menu. How creative. I’m staring at the corned beef/reuben sandwiches section and I decide to talk about how delicious they all look, just to make Erin uncomfortable. Corned beef scares her a bit. Perhaps because it is used to make hash, is not unlike dog food and sometimes comes in a very large tin can which can be reused as a portable-potty on camping trips.  I love everything about corned beef. I express my love for this delicious meat to John-Paul and Sean, and John-Paul confirms its deliciousness. Obviously he loves meat.

The Datz menu contains the work of shamelessly unapologetic flavor crusaders, as they like to call themselves, and I appreciate their odd selection of comfort foods. Fingers crossed, I want to actually enjoy the food this time. Insert drum roll here. Ordering takes place: Roger’s Rockin’ Reuben (sy ginsberg’s corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, datz Russian dressing, on perfectly grilled Jewish rye), side of macaroni and cheese, Datz potato chips with blue cheese drizzle,  2 orders of Holy Guacamo Lee Mezrah  (oven-roasted turkey breast, fresh guacamole, creamy cole slaw, muenster cheese, datz Russian dressing, served cold on grilled country bread), Billy Benedict (datz ham, Gruyère cheese, poached eggs, topped with hollandaise, on Wolferman’s English muffins. served with datz breakfast potatoes), and Brigitte’s Brioche (brioche French toast, seasonal berry jam, melted brie and crème Anglaise. served with nueske’s applewood smoked bacon).

The waitress has had a long day and it’s obvious. If I were a waitress, the last group of people I would want to serve is us. Aside from being extremely generous tippers, we sometimes get too loud and obnoxious for public. We seem like a bunch of snobs, especially when John-Paul decides to point out a pregnant woman’s stomach in the middle of brunch. I want her to think we are welcoming, open-minded, culturally aware people. After all, her name is China. I bet she has no idea that I owned a yellow FUBU tank top in the 7^th grade until realizing what it stood for. Yea, I am a nice balanced girl.

Food. F’in yum. Seriously. Third time’s a charm, Datz. Your food couldn’t be any better than it was today, and I didn’t even need to hit the gravity bong to truly savor every orgasmic flavor. And finally, silence. Three obnoxious humans (John-Paul, Erin and myself) and not a word left to say, but “F’in yum.”  Ryan and Sean are quiet by nature so who knows what their silence meant. They were probably plotting for ways to get away from us. Regardless, I speak for all when I say we'll be back. So the booze is overpriced, and you may have to wait an hour to be seated…. Well, sometimes a good meal is worth the wait, and wallet.

 

Week 34: (Ryan, Guest Writer): The Bearded Quahog

Things I learned while visiting Michelle’s family in Cape Cod this week:

-          The letter “O” is pronounced as an “AW.” Example: Cape Cawd

-          Words that end with an “A” occasionally acquire an R. Example: Tamper

-          Oaks Bluff, Martha’s Vineyard is for black people.  The rare breeds that swim,  
           enunciate clearly and ride appropriately sized bikes. 

-          The shellfish I’ve always known to be a clam, is actually a quahog.

-          Fried clam strips are delicious but they cheat you out of the whole belly.

-          The beach is for laying out, not swimming. It’s too cold.

-          Provincetown makes Gaybor look straight.

Michelle’s family lives in Falmouth, located in the armpit of the Cape Cod arm. Cape Cod itself is not a town; Falmouth is one of the many towns in Cape Cod. Her dad picked us up at Logan airport Friday night, with the top down in his Saab convertible. He proclaimed it was a beautiful night, to which I could not disagree. However, the fact that we left Tampa three hours earlier where the heat index was 106 degrees, the 66 degree breeze had me looking for flakes of snow.

We weren’t the only ones in need of a ride that night. Michelle’s brother Chris had friends in town and they were bombed.  Shortly after arriving at the Cape house, Michelle’s mother, Denise, donned her chauffeur cap and was out the door.  Hurricane Chris blew into the house with a 20ft squeegee he stole from the bar parking lot to use as a joust alongside the aforementioned Saab.  My dad was a man of few words and although he rarely told me he was proud of me, he didn’t have to.  I could see it in his eyes.  That was not the look I saw in Denise’s eyes that night. 

I’m here for two reasons:  The infamous Falmouth Road Race and Denise’s famous stuffed quahogs.  I’ve been hearing about these things since the day I met Michelle and I am excited!  I assumed my responsibilities in these activities included running and eating which happen to be my two favorite hobbies.   Little did I know, I’d actually been recruited for harvesting.

I’ve never been much of a hunter or a fisherman but I’m not ignorant.  I know that food doesn’t actually come from the grocery store.  Growing up on a dairy farm in eastern NC, I learned at a very young age that steaks and hamburger came from the cows that I considered pets.  Quahogging is more hunting than fishing but probably most accurately described as gathering.  They live in the muck.  It’s absolutely disgusting work involving a rake, a floating basket, shallow brackish water, four feet of muck and hazards like spider crabs and eels.  No one told me about the eels.  If Falmouth had a home depot, I’d suggest picking up a crew of illegal illegals for this job. 

The bearded clam is an extinct species that lived off the coast of Britain.  Its beard was prized for making beer.  It wasn’t until after its extinction that brew masters began using hops making the beer we are familiar with today.  Diving and digging through the muck of a Cape Cod inlet, I discovered a new breed.  Michelle emerged from the murky abyss with a fresh coat of muck clinging to her body hair. A fine black line ran across her lip, down her chin and continued to her naval. Disgusting…  In addition to Meatball, Michelle’s new nickname is The Bearded Quahog. 

This week’s Sunday Meatball Chronicle involves neither brunch nor a restaurant but it’s Sunday so game on. It’s the 39^th running of the Mother Fuckin Falmouth Road Race!  In 1973 a few guys ran the 7.3 mile stretch from a bar in Woods Hole to another bar in East Falmouth.  Over 11,000 ran this year and I finished 1074^th place which is okay I suppose but there is plenty of room for improvement.  It’s a money race so it attracts elite runners from around the world.  This year’s winner came from Kenya and he finished the route in 31:37. DISGUSTING! In good pompous American fashion, Falmouth awards the fastest overall runners and then the top American finishers.  There were no personal records for any of us but it didn’t stop us from celebrating. 

The Boyd family post-race party is as important of a tradition and nearly as epic as the race.  Seventy-two degrees, light humidity, tables full of food, a wine barrel stuffed with ice and beer, a hammock and new friends make for an amazing day.  Truth be told, I don’t like running but I love that it enables me to eat and drink to my hearts content, guilt-free.  The spread was amazing and it began with the spoils of the previous day’s haul: stuffed quahogs.  We feasted on marinated and grilled steak, cheeseburgers, red sweet/spicy Chinese sausage, lasagna, grilled chicken breasts and army of creamy salads and sides.  I’m a fan of “drive-by grazing.”  Drive-by grazing is a great tactic for sampling throughout the day without showing everyone how many plates you’ve used. 

The rain held off, the beer stayed cold, the stories embellished and we all got sloppy.  The 2^nd generation of runners/partiers transferred the party from the backyard to a boat at a nearby dock.  I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night but even after a review of the pictures, I’m still in the dark.  Let’s just say it included pu pu platters for 16, scorpion bowls, dancing with chicken wings, and a Glock. End of story.

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.