Week 25: 25 Straight Weeks of Brunch, Celebrated with Another Great Brunch.

It’s diner time! I’ve been craving a hot greasy breakfast from a white-haired, overly charming, coffee pouring, lady server for quite some time now and Ryan has made a remarkable selection:  Potbellies. I’ve never been but chances are I’ll love it.  My love for diners was founded many moons ago, when I was a young meatball. My father used to trick me into going to church by saying we’d go to “The Egg and I” afterwards. Hell, I’d go to a funeral, the dentist, fat camp or the library if it ended with breakfast at The Egg and I diner.

It wasn’t until I was older that I realized diners were great for hangovers, wallets and weight gain. I’m not hungover today but Ryan may be. I let him off his leash last night to go partying with the boys, while I stayed in and enjoyed an evening of beauty rest. I woke up looking exactly the same, if not worse…. so it turns out that doesn’t work and I should have got intoxicated.

I’m wearing a romper today because celebrities tell me they are cool, but I’m uncomfortable. There is something so wrong with taking a children’s wardrobe concept and sticking a pair of boobs and an adult ass in it. The least they could have done was gone full throttle and put snaps on the crotch so I wouldn’t have to take the entire thing off to pee. Needless to say, I still feel like a jetsetter.

As we enter Potbellies I’m surprised by the floor plan. Not what I was expecting. Diners typically have long, thin floor plans despite all of their customers being obese. I often wonder what evil human sits at the roots of all these plans and thinks that it will be hilarious to put large groups of overweight humans in tight pathways. It’s like hamsters in a toilet paper tube every time. But Potbellies is different; they are a wide open venue and they don’t have a countertop bar like most diners. They do however, have traditional booths, and we are quick to take one.

There are pigs everywhere. Pig paintings, pig wallpaper, pig statues, pig menus, pig people. Between Ryan’s love for anything pig related, and my anxiety related to interior decorating, I immediately become concerned that this is what my future kitchen may look like. Unable to concentrate on anything else, I blurt out “OUR KITCHEN WON’T LOOK LIKE THIS WILL IT!?!?” He says no, with exception of a pig-shaped jar that will hold fresh bacon at all times. I can deal with that. My anxiety subsides and I am finally able to concentrate on what I want to eat instead of our distasteful surroundings.

Speaking of distasteful surroundings, the man at the table next to us has “Kimberly” tattooed on his neck. Ryan and I have a short debate over who Kimberly is and decide minutes later that Kimberly is not a wife or mistress or child but is a dead child or maybe even a dead cat.

Often odd topics like this take a turn for a worse, so this immediately led into a discussion of natural disasters and flooding and who you would save if you could only swim holding one person. In the event that we had a family, Ryan said he would save me. I should probably be flattered, but instead I’m taken aback. He would save his old hag wife before his young child with a promising future? Actually, in his defense, you have no idea what that child is going to become and who’s to say it won’t be a tranny some day or a cross dresser like the man in Silence of the Lambs who tucks his wieney between his legs. Ryan further supports his decision by letting me know that “he picked me” and “wants to have a life with me” and that “children can be recreated and replaced.”  Again, I’m not sure if this is romantic.

Our waitress takes our order and Ryan gets the special: Country Fried Steak Skillet with a side of bacon. I get the Meat Lovers Skillet and make it a “half-order” instead of the full skillet. I’m trying to be a weight-conscious lady these days, but I don’t hesitate to order a side of gravy to dump all over the biscuit that comes with it.

It’s 11:11 Ryan, make a wish! “I wish smith and smeigle would go missing. Just as a child is replaceable, so is a cat.”  Smith and Smeigle are my cats and while I don’t care for them too much either, sometimes he just needs to keep things to himself. After all, I didn’t let him know that I wished for a ring off craigslist so that we’d have more money in the bank to buy a bigger house.

When our food came, it was nothing short of fanfuckingtastic. Potbellies can turn an ordinary skillet into an orgasm of the palate. Everything was amazing and who really cares if your waitress wears too much hair spray, you’re surrounded by pigs, the ceiling panels have water damage and your fellow diner patrons are unsightly border hoppers? Aside from the floor plan, Potbellies is your typical diner, with great greasy food for a great price.