Where in public is this conversation acceptable? (Also, keep in mind that we are yelling):
Me: “Wait wait, so this is not a sex toy you’re showing me right now. That isn’t what’s in this picture?”
Her: “No, that’s not it. This is medical.”
Me: “Look at the ribbing on that thing. This is phallic. You can’t tell me this isn’t phallic. How much is this?”
Her: “It’s not a sex toy, Helena.”
Me: “I don’t believe you.”
After that debate (turns out it was medical) the conversation went downhill or up depending on your threshold for latex gloves, 90s-era denim, penises the size of salt-shakers, pegging, flashing, sexual identity and bottomless mimosas. That’s right. This was at brunch.
Brunch, the bitching hour between breakfast and lunch, is quite possibly the only respectable forum for public drunkenness and pornographic conversation. Sure, people get pissed and talk about penises all around the world, but the brunch table somehow elevates this lowbrow chatter into defending your dissertation proportions. People who go to brunch are every day fancy, according to me. But instead of the cucumber sandwiches of my great Aunt’s day, now the crust stays on.
Where else can five intelligent young women spend more than an hour deciding whether or not a man’s choice in denim determines his long term potential? The answer, thankfully, was no. But the questions kept coming.
Because brunch is like a live-action comments section, previously known as conversation. Where the week’s Facebook, Google Plus and G-chat status messages see the light of 3-D. It’s the time most of us allot for reality, which is why it’s so important to me.
I work from home, which means I spend an inordinate amount of time not using my voice. Mimosas help loosen the tongue. That’s science.
I had a boyfriend once who couldn’t get why my Sundays were always on hold. “You’d rather spend all day getting drunk with your friends,” he complained once. Well, yes and no. I’d definitely rather spend the day with the people who get me rather than those who don’t (yeah, that didn’t work out) but it’s more than that. The term “dry v-wedgie” entered my cultural lexicon at a brunch and it changed my view of the world.
Last Sunday, I learned that “dissecting someone into unscrewability” was a bad thing. Also, nice lesbians, like nice guys, sometimes finish last. This isn’t to say all we talk about is sex but it is to say that sex is always on the table –literally.
It’s where quotes too good or too precious for Facebook are made.
Brunch is like a time warp. You’re drinking in the middle of the day, but don’t feel like an alcoholic. Usually you’re outside, so you also feel like you’re actually doing something. And you’re eating breakfast-y things so you feel healthy, since that’s the most important meal of the day. The meal I usually count as a cup of coffee or Activia, if I’m not regular.
It’s a safe house where nothing but the uninterrupted flow of champagne mixed with too much orange juice really matters. The work week, the relationship, the family all get put on pause (or analyzed free of charge by your therapist friend).
At brunch, life is possible to gulp down.
Note from the Bitches: Helena Andrew’s love poem to our favorite meal originally appeared on xoJane.com. We’re bringing it to you with Jane and Helena’s permission. Buy her (really fantastic) book, now available in paperback.