How to Pop a Champagne Bottle
This past weekend, a few friends and I had an impromptu 5-hour long closet cleanout at my place. Not familiar with the term? That's all right. A closet cleanout is a purging of any and every piece of clothing, pair of shoes, handbag, scarf, even socks that either a) no longer fit because you've completely lost control of your diet or you're a dumb skinny bitch, b) are so out of style, you've hung onto them thinking they'll come back in style soon enough but they never, ever will, or c) are completely wrong on so many levels they're laughably upsetting. You can half-ass a closet cleanout, but you shouldn't. If you're going to cleanse your belongings of its weakest links, you must take no prisoners and have no mercy. It doesn't matter what sort of sentimental value it may have or how long you've had it or if maybe you should save it for your future children; you're going to acquire way more shit before you pop out babies and before they're old enough to appreciate your "vintage" pieces, so you have time. And, if you do it right, you will create a pile like this that should be worth at least $200 at resale clothing stores (are you reading this Buffalo Exchange and Plato's Closet? I'M COMIN' FOR YA):
To the untrained eye, it may not look like much, but trust you me -- IT'S A LOT. Anyway, the entire point I'm trying to make here is that closet cleanouts are strenuous and exhausting, two adjectives that almost always serve as excuses for alcohol consumption. So, mimosas were in order on Sunday, which means champagne, which means opening champagne -- my least favorite thing to do. The "pop!" terrifies me. I don't like unpredictable, loud things. Therefore, I typically hand the duty off to others and watch in horror. But Sunday, not one out of the three of us girls could successfully get the mimosas flowing and the following video recordings showcase the shameful efforts of us each.
It's a sad display. Moral of the story: we're all worthless (except Whitney).