This particular weekend warning is going to be short but not-so-sweet. In fact, I’m cutting the sweetness out of your weekend right now, little sister. For you are strictly forbidden to indulge in a sugary, grossly sweet mimosa no matter what. Your Lesbian Big Sister (me) is sick and tired of seeing all of you get dragged down into the ground by the devil that is shitty orange juice mixed with cheap as shit champagne.
Look, I get the temptation. We all love to be super “hangover chic” on a Sunday as we strut into a trendy (but mediocre) west village restaurant adorned in expensive distressed clothing with comically large sunglasses strapped to our exhausted little faces. And there is a very specific chill that makes its way down the spine when we FLIP open the menu and see the following words, in gorgeously-swirly-twirly colorful font:
BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS ONLY $20!
“Oh my god!” Becky will squeal. “We would be stupid to NOT get the bottomless mimosas.” Becky is your best friend, by the way.
“I know!” You’ll squeal back at good ole’ Becks. I mean one cocktail is eighteen-f*cking-dollars and even though you don’t care much for mimosas — Becky’s got a point, right? You would be an imbecile not to jump on this precious opportunity. You’re a young woman just trying to survive in the goddamn city of broken dreams! You need to save your pennies and a deal is a deal, amirite?
You and Becky’s eyes will light up like a thousand twinkling Christmas lights the moment that golden-hued pitcher of mixed mimosa liquid is plopped onto your table by your inevitably bitchy 20-year-old waitress (It’s not our fault she didn’t get cast in the soft porn horror movie she auditioned for last week!).
The sugar-fructose-chemical rush of the artificially enhanced orange juice will make its way down your body as soon as you take that first tiny sip. Your stomach will lurch from syrupy nastiness you’ve just ingested. Your eyes will water. You’ll want to belch!
“This is good!” You’ll lie because you want to be festive because no one likes a negative Nancy on the modern-day church that is Sunday brunch. Especially Becky.
In reality, you’ll know, deep down inside the beautiful crux of your heart that you’re drinking toxic fake orange juice and cheap gas station “champagne.” But you’ll keep that fact to yourself and chug your mimosa like you’re going to the electric chair! After all, we don’t order bottomless mimosas because they taste good. We order them with the noble intention of getting buzzed on a budget, baby!
And because the restaurant has promised to give you unlimited mimosas until 6 PM you and Becks will really feel like you need to take advantage of this rare privilege. “We’ll take another round!” You’ll slur to the apathetic waitress who will roll her eyes and take twenty-five minutes to grab a pre-made pitcher. She’ll set it on your table as if it weighs ten thousand pounds. She will act as if you’ve barged into her living room and DEMANDED she serves you right then and there.
Her rudeness will only make you want to drink more, to make up for the crappy service you swear you’ll yelp about but never will.
The rest of lunch will be blurry. You’ll probably end up on the Lower East Side at a nasty college kid bar tossing back Jagermeister shots with kids in their late teens who are poppy the cherries of their fake IDs that they bought on St. Marks place a few hours prior.
Whether you end up going home and passing out in your mascara and foundation on the couch in your living room or turning up all night long — one thing is absolutely certain.
You, Will, Feel Like Shit The Next Day.
In fact “shit” is the understatement of the year! You’ll feel like death, a giant crap on a steaming hot city sidewalk, a piano tossed out the window of a skyscraper, a bug smooshed on the pavement by a careless stiletto wearing upper east side debutante on her way to a Republican fundraiser at the Trump Tower.
Cheap champagne that’s teeming with sulfates and additives and fish bladder (I’m not kidding) mixed with that concentrated fructose will kill you. There is nothing more harrowing than a cheap mimosa hangover. Your limbs will be trembling from the surplus of sugar. Your entire body will be inflamed from all the nasty additives. Your stomach will be BURNING LIKE THE INFERNO from all that citric acid. You’ll want vomit everywhere from the gas-station-made champagne. Your fingers will be so swollen from the salt and toxins you consumed the night before, you won’t be able to squeeze your ring off your poor bloated pinkie. This will send you spiraling into a black anxiety hole. There are few things darker than trying to pry a too-tight ring off your finger — with an apocalyptic hangover, no less.
I don’t want you to start the work-week with a mimosa hangover. I want more for you. For us. For womenkind.
If you haven’t been living under a right-wing rock you know that there is a national attack on women’s bodies right now. We need to be in our most prime form in order to fight this god-awful patriarchy into the dirt.
Personally, I think mimosas were created by straight men as a way to keep women and gay men down! Mimosas have historically been marketed toward us women and gays. When have you ever seen a Wallstreet dude drink a mimosa? It’s the patriarchy, obviously.
So when you’re sitting pretty at BRUNCH with BECKY and the GAYZ and you’re tempted to get a bottomless pitcher of fructose and fish bladder, I want you to imagine me as your bartender. I’m rocking a low-cut black tee-shirt and you’re surprised at how ~ample~ my cleavage looks. I tell you it’s because I’m wearing a new third-love bra, and you should really check those bras out because they make your tits look fire. You blush because you’re embarrassed that I noticed that you noticed my bulging rack. I wink at you and lovingly pat you on the arm. Right as you’re about to go all cheapo on yourself and order the mimosa special, you look deeply into my big sisterly eyes. My hazel eyes are putting you in a trance. A trance that repeats “Take care of your body. Get a tequila soda and chase it with a large water, OK? You’re too old for bottomless mimosas.”
A rare, special, powerful but silent energy is exchanged between us. You take a breath. You are grounded in your truth and your posture is perfect. “I’ll have a patron and soda water with a bunch of fresh lemons, please.” You’ll purr, your voice sounding as smooth as a Celine Dion song.
“Bottomless mimosas are offensive because I’m a bottom.” I’ll say, giving you way too much information about my sex life. You’ll be confused and feel shy at my over-sharing but you’ll nod your head because let’s be real: you’re a bottom too.