The Flamingo Bucket List (Tampa Edition): The Frontier Cattle Co. aka The Frontier Steakhouse

I don't know about you, but I'm sick of clicking on those stupid Facebook ads that purport to link you to the "Tampa Bucket List" where, invariably, you find the Florida Aquarium and Mel's Hot Dogs.

Been there. Done those.

So obvious.

Bucket Lists should point you to things you actually want to do, but might not have the nerve (or, in today's installment, the colon) to try unless someone dares you. Well, that infuses a bit more testosterone into the list than I necessarily intend, but the point is . . . let's take the road less traveled for a change. Seriously, how much of a risk are you taking if you go to the Aquarium? None. Don't you agree that when preparing to check off an item on your bucket list, you should have a knot in your stomach . . . whether from nervousness or fear of food poisoning?

So here's the first installment in the Tampa Edition of The Flamingo Bucket List (it's the Tampa Edition because after this thrilling first installment, I expect my List to be picked up for nationwide syndication).

Item #1 on the Flamingo Bucket List (Tampa Edition): The Frontier Steakhouse.

Actually, I'm not sure about the name. The sign at the intersection of Highway 301 and Sligh Avenue says this:

So it might be the Frontier Cattle Company and not the Frontier Steakhouse (I personally think a little schizophrenia in a steakhouse only increases its allure), but if you'll head north on Highway 301 off of I-4 and then turn left at the above sign, you'll find the restaurant. You'll know when you get there, by all the pickup trucks and the koi pond out front. Why a steakhouse whose claim to fame is the "6 Pond Challenge" would have a koi pond out front, I can't explain, but regardless, it's there.

We didn't actually plan to visit the Frontier Cattle Company/Steakhouse on Saturday night. Joe wanted to drive to the other side of town to see his friend play drums with a band at a church. Dez, Lauren and I were already hungry, but Joe wanted to wait until after we saw his friend's band before we ate. I smuggled a box of Thin Mints into the car to hold us over until after we saw the band, but even after we polished off the box, we were still hungry, so when it was time to leave the church, the princesses were getting cranky. Joe suggested the Frontier Cattle Company (we'd seen the sign on the way to the church) because it was close by. The princesses were skeptical -- we didn't really want to be seen at any establishment that offered a reward for eating 6 pounds' worth of meat. Doesn't really seem ladylike.

So Joe suggested somewhere in Ybor City. It was already after dark and we all know what happens after dark in Ybor City. Well, I don't really know what happens in Ybor after dark because I've never been to Ybor after dark. I have responsibilities . . . a house, children, a dog . . . I can't go gallivanting in Ybor after dark. But the other princesses in the car have been to Ybor after dark and were unwilling to take me there for fear my spotless reputation might be sullied, so we let Joe talk us into going to the Home of the 6 Pound Challenge.

The Frontier Cattle Co. is a large restaurant -- so large, in fact, that when we first walked into the restaurant we couldn't figure out where all the people were that drove all the pickups out front. They were scattered over three very large rooms. I have no idea when the Frontier Cattle Co.'s "heyday" was, but whenever it was, the place could accomodate hundreds.

When we walked into the restaurant, the wall to our right was covered with people who had attempted the 6 Pound Challenge. If you're considering taking the challenge, here are the guidelines:

None of us took the challenge. But I like how they insist on a $30.00 deposit just in case you drop dead after three pounds.

The decor at the Frontier Cattle Co. is classic, um . . . steakhouse. Note the tack on the wall behind Dez and Lauren, the wagon wheel light fixture above the window, and the longhorns (or is that technically only one longhorn?) above the exit:

Have I ever mentioned that Flamingo Joe was born in Canyon, Texas? That doesn't explain anything, I know. Not even his bowed legs -- those came from volleyball injuries.

Sorry, I digress.

A few minutes ago, I read some reviews for the Frontier Cattle Co. They were mixed -- some referred to poor service and harsh lighting. I totally agree with the harsh lighting criticism -- I did not look anything like a pretty princess in the bathroom mirror -- but we weren't there for the lighting, we were there to eat. And we had great service -- very matter of fact and punctual. Just what you'd expect at a real steakhouse. (Though you know, I prefer a bit of humor in my waitstaff -- if the waitress asks me how I'd like my eggs and I say "laid," I prefer that she at least make a show of laughing with me.) Our waitress at the Frontier Cattle Co. did not really have much joie de vivre as far as I could tell, but she definitely got the job done.

Now the Frontier Cattle Co. serves you a pretty typical steakhouse meal: rolls, salad, steak and potato. In that order. The butter and sour cream come out in packets. The rolls were good, the salad was fresh, the potato was decent, but the steak -- oh my.

The steak.

We all ordered steak and there was not one single bite left on any of our plates when we got up to leave. Flamingo Joe had to eat the last two bites of mine, but not because I was willing to be finished, I was just having a Monty Python "I can't eat another bite or I'll explode" moment.

Those steaks were each cooked perfectly over an open orange wood flame and rubbed down with some delectable combination of spices. They were great.

So to knock off the first item on the Flamingo Bucket List (Tampa Edition), drive to the outskirts of town and order a steak at the Frontier Cattle Co. If you're one of those people who like super expensive steaks from those trendy new Argentinian or Brazilian places, just overlook all the cowboy murals and close your eyes while you eat to minimize the effect of the harsh lighting.

With all that money you're saving, you can get your beer served to you in a plastic boot.

Valentine's Day and Replacement Items

So I got a new camera a couple of weeks ago and have been playing with all of the special settings. Guess what I was learning how to use when I took this series of pictures:

That's right . . . the "smile detection" feature. That last picture's a little scary -- looks like I'm trying hide an inside-out Boston creme doughnut behind my purse. I wasn't, though. There was no need -- the doughnut was already in my stomach.

The camera also has a "twilight" feature, which really comes in handy when you are on your Valentine's date with your husband and are killing time until your food comes:

You know you've been married for 14 years when, on your Valentine's date with your husband, your husband is more interested in taking pictures of his wine glass than he is of taking pictures of you. Our date was really fun, though. We went to Bonefish Grill and then to Ruth Eckerd Hall, where we saw the play Young Frankenstein. Dez and Heidi harassed me about the completely un-romantic date I had planned, but I would note that Heidi and her husband ignore Valentine's Day altogether and Dez just has issues. Joe loved his Valentine's date surprise (I didn't tell him where we were going until we were on the way there) and we had a great time.

Since I last blogged (not counting the Otter post), our family has come to a decision about school for next year. We're going to homeschool Casey -- so my Mom Cave is going to become a school room in addition to being the laundry room/sewing room/library. The Mom Cave is big, but not quite big enough for all of those uses, so I probably won't be able to put an espresso bar and mani/pedi station in there like I originally planned, which is a disappointment. But school is more important, I suppose, and if I have any time left in my days between schooling, working, laundry, and barely cleaning my house, I'll have more to blog about. Yay!

Also since I last blogged, we had (yet another) engine put into our Expedition. The original replacement engine we purchased to put in a few months ago had several problems, so the warranty covered a replacement for the replacement. So the first replacement came out:

And the new replacement went in -- along with a new torque converter, water pump, and who knows what else that Howell (our mechanic friend) did not want to tell me because everytime he said, "looks like we're also going to need a new ____" -- I screwed up my faced and hissed at him. But the car is running like a dream now.

Except that the fan for the a/c doesn't stop running when you take the key out of the ignition and there's that random beeping whose cause we can't seem to track down.

Whatever -- so long as people on the sidewalk don't drop flat to the ground anymore when we drive by to avoid what they think is machine gun fire coming from our car.

You Really Otter See This

I thought you could use some peaceful otter meditation this morning:

Please, Let Me Be The First to Un-Invite You

We host several parties at our house each year: small birthday parties for the kids, a much larger birthday party for Joe and/or Dez, a Christmas or New Year's party (never both), sometimes a smallish 4th of July party, and this year we even added a Praise & Worship Bonfire. For the past three years we have also hosted a Super Bowl Party.

Please do not get the wrong idea -- I love throwing parties and having people over and eating and laughing and losing track of the children. But I hate the Super Bowl Party.

If you have not yet received your invitation to the Super Bowl Party, it's not because you've been dropped from the exclusive Flamingo Party Guest List -- it's because I've been passively-aggressively refusing to send them out. Flamingo Joe would say that telling you that I'm refusing makes it more "aggressive-agressive."

Grandma and I spend hours getting the house clean, chairs and tables set up in the proper place (if outside, on the porch; if inside, in the man cave) and then wait the requisite 4 hours or so while the football game is played, the commercials are dissected and analyzed by the party attenders, and then spend two hours or so cleaning it all up -- not that our party attenders don't help clean up as much as they can, they always do. But it's on a Sunday, so the kids still have to be bathed and bedded at a reasonable hour. So if I stop cleaning to go upstairs to put the kids to bed, Grandma labors on downstairs by herself even if I tell her not to. I have enough guilt from letting Grandma do too much of my job, I don't need any more. And I just don't care enough about football to get excited about a game between two teams that mean absolutely nothing to me. So I don't like a party where I prepare for it, wait for it to be over, and then clean up -- not unless I'm getting paid.

But . . . Flamingo Joe loves the Super Bowl party. He likes to say things like, "What do you mean it's a lot of work? Everybody brings their own food to grill and they help clean up!" I don't really understand how he completely blocks out all the work he himself does to prepare for the party -- getting the grills ready, pulling wires/cables downstairs into the man cave or to the porch so that the game can be shown on the movie screen, cleaning up all the tools, canoe, lawn mowers, wood, etc., around the house. It takes him all day.

I know that you are thinking that I'm being selfish because I won't help my husband throw a party he really wants, but I throw all those other parties that he likes, too, so I think I'm on solid footing here.

This year, I conferred with Grandma and discovered that she also hates the Super Bowl party. We have agreed that the Super Bowl Party can go forward as usual so long as Flamingo Joe sets the entire thing up and cleans up everything (this means that no food tables or trash cans can be left in my office foyer to greet my clients on Monday morning). He must also not lose the children.

Grandma and I will be at the movies -- we will sit through three, if necessary. We may also go shopping at Bealls, have dinner, and go to Starbucks. That will be the only way to keep her from actually pitching in out of pity for Flamingo Joe. We will be home in time to put the children to bed, if we can find them.

So if you actually do get an invitation from Flamingo Joe in the next few days for the Super Bowl Party, I just want to warn you that if you are the first person to use the bathroom at our house on Sunday, you will probably need to clean the toilet before using it. For that matter, you may want to bring an extra roll of toilet paper, just in case.

Microsoccer

In microsoccer, you've really got to get on top of the basics.

Chasing down the pack (whether they've actually got the ball or not):



And elbowing the opposition out of the way:



But conditioning to stay in top form . . .



. . . and looking cool in your soccer socks . . .



. . . can really only get you so far in microsoccer.

You've really got to get a handle on, well, not actually handling the ball.



Mace's strategy at his first microsoccer game last weekend was to get to the ball first so he could grab it.



And then run with it:



But those socks are totally cute, right?

Raising the Roof

We are working on a new project at Casa Flamingo. We have some attic space that shares one wall with our master bathroom and one wall with our master bedroom that until last weekend was inaccessible unless you were a rat. Our laundry room downstairs is in an awkward spot -- by awkward, I mean that it is downstairs and all the dirty clothes are upstairs. It's current location is also preventing us from removing the wall that hides it to open up the den and breakfast room into one large space so that more than three people can watch TV at one time. Our house is large if you count square feet, but it's chopped up into lots of small spaces. So if we move the laundry room upstairs, we can open up the kitchen, den and breakfast room into one large space.

Two weekends ago, Flamingo Joe cut a hole in the wall in the bathroom so that we could start turning the attic space into a laundry room. I'm very excited about this project because it means I won't have to carry baskets of laundry up and down the stairs and I might even have a place to put my sewing machine. I'm so excited, in fact, that two weekends ago when the project commenced, I actually tried to help Joe as much as he needed me. When Joe and I bought our first house about 2 years after we married, we spent a great deal of time working on the house together. We put in hardwood floors in the den, laid a brick patio in the backyard, fenced our rather large backyard, and re-did at least one bathroom. After I finished law school, we bought our first house in Tampa and did a lot of work there, as well.

Once Casey was born, however, Flamingo Joe lost his assistant. I couldn't keep track of Casey and hold 12 foot sheets of drywall over my head at the same time. About the time Casey could start keeping track of himself, leaving me free to help Joe, Mace came along and we were back to Joe getting irritated because he was doing all the work by himself.

But now, Casey is eight, old enough to put to work; and Mace is almost four, old enough to use his Handy Manny tools and pretend to work alongside us. I'm pretty sure this is why God gave us boys -- He knew we would forever be working on houses and wanted to provide us with some additional labor.

Two weekends ago may have not been the very best opportunity for me to jump back in as Joe's assistant. His first assignment for us was to remove all of the old insulation out of the attic space. The insulation in that space is of the shredded newspaper variety and whenever you move it around, it creates an impenetrable dust cloud. I swept, scooped, and dumped pulverized newspaper for what seemed like a couple of hours, but could have been much less. After fifteen or twenty minutes, Joe checked on us and then sent his mom down stairs to the workshop under the house to fetch facemasks. That was about the time Casey quit helping and Mace stepped in:

Someone is going to report us to DCF after this post for sure. Mace really was just the right size, though, for slipping underneath the rafters with his kid-sized rake and pushing all the insulation toward the door. And we did give him the heavy duty mask. He was fine. Really.

After it was all done, I looked like this:

Mmmm . . . pretty . . . nice triple chin.

But my future laundry/sewing/somewhere-to-sleep-when-Joe-is-snoring room looked like this:

It was a good morning's work.

So this weekend -- nay, even as I type this post, there are four men (I have no idea how we ended up with two extra workers, but I suspect they aren't here out of the goodness of their hearts and are expecting to be paid), including Flamingo Joe, up in my future laundry room working away. Yesterday, Jamie and Joe tore off the roof (it had to be raised -whoop whoop):

And today . . . voila!

There's a room where there once was none. Every time Mace goes in there, he points to a corner and says, "Daddy, you can put my bed right there." I'm not sure why he thinks he's moving into that room. That's my room -- I'm going to paint it pink, put in plush shag carpeting and line three walls with bookshelves to house my collection of quilting books. I'm going to blog in there and continue to ignore all those scrapbooking supplies I bought a few years ago before I figured out how to blog.

If you don't mind, let's just keep this between us for now . . . I wouldn't want Flamingo Joe to lose his motivation.

The Mud, The Mayhem, The Moms

Yesterday was a school holiday for the kids and they were confined to the house until later in the afternoon because it rained and rained. The very minute the rain stopped, I texted Heidi to see if it was still raining at her house. She took the hint and invited us over so the kids could ride their bikes in the cul-de-sac in front of her house. Grandma forbade Mace from going because Heidi mentioned to her that Ben was getting over a cold. Yes, I know he's my child and I should be able to take him where I want to take him, but had I chosen to argue the point by promising her that we would be outside and I wouldn't let either of the children lick each other, Grandma would have won the argument by pointing out that Mace hasn't actually grown all the way out of his licking stage yet. Just this morning, in fact, I had to tell him twice not to lick the door handle.

So only Casey went to Heidi's yesterday afternoon. As soon as we got the bikes out, the children started riding through the puddles -- remember, it had been raining up until about 20 minutes before we got there. So there were puddles in the middle of the cul-de-sac and water was still standing at least two to three inches deep in the concrete ditches alongside the road. When I saw the kids riding through the puddles and ditches I honestly did not stop to think anything about it. Heidi, on the other hand, was out in the middle of the cul-de-sac with a push broom trying to sweep the standing water out of the puddles. This pretty much illustrates our different parenting styles -- I take a more "how-will-my-kids-learn-what's-fun-and-what-isn't-if-they-don't-try-it?" approach to parenting; Heidi takes a more "holy-cow-my-kids-are-going-to-get-wet-and-muddy-and-ruin-their-clothes-and-tonight's-not-bath-night" approach to parenting. She also worries that her kids might get injured or sick and actively tries to prevent sickness and injury by keeping them clean, bathed, and fed -- I worry about those things as well, but it's usually in the middle of the night while I'm standing in their room watching them breathe, so I would say her approach in that regard is somewhat healthier than mine. I do think that sometimes children have to suffer the consequences of their stupid choices to learn from them, which is why when all of us were out to dinner Friday night and Heidi's husband pointed out that my three year old was cutting up tortillas with a steak knife into eensy-weensy-teeny-tiny pieces, I just shrugged and said, "Well, if he cuts himself with the knife he'll only do it once." (Mace loves scissors and knives, but he also has excellent manual dexterity, which explains why he has never cut himself.)

It's amazing anyone ever leaves their children at my house.

I admit that my approach has its flaws -- both of my children know how to wield a (very dull, but also very rusty) machete and both of them would rather pee in the yard than bother to go inside to the toilet (which embarrasses me mightily when new clients happen to be driving into the yard at the same time). But Heidi's approach can sometimes put a wee damper on the fun.

So as Heidi was out feverishly trying to make water evaporate, I was, of course, mocking her efforts. I pointed out to her that Ben was a boy and those were puddles and that if she thought he wouldn't find a way into them, she had another think coming, so she might as well enjoy watching him get filthy. So she gave up sweeping and came over to sit by me and watch the children's backs and legs get wetter and muddier by the second. We were both surprised, I think, to see Kate, her delicate flower of a child, also zipping through the puddles. I don't think Kate realized that every time she rode through a puddle, her back got liberally christened with mud:



See -- she can't see back there. This photo was taken pretty early on in the afternoon -- by the time their father got home, Ben and Kate were a real mess.



Heh heh heh. It was all Heidi could do not to stop the madness and tell the kids to stop riding through the puddles. I could tell it was driving her nuts to see her kids just getting more and more dirty. I think she called me a bad word rhyming with witch (twice!), which just shows you how distressed she was because I rarely ever hear her say anything worse than "crap." It was awesome.

And she might have complained, but I think really somewhere deep in her heart she was enjoying the mayhem because she was the one taking all these pictures.