What's Your Favorite?

I'm tired of hearing people groan when a teacher says, “Okay! We’re going to go around the circle and everyone’s going to answer a little question I have for you.” They act as if telling their classmates their favorite ice cream flavor would be so unbearably painful that they would rather keel over than utter the words “mint chocolate chip.” Even worse than the classroom groaners are those who claim that there is no place for such trivial questions in their close relationships with their friends – as if someone’s preference over cats or dogs doesn’t tell you enough about them.  

Don’t get me wrong, though. There is a time and place. I, too, have rolled my eyes at ice-breakers that were poorly timed and awkwardly delivered. But when we do encounter the right time and place, I think we need to learn to better appreciate these questions. 

If you’re an ice-breaker denier, I don’t believe the problem is that deep down you just hate being asked questions about yourself. I also don’t think the problem is that you just can’t bear to ask another person such superfluous, surface-level questions. Instead, I propose the issue is just that you’ve never been asked the right one. My personal break-through moment occurred where all best schema-shifting moments do: a college tour. Before we started our campus stroll, the guide made our group go around in a circle and share which kitchen utensils we would be and why. (Note: I do not subscribe to the “why” inquiry of ice-breaker answers. If your gut tells you that you are a rubber spatula, then you are a rubber spatula. No explanation of functionality or appearance is necessary. This rule applies to all ice-breaker questions.) I wasn’t immediately convinced. Initially, I was distracted by the panic of not knowing my answer until he finally declared in which direction we would go around the circle. Then, I was completely focused on listening to my potential peers share their answers, in hopes of hearing anything that would spark inspiration for own. After fork and knife were offered up with mildly concerning rationale, I was at a loss. My turn was next, and I went for it: spoon. I would be a spoon. Why? I couldn’t tell them. So our guide, in earnest tour guide fashion, threw some ideas out there for me: “Oh, well, like, the round-ness is nice. Like, they are just kind-of pleasing to the eye, you know? And they’re pretty functional, like, you can actually do a lot more with a spoon than you’d think.” I politely agreed, acting as though he had taken the unrealized words from my mouth. Can a girl not be a spoon just because? Despite these minor set-backs, my moment of realizing my love for ice-breakers was mere minutes away. Once the rest of the group had shared some better answers – one or two of them even making me smile – I finally had THE thought: “Wow, that’s a really great ice-breaker question. These silly questions really can tell you a lot about a person.” You wouldn’t look at me the same if you knew how many people I’ve asked to share with me which kitchen utensil they would be. 

Although I said that my Ice-Breaker Moment™ when I finally started to love ice-breakers came during that college tour, the truth is that such a conversion was never really necessary for me. I was a shy kid, but I still longed to feel known (and for attention). These questions opened up a space for me to speak and to let people get to know me like the way I wished they would. It just felt good to share a little something about myself to a group that was eagerly waiting to hear exactly which Disney princess I liked the most. Oh, the anticipation of waiting for my turn as each person in the circle shared, praying that no one would threaten my individuality complex by stealing my perfectly unique answer. (Note: No one did. I was the only one who claimed Mulan as my preferred princess.) 

Some call it “asking half-strangers ice-breaker questions,” others (me) call it “the art of discovering deeper understanding through silly, superficial questions,” or something like that. 

As a parting gift, I leave you with my personal favorite ice-breaker question: what’s your favorite? No typo there. Out of all your favorites, what's your favorite?

Mine? Fireworks. 

 How Running Changed My Life

I Can Dress Myself.

The idea that other people could tell you when it is appropriate to wear certain articles of clothing has always confused me. Maybe it’s the constant desire for self-expression I’ve had since I was a child, or maybe it's the more progressive upbringing my parents provided me with, but either way this social construct put in place so many years ago has never made any sense in my head. I don’t deny that there is a time and place for certain dress codes, for example, weddings, job interviews, etc but in other instances, I am responsible for making sure other people feel comfortable around what adorns my body? No thank you. 

In elementary school, I was confined to wearing three colors: Red, White, and Blue. While I could wear any article of clothing as long as it fell within that simple color scheme, I felt so trapped. Why did my favorite yellow dress with strawberries embroidered on the bottom hem have to sit in the back of my closet collecting dust? Wearing it wouldn’t hurt anybody. Why did an eight-year-old have to suppress her personality when it came to what she wore? The battles my mother and I would get in every morning before school as I got dressed probably still haunt her to this day. 

Luckily once high school rolled around I felt slightly more free to dress as pleased, but the snide comments from teachers didn’t go unnoticed. I grew up in California so the weather got fairly warm towards the end of the year when we were let out in June. I remember one day, specifically, it was over ninety degrees outside and I had a tank top on. My 11th-grade chemistry teacher thought this was some kind of hate crime apparently because before the fifty-minute period was over I had heard multiple jabs at how my clothes must have gotten “shrunk in the washing machine”, or asking if someone would lend me their jacket so I could “cover-up”. Of course, no one had one because it was ninety degrees outside. I do not view myself as some saint who never caused problems a day in my life, but what I will say is that a tank top was not something worthy of the scrutiny it received. 

Coming into college I was excited to not have anyone telling me when I could or could not wear things. During freshman year I thoroughly enjoyed picking out my outfits every day depending on my mood, and what I felt like portraying to the world that day. It was so fun. Now as I sit in Tate writing this post, I can’t help but analyze what I chose to wear today - a tank top and tennis skirt. While it may not be the most groundbreaking outfit anyone has ever seen, it’s what I wanted to put on when I woke up this morning, and for that, I am grateful I never lost the desire to dress as I wanted. Thank you to all of the dress codes that confined me in the past, you only made my drive for self-expression stronger.

No, It Doesn't Need to be a Movie.

Everyone has read a book at some point or another and thought to themselves, “this would make a great movie.” And while it seems amazing to be able to see the characters and story come to life on screen, it’s always going to end up falling flat. A book’s narrative, tone, and action are all but forgotten the moment it gets into a director’s hands. It’s not their fault, as it’s impossible to squeeze 500 pages of in-depth writing into a two-hour-long movie. I appreciate a good effort, but I have yet to see a movie that is genuinely better than the book.

Movie adaptations also make us lazy. Authors can make the reader feel like they’re in the narrative by giving details about the setting and characters, but it’s still only words, and the reader must use their own imagination to create a visual. I remember when the Hunger Games movie came out after I had read all three novels. I was so upset looking at what they thought District 12 looked like versus what I had imagined. Now whenever I go back and read the book, I can’t ever picture what I had in mind. Katniss will always be Jennifer Lawrence, rather than the girl I had pictured in my head, and I don’t like how that thoughtfully written imagery will never truly be appreciated again.

Looking on the financial side, I find it annoying that nearly everything coming out nowadays is a cheap knockoff of a novel. What happened to creativity? Hollywood has turned into a money grab, and I’m tired of watching half-ass movies that don’t even try to do the book justice. At least Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter had some budget behind them. If I want to watch a movie, I’d rather watch something like a Quentin Tarantino film, because he actually writes his own stuff.

Of course, everyone has their different opinions, and I’m not trying to sound pretentious by being one of those people who always has to declare that “the book was better”. If you’re someone who hates reading, I totally get it, and honestly, you’re probably better off living in the ignorant bliss that every movie adaptation is great.

The country at night

 

                 In an evolutionary sense, its completely reasonable to be afraid of the dark. For centuries, venturing too far from home at night meant certain mauling by some unseen beast, or worst. In horror movies, nothing good has ever happened at night, and even less so in the dark. A lot of folklore is also centered around night, and like horror movies, and it usually involves something bad happening in an isolated place (Robert Johnson comes to mind). Yes, the dark is definitely scary.

                        As a person that grew up in the country, that fear of the dark deeply resonates with me as well. Isolation, imagination, and that underlying evolutionary sense of fear don’t make for a good combination in an idle mind. Even into middle and high school, I did more things to avoid it than I would like to admit; sprinting back to the house after taking the trash out late at night, and avoiding the tree line when it takes longer to cut the grass than you expected. My grandparents’ house is connected to ours through a path in the woods, and naturally this became no-man’s land after the sun went down each night. With the wrong set of eyes and ears, anything heard or seen in this environment instantly becomes a predator, and should be avoided at all costs. However, as I got older this sense of fear began to fade into more of a sense of gratitude and appreciation.

 

                        I can’t pinpoint the exact moment this shift happened. Maybe it was the first time I noticed the way the moon casts its light over everything, unadulterated by streetlamps or artificial light. Maybe it was the way the trees rise up like giants in the dark, and the hills and fields just seem to roll on and on. Getting a motorcycle definitely helped; there is nothing quite like blasting down empty stretches of country road at night, just taking it all in. And let’s be clear, it is creepy. Stopping at four-ways at night still conjures up images of Robert Johnson at the crossroads, making his Faustian bargain. Unseen horrors still lurk beyond certain parts of the tree line, just out of reach. It’s easy to look around and see how that kind of environment would shape countless numbers of horror movies, books, and folktales. Nevertheless, it’s all part of that same sense of wonder and natural beauty. Everything is around you, and its all so alive and real; crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, a gentle breeze rolls by and goes onto somewhere else in the night. Even while our world is asleep, another one is waking up. Despite this barrage of noise, there is a sense of quiet in the air. There are no car alarms, no sirens, no horns. There are no unnatural obtrusions, it’s just your own thoughts and the night. In this context, it’s hard to be afraid.

 

                        I definitely understand being afraid of the dark, and to be fair, there are still a lot of places I would definitely avoid at night. However, I have a deep sense of appreciation for the kind of mystery and wonder places like where I grew up can offer at night. Now, I consider it an important part of what shaped me growing up, and who I am today. Although I love my life in Athens, I hope that I’m never too far away from experiencing that familiar sense of serenity that reminds me of home. And even if one day I do decide to leave and never return, I know I’ll never forget it.

It's Called AppleSAUCE for a Reason

These days, it seems like everyone and their mother has a favorite dipping sauce. Some claim Zax's Sauce is the best, others argue there isn't any topping Chick-fil-A Sauce, and others will just stick to some good old fashioned ketchup. While everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I believe that there is one sauce that has been criminally underrated in todays debate: applesauce. 

Now, I know what you're thinking. What on Earth is he talking about? Bear with me here, for I am an expert on the matter. As a child, I loved to dip. I would dip anything in everything just to see what it would taste like. I created wild and innovative creations such as Cheetos in yogurt and apple slices in ketchup. While not all of these concoctions stood the test of time, through years of trial and error, I unwittingly stumbled across one of the most amazing discoveries of the 21st Century. Applesauce tastes good with just about everything. It started with chips, dipping plain Lays into a small, round Motts container one day at lunch in the 3rd grade. From there, it took off. I would dip everything in applesauce, from crackers, to cookies, to bean and cheese quesadillas. Now, I am aware that I may have lost some of you with the quesadilla, but I implore you once again to hear me out. 

Applesauce is just like any other dipping sauce. For starters, the word "sauce," defined as a "thick liquid served with food to add moistness and flavor," is even contained within its name. It is a liquid, yet it has a bit of texture and resistance to it. Also, applesauce is served in conveniently sized individual packaging, which is perfect for the dipping utensil of your choosing. It is even customary of many Jewish households to dip latkes in applesauce during Hanukah. However, unlike many other sauces, applesauce can be eaten at a variety of temperatures, anywhere from a mild room temperature to an icy refrigerator cold. Additionally, applesauce isn't limited to one single flavor like other sauces. You can buy regular, cinnamon, unsweetened, strawberry, and many more. That being said, in my humble opinion, cinnamon applesauce provides the perfect balance of sweet and tangy that hits just right every single time. 

I am fully aware of how this sounds. It sounds like I am a culinary madman with the tastebuds of a 6-year-old. Nonetheless, my applesauce opinions have been tested and proven fruitful by the mouths of your peers. Anyone who has ever been so daring as to try my suggestion to use applesauce as a dipping sauce has been wildly impressed. Some have even gone as far as to thank me for opening their minds and their hearts to this wonderful dunking option. There is only one question that now remains. Will you be brave enough to dip? 

Airport Overachievers

   

 There are two types of people at the airport: the people who get to the airport three hours early and those who refuse to show up more than an hour before the flight. I am the second breed of traveler. I have never understood the need, nor desire, to arrive at the airport crazy early, to sit around staring at your phone, confined to a small two by one foot chair. These people are the ones that have an excessive amount of Advil, Tylenol, hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, and probably two backup chargers neatly organized into their Ziplock bags. Need snacks? They probably have a variety of travel-sized snacks for every taste. A whole side of humanity throws away precious time of their vacation to sit in an airport for hours on end, scared that their plane might magically leave an hour early? 

    Some may say I'm a little delusional because I show up to the airport at 7 am for my 8 am flight. What if there is a wreck on the way to the airport? Or what if the security line is backed up? What about the check-in line? Yes, I have thought of all these, but have yall ever thought about the adrenaline that rushes through your body as you speed walk to your gate and can bypass the unnecessary crowding of the gate and standing in the gateway for 5 minutes? 

    This takes me to my next point. Why do people feel the need to congregate around the boarding zone, blocking the gate when they are group 7? There are six groups in front of you and about 100 seats around. If you are so desperate to speed up the boarding process, please take a seat and let the people who were called board the plane without having to swerve through the mass of people. I would love to point out to these people that we are all going to get to the destination at the same time, so please relax a bit. Now I know this can seem harsh, but the absolute most puzzling thing a human can do is stand in the aisle of the plane the second the plane taxis to the gate. Please, sir, you are in row 35; you have about 150 people in front of you, so there is no need to stand in the aisle for the next thirty minutes while the rest of the plane deplanes. If you are one of these people I categorize as an airport overachiever, please let me know the reasoning behind your decisions. I am genuinely intrigued. 

My 100 Trips to Disney World

A little bit of honesty: that number is an exaggeration. 

I have not been to the “Most Magical Place on Earth” one hundred times. I probably haven’t even been there ten times in total. Still, I have visited more than most people I know. I went a couple of times as a child, and I’ve been twice this year alone (once for my 21st birthday and once for Spring Break). 

Before you ask:

Yes, I am aware that this edges dangerously close to “Disney Adult” territory. 

No, I do not feel any shame. 

Still, as I think about all the times I’ve visited Disney World, I find myself wondering why I want to go back. There’s certainly a lot to complain about - the long lines, the heat, the overpriced everything. I always leave with sore feet and sunburns. All of my trips have been flawed in some way. 

There’s also a lack of anything new to see. Sure, the parks get updated every once in a while, but I’ve visited enough to know all the nooks and crannies. I know Main Street USA better than I know my childhood home. I can walk around Galaxy’s Edge without a map. I have favorite restaurants in every park. I know the entire soundtrack for The Haunted Mansion. 

Admittedly, however, I find this familiarity comforting. It’s like rewatching a beloved movie; you know what’s going to happen, but you still find yourself on the edge of your seat. The killer’s identity still surprises you. You cry a puddle of tears no matter how many times you see your favorite character die. 

Maybe this is why I keep going back. The “magic” is the same, but I’ve grown up with it. I know that Mickey is just a guy in a suit, but I still smile when kids get excited to see him. 

Or maybe I just go back to eat Mickey waffles.

How Grief Made Me Grow

I used to see myself as weak, like a delicate flower that had been kept sheltered inside. I saw myself how I thought the world saw me: an effortlessly smart, pretty girl with nice clothes, a comfortable house, and parents that loved me and each other– someone who had never experienced real pain, fear, or loss. I belittled my experiences and pushed down the hurt I felt as soon as I felt it, and I scolded myself for being upset by the things I was going through because there were other people who had it so much worse. Then, one day after my grandfather’s death, I woke up and realized that I hadn’t gotten out of my bed to go any farther than the bathroom in over a week; I was too numb to cry anymore and didn’t even have the energy to feed myself. If I was that delicate flower, I’d been replanted outside and the first cold front had barreled in. I was withering miserably under the conditions. I decided that whether my pain was valid or not (a debate for later, I ruled), I desperately needed help.

I wrestled myself and eventually won, and my trophy was a call to the University Health Center’s Counseling and Psychiatric Services. I started therapy and quickly learned how cruel I was to myself, and it made me both relieved and frustrated. Why couldn’t I extend the empathy I have for others to myself? Even when I decided I was going to allow myself to cry and grieve (not only over my late grandfather, but over other genuinely traumatic things I had pushed down over the years as well), it was grueling to battle the berating voices that intruded on my mind. They told me I was dramatic, pathetic, and undeserving of the help of others because I should’ve been able to handle those things on my own. Yet, I persisted for my own sake, clawing my way upwards towards my hope in one day silencing those voices for good.

It’s been over a year since my grandfather’s death. Since then, I’ve dealt with situations and emotions I could never have anticipated would be so difficult, including finally beginning to process my sexual assault that happened in high school, being diagnosed with ADHD, suffering from chronic migraines and then finally getting relief from them, dealing with more depressive episodes and anxiety attacks, surviving a car crash, and caregiving for family members that were badly injured. I still fight against the urge to invalidate my own pain, but reigning victorious over those thoughts is only getting easier. It’s been a long journey, and I know I’m not done. To be honest, I’m not sure if those mean thoughts will ever completely go away, but I think that’s okay. I’ll keep practicing loving myself more. I’m getting better at it every day.

The cold weather has mostly passed now, and spring is here. These days when I’m hurting, I hold my head high with the pride that freely feeling the pain is much more courageous than tucking it away. I am proud of how far I’ve come, and I’m proud of how far I’ll go. I’m not the delicate, fragile flower that I once thought I was; I’m a weathered tree with roots deep and long, more powerful and wiser with each season. When the next winter comes, I’ll remember who I am, and, understanding that the wind is brutal and the cold is unforgiving, I’ll be kind to the branches that break. I’ll patiently regrow, and look forward to the next spring to come.

One Man's Trash...

It's a saying we all know, it's been around for centuries, literally, and probably because it is always true. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure-- well one woman’s treasure in my case. My entire life this was what I was taught, not in so many words exactly, but the sentiment. My parents were always bringing home things they found out on the curb, not because we couldn’t afford to go out and buy brand new furniture or clothes, but because they hated seeing things go to waste. 

They love finding things that are unique and have interesting backstories, and this is a trait they passed down to me, unlike my siblings. Daddy-daughter time was usually spent taking trips to the dump to see what goodies we could find. My mom and I spent our time together at thrift stores and estate sales finding the most incredible clothing, furniture, and decor. This was my everyday life growing up, and I loved it; I spent my time reupholstering chairs and sewing clothes, addicted to finding treasures that people were just throwing away. It always felt so useless, people throwing perfectly good stuff straight into a landfill, and grabbing just one good bench to put in our garden made me feel like I was doing something good for everyone.

It seems like a fairly practical hobby nowadays, saving money, learning skills, and helping the environment, but now I can’t stop. It’s almost hoarder-like on occasion, definitely a hyper fixation, and certainly taking up all my space. I have a conglomeration of stuff piled, well, everywhere. I tell myself, “you’ll want this later for when you have your own house,” but we all know how that goes. My parents have gotten so good at finding treasures that they made a business out of it; they have acquired a collection that attracts interior designers, builders, and even movie set designers. 

I definitely had a phase of being embarrassed by my family’s hobby, but I appreciate it now more than ever. I have learned so much over the years, especially the value of so-called-trash, and I have realized that one man’s trash is usually my treasure.

More than a Poetic Sentiment and Quality Morale Boost

 

Nature is important to me. Like a lot of people, I use the outdoors as an outlet to relax and I choose a place in nature for my vacation spots just about every opportunity that I get. Through my consistent outdoor travel, I have discovered an item on my bucket list that I want to achieve. I want to visit every single US National Park and invite you to come along with me.

I know that a lot of travel blogs are supposed to provide you with a poetic sentiment about going outside and oftentimes, authors use inspiring adjectives about taking some time out of your busy schedule to explore the unknown. That's great and all, and I'm sure everyone loves a good quality morale boost. However, I wanted to start a blog about the realities of traveling to the National Parks and give knowledge that you can use so anyone feels comfortable enough to take a minor, or major risk and achieve their goals that relate to the outdoors.

So far, I have been to 15 National Parks, 2 National Monuments, 2 Historical Parks, various museums and recreational ares, and I want the list to expand. All this to say, I am somewhat experienced and hope to motivate you to check out these breathtaking places. This blog is going to be a combination of discussing past experiences, highlighting each National Park specifically, what makes them unique, and providing itineraries that you can use if you want to go see these beautiful landmarks on your own. Just think of me as a "Disney Adult" for the National Park Service. 

From what I've seen, I feel like people with online platforms such as this one live lives of fantasy. For instance, they either load up in their expensive tricked-out van and travel across the country year-round, or receive so many sponsorships that they can travel to the most extravagant places in the world and home school their 4 kids while doing it. That's not reality. Ideally, I would love for this to be an opportunity to create a community of people who share the same interests who also have jobs and responsibilities in their lives that they are required maintain. Let's create a fun version of reality and begin this adventure together!

The Power of Confidence

Being confident is something that many people struggle with, women and men alike. In a society where we're constantly exposed to people's seemingly perfect lives, careers, and relationships, it's understandable why a lot of us may feel less than our peers. However, our lack of self-confidence shouldn't be holding us back. We should be enjoying all that life has to offer without constantly carrying the weight of our insecurities.

Today, I will be sharing the importance of having confidence and how it is not only an internal mindset but also how it affects our external environment.

1. Having confidence helps create a positive self-image

We often worry about what others think about us when realistically, the only opinion of you that matters is your own. If you aren't happy with yourself, do those compliments you receive on Instagram really matter? Once you develop self confidence, you'll see yourself in an entirely different light. You won't dwell on your physical flaws every morning as you get ready, but instead, you'll see your positive character traits like your intelligence, humor, or ambition. When you reach this stage of a positive self-image, you'll be more sure of yourself and accepting of the things that make you, you.

2. Others will gravitate towards you

When you find security, you'll notice that more people will be attracted to you. This attraction is not only romantic but can come in the form of friendships as well. Like I mentioned earlier, many people lack confidence. So, when they find a person who exudes it, they are drawn to their powerful energy. As a confident person, you will be the "leader" of the space, owning every aspect of yourself as a person, and serving as an inspiration to others trying to find their own confidence. I guess you could say, with great confidence comes great responsibilities!

3. Success will follow you

If your mind is swarmed with thoughts of self-doubt like "I'm not good enough" or "I'll never reach this goal," you'll start to outwardly demonstrate these same doubts. you won't perform your best in any of your endeavors (whether it's school, work, fitness, etc.) because you're weighed down with negative energy. Once you become confident, you see every goal as a challenge, and you accept it head-on regardless of the obstacles you may face. You become so sure of your abilities that you perform in a way that makes it nearly impossible for you to fail. In other words, you'll be a beacon of success!

Like most things, developing confidence is easier said than done. However, it's important to understand that the best things in life are the things you work for, the things that challenge you and force you to grow as a person. Even if you don't become the most confident person in the world, simply improving your self-esteem and eliminating self-deprecating thoughts will improve the quality of your life. You deserve to be happy with yourself. After all, you're the only you out there!

If you Ain't First, You're Last

It has always been fascinating to me that from the time we are born, there is a sound selected for us, without our consultation, that’s used to identify us for the rest of our lives. My parents picked a name they thought was unique at the time, until every other parent their age had the same idea. Thanks Friends. Despite my first name being as basic as they get, I was, for lack of a better term, gifted with a surname beginning with the letter “Z”. Yes, “Z”, as in Zebra, Zealous, and Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Da. 

Having a last name at the end of the alphabet comes with a lot of implications that have become second nature in my life. I was always the “caboose” of the lunch line in elementary school and my name is read off last from every roster I am on. I’ve learned to zone out until the end of roll call, knowing I’ll be the big finisher. A simple “oh I’m used to it” allowed me to play off my internal embarrassment from always being chosen last in PE. In a way, always being last forced me to feel like I always need to take up space in a room so as to not be forgotten. Maybe this is why I felt the need to be an overachiever in high school, boasting the title of Yearbook Editor and Class President; for which I ran a campaign on a word play of my last name. And yes, the Class President did graduate last. 

As a female, people often tell me that I won’t have this concluding curse forever. Although that notion doesn’t necessarily align with my feminist agenda, I still feel a wave of dispair at the thought of not having a “Z” in my name. The letter is a fundamental part of who I am. Logistically, I will always be last, which only motivates me further to be first in all other aspects of my life. My unique gift has challenged me to be confident, driven, and know that there is no one else like me in any room I walk into. And hey, the letter “Z” is worth 10 points in Scrabble. 

I'm Sorry, But Brunch Sucks

    People say I have a radical view of the world. Sure, I might hold the belief that street signs would work better if they added the words “You Idiot”. For example, “Stop, You Idiot”. And I think the best thing about going to outer space is being able to go to a party and say, “I’ve been to outer space… where’ve you been?”. But perhaps my most controversial perspective has to do with a new age concept, the rich person’s indecisive vice, the breakfast for cool kids… brunch. Is it breakfast? Is it lunch? Brunch you confuse me you ambiguous freak of nature!

    Maybe I resent brunch because I don’t understand it. Or maybe I resent it because it’s an insulting social construct that has completely abused the food system. Call me a mealist, but lunch and breakfast are just fine when separated. They were never meant to be a hybrid and never meant to be a choice. Brunch makes things way too confusing and just ends up being a weird lunch consisting of breakfast foods. For instance, no one is ordering a burger at a brunch. You’d have to be absolutely insane to do that. Why is there this stigma? I’d argue it’s even more insane ruining God’s gift to Earth with cheap champagne. Orange juice doesn’t need an enhancement folks. Especially when you’re paying marked up prices for a pounding headache.

    Why is it that every time you go to brunch the rest of the world has the same idea? You intend to dine at 11:30, but you’re lucky to get seated by noon. This decision to skip the most important meal of the day just to eat the same meal hours later is baffling to me. Last I checked, noon is no time for breakfast. That is lunch o’clock anyway you slice it! If any of you feel similarly about this please reach out. We can discuss over lunch at a normal time.

Where Unloved Sofas Came to Die

 

 

 

Visiting my grandmother in Georgia meant going with her to the furniture store where she worked. My brother and sister and I loved to roam the showroom and look at all the new furniture, grouped as if in rooms throughout the display area. We liked to decide what pieces we liked best, what we would buy if we were rich, and how we would decorate our dream houses.  Then, when it was time to open the store, my grandma would get us situated in the back room so she could talk to customers. The back room was not as nice at the showroom. It was home to the furniture they hadn’t sold and couldn’t sell. It was a last stop for old and hideous couches. Most of these couches had been on sale for years and still hadn’t been snatched up: hideous, scratchy fabrics that not even livestock would have been interested in lounging on, foul studies in Naugahyde, patterns that looked like some mutant animal had been killed for its lurid pelt. 

 

 The tables in the back room were either ugly or scratched and were homes to ugly ashtrays sitting in what looked like plaid bean bags. When I became a dramatic teenager and a smoker, I contributed to the stench of those ashtrays, filling them up with my lipsticked Virginia Slims butts while I daydreamed about marrying the boys I liked and picking out furniture for our house. Soap operas flickered on the ancient TV that was as big and heavy as a washing machine. Even while we were “shopping,” and ‘decorating,” and “watching TV,” I wondered if what we were really doing in this store was waiting. Where was our father we hadn’t seen in years?  Was there a chance he might show up to visit his mother and see us too. Did he even know we were here? So every time a new customer walked into the store, I looked up to see if it was Papa.

 

In case you got thirsty, the back room had a Coke machine that dispensed the good, green bottled Cokes made from sugar cane. Next to it was a snack machine full of peanut butter crackers, Hostess Snow Balls, and pecan twirls.  If you hit the front of the machine after you put your coins in but before your selection dropped, sometimes it would issue two of whatever you picked. The words stenciled on the machine read “Don’t go around hungry.”