Sunday Scaries doesn't always get comments, but when we do, they get a fair amount of attention. It's the same type of excitement as the GoDaddy commercial where the business gets a new customer:
But anyway, here's an example.
5:22am, February 26, 2015:
New comment from Murph on Dealbreakers:
"Strongly feel you need to actually, physically GET the scaries on Sunday to contribute to this site. Not sure females get the scaries; they seem like they plan and shit on Sunday nights."
9:37am, February 26, 2015 via Kendra:
Morning, Murph. Yeah, saw your comment and boy-oh-boy do I have a bone to pick with you.
You know, I figured once two ladies started being more of a presence around here it was only a matter of time before these asshats showed up. There’s a specific man, and I use the term “man” loosely for anyone that comments chauvinistically on the internet but doesn’t have the balls to leave his Twitter handle or any shred of identification, that exists online whose sole purpose is to try to get girls like RBF and myself away from a keyboard and back into the kitchen in our Banana Republic skirts where we belong. But I thought it would take a little longer than a week of stomping around here though, so in a way props are owed there, Murph! You found me.
Now first and foremost I have to ask: was the comment on my “Dealbreakers” just hurt feelings, Murph? Were you sitting there in your hole-riddled sweats from high-school wrestling, clutching your Communications diploma, petting your cat while thinking about how yucky beer tastes and reading my list of reasons I’d say “Keep Walking” just hit a little too close to home? Were you just feeling extra sensitive so you needed to write out 50 or so characters to just make sure I knew I was delusional to think I should write here? Well here’s a tissue, Murph. Now blow your nose and adjust yourself because I’m gonna clear a few things up for you.
Women who “plan and shit” on Sunday nights are one of two things:
1. Recovered from their Scaries and are getting ready for the next five days before they can try to fuck up their life again next weekend.
2. Still drunk from Saturday night/Sunday brunch and are crazy enough to think that if they stay drunk all day come Monday morning they won’t be hungover.
I myself am not a Sunday planner. I’m a Sunday bruncher, napper, and Walking Dead watcher. Sundays are my days to look at all of the laundry I haven’t put away, dishwasher I have not unloaded, and the dresses that I spilled Fireball on the previous evening while I simultaneously wonder when I’ll have my shit together.
But we aren’t here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about She-Scaries. Scaries that women go through on Sunday mornings while or before the hangover is setting in. Because what is the internet without having to prove yourself to man, right Murph?
The “Did I pay $60 for an $8 cab?!” Realization
I am notorious for this. I’ll wake up not sure how I got home but glad to be by myself and surrounded by string cheese wrappers. I won’t have a receipt for an Uber or a Lyft, I know I didn’t walk, so it’s almost as if I magic-carpet-rode from the bars to my apartment. My only clue is the lack of twenties in my wallet where there had previously been twenties. Then at brunch I’ll hear something like:
“Oh yeah! You hit a wall, demanded to go to bed, and then you ran out into the middle of the street whistling like a football coach and sped away in a cab. You also wouldn’t wait for us it was kind of rude…”
And there will be this faint, whisper of a memory of me telling my cabbie how nice he was for driving drunk me home and how I wanted him to take his wife out for mussels the next day so here’s everything I have. I’m generous. And stupid.
The “Where the fuck did these bruises come from?!” Shower
You’re mid-day Sunday showering (aka: the best shower) getting the smell of cigarettes, dive-bars, and general tomfoolery out of your hair when you feel it. Fuck, Ouch, Fuckity FUCK. And there they’ll be. Scatters of bruises on your arms, legs, or anywhere else and you won’t have a single clue how they got there. I have said it before and I’ll say it again but 75% of a girl’s life is spent trying to figure out where her bruises are from.
You fell in your heels, someone grabbed you on the dance floor, you face planted off of a curb. The possibilities are endless. Or if you’re me you get actual scars from climbing a 6 foot tall wrought iron fence while balancing a container of French fries in one hand. Yeah, I’m impressive.
The “Am I Wearing Clothes??” Self Pat Down
Every girl who’s ever woken up and thought “Yeah, that’s not my ceiling” knows exactly what I’m talking about. You kind of do a left-right glance and nope, that isn’t your Top Gun poster on the wall or your scattering of socks on the never-been-vacuumed floor. You’re in a stranger’s room. And that’s when you have to find out whether or not you have a bra and pants on so you do the subtle “Pat pat pat” from shoulders to thighs to assess how clothed you are.
Best case: you’re fully clothed, maybe even still wearing one shoe from the night before. You can roll over, not have to face the 5 (You’d probably leave with a 4 though if you were a girl, Murph. You ooze self-loathing and daddy issues) you trollop-ed home with, and grab an Uber before he even has a chance to see your Forever21 bandage dress wearing behind slink out the door.
Worst case: you’re naked or in just his t-shirt. You can smell the regret and bad decisions coming through your pores. You can see remnants of your inner Lindsay Lohan all around his room. Mini-skirt on the chair, only one wedge heel to be found, and…dear god is that your bra on the ceiling fan?
Take it from me. Don’t try too hard to get dressed. Leave his shirt on, pull your pants or skirt on, collect only what you really need or can and then book it. Debit cards can be replaced, you can buy a new bracelet from H&M, and let’s be real you don’t want to see what he looks like when you aren’t clouded by 2 for 1 Jello shots and Goldschläger. Your really don’t.
And, Murph, let’s try to get you home with above a 6 next time. Like L’Oreal says: you’re worth it.
So there you have it, Murph. Chick Sunday Scaries from me to you. Now do you accept that I fit in here or should I expect another poorly worded, backhanded comment on more of my pieces from you? You can always Tweet me too...wait that would almost be like us hanging out so I actually don’t want that.
Anyone who comments anonymously is a little boy, and I like to kick it with men. Something tells me you need a chaser of Sprite with your shots so… I really don’t think we can hang, Murph. Take your Sprite, slipknot the drawstring on your sweats and keep walking.