Brunch … Can’t Live With It, Can’t Live Without It

IMG_2465Bottomless brunching – the act of eating your favorite benedict and/or waffles and/or M.Y.O.O. (also known as make your own omelet) while drinking your favorite mimosa that you can never seem to finish.

Does that seem like a lot? It is.

I like to brunch. In fact, “like” may not be the best way to describe my feelings towards brunch.

I have never felt towards a person what I feel towards brunch. There, I said it. Judge me.

This summer I have had my fair share of birthday brunches, going away brunches, “Congrats, you got a raise” brunches, break-up brunches, and “We survived the week” brunches. At this point, I don’t even need an excuse to drink champagne from noon ‘til night.

But people, Jesus spoke to me in the form of a cab driver.

Monday night I was going somewhere and it was raining, so naturally I ordered an Uber (and this is why I’m poor.) As soon as I hopped in, the driver looked at me and screamed, “I KNOW YOU. HOW DO I KNOW YOU? YOU’RE THE GAL FROM WEST VIRGINIA.”

At this point, I was all like Um, I think you have me mixed up with some other gal, who may or may not look like me, and I realize I’m rambling soI’mreallysorryforwhateverIdid, OK?

And then he started laughing and replied, “I PICKED YOU UP FROM BRUNCH… AND YOU WERE SO DRUNK.”

Can you give me more information, because this is basically every weekend, Sir. And, why are you screaming? Stop.

Kelvit (his name) goes, “IT WAS YOUR FRIEND’S GOING AWAY PARTY.”

Again, I’ve had a lot of people leave me, so can you be more specific.


Oh, Saturday, July 19. Katie’s going away party. Yes, I was super drunk. So drunk that I fell asleep in her office after brunch. I totally remember you, Kelvit.

This whole time I thought Kelvit was judging me for not remembering him, my brunch, or my whole Saturday, for that fact, but as I went to leave he stopped me. He then handed me a paper with his number on it and told me to call him whenever I needed a ride home from brunch.

Just when you think the world is too big …

Side note: I will be abstaining from pancakes with a side of booze for a long, long time.

I’m Addicted and I Just Can’t Get Enough

There a few things that just melt my heart – grandpas, puppies, penguins in sweaters, Girl Scouts . . . shall I go on?

As you know, Girl Scout cookie season is upon us. It’s the best time of the year. During the long, cold winters, my body literally begins to shut down if I don’t supply it with cookies. Like clockwork, I begin to crave a combination of mint, peanut butter, coconut and chocolate. I wake up in the mornings and my stomach actually growls, “TAGALOOONGGGSSS.”

Don’t act like yours doesn’t.

This past week, little Scouts have been stalking me. No matter where I go, I see a tiny human that says, “I only need to sell three more boxes to reach my goal. Can you help me, pleeeeasseee?” Yes, of course. I will take 5 boxes of tagalongs.

Once upon a time, I was a Girl Scout. However at the ripe age of 9, I realized that I was never going to make it in sales. I remember going from door to door trying to convince my sweet grandpa-neighbors to buy Thin Mints. They would politely say “no,” and that they already had promised Little Susie that they would buy cookies from her. Thus, my parents would buy all of the cookies, and my grandma ended up getting diabetes. THANKS, OBAMA.

So, I vowed to never be one of those grown-ups. Anytime a child comes to me and asks me to buy cookies, I oblige.

Which is starting to become a problem, because as of today I have bought 26 boxes of cookies. Yes, you read that correctly. I have 20 boxes of Thin Mints, 4 boxes of Tagalongs and 2 boxes of Samoas. People, help me. Teach me how to say “no.”

It’s quite hilarious, so you have permission to laugh. In the meantime, if you want some cookies just hollah.

New Year, Same Me: The Constant Struggle of Group Exercise

With the start of 2015, I joined the masses and promised myself that I was going to get my hiney in shape. Sally and I marched ourselves to the nearest gym, walked in and then proclaimed, “SIGN US UP!”

Side note: I enjoy working out – and by working out, I actually mean watching Dance Moms. I once attempted running a mile in 8th grade and passed out – literally fell over — and I took that as a sign to never run again.

I drove to the gym, which is located 4 blocks from my house because #babysteps. I had decided earlier that day that today was the day to test out a spin class. I know spin classes are tough, but what I walked in to was beyond spin class. Everyone was wearing neon spandex, a majority of the class had muscular thighs the size of Texas, and the machines looked like hovercrafts.

Before I continue, let me paint a picture. I am 5’2” and have absolutely no muscle – lifting a gallon of milk can sometimes put me over the edge. I practiced ballet for 15 years, but that is about the extent of my athleticism.

But, back to the spin class. I walked to the machine in the back corner, strategically avoiding mirrors and other humans. At the time, I figured this was going to be a nice, somewhat difficult 55 minutes of constant movement. BOY, WAS I WRONG.

Before starting the music, the instructor said, “Are you ready for some torture?!” Immediately, the crowd ROARED with enthusiasm.

Sally looked at me with a perplexed face and questioned, “Did he just say what I thought he said?” Before I had a moment to process what was happening in front of my eyes, “Gettin’ Jiggy With It” started blaring over the speakers and every single person in the class was standing on their toes, while riding their bikes AT A RESISTANCE LEVEL 16 OUT OF 20.

I thought to myself, “This won’t be too bad. This can’t be that bad.”

People. It was THAT BAD.

26 minutes into the class, between holding back the vomit and tears, I looked at the instructor and mouthed, “Helllllppp.” He instantly jogged over, looked at my machine and preceded to turn the resistance up BECAUSETHATMAKESSENSE.

But here’s the thing: as I tried to make eye contact with everyone around me to beg them for support, no one else had the look of terror in their eyes. They were actually enjoying this.

At one point, two fellas in the front were dancing (while spinning). People were clapping along with the music. Others were screaming, “WE WANT MORE!”

No, we don’t. We are really O.K.

The instructor then briefly paused and said, “We have 5 minutes left in class. We can either do one song and stretch, or two more songs. Let’s vote. Who wants to do one more song and then stretch?”

Simultaneously, Sally and I belted, “ME. WE DO. WE WANT TO LEAVE.” No one else agreed, so along with already dubbing ourselves as slackers, we also had to endure 10 more minutes of torture.

I was so pumped when the last song came on that I started belting the words to “I’m Every Woman” by Whitney Houston. The endorphins finally kicked in and I let my crazy make an appearance.

I’m every womannnnnn – it’s all in MEEEEE.

People looked. People stared. I had my eyes closed.

Anything you want done baby – I do it naturalllyyyyy.

I don’t think I will be making a guest appearance at that class regularly. But if there is anything that I gained from this experience (besides embarrassment and a sore body), I now have a wonderful idea: Karaoke Spin Class. Take that, Shark Tank.