Growing up, brunch seemed like a classy thing that classy people did. Innocent enough, they usually seemed to accompany baby or wedding showers. However, now that I am an adult, I realize it is much more then that–especially in Denver because it is a pretty serious thing these days. Brunch means bars full of BWG’s (Basic White Girls, as I call them) and bottomless mimosas.
So when I receive an invite to brunch, sometimes it seems harmless, but sometimes I receive text invites from my girl Romana that looks like this:
When Romana and I go to brunch it is not always innocent. One time at brunch, I began tipping the waitress a dollar every time she refilled our champagne glasses, which made her love us, and she even tried to catch me as I fell out of the chair halfway through eating (she didn’t cut me off, either). In my defense, I had dropped something and was trying to pick it up when I fell, but to everyone else–including my friends–I just looked like a lush.
Another weekend at brunch ended with me throwing my cell phone in the alley and taking selfies with the guy at the weed store after a $200 purchase.
What I have learned is: I should not be allowed to brunch. If I did not know that a week ago, I do now, and you will understand how I learned through the course of this story. The story is the tale of the brunch that followed the text above from Romana.
Romana met at my house and instead of immediately calling an Uber, I made her come inside, having answered the door with a towel on and yelling across the street to her. As she impatiently waited for me to get ready, I had to listen to her complain about the fact that she was still faded from the night before. Eventually we call an Uber to pick us up, because that is what responsible adults so.
By now it is lunchtime, but we still want brunch, so we immediately order drinks. The bartender, who is Romana’s friend (the sole reason we were at the establishment), pours the rest of the Tito’s in a glass and tops it off with a splash of OJ. He then makes me a strong spicy bloody with a side of bacon.
The day continues with sliders, more bacon, and then a concoction he called, “Afternoon Delight.” All I can remember is that it had had vodka and cucumbers in it! Romana and I sit at the bar the entire day. The first 6 hours include taking a break to smoke weed with the bartender, making new friends who are cycling in and out of the open spots next to us at the bar, and lots of chatting via Plenty of Fish (POF) and Bumble.
Somewhere between hours 6 and 7, I show her the profile of a guy on POF and ask her thoughts. She tells me he is not attractive, so I clearly do not take her advice and instead invite him to the bar. He shows up with his friend and I’ll admit he is more attractive in person, but he is still not my usual type. Despite that fact, the vodka running through my veins proves it does not discriminate and after we do a lot of making out in the bar, I invite him back to my place. I ask him to drive but he let’s me know that is probably a bad idea (oh right, because alcohol!) and so we call an Uber.
Once back home, I walk into my house and say hi to my roommate and refrain from any sort of introduction because I cannot remembers the poor feller’s name, which is also why he has no name in this blog.
After we go to my room for some acrobatic exercises we lay in my bed–he takes this as the opportunity to cuddle and ask me about my life, hopes and dreams, I take it as an opportunity to hint that he needs to get the F out of my house. When he then mentions going home…in the morning…I realize he will never leave.
I tell him I need to throw up but cannot do it with him there: no luck, he doesn’t budge.
I lay in bed and moan as if I am pain, still no reaction.
He does tell me that I should just do it, that he does not care and he does not react to my response when I tell him I cannot do that–I have never been able to throw up with people around (a lie).
I seek help from Romana:
He continues to cuddle, rubbing my back with his tiny rough hands which does not help anything. Then I think, “Wow, I really am going to be sick!”
He then gets up, grabbing his wallet and phone, and I think, thank goodness, but he sits back down when he realizes that his phone somehow broke and will not do anything.
At this point I take it upon myself to handle the situation in a site sightseers manner, and I let him know I hate to be rude, but he needs to go, because I don’t feel well. Again, no movement. So I say, “I would drive you but I do not have my car here, I met my friend somewhere else.” This was another lie, however this one had two good reasons behind it:
- I had been at the bar for 8 hours, and clearly should not be driving (the same reason why we called an Uber)
- I did not want him to know what I drove in case he decided to slash my tires cause he was more of the crazy girl here then I was.
So, I then let him know, “Hey, we should go upstairs…I called you and Uber and it is here!”
I felt like such a douchebag, but a refreshed, hungover one, who immediately went to throw up and was reminded by the greasy lining of my throat that bacon is as delicious when it is in vomit.
The next day I woke up, made about 20 bagel bites, then fell back asleep until 2. I received a text from the Stage 5 Clinger who was inside of me 18 hours prior and immediately felt the need to jump in the shower and refuse to respond to him.
So the toughest question I’ve ever have to answer in my adult life is: brunch, or no brunch?
With love, J!