From the monthly archives: April 2010
Dear Disaster,
What advice do you have for a non serial killer, relatively clean, disease free, attractive and bored guy to meet women worthy of me?
Yours,
FreeWheelin’
Dear Napoleon,
I think you pose a very challenging question. How do you meet someone that is actually worthy of you? This would be so much easier if we were on Dancing with the Stars. We could just let Bruno get rid of the ones who are not telegenic or who dance like robots. But alas, in reality we’re left alone with the hunt. If you really want to land a special non-serial killer lady, here are a couple of ideas:
1. Stand out from the pack. Avoid the black fleece mafia. Once you join, you surrender your personal identity completely. When you approach a woman in a bar, she won’t know if she was just flirting with you, or your friend. All black fleece people look the same.
2. Hang out in places that normies like to frequent. I’d say banks, but I’ve tried this, and eventually security starts asking questions. That said, grocery stores on Sunday nights are fantastic. First of all, since you’re meeting a woman at the the grocery store she probably eats food — congratulations! You already share so much in common. And second, this probably means she cooks. Which means she’s well-off enough to have a kitchen! Score.
3. Chivalry is not dead. I know this because he lives in my building . He holds the elevator door for me and sometimes, he helps me bring out the trash. Do this. And when you go out next time, don’t order a woman a drink. Bor-ing. Send her over dessert. Unlike booze, chocolate is an aphrodisiac that she’ll actually remember. And more importantly, you’ve just told her that you think she’s skinny enough to enjoy dessert. You’re in.
Good luck with the hunt.
Yours,
Disaster
Related Disasters:
I don’t know what it is about airports that makes me romantically optimistic, but I’d kind of like to sit that part of me down and have a long one-on-one.
Maybe it’s the excitement of new destinations, maybe it’s all the exotic dried fruit kiosks, but somehow I’ve managed to draw the baseless conclusion that airports are the Magic Kingdom of romance.
Today the guy in front of me with a huge beer gut turned around and asked me, “If they make me take off my belt, will you hold up my pants?”
And yet somehow, I still believe.
I smirk in the security line, believing deep down that the hot guy behind will watch in awe as I pull two Ziploc bags from my purse, disrobe my laptop, and remove 6 bangle bracelets, all before you can say “terrorist.”
He’ll be so impressed he’ll probably want to give me a back rub and massage my feet. But I’m not interested. I have my eye on the international businessman ahead of me. When I reclaim my things he’ll be picking up his Rolex from the conveyor belt (he doesn’t have any carry-ons, he has them shipped) and he’ll look me in the eyes and in his thick Italian accent, he’ll say something utterly romantic, like “nice socks.”
Once I’m through security I head straight to the ladies’ room to touch up my make-up. This is important because in my head I’ll be sitting next to a reluctant model who is trying to make his connection to Cambodia, where he plans to spend his vacation volunteering for orphans.
Of course, none of his has ever happened. If there is a man in the airport who packs his own egg salad and removes his shoes before take-off, I promise you, he’s sitting next to me. I blame this (in addition to the altitude) for the reason I get so wasted on planes.
Related Disasters:
I just got a digital face lift! I’m still a little swollen, don’t judge– Web MD says it will look great in a few days once things continue to shift into place. I’m still posting to Tumblr but now make my primary residence at www.disasteronheels.com.
And with a new look comes new confidence (just ask Lady Gaga) so here’s my shameless plug: go ahead, and use these little widgets to join me on Facebook or Twitter and spread the love…and disaster. You can still email me, too. And you can especially still email me if you have any ideas as to how to make this look even better. (Heidi is right, this is addicting!)
Thank you. Keep photo shopping darlings, and your profiles can look beautiful, too.
Related Disasters:
I’ve had this date planned for a week.
Quick stats: New to online dating. (Check!) Never once emailed me the complete lyrics to “Pretty Woman” (Check!) Not once did he ambush me over IM from his mother’s basement with lines like, “hey. i’m the young buck you’ve been waiting for…” (Check!) And in reality he is, in fact, 6’5 inches tall. In other words, he’s the full package.
Last night he called. He had exciting news to share:
Him: I got a job!
Me: Congratulations!
Him: I’M OFFICIALLY A DOG WALKER!
I paused, contemplated faking my death, and went out anyway. I ordered a black been burger that was turned out to be more like a sloppy Jose and a total disaster. He ordered hummus, which I thought was very environmental of him, in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
We talked about our families, his brother, and his brother’s upcoming wedding. We swapped dating tales and he told me about the crazebags he’s avoided online and how he’s sniffed them out. He told me about the landmines his dates have planted in the past, provoking him to ask about previous boyfriends, or to hold them back from a twelfth Smirnoff Ice, all while hoping his limbs would explode. “We all have baggage,” he said. “It’s either yours, or you picked up someone else’s along the way. But eventually it’s up to you to figure out how to get rid of it.” I agreed. “No one needs to be an emotional Sherpa,” I said. “Especially me. Wool makes me itch.”
When it was time to go I accepted his ride home. I stared at his dashboard confused, knowing Monte Carlo was either a cigar or a Count, but most definitely, not a car. He asked me when he could see me again, and we agreed next week. When we arrived at my apartment I lingered…nothing. I asked him if the clock on his dashboard was accurate. He told me it was, in Europe… nothing. I asked him if he always kept a bag of Skittles in his car, he said always…nothing. And so, after an awkward goodbye with both his hands on the wheel, I left.
I picked up the mail on my way in. One save-the-date, one wedding invite and one RSVP with meal choices: roasted chicken with garlic sauce, or chateaux of beef and mushrooms. I’m avoiding garlic breath and going with beef. I may be jaded, but I’m still an optimist.
Related Disasters:
I’m Rachel Rae. On opposite day. This weekend I did a refrigerator audit and found I had approximately nothing to eat. So I came up with a recipe I thought I’d share.
To Make String Cheese Nachos :
1. First build your base. In this case, I used a half of a bag of stale Trader Joe’s Blue Corn tortilla chips. I contemplated using pretzel rods but found the surface area unsuitable.
2. Next, look for something you can melt. In this case I found two sticks of mozzarella string cheese. Peel cheese gingerly and spread on top of the chips.
3. Microwave your delicious nacho treat for approximately 2 minutes less than I did. That brown area you see is burnt string cheese, which I think is a significant scientific discovery. I did not know this was possible.
Note: For a healthy variation you can add vegetables. I had no vegetables, but I did have giardiniera that I found in an open jar in my refrigerator. Bingo!
Related Disasters:
This week I received a very intriguing email, which confirmed my growing suspicion that I am, in fact, kind of a big deal in war-torn nations. This particular email came from my new (and dear) friend Miss Chelsea. I can only assume that she found my information through Match.com, and I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of optimism that I simply can not explain. Her letter went like this:
Hello,
How are you today? I hope you are fine. My name is Miss Chelsea Kouma, from Liberia in West Africa. I am single girl looking for honest and nice person. Somebody who i can partner with. I don’t care about your colour or ethnicity. Upon your reply to this mail I will tell you more about myself and send you my picture. I’m sending you this beautiful mail, with a wish for much happiness. I am looking forward to hear from you.
Warm regards,
Miss Chelsea
To which I immediately replied:
Dear Miss Chelsea,
Thank you for your beautiful mail. I do not believe in coincidence—I think we are kindred spirits. I too am single, and am looking for someone to partner with. It’s funny how life works, isn’t it? You start down one path and next thing you know, you turn 30, your boyfriend hops a crazy train, and you find yourself one Lean Cuisine away from sodium poisoning—you know? Can you tell me how I can meet a nice, honest man? Any advice would be appreciated.
Warm Regards,
Inez Peru
From Miss Chelsea. (It actually said this.)
My Dearest,
Thank you very much for your Urgent mail. I am very glad to read through your mail today and i am admired with you. Let me write you my biography. I was born in Liberia in West Africa. I am a single girl of 23 years and i do not have kids.
My late father Dr Charles Kouma was the former Comissioner for works and transport before the rebels attacked our house one early morning and killed my father in cold blood. I would like to know more about you.Your likes and dislikes,your hobbies and what you are doing presently.I really want to have a good relationship with you,
Once again, A relationship of deep feeling that will construct a mutual understanding. I will tell you more about myself in my next mail. Attached here is my picture and i will like to see yours,
Hoping to hear from you soon.
Yours,
Miss Chelsea Kouma
Dear Miss Chelsea,
Wow! You’re arms are so toned! Do you use P90X?
I’m attaching my photo too, but just so you know since this photo was taken I’ve lost 60 pounds stopped smoking and run all the time.
As for my likes, I’ll keep it simple. I like tall men. This shouldn’t be a problem, right? He should have his own goats. This is a must. I prefer non-refugee status (but I can be flexible on this), definitely no rebels though.
As for me, I do not have kids or pets, but I once kept a hornet alive in a honey jar for three magical days. I was in the cultural exchange club in high school. I am open to new things. I will try his sweet potato pone, but he must be willing to try my tuna casserole. It is delicious.
I am a nice honest person and as a simple measure of our good faith I will require a valid credit card number in return for my heart. I simply can not risk getting it broken again.
Urgently,
Inez Peru
Related Disasters:
“Ooooh, gurl. Doctor said it wouldn’t burn this bad.”
Thanks to everyone who participated in the caption contest. Let’s do this again sometime. If you spot a disaster on heels post the picture or email me: disasteronheels@gmail.com.
