Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.
While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high-heel-wearing, winged-liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame.
But hey! Don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend f*ck ups that are screwing up your life. Here's this week's Very Important PSA.
Beware of the bottomless brunch.
Our country is currently in the throes of a “bottomless brunch” epidemic. Look, I'm not going to act all prim here (that ship has sailed). I, of all people, GET IT.
“Oh, wow, for $20 we can all have as many mimosas as our hearts desire! It would be stupid for us NOT to get it.”
No, actually, we're all dumbasses for falling into the bottomless brunch trap.
First of all, bottomless brunch drinks are made from disgusting, rat poison, bottom shelf WELL LIQUOR or $7-per-bottle gas station brand "sparkling wine" (gag). Both of which will make you wake up with fingers so swollen from the surplus of toxins and sugars that you will have pry your rings off your fingers with PLIERS, and an earth-shattering headache that will make you question your belief in God ( ... if you believe in God, that is. However, if you're a bohemian agnostic like me, the headache will make you suspend your belief in the possibility of God).
Second of all, bottomless brunch leads to terrible, terrible things. A sassy gay boy recently told me that bottomless brunch always leads him into a blowjob in a bathroom stall. A straight boy told me just last night that a girl actually threw up on his dick after a bottomless brunch (not that I'm judging, we all know I've done it, too). And a fellow writer friend of mine who shall go nameless recently revealed that she gave head to her sh*tty ex-boyfriend after brunch two Sundays ago.
So, clearly, bottomless brunch will always lead to regretful blowjobs.
But lesbians do bad things after bottomless brunches, too. A lesbian I once knew (me) ended up sucking face with an ex's EX after a bottomless brunch about five years back. Which is basically grounds for ex-communication in the lesbian community. It took her/me years to recover from that one. Another lesbian I know (NOT me) ended up in a salacious, sweaty three-way.
Bottomless brunch is always a bad idea, and it almost always leads to unprotected sex. Or, at least, a nasty make out.
Let me tell you what, after 29 years of bottomless brunch regrets, finally made me retire them once and for all.
Many a gay pride ago, I was having bottomless brunch at some un-chic brunch spot in the West Village. All the chic places were already packed with chic lesbians, and I wasn't a chic lesbian yet.
I was already hungover from some crazy girl party I had been to the night before and decided it would be a brilliant idea to stifle my brutal hangover with a little “hair of the dog.”
PSA within this PSA: Hair of the dog is a terrible idea! Drinking your way through a Saturday hangover on a Sunday is only going to give you incessant anxiety attacks AT WORK on Monday. However, I'm not judging, because I do it, too -- it's just another way I like to run away from reality.
So there I was, wearing last night's recycled eye makeup, sitting pretty in a group of hungover lesbians, drinking an unlimited supply of sugary garbage for a flat rate of $20. My problem is I'm too self-aware. I knew in the moment that it was a stupid idea, but I still didn't stop myself. It was a lose/lose because I couldn't even ENJOY the sin in the moment. Story of my life.
Anyway, I wasn't super connected to the people I was with, so I just kept drinking until I could cultivate some sort of falsified connection. After about four sugary, watery vodka drinks, I found myself in a fascinating conversation about god-knows-what with some random chick who had her keys attached to her belt-loop. (Lesbians, please stop wearing your keys. Only security guards can justify wearing keys.)
The next thing I know we're all at the iconic gay bar Stonewall Inn dancing and drinking like we're going to the electric chair.
I have a brief memory of making out in the taxi with key-wearing girl (though I hope it was just a bad drunken dream) and a quick flash of waking up my poor, straight roommate who was just trying to get her beauty sleep like pretty, nice girls need.
I woke up in the morning with my heart thumping outside of my chest and major, major bottomless brunch regrets. It's one thing to have a hangover on Sunday, but it's whole other animal on a Monday. I had to go to work! I had a f*cking high-pressure job that I loved, and here I was, going in a hot mess all because I participated in a cheap bottomless brunch.
To top it all off: Ot was a dual hangover. A double wammy hangover. I was dealing with the hangover from Saturday and the hangover from Sunday at ONCE.
Not only that, but my credit card was missing, I had the inexplicable taste of hummus in my mouth, my beloved distressed denim jacket was no where to be found — and MY PHONE? WHERE THE F*CK WAS MY PHONE?
I was jacket-less, phone-less, credit card-less. How was I even going to get to work? I was a vulnerable mess. A swollen vulnerable mess, as the combination of excessive sugar and cheap vodka makes for one really ugly bloated face.
And none of this would have happened had I stuck to one civilized glass of white wine. In fact, the name of my memoir should be, "None Of This Would Have Happened Had I Stuck To White Wine." (That will rival “No One Forced You To Eat The Cake, Zara: A Life Spent Blaming Enablers" from my recent article about enablers).
Girls, just don't do it. I understand the temptation, but it's never going to be worth the aftermath. You want to start your Monday feeling like a smug career woman with a shiny bright future blaring in front of you, not like a shame-spiraling, hot, broken mess. This much I promise.
So when your friends pressure you into bottomless brunch (and trust me, those queens will), just imagine me, sitting alone at the table behind you. I look chic brunchin' alone with ONE glass of Sauvignon Blanc, batting my mega lashes at you, quietly whispering, “Don't do it, babe. Don't do it, babe. Don't do it, babe."
I am your Internet Big Sister, after all, and no one knows the life ropes like a big sis. You're under my big sisterly protective wing now, and you're safe here -- as long as you stay away from f*cking your ex, drinking without eating and BOTTOMLESS BRUNCH. Message me on Facebook if you're tempted to do anything sinful.
Happy Weekend, kittens!