Week 5: Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British Politician sex. J.F.K. blown away, what else do I have to say—WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE!

Week 5: Pope Paul, Malcolm X, British Politician sex. J.F.K. blown away, what else do I have to say—WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE!

Today’s wake up call sure beat an alarm clock, and just like Billy Joel–“We didn’t start the fire.” Picture this: Sound asleep at Ryan’s house. Loud banging on the door. Faint sounds of people yelling in yard. A very concerned proclation from Patrick (Ryan’s roommate): “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!!!”

As if I hadn’t heard Patrick, Ryan shook me and relayed the message with a scream—GET UP! After last week’s hiking/camping trip, I found myself sleeping with a single sock to “protect” my left toenail-less foot. Considering I was scrambling to find one sock, I would say that my fire drill skills are completely up to par. This was incredible; I hadn’t experienced such bedlam since Chinese Fire Drills in high school. WILL THE LIGHT TURN GREEN AS I’M ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE CAR, CAUSING ME TO GET PEGGED BY AN ONCOMING VEHICLE DRIVEN BY AN UNDERCOVER COP? But this was the real deal—real fire!

I should be saying “fortunately” the house was not on fire… but due to the lack of real danger, I am going to go ahead and say “unfortunately the house was not on fire”. Once I was dressed, shoes in hand, standing in the hall, I didn’t smell or see fire. It instantly stalled my endeavor of being out the door within 20 seconds. It turned out that the fence surrounding the side patio was on fire—not the house. When Patrick looked out his window, he saw flames as high as the second floor. So….fair assumption I guess.

The boys put the fire out with the help of neighbors and hoses. What a wake up call–I bet the two girls hiding in Patrick’s bedroom weren’t expecting such an eventful morning either. Har. Har. How did the fire start? We’re going to point the finger at the neighbors— they look like they smoke. They also look like they make frequent visits to the dog track and have patio furniture in their dining room.

My mom and her friend are in town and joining us for brunch so I called her to pick us up. I gave her the directions 3 times. “From Channelside it is ONE ROAD. I repeat ONE ROAD all the way here. STAY STRAIGHT….” Fifteen minutes later I got a call that they were lost on Harbour Island. Irritated by their inability to follow ONE ROAD, Betty Bitch came out. Ryan didnt like my tone and handed me a champagne/vodka infused glass of Sangria. Just what I need…

Eventually, we were on our way to Pinky’s. Rumor has it that Pinky’s has the best eggs benedict in all of Tampa. Bold statement Pinky—I have a favorite already and your chances of changing that are slim to none. We got there and had a 6 table wait in front of our party. Ryan went inside to get coffee and came out with a “Ms. Always Right” mug. You’re so funny babe. My mom and her friend asked for tanning oil as we waited in the 70 degree sun. Yes, I keep tanning oil in my clutch for opportune times like this mom—Clearly they are from Boston and delusional.

Our name was called and as we walked in I wondered why we waited so long. Pinky’s is cute, and I guess the concept of a serve-yourself coffee bar is cute too, but a half hour wait for this middling café? Will I find Tampa’s best eggs benedict? As always, we ordered a lot of food: 2 orders of eggs benedict specials, a side of bacon, an oatmeal pancake, home fries, a scone, and two orders of “The Italian” omlettes. As I sat there thinking about the past 15 minutes–my mother and her friend asking for tanning oil, and then ordering the “Italians,” I began to wonder if they watch Jersey Shore and are aware of the stereotypes they are putting truth behind.

So don’t get me wrong- the food was great. The servings were plentiful and everything came out rather fast despite being a “made to order” restaurant. But Pinky’s just doesn’t do it for me—I’ll still give the best eggs (crab cake) benedict award to Pink Flamingo on Davis Island. Ryan doesn’t agree with me, but Pink Flamingo’s Eggs Crab Benedict is an orgasm of the palate as far as I’m concerned. As always, we were up for a new adventure, and going to Pinky’s accomplished that—but I don’t think we will be return customers. If it wasn’t for the champagne/vodka infused sangria and the fact I wasn’t starving, it wouldn’t have been worth the wait. Sorry Pinky’s. PS–Try refilling your coffee thermoses, even if it is close to closing time. You can’t “serve yourself” if there is nothing to serve.

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