Welcome back to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-the-weekend terrors (plus the events that led up to them) to help make all of us feel a little less alone in the fetal position come Monday morning. Up this today: Kimmy Foskett and Liza Renzulli of Chix Productions, a video production agency based in New York.
Sunday, 8 a.m. (Iceland)
I wake up to my alarm in a strange hotel. WHOWHATWHEREWHENWHY.
Never mind, figured it out. I am in Reykjavik where it is always light out and thus difficult to send yourself home. I am in all of my clothes from last night. I feel more shame than when I fell off my ATV in front of four French men and our teenage boy tour guide earlier this week in an act of reverse feminism.
It’s the end of a family vacation in Iceland and my brother and I spent our last night out with our new Icelandic friends.
Suddenly, the highlight reel: Yes, pet a man’s beard at the bar. Yes, had that shot of Brennivin. No, couldn’t find late night food. Yes, instead occupied myself by sending a strange peace offering text to somebody that I used to know. Yes, sent too many selfies from the Blue Lagoon to somebody that I’m getting to know. No, I have no chill, even in Iceland. Not looking at my phone until I’m back in America.
Sunday, 8:30 a.m. (America)
I wake up in Westchester at my boyfriend’s parent’s house to my ALARM. On a SUNDAY. Because I have to borrow boyfriend’s car for work travel this week, and I need to run some grown-ass person errands before a baby shower.
The adulthood of the day in front of me directly contrasts my physical state. My mouth is completely dry because I got low key drunk at dinner with boyfriend’s dad the night before, so now my mouth/head/soul hurts.
Boyfriend doesn’t want to wake up to see me off. Fuck you, boyfriend. Your room smells like farts right now, and even though it was probably both of us, I’m blaming you.
9 a.m. (Iceland)
I can’t stop whining about Bacon, Egg, and Cheeses on the way to the airport. My parents are driving. I am in the backseat. This is 27.
9 a.m. (America)
On my way into the city I drive by a Starbucks with a Drive-Thru (ah, the ‘burbs) right off the highway. I am TWO lanes away. Do I do it? I could cause an accident, I could kill myself, I could kill someone else. Eventually decide not to stop because I’m at such a good part of the song I’m listening to.
11:00 a.m. (Iceland)
Waiting to check bags. No food in belly/sight. This is not an efficient airport and my family needs a Xanax. Can’t stop thinking about eggs. Then I hear: “Kimmy!” — it’s that American friend I made last night. “Nice kicks,” he says, as he did last night. Oh. I am in the same outfit.
11:00 a.m. (America)
My first errand is Trader Joe’s. I am banking on a dank TJ’s sample situation, because I haven’t eaten yet and it’s becoming a situation. As I roll my mini cart up to Grand Sample Station (GREAT WORDPLAY TJ’s! LOVE YOU TJ’s!), I see the sample board displaying proudly “Cranberry almond scones.” Goddamn my nut allergy.
11:30 a.m. (Iceland)
I sprint 15 minutes to the gate because WTF Keflavik airport! Upon arrival, I am called out for a security check. Getting a pat down is super ideal when one is hungover and also trying to make a flight that is already boarding.
11:30 a.m. (America)
Need for coffee reaches critical mass. I go to Starbucks. I contemplate how a Starbucks in the suburbs is a heavenly oasis, but in the city it’s basically settling. It’s the coffee equivalent of a “u up?” text.
12:30 p.m. (somewhere over the Atlantic)
On the plane, I order a white wine and a Coke and a water at the same time because I am the worst. I’m torn between scarfing down the Icelandic chocolate I bought to gift and ingesting airplane food.
12:30 p.m. (America)
No food in belly. I stand on the corner for a full minute with all of my errand bags and a roll of “it’s a boy!” wrapping paper in tow. Contemplate whether I should get a $3.50 bacon egg and cheese from the deli, or drop $8.50 on one from B.E.C.
12:30 p.m. (Atlantic Ocean)
Airplane food arrives; I subsequently knock the tray of slimy grilled chicken salad onto my lap. At least I can’t be tempted to eat it now. I eat some ginger snaps that were wrapped in plastic. Fam hands over their ginger snaps in solidarity.
1:15 p.m. (America)
On my couch, snarfing a b.e.c. from capital B.E.C. Second iced coffee of the day. Blissfully trying to ignore the fact that I’m supposed to be at the baby shower in Greenpoint at 2 and am currently un-showered, have no makeup on, the “it’s a boy!” wrapping paper is still in the plastic, and the vibrate-y baby chair present is still in its Amazon box.
2:30 p.m. (America)
I chug a full fat Coke after a very lengthy customs situation at JFK while I tell my Uber driver all about my trip. I think he has headphones in.
Somehow I’ve body showered, found the right mix of sunscreen and foundation for my face and am walking to the shower holding this pervy vibrating chair.
This shower is adorable and they have such good food and booze and name tags and do I want to be a mother someday? I mean just LOOK at how beautiful the mom-to-be looks; she is a goddess creating life, and the clothes are so tiny. I think I may be ovulating?
I slam some BBQ, two Modelos and a cocktail-y punch with ice cubes that have tiny plastic babies in them. You’re supposed to yell “my water broke!” when the ice cube melts and the baby floats to the surface, but I’m gonna take a hard pass on doing that.
I arrive at the baby shower after showering the adult baby that is myself. Upon arrival I devour an enormous piece of cake. I decide that putting a fancy blue-and-white striped paper straw in my Modelo somehow exhibits that I have the potential to be maternal too.
Kimmy is here, and I haven’t seen her in over a week, and I am a basically a drunk puppy when she walks in.
LIZA AND KIMMY:
Despite the 95 degree weather, we decide to sit outside where there are tie dyed onesies drying. Socializing is hard. We make a plate of the mac & cheese, pulled chicken and coleslaw to snarf before we leave. We mix it together like it’s an Açai bowl and share it. We eat it with spoons because there are no more forks and we are animals and also the youngest people here. (Other than the unborn baby in our friend’s stomach.)
We head to a bar to meet a friend for his birthday. The friend is not there anymore but our favorite bartender is. John brings us two Titos sodas and an actual skewer of Swedish Fish and Sour Patch Kids. John is a hero.
We find the birthday boy at a bar that only serves whiskey, beer and wine. This is annoying. Fine. We’ll have rosé, because it’s still summer and this is America. We decide on ONE drink and then we’ll go get dinner.
Order a second rosé.
We head out in search of a restaurant. The pizza place is closed, but the bar across the street from the pizza place is very much open. We decide that ONE more Tito’s soda will help us pick a restaurant, and also help pretend like tomorrow is never coming.
Okay, maybe two Tito’s sodas. The night is over and we really need to eat but there is no place open in Greenpoint. We call our favorite bartender: “John? It’s Kimmy. Are you serving?”
He is. We return, consume six wings and fries dipped in a side of Buffalo sauce before ripping ourselves apart.
I restart Stranger Things to distract myself from existential thoughts but I’m mostly just scrolling through Instagram and Snapchat where everyone is more married than I am. I have to get up at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Suddenly that freckle on my leg looks really malignant.
I feel morally superior for taking the subway instead of a cab. I get off at my stop and lose all moral superiority because I get two slices of pizza before I go home, eat the first one on the street and realize that technically, it’s now Monday.