Does this dog make me look fat?

I apologize for the lack of posting. It's been a crazy past couple weeks. So to make up for it, I leave you with the image below- proof that we have officially taken the '100-calorie pack' craze way too far:

Help me help you

Don't have a lot of time to post, just had to take a sec to extend my congratulations to this little lady. Granted, I did help her find a j-o-b, which benefits me indirectly through my company's bottom line. But moreover, I am happy for her as a friend and know for a FACT they love you over there (who wouldn't?) Yo go girl!

The (Not So) Anonymous Blogger

It's time to come out of the closet.

Yesterday, the Washington Post Express quoted my last post, the one about getting a lil bit tipsy on my birthday. My co-worker/superior called me after reading it. She knew it was me instantly- I mean, how many other female Bretts are there? With a last name that starts with G? And whose birthday was this past weekend?

Uh, yup, that would be me.

I've written about this before- how you can't blog about absolutely everything in your life, because you never know who's reading it. But I haven't exactly made an incredible attempt to keep this blog anonymous. I've got a unique name, first of all, and that gives it away to anyone who knows me. And there is that picture of me in the corner, albeit small and a little bit blurry.

Luckily this co-worker is someone I consider a friend, and I don't have any dirt about my current job posted. (For the record, I do love my job, and wouldn't trade it for any position in the world. Besides Queen of England or a stint on Dancing With The Stars.) I briefly considered locking a few of my old posts, the ones that reference my deep deep depression that coincided with my old job, over a year ago, when I was unhappy with not just my job, but most things in my life.

And then I thought... fuck it.

It's on the internet. It's public knowledge. Nothing I can be sued or arrested for. So let my co-workers know who I really am. I'm human, just like them.

And to tell you the truth, I like the fact that I can connect honestly with my readers and other bloggers. This is me on (virtual) paper. No, it's not the whole story, but bits and pieces that make up who I am.

So here's to being recognized. And honest. Authentic.

'Cause if you've got the courage to blog, you should be saluted and cheered. It takes balls to expose your life like that, to the public, romantic interests and friends. Let's raise a glass to honesty. If that's a fault, Nick Carraway, lock me up and throw away the key.

Just make sure to include Tom Buchanan k? Me thinks he'd be pretty hot in real life.

Like a fine wine

You know you've had a good birthday when:

• you don't recognize the last two numbers dialed (or received) on your phone
• your clothes lead up to your bed in the following order: pants, underwear, shirt... bra across room
• you made a drunkenly valiant attempt to bake cookies, failed miserably, but still enjoyed the fruits of your labor
  
• you leave home with two earrings... and come back with one
• you can still taste the lavender margarita salt on your lips
• you thank god you took your makeup off but don't recall doing so
• you got an unexpected kiss
• you're still in bed at noon the next day

Thank you for a wonderful night... and yes, I do remember (most of) it.

Gratitude

My mom put treats in my lunch. hersheys kisses, notes. I adored them, and now i appreciate it even more. it is the little things... but it makes me who I am today. Because I am a person who appreciates such gestures, the little things.

My parents made me say thank you, for nearly everything... Well, thank you for that. You taught me gratitude. Never to take things for granted.

The cards for no reason. Telling me that doing my best was what mattered most, even if my best was a C in biology. Because they knew my best in French was an A+, and I would never let myself fall below that.

For trusting me even when I shouldn't be trusted- around alcohol, drugs, which ran rampant in high school and college. Knowing I would learn my own lessons, and take enough responsibility (and pride) to keep myself from going astray.

For sending me abroad when I begged, and then supporting me each moment that I felt depressed and alone. For coming to visit me even when it was a struggle, because they knew I needed them more than ever before.

Thank you for making the past 25 years (quarter century!) amazing, and now when I say thank you, I realize it's not enough. My birthday gift is simply you- the universe has given me an incredible family. I don't know what I did in a past life to deserve this, but I sure am thankful. I love you, and hope you're around for the next 25.

Yes.

Obama is the President-elect. Faith in country restored.

Yes, we can. Yes, we did.


(so suck it Palin!!)

What a difference a year makes.

As my birthday approaches, I've started to plan some sort of a celebration. A toast to me. Because that's what birthdays are all about, right?

So I picked one of my favorite restaurants and made a reservation for that night. And then sat down to make the guest list.

Aside from two or three usual suspects, I came up empty.

Last year, I invited 10 girl friends to martinis at Town and Country. Almost everyone made it, and I was so pleased with the outcome. Not only was it fun (duh!) and the drinks were delicious, but everyone was hitting it off, chatting. Definitely comfortable. And I left feeling loved- I had ten people come out to celebrate me, and our friendship.

My life has changed a lot since my last birthday. These days I'm in touch with only a handful of those ten. Some have moved, some have moved on, and some weren't real friends to begin with. I've always said I'd rather have a few close friends than a million acquaintances, but now I just don't know.

Yes, there are "friends,"and friends of friends, I could invite to dinner, but that's really not the point. I love small group dinners, and that's what I want for my birthday: a gathering of close friends, not peripherals- people I feel comfortable with, people that I know really want to be there. The only problem is, I'm afraid I can't fill the table.

(And though it's not super expensive, it feels presumptuous to invite people I'm not even good friends with, don't you think? I don't want to make people spend money on me who otherwise wouldn't.)

I don't want to use acquaintances as filler. That would feel so fake, and there's no room for pity at my table.

I know I'm overthinking this. Still, deep down I'm worried I'll have to cancel that reservation, and end up eating sushi alone at home. On a Saturday night. On my birthday.

I really really don't want that to happen- I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Maybe I'll go see my fam in NY. If nothing else, I'll have dinner out and honor myself, and my year, and the changes I've made.

And remind myself that it is quality, not quantity, is what really matters. Even if it's only a party of one.

Cheers

Two strikes

Oh, Busboys and Poets. I wanted to like you, really I did. I dig the layout, the atmosphere, the snuggly comfy chairs where you can hole up with a good book and a cappuccino. Your servers are lovely and your cocktails more so. (And you're so close to my apartment!) Unfortunately, I just can't eat at your establishment.

Last week's brunch was the first time I've eaten at a Busboys, and it was delicious. I had the Oaxaca omelet, filled with black beans, guacamole and cheese, with fruit and wheat toast. I was sure to explain my food allergies to our server, and a manager (I think) came out to double check everything with me, which was very thoughtful. It was a good meal, and I left feeling satisfied and wanting to return.

Later in the day, I experienced... uh, how do you say... major digestive issues. The kind I get when I've eaten something I'm not supposed to. But since I have a digestive condition, and my stomach is so freakin weird anyway, I chalked it up to another day in the life. And I felt fine the next day.

So, when the next opportunity arose to go to brunch, I immediately chose Busboys. I was craving poached eggs on toast. I settled into a plush chair and ordered just that, plus a mimosa. Again, I informed my server of my allergies, and she was quite helpful- I have no doubts that she instructed the kitchen to stay away from using any soy products in or while preparing my meal. (She even checked on the turkey sausage.) Once again, I enjoyed the food and ambiance. This could easily become my Sunday routine, I thought.

It was about 6 o'clock that trouble hit. You don't need the messy details; let's just say that sometimes lightning does strike twice.

And in my case, I can't afford a third. My stomach's reactions are pretty severe. I am not saying that I got food poisoning- in fact, I'm pretty sure it wasn't that. But something was definitely off. Either the kitchen wasn't as cautious as it promised, or soy ingredients are lurking somewhere else. I suspect it was the bread. I usually can't eat supermarket bread- you'd be surprised what's in that stuff. So maybe no one checked that label, assuming it was safe.* Or maybe they did use vegetable oil after all.

I will return to you, Busboys, just not for food. It's a shame we had to end this way, but we can still be friends, right?

*I am a responsible allergic consumer. I did ask my server both times to check all labels, and I'm pretty sure they checked with the kitchen. Most likely they were misinformed by someone back there.

This is your brain on blue margaritas...

Last night, my friend Risa invited me to her Halloween/early birthday party. It promised to be a night of friends, drinks, and delicious, delicious food (which it was, she is a culinary queen).

I had originally planned on being Sarah Palin for Halloween, and then, bam, everybody's doing it. So I changed to "lipstick on a pig." The plan was to wear all pink, with pig ears and a tail, bright red lipstick and a McCain - Palin pin.

But such are the best laid plans of mice and men... the online store lost my order. (Thankyouverymuch, GoogleCheckout.) So, inspired by a Daily Candy email, I went as The Walk of Shame. Oversized button-down, rolled up pajama pants, hoops, heels, and black eye makeup everywhere.

The sad thing is, most people on the Metro just thought I was pretty cracked out.

Anyway, the party was a blast, and the fact that were was hot rum and cider(!!) and Zach's strong margaritas helped. I stumbled out around 1?, grabbed a taxi, and after entering my apartment, I think I washed my face and went to bed.

This morning, I woke up, and the world was more blurry than usual. I rubbed my eyes, turned on HBO, and hung out in bed until 1pm. I couldn't see everything on the screen, but I figured that was due to my hangover.

Eventually I got up, showered, and went to Georgetown. The whole time, I was convinced my left contact was dirty. Was I wearing contacts? I usually sleep in them. I closed my right eye. Then my left. Everything looked the same, the left eye just a tad more hazy.

I was out for a good 3 hours. I drank water, coffee, and shopped. Yet I could not shake that hungover/blurry feeling. Barnes & Noble felt like an acid trip. I couldn't wait to get home and hop into bed, right after I rinsed my goddamn left contact.

I opened my medicine cabinet to grab the solution. And what do I find? My contacts soaking in a case.

Apparently my drunk self is also the more responsible one. And I needed another reason to drink.