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A rehearsal dinner, a sober Scaries-filled Saturday, and a black tie wedding later, I sit here on Monday morning feeling better than I probably should.
Because I’m leaving town, I had to spend my hungover Sunday trying to record an episode of The Sunday Scaries Podcast. It was truly my Everest. Please justify that hard work by subscribing and listening — you won’t regret it.
If you haven’t already, check out yesterday’s episode. It’s a doozy.
As always, these stories are presented to you (mostly) unedited. You’ll see why I had to include “mostly” for this one. If you have a story of your own, send it to firstname.lastname@example.org and let’s embrace this together.
my story happened about 6 years ago, and people to this day still bring it up, and ask to see the pictures of the aftermath. it’s too good not to share, so here we go.
this was a time before uber’s existed (yes i’m old af) and my friends and i knew there were to be checkpoints all weekend. so we decide to go to this cabana bar- that’s located kinda in the middle of no where, but is within walking distance to a guy’s parents house.
we do the standard blunts, adderol and shots of calico jack pregame- and needless to say, i was very excited to get the band back together- so i went HARD.
we walk through the woods on this random path to the bar, no problem. i’m at this point brownish / blackished out. proceeded to take shots with a guy i met- horrible idea.
finally one of my gfs sees the blank stare in my eyes and knows i need to leave.
i insist i know the way home- and drag her out of the bar. proceed to walk on no such path we came in on- and i fall down a hill covered in jagger bushes. it’s dark and i’m a practical zombie- so why wouldn’t i just try climbing up the hill of jaggers to my safety? multiple climbs and falls later, i get up from the hill. we finally make it back to friend’s parent’s house- i am covered in blood and the guys are convinced i was assaulted. they throw me in the shower where i get cleaned up and sleep for the next few hours.
the kicker is- i lost my phone, car keys and wallet in my spiked tumble. so i go back the next morning only to see a huge paved path not even 10 feet from where i fell.
but hey- got some gnarly scars, and i found all of my belongings… other than my dignity. thank god for uber’s?
Uhhhh, in what world is a pre-game that consists of blunts, Adderal, and shots considered “standard”? I’m pretty sure I’d be — as the kids say — cross-faded should I do that. Honestly, I probably would end up falling and losing my phone, car keys, and wallet. So yeah, I guess this makes sense.
Quit my job in LA and flew to my parents’ home in upstate NY immediately. Still needed to fly back and drive to my new city with all my possessions, so a week later I find myself having my last hurrah with the boys before my early cross-country flight the next morning. Last hurrah, so I’m fully blitzed. 3 AM finds me stumbling onto my couch, fighting off the spins with full intent to sleep through my five hour flight at 7.
2 hours later I’m with my dad being dropped off and feigning sobriety while clinging on to dear life. Barely make it through security and on to the plane while sweating drunken bullets. Still fighting the spins, I feel a puke coming on and frantically ask the flight attendant for water and a bag. She senses my panic and asks if I’m okay, I lie and say I’m fine just thirsty. She doesn’t buy it. I fall asleep and wake up to her screaming “His eyes rolled back!” I convince her I’m fine but she refuses to believe me. A scene is caused as I’m hauled off the plane and treated by EMTs, lying when they ask if I’ve been drinking. The pilot has to sign off for me to return, medically cleared. I’m finally okay. I doze off for a second while we’re STILL waiting at the runway and this time wake up with the immediate need to release my demons. I do so in as horrifyingly loud and messy a manner as possible, my left she right seat mates balled up in defense and terror. Once more, I’m dragged off the plane in the greatest walk of shame possible.
The conclusion to the story is an additional 14 hours of travel back to my apartment, a missed going away event, and approximately
12 hours left in my lease to jam my life into a Honda Civic.
While almost every story posted in this column has been considered “bad,” the idea of a flight attendant insisting that you’re not okay is somehow so much worse than other stories. When you say “the greatest walk of shame possible,” you truly are not kidding. This entire story shook me.
A sober scaries story for you.
Had a weekend to myself for the first time in a while so decided to get some R&R. Saturday consisted of grilling myself a filet, working through a bottle of Tempranillo, and lots of frisbee time with the dog, nothing crazy.
Sunday evening 9pm comes around and I get a call from a neighbor that borders our fence saying one of our cattle is in distress and can’t stand up. Being that my parents are out of town for the weekend and I was unable to get ahold of one of the ranch hands (they have Sundays off to spend with their families), I have to drive from Houston to La Grange to help this animal.
By the time I arrive and find the cow to give it multivitamin and anti-inflammatory injections, it is 12:15am Monday. While I’m tending to it, the cow is lowing so loudly that I don’t hear a bull charging at me until he knocks me flat to the ground running full speed. I lay there for 10-15 minutes attempting to catch my breath and waiting for the bull to calm down and walk off. I’m assuming he thought I was the one hurting the cow and chose to defend his maiden. My shoulder was knocked out of socket, I got stepped on, and my hand was torn up badly. I get myself together and start my drive back to Houston at 1:00am and stop at an Urgent care ER outside of town to get looked at. Make it home around 6:00am, call and take a personal day and proceed to sleep almost all of Monday.
Wake up rested to go into work on Tuesday and walk out to my truck to find its been burglarized – two pistols and a few hundred dollars gone out of the console.
Nothing better than being in a state of heavy anxiety, having distrust for everyone living around you, and being in immense physical pain to kick off the work week.
It can only get better from here right?
Love the Pod.
1. You know what they say — if you get knocked on your ass by a bull, keep helping the sick cattle. Or something. I don’t know, I’m not much of a cowboy.
2. I’m worried that it won’t get better from here. I’m a big subscriber to the phrase “bad things happen in threes,” so I almost feel like it may get a tad worse before it gets better. I know, I know, not what you wanted to hear. Just keep that head on a swivel.
My mom had to put down my childhood dog. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Then, I got strep throat.
Sad and sick.
I’m a flight attendant so I had a layover at home this weekend.
My flight got in late so my parents picked me up at my hotel early in the morning. They took me to Whole Foods for groceries for the rest of my trip, gave me some money, and took me to breakfast. Thought it was going to be a nice lunch and they would drop me off at the airport right after. Boy, was I wrong.
As soon as we sat down they started their “agenda”. Pretty sure they had a print out. They asked why my boyfriend and I weren’t engaged, what our plans were, why we didn’t have a timeline, told me I was getting up there in age and they wanted grandkids (I’m 25), told me I was officially cut off, they were putting the house on the market, and moving to Florida in the new year. Couldn’t even order a drink because I had to go to work right after. The anxiety is HIGH and I have to work for the next 10 hours.
Okay, this is just unfair. I’m obviously not a parent, but you have to think there are better ways to go about instilling responsibility in your kids other than just bombarding them. Hope you snuck in a mini bottle once you got on the plane.
Took some PTO at the beginning of the week and went up to my parents’ lake place in northern Michigan with my bestie. Did all the stuff (Mackinac Island, pontoon & beers, solid bonfires, etc etc). Worked remote for a half day on Thursday and Friday, basically just answering emails. So I haven’t *really* worked all week. On Friday afternoon (who sends any email after noon on Friday btw??), I’m told that I have a 9am interview on Monday for an internal promotion I’m going for. 9am on Monday seems a little aggressive, but ok.
Friday afternoon I head down to Indiana to help with my friend’s bridal shower since I’m her maid of honor. We do the shower Saturday, it’s a huge success, so obviously when everyone leaves I jump in the pool with the bride, her mom, and a couple bottles of red. As the night goes on, we switch to Svedka. By the time we get to bed, it’s 3:45am.
Predictably, I wake up feeling like I got hit by a bus. The bride is in the same boat. I’m in a little better shape than she is, probably because I brushed my teeth and chugged water before bed, but I’m feeling plenty lousy as I schlep back up to Michigan.
I just got back to my parents’ after a 5 hour drive, and my flight back to my home in DC doesn’t leave until 10:15pm. I’ll get in after midnight, and have to wake up at the asscrack of dawn and look presentable and sound coherent for this interview. Obvs I’m carrying huge designer bags under my eyes so this is going to be a challenge. I’ve got a few hours to sit around and think about other options if (when) this interview falls apart.
Love and prayers much appreciated,
Ps—I have the bachelorette party, the wedding, and two other weddings coming up in a span of about six weeks so this probably isn’t the last you’ve heard from me.
Ah yes, Mackinac Island, the Vegas of Northern Michigan. Your biggest mistake was leaving Michigan for Indiana. Nothing good happens when you get south of the 45th parallel.
Went floating down the San Marcos for the first time with a new tattoo. Pray I don’t have to get my foot amputated.
This sounds like an infection waiting to happen.
At 7pm Sunday evening, I got into an argument with an employee at Whole Foods about charcoal lemonade, while wearing head to toe color coordinated athleisure. Scanned my Amazon Prime barcode and checked out with Apple Pay, got in my Tesla, and drove home for pizza and hard seltzer.
Sunday scaries just amplified realizing that in my early 30s, I’ve hit peak yuppie scum. I’m not even mad about it.
Realizing you’re scum is half the battle. Embrace this journey.
All time sober anxiety and Sunday Scaries going for me right now. Earlier this week I moved 750 miles from Chicago to a completely new and different college town where I know zero people at the moment and will spend the better part of the next two years. Orientation and classes start in 12 hours and it just really hit me that this move will basically determine the next 25-40 years of my life. Setting 6 alarms for tomorrow morning.
A huge amount of sober Scaries this week which, as we know, are the worst type of Scaries. I need a drunk story like I need air to breath right now. This is becoming too much.
Hey Will I absolutely love the Sunday Scaries pod. I typically listen to podcasts at the gym so as great as Sunday Scaries is it’s not always the best choice to help me when I’m debating “Should I push through that last half mile, or cut it short and grab a beer before dinner”. However the last 3 Sundays I’ve been on the return leg of a road trip and the Sunday Scaries podcast has been lifesaving. From browning out in Atlanta surrounded by way to many dudes in chipper jones jerseys, to hitting the open bar at my girlfriends family wedding a little too aggressively in an attempt calm the nerves, to an 800 mile drive home today from Austin after a long bday weekend where I’m terrified of how much money I spent, the panic room is the Sunday aesthetic that I did not know I needed. I’ve since cultivated my ideal Sunday playlist, strategically done laundry so that the proper apparel is clean, even started dabbling with candles. Thanks for the clarity and keep killing it.
Not to sound super Things Girls After Graduation-y, but I’ve officially instated the “I’m only driving if it’s less than 4 hours” rule into my life. I can’t to road trips for this very reason. Glad all 13 minutes of The Sunday Scaries Podcast has helped.
LTFT, still scared on a Monday. My buddy’s bachelor party was this weekend. General plan was to sail from his home town to Portland, ME and have fun there. I took a hard detour away from the group to chase a girl on arrival, like an idiot. The boat she was on docked near ours and I couldn’t not try to convince her to fall in love with me. We spend a few hours talking, she mentions a boyfriend, we make out on a quiet corner of the pier, and I realize that I have no idea where my friends are. They’d been kicked off the boat a few hours earlier after the groom made fun of some guy’s girlfriend but I somehow managed to stay behind to continue skirt chasing. I also don’t have my phone or wallet, I’d responsibly stashed them in my bag when I got on the boat. By this point the boat we’d come in was locked up- the owner was spending the night somewhere else. I start wandering the town looking for my group. I knew we had a reservation at a sushi joint, and fortunately I get there while the group is there. Halfway through dinner I realize that I gave the girl the wrong number. I’ve done this before, I’ve got a case of dyslexia that flares up when I drink. Fuck. Catch a cab to the hotel where my bag had been taken to, get my things and head back out. Everything worked out fine in the end.
1. I am incredibly lucky to have tracked my friends down. No phone, no wallet, and I didn’t actually know where the restaurant was nor what time the reservation had been for. The kindness of strangers guided me there and the universe smiled on me by letting the timing work out.
2. Shouts to the girl, sorry I’m bad at numbers.
3. Listening to the Sunday Scaries podcast wherever podcasts are found is a great way to assure yourself that everything will be ok.
Wow, is sailing in Maine the bougiest possible bachelor party? Maybe not, but it’s the bougiest one that’s ever been submitted here.
P.S. I hope and pray that this girl reads this column and gets a hold of you. This needs to happen.
First Time- Long Time… Blah, Blah. But seriously, thanks for giving me something to look forward to on Monday mornings.
I’ll get right to it- Yesterday, after a booze heavy brunch at the local tequila tex-mex establishment with some friends, I decide to spend the rest of my afternoon taking a well deserved nap by the pool. Just as I was dozing off into my mimosa-fueled slumber my husband, his friends, and their two kids decided to come join the fun out at the pool. This wouldn’t have bothered me except the kids kept doing all of these flips and handstands in the pool. My competitive spirit (and let’s be honest, the champagne) told me that I should show them up with my killer gymnastics skills. We were having a blast until we decided to see who could do the most backflips in the 4 foot water. This is when I threw myself backwards in an effort to do a back handspring and instead landed directly on my face.
Currently, I am writing you from my office with the door closed praying that I can make it through the morning without someone asking me why I have a busted lip and chipped front tooth.
All the Ts & Ps for my dental appointment in a few hours.
I once sprinted to jump into a pool, slipped backward, and almost cracked my head open. I know it sounds lame when parents tell you to be careful, but all of these are reasons why. Hopefully you’ve got a good dentist.
And now for a bad — and heavily edited for content — story. While I normally don’t do any editing to these stories, this guy perhaps was a bit too descriptive. So here we go.
This happened last Wednesday. The majority of this I had typed out to my friendgroup Thursday morning 10am while on the shitter, still decently drunk, but sober enough to be gagging at the previous night’s images that are permanently seared into my mind. My friends love the story more than I do so without further ado:
Some bumble chick who I drunk swiped and messaged the other day wanted to hang out some time this week and suggested Wednesday night. I told her that I’d be back very late because of men’s league so I just assumed nothing would happen upon my return. Turns out she, knowing I’m getting back to Stamford by 10:30, orders an Uber and says she’ll be downtown in 10 minutes to which I’m like “fuck it ok”. I was already drinking some leftover moscato that I found in my closet while I was cleaning before bed (I’m almost 25…) so I’m already low key pretty fucked up when I had to leave… she was already in the Uber so my hands are basically tied. Power move. Kind of respect it.
We go to some bar and order a pitcher of sangria (to which my dumbass drinks the majority of) and whatdoyafuckinknow, I’m absolutely waffled and walking to my car with this 22-year-old…I don’t have a choice.. I just gotta do it… So we go to my place and start hooking up. Whip her pants off and WHAM! No, not a man…but a full visual comparable to the burning bush from the Old Testament because it’s burning my eyes. Plus I have the fan on so it’s basically drafting in the wind. So when I say “the carpet matched the drapes”, I’m not talking color, I’m talking length. I’m trashed so I’m like “fuck it, for the story”. I comb it awway while she proceeds to tell me she’s never done this before. “A one night stand?” I ask. “No…like sex” she responds. Eventually she’s like, alright let’s do this… legit takes me 5 minutes of shear will power just to get Little Tim Riggins up and back into action. And the rest was pretty much routine, though switching positions was very much a struggle. Anyways, she went home at 4am.
I hope she shampoos that creature between her legs because I woke up with a UTI.
And this, my friends, is why you need to be careful on Bumble. And probably never (under any circumstances) act like this guy. See everyone next week. .
Worse Weekends Than You
This is a recurring PGP series. Catch up with all installments of Worse Weekends Than You by visiting the archive.