For reasons unknown to me, along with the majority of the female Greek community, there is a misconception constantly being advanced by those who obviously know nuh-thing about Greek life. People all over believe that sororities not only allow boys in the house, but are down with alcohol and throwing ragers on the premise as well.
Look at the 1995 party that Scream Queens uses as the event to get the show underway, for example. Um, no house mom would ever allow a drop of liquor past the foyer, because for one thing: insurance. Let’s say your house burns down because someone left a cinnamon dolce candle burning, or set their straightener on their calculus notebook. If firefighters found alcohol on the property, you’ll have to host a lot more than a car wash to raise the funds to fix the chapter back up. Not only that, but the thought of men being allowed anywhere but the main sitting rooms is completely laughable. If it were anything but, every girl and her big in the country wouldn’t have “shack in the sorority” somewhere on their college bucket list. Effing duh, TV producers of America. Sure, girls are sneaky AF and it happens, a covert wine night here, a secret adult sleepover there. But can you imagine if bylaws were thrown out the window?
Just think. Chapter would become infinitely more bearable. Whether you lived in the house or not, you’d roll up to formal chapter dinner and immediately make a beeline to what used to be the juice dispenser. Instead of deciding between orange, cran, or apple, you’d get to eenie-meenie-miney-mo between Moscato, Pinot Grigio, or a nice Cabernet, with houseboys making rounds with bottles of Barefoot to ensure that all glasses remained full throughout the meal. Once you had cultivated a nice buzz, you’d adjourn to the chapter room, where you’d giggling-ly slip the grip and settle in beside your pledge class only to realize that Jennifer’s annoying lecture about “appropriate exchange behavior” is at least ten times easier to sit through. You’d hardly even roll your eyes when Carly tried to rally girls into participating in a bottom tier’s philanthropy. You’d be too distracted snickering at how lame your freshman year Halloweek costumes were, and making bets on who will be called into standards for Saturday’s questionable decisions; and the hour and a half that chapter shaves off your life each week would legitimately feel like an hour and a half, instead of the two days it used to back when you were *shudder* dry.
Car Bar-ing would cease to exist. Why do sorority girls subject themselves to the cramped confines of their Acuras and Land Rovers? Forced to roundhouse fifths of citrus Burnette’s and sugar-free grapefruit juice like peasants, all while worrying that their Free People dresses are wrinkling in more than the intentional, hippie-chic way that they’re meant to. If sororities weren’t dry, you’d never have to worry about fitting eight girls into a car meant for five ever again. You’d be able to properly pregame in the comfort of your cozy TV rooms. So you feel a day fade coming on, but showing up to the frats sober is literally not an option? Just throw on your cutest dark wash skinny jeans, figure out how to get that new cranberry chunky knit sweater over your head without messing up your curls, and find your favorite cheetah-print infinity scarf, before heading down the carpeted back hallway to your best friend’s room. Barge in without knocking (duh), and pull an Angry Orchard out of her well-stocked mini fridge to get the party started!
You wouldn’t have to leave the house for Sunday brunch. If there’s one thing that sorority girls love more than puppies and taking perfectly curated Instagrams of themselves laying in piles of leaves with their friends, it’s fucking brunch. What better way to ease the pain of your hangover and the regret of your Saturday night, than by never becoming sober because you’re too busy nursing a mimosa and plate of hash browns with a tomato, basil egg white omelet? When the alcohol flows freely in the house, you wouldn’t even have to leave. Sure, your chef already makes a bomb breakfast spread come 10am on the Lord’s Day, but you’d be lying if you said you had never thought about how much better that Belgian waffle would taste with a Bloody Mary to wash it down. It’s basically impossible to organize a brunch group bigger than about eight, but if you could drink at brunch in the house, you’d be able to hear about all the shenanigans that took place the previous night without the annoying ping of eight zillion messages in your pledge class group text.
Boys would be introduced to the walk of shame. How fabulous would it be if the next time that a guy invited you back to his place for “shots”, you could counter with a, “nah, lets head back to mine?” Instantly, the game would be changed. Maybe you’re annoyed that he’s hogging your sheets, and wishing you’d never invited all six-foot-four man-child of him back to your place. Tell him you totally forgot that your sister is going to be in town and you have to pick her up at the airport super early. Or that you have a Chem study group. Whatever, the point is that he’d have to leave for once, and not you. The next morning you wake up, ready for round two, but not ready to walk home? Oh, that’s right, you guys came back to your place for a nightcap, and he’s the one that’s going to have to call a buddy to get picked up. Plus, you already probably have a wide collection of boy sweatshirts that you’ve accumulated over the years, so you can hand one over without ever worrying about getting it back. It’s not like he would fit into your extra-small cheer sweatshirt from high school, anyway.
Girls can vote, girls can run for president, but girls can’t drink in the comfort of their own homes? Ugh, what is this, 1972? If nothing else, I know what Elle should be arguing for in the next Legally Blonde movie: Equality..