The curse of an iPhone is its limited battery life. I usually bring my charger with me, but today I forgot it. Sob. I started the day at 8:11 AM at 100%. It's 1:55 PM, and I'm at 33%. What am I going to do?

These are my thoughts (imagine the Law & Order: SVU dun dun dun):

1:56 PM. This isn't so bad. I have my laptop. I can make it until 5 without using my phone.

1:57 PM. How do I Snapchat anyone? And my phone keeps telling me people are Snapchatting me; I want to see!

1:58 PM. 32%. Okay, I won't check Snapchat.

I woke up thinking the day would be okay. I had no urgent emails, and from bed, I posted a photo to Instagram - part of my morning ritual. I then made it to the bathroom where I spent too much time peeing because my friend posted an interesting article on Facebook.

The night before I had PB&J, which seemed fitting for Hump Day Eve. Basically, a concessionary meal that we're almost halfway through the week; no need to exert energy that I'll need to get through tomorrow. I dipped my sandwich in milk that I poured into a glass tumbler. I hung the tumbler on the drying rack afterward, because the dishwasher was running.

I once read in a book that said — among many other things — if you don't like cleaning your house, you should just pay someone to do it. And if you want the Audi instead of Honda, buy the flashier option if it'll make you happy.

At the time, I thought it was a horrible life lesson. 

The benefits of having a nicer car should carefully be weighed before making a huge spending decision. And same for cleaning your house: is it truly something you can't do yourself? 

2018 was a busy year for me. I got a new job. And a new car. And a boyfriend. A lot of people got married. I did some freelance work. I even started a book club. I meant to write 100 blog posts that I never finished writing, but this is one that I am fully committed to finishing. It’s a story about trying to overcome possibly the biggest sale I needed to make: the sale of my first car. (That was also a blog post I wanted to write: a proper sendoff to my first car. Despite the boat-likeness of it, and its tendency to give up on the whole driving thing, I have a soft spot for Taurus.) I wanted him to go to a good home.

I’ve never been someone who’s attracted to simpletons. I love the dramatic. My favorite movies are tragedies. It should be no surprise then that I pursue the same principles in romance. This here is the story of how I dated a woman for five weeks who broke up with me no less than four times – and I stayed through it all.

Most might assume I have no self-esteem if I’m willing to stay with someone who keeps breaking up with me, but you could also say it’s a sign of someone who doesn’t really care. Sara and I have long heralded the motto of “Do it for the story,” and well, look, I got a story.

“Sheila” and I met on Bumble. If this had been Plenty of Fish or OkCupid, I might have been able to predict the craziness. Instead, we exchanged numbers our first night and never stopped texting.

Our tale begins in early summer when I went on a date with a woman I met off Bumble. We grabbed drinks, and I quickly realized there was no spark here, so I ordered two more drinks to drown out my lack of interest. During the course of our conversation, she revealed her ex worked for my friend’s father. I had never met her ex, but had heard of him, so said nothing.

Due to mutual disinterest (she sent me an unfounded breakup message two days after the date), we never saw each other again.

If you read this blog often or follow us on Instagram, you likely know that one of Cazey’s favorite brunch spots in Richmond was Star-Lite, so when we found out it was closing, we immediately made plans to go to their final brunch service to say our goodbyes.

You know what they say, though, when one door shuts, another door opens.

And that door happens to be to Brunch, the latest companion restaurant to Lunch | Supper.

Lately, I’ve found myself on Bumble. Despite assertions that I am a happy single (which is relatively true), I also find myself seeking validation and attention like any self-involved twenty-something via a cultivated dating profile. Who thinks I’m attractive and witty? Are they also attractive and witty?

Bumble, like the majority of dating apps, revolves around swiping to others’ profiles - right if I think they’re photogenic, intelligent, and have some career trajectory; left if less than cute, ultra-conservative, or have some predisposition for puppy-eared Snapchat filter selfies. (Seriously, girls - maybe guys too - don’t do that crap.)

When I ran into “Vanessa” - a name designation made only for the alliteration of “Vanessa the Vixen” - a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen her in years. The last time I thought of her was probably two years before and only because her younger sister posted something on Facebook tagging her.

Growing up, Vanessa always existed in the periphery of my universe. She was the older, popular, valley girl-esque blonde who lived in my neighborhood and always seemed to be attached to some faceless jock. We went to the same elementary, middle, and high school and then even college, but I don’t think we ever ran into each other there. We may have 160 mutual friends on social media, but that hardly denotes being part of the same friendship circle.