Hungover from Phish, looking for some eggs.
Us: “Hi, we saw online you had a brunch menu, can we see that please?”
Waiter: “Oh I’m sorry, that’s Sunday only.”
Us: “Oh no! We all REALLY need some eggs.”
Waiter (smiling): “Oh, ok. So you guys ALL want to order eggs then?”
Us (excited): “Yes!”
Waiter: “Yeah no we definitely can’t do that.”
Me: “We’re about to listen to Phish live all weekend, so we’re not going to have to listen to Phish the whole car ride up to Mansfield, right?”
Eric: <maniacal laughter>
Heading to Phish Hartford/Mansfield today. So naturally last night was spent watching Andrew and Eric exchange names of Phish songs written in emoji.
Somebody kill me.
Today I learned a new word– “flid.”
It means “fucking Long Island douchebag.”
Today is my favorite day.
Eric must now adhere to a strict “No buying things for our new apartment without consulting me first” policy. Here’s why:
I’m going out tonight with some girlfriends who are way cooler and more fun than I am.
“Always ‘like’ your own posts. It shows confidence in yourself and your popularity.”
— Me, to myself, alone in this dark room.
“I’ll tell ya– Macy’s really shouldn’t be spending their money on this. They’re not doing well.”
— Eric, world’s biggest buzzkill, while watching the Macy’s NYC fireworks show
This weekend Eric and I went to a beautiful wedding at the American Museum of Visionary Arts in Baltimore, as one of my oldest and dearest friends was getting married there. We had just been to Baltimore the weekend before for Eric’s friend’s wedding, so I felt pretty confident in my packing-for-a-Baltimore-wedding skills and didn’t go through my usual anal-retentive, checklist-obsessive packing routine.
Big mistake.
An hour before the wedding, I realized that I did not pack a bra.
Not a huge problem, as my dress (and my boob size) didn’t necessarily require one, but I had never worn the dress without one. So needless to say, I was a little panicked and self-conscious, and I made Eric swear 50 times up and down that you couldn’t tell my boobs had no support. I also turned down his gracious offer to cup them in his hands the entire night. I don’t know, I just felt like that might draw even more attention.
Then we arrive at the wedding, my boob anxiety rising, and what is the FIRST thing we encounter? This.
A HUGE. FUCKING. BALL OF BRAS. 18,000 bras to be exact.
“Look, it’s 18,000 more bras than you’re wearing!” Eric yelled. Loudly.
And in that moment I couldn’t help but feel I was living out that Alanis Morissette song. You know, the one that goes “It’s like 18,000 bras in a ball, when all you need is one to wear…”
Or something.
But come on. That is ironic. Don’t you think?
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