Brunch, A Night Club, & the Faux-dashians

screen-shot-2016-10-17-at-3-13-40-pmI remember when I had a fake ID, going to “da club” was something out of Sex and the City. I thought everything was so chic. I would sit on the velvet couches, sipping my cosmopolitan whilst rocking my boot cut jeans and satin “going out top,” thinking life really couldn’t get much more glamorous than this. 

It’s been 9 years to the date since I’ve retired my fake ID. And rarely does my ass ever step foot into a club because, well…

  • I hate people
  • I really can’t stand trying to have a conversation over blaring heinous techno (Jesus do I sound dusty and decrepit)
  • I loathe douchey dudes who think an Armani Exchange button down gives them the right to grind up all on me. HARD pass. 

But when someone says to you, “hey, want to go to a brunch nightclub,” you nod your head yes, because why wouldn’t you? I feel the need to also express that I was highly intoxicated when I agreed to these plans because I loathe brunch, and see above my thoughts on nightclubs at age 29. But hey, I was visiting one of my closest friends and we were heading into New York City… when in Rome. 

Brunch in Philly, or “Sunday Funday” (by the way, that term makes me want to kick people) from what I understand, is super casual and ends at a normal hour. Again I don’t partake because I fucking hate having to choose between a burger or pancakes. And also I don’t need an excuse to drink during the day, okay? 

Brunch in NYC is, well, a beast. Little did I know I had to batten down the hatches. I walked up to this “brunch nightclub,” also known as Il Bastardo, at 4 p.m. to a bunch of sloppily drunk contoured girls in teeny tiny outfits, chain smoking, crying, and trying to balance on their 4 inch heels and failing miserably. Holy fuck balls … where was I?! 

I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and Kardashian clones stumbling around like drunk slobs carrying bottles of champagne, BOTTLES, with straws hanging out of them. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, kids. And people were getting carried out of this place. At 4 p.m. On a Sunday.

After screaming to the hostess five hundred times over the DJ announcing, “WHERE MANHATTAN AT?!?!” “Party for 2 under KATE … KATE! K-A-T-E!” We were seated directly in front of the dance floor, which was glorious, because we had front row seats to this shit show. But mama needed alcohol. It was the only way I was going to survive this insanity.

Immediately two bottles of champagne arrived with no straws and no cups. I swear the waiter looked at me like I had five heads when I asked for a glass to drink my champagne out of. Oh okay … are cups not cool in NYC? I’m confused. 

We ordered food, which felt super out of place, but I noshed on my truffle fries as the faux-dashians selfied themselves to death around me, because … well fries. I know my priorities even when I’m in the twilight zone. 

Once I had sweet alcohol flowing through my veins, I began to dance a little in my seat like a grandma and people watch. Immediately I noticed these absolutely STUNNING women, each with a bottle of Moet Chandon in front of them immersed in their social media world. Like dressed to the nines, each one looking effortlessly stunning than the next.

I resisted the strong urge to ask them what the hell they did for a living besides sit at brunch and take Snapchat videos of themselves lip syncing seductively to the music and flipping their hair (yes, that happened … like they didn’t talk to one another, that is ALL they did).

Everyone looked like they were “someone,” but a large part of me knew they were not, which made it all feel really sad. For example, the lady in the expensive-looking flowing skirt who I witnessed lift her leg up onto the bar and start to twerk … she wasn’t someone. But my god was trying. 

I happened to be on my way to the ladies room when she did this and had the unfortunate timing of seeing a good majority of her vagina. And I’m super sad to report that wasn’t the only unintentional vagina I saw that day. Sigh. 

Like I said, they were all Kardashian clones. Tight ass dresses with long flowing trenches over them. Crop tops with old school Tommy Hilfiger jean jackets over them paired with Adidas shell toes. Long ass t-shirts paired with thigh high boots and Kourtney Kardashian long locks. And it didn’t matter if you were 100 pounds of 500 pounds, you were wearing a crop top. I suppose it is a requirement in the state of NY. 

Me? Well, I wore black ripped skinnies, a lace top with a hint of witch, and a cool set of heels. To which the bouncer at this nightmare told me I looked, “comfortable.” COMFORTABLE. That’s when I almost removed my non-existant hoops, said, “this is considered stylish in Philly, sir!” like a moron, and had to leave.

I’ve never felt more uncool slash uncomfortable in my life. At one point I found myself painting dark matte lipstick on myself and contemplating taking off my camisole underneath my lace top to expose my lame bra and compete with these bitches. I didn’t because I woke up and realized, “self, you don’t live here, this isn’t you, and oh yeah, this doesn’t matter.” 

I still to this day can’t help but wonder, do these people work? Because if I got as rip roaring drunk as these people did on a Sunday before I had to work, Jesus Christ I would be dead. There would be no reviving my ass. I was dead for days after just trying to survive the whole ordeal. 

So there you have it. If your friend ever tries to talk you into going to a “brunch nightclub” when you’re half in the bag, run as far away as humanly possible. Give me my couch, sweats, Netflix, takeout, and a bottle of champagne, with a fucking glass to drink it out of. 

The Road To 30

d4c1fdd36301eaeb8884d28152c7085bRecently I’ve been thinking a lot about Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. And me. I was a clueless 24-year-old when I gave birth to it, and here I am, a clueless almost 30-year-old. Now what? Where are we going? Who am I? 

And then, as I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely while wrestling sheets onto my bed, I realized something: have I always gotten so winded whilst putting sheets on my bed? When I was done I laid on my floor exhausted, and almost sore? Wishing a random soul would run into my room and pour an ice cold bucket of water over my head. Yep. From putting damn sheets on my bed. 

Is this 30? 

My last year in my 20s has been a rocky one for sure. I was diagnosed with rosacea. I’m pretty sure I have a gluten intolerance and had to cut it out of my diet when all I want to do is make sweet sweet love to a crunchy baguette (wait … scratch that, what I meant is I want to devour it with a whole thing of Brie, ya pervs). Things ended pretty badly with a guy I really cared about for a long time, leaving me utterly heart broken. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, his lovely new girlfriend (whom I don’t know), started harassing me for no legitimate reason for a majority of the summer. 

It’s all been shit. But Jesus does it feel good to write about it and share it with you. 

While I’m super excited to turn 30 (no sarcasm, I truly fucking hated my 20s, and couldn’t be more pleased a new decade of life is on the horizon), I just can feel it in my bones that times are a-changin’. 

My friends are buying houses, talking more about their credit scores over dinner than dumb ass shit we used to chat about. They are saying things like, “yeah, we’ll probably start trying in the spring…” Wait. Weren’t we just talking about how we DON’T want to get pregnant slash ways to avoid it? I don’t know why, but I freak out when I hear people talking about procreating. It’s so … final. So, waiter, a bottle of wine for this gal and this gal only please. 

And me? Well, at the moment I’m contemplating whether or not to splurge and buy that suede purse from Zara that I’ve been oogling. And, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck about my credit score or when/if I will ever procreate so suck on that, AYE AYE AYE (no I’m totally kidding, you guys, credit scores are important, everyone, just not enough to gab about it with your gal friends … but I was serious about the procreation part)


Odd lady out? Probably. While yes, being the black sheep sometimes makes me want to cry, after wrestling with my bed linens, I realized the beauty of it all. I could sit here and feel like the Hunchback shunned to her bell tower, single and not fitting in with my friends who are all making life their bitch as they troll Credit Karma or some shit, or I could share the splendor and disfunction of my path to 30 with you all. Hmm I’ll choose the later for $500, Alex. 

Don’t get it twisted, fashion and style and makeup and all that shit are still my life source. It will just be intermixed with interesting and funny (or sad … whatever way you want to slice it, your call) anecdotes from my single life on the brink of 30. 

Now look, this is my path, and my path only. I can already hear my friends picking up their phones and texting me, “was that me you were writing about? Blah blah blah, you hate me, why do you think I’m so lame … you bitch, blah.” 

Look, I probably will be writing about you. Get over it. You know I love you, come on, you do. Stop being silly. We’re all on different paths and unfortunately since you’re friends with me, you get involved in mine henceforth leaving me no choice then to write about your ass. I apologize in advance and know I never hate any of you (you know who you are, if you don’t then I probably hate you).

Okay, so let’s do the damn thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have to start getting ready for my bedtime of 9 p.m., place my heating pad on my stiff neck, and pray to the Gods of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey.