How I Shockingly Saved Brunch with Just a 2-inch Piece of Plastic

It’s Sunday. It’s Summer. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air is warm.

Brunch is calling your name like a fog horn.

You are with your best girlies and your favorite gays, all dressed in subtly random, yet colorfully complementing florals.

The group has understood the assignment. As a collective, you have mastered the aesthetic of the vibe so perfectly, that the VIP host seats you at the very best table, center of the room, for all to admire.

Music is playing. Mimosas are flowing. “Oh just leave the bottle,” you all happened to say in unison to the server, as if by rehearsal.

A double-decker seafood tower, with dry-iced smoke billowing over the top like a volcanic eruption, hits the luxurious marble table.

And then all hell breaks loose.

The heavy tower topples the table like an teeter totter. A mimosa splashes on you, you squeal and grab the table while it tilts back toward the other side, mimosas splashing sticky orange juice and champagne on everyone now.

A true case of champagne showers, and not in the sexy Vegas day club way.

High pitched screeching, glasses in hands, freshly shaved legs flying up in the air. Divas in distress, and everyone trying to figure out what the hell just happened?! Was there an earthquake? Are we on the Titanic? What exactly is going on here?

You gasp with disgust at the idea that this extravagant restaurant, THE place to be for Sunday brunch in LA, costing each of you triple what you’re comfortable with — has the audacity to sit you front and center at a table that is wobbly??? Oh no. No no no no no.

How does a detail like this get overlooked? What kind of people do they have running this place? Outrage is brewing. You feel an inner Karen maneuvering through your bloodstream and about to explode through your open mouth.

You planned this day, you chose this spot. This is your event. Your reputation is on the line and now you’re embarrassed. All of your best babes are drenched in spilled champagne (sinful in and of itself), cocktail shrimp, and utter terror across their faces.

You quickly strategize. Wait. This is easy. I know this. I studied for this question on the exam.

All this table needs is a Wobble Wedge!

*And you have one! YOU HAVE ONE!*

After fixing a wonky table at the restaurant you were previously working at, a broader realization hit you. How many tables are out there in the wild — wobbling, waddling, and barely surviving when an elbow needs a rest?

In that moment and without hesitation, you looked right, you looked left, and then stuffed a handful of Wobble Wedges right into your apron. When you got home, you proceeded to scatter them throughout every handbag, tote and fanny pack in your entire closet.

Having not once thought about it since, you then realize… you have been preparing for this real-time disaster for literal months on end.

Sit up straight, queen. This is what you’ve been training for.

Opening up your vintage clutch you rarely use because it barely fits your phone and a lip gloss, just as the angelic and harmonious “ahhhhhh” sound rings in your head. The inside zipper you can only assume is really big enough for a dime bag of <enter choice drug here>. Well, a dime bag or one 2-inch piece of black ridged plastic. A piece of plastic that that can turn any dining disaster into a dining delight.

Because we all know damn well that the age-old sugar packet method is tacky and gross, and just not cutting it anymore.

You pull that handsome little devil out of your weird druggie zipper pocket. You stick it under the table.

Voila! The crowd goes wild. Crisis averted.

She’s steady. She’s sturdy. She’s ready to party. We’re back, baby!

Your present self is so proud of your past self for how resourceful and considerate she is. What a gem.

Everyone is oohing and ahhing, but also confused.

“What did you just do?”

“What was that?”

“Are you a magician?”

“Where did that come from?”

“Oh, you know, no big deal. Just a trusty old in-case-of-emergencies-Wobble Wedge in my hidden pocket because you never know when you might need one.”

Your girls are happy. Your gays are happy. Your server is happy, but ultimately just relieved that you didn’t go postal on her about the crappy table.

Everyone toasts to you. Nobody remembers that their beautiful floral dresses and cute summer fits are covered in oyster jizz and orange pulp.

We are back to our regular scheduled programing… and hopefully a round of shots to celebrate.

Maybe it is true what they say… not all heroes wear capes! Or should I think about getting a cape now? Perhaps a plaque in my name.

I’m picturing a dedication on the side of the round marble table: “Dedicated to the Girl Who Saved Brunch.”

Lesson to all my champagne girlies…. No matter the size of your clutch, there’s always room for a Wobble Wedge.