From the monthly archives: May 2010
There are men in my life who swoop in with predictable irregularity. Usually these are ex-boyfriends. It doesn’t matter if I broke up with him, or he broke up with me. After 2-3 months of silence I start gearing up, knowing I’ll hear from them in an email or text. And if I respond to his question, or engage back, it’s almost certain it will be another 2-3 months before I get a reply.
It happened again last week. The cyber ego boost. A virtual flex. A check-in to make sure he still counts. And it’s annoying as hell.
This Memorial Day I’d like to recognize these fallen egos. Moment of silence please.
Related Disasters:
Lately there’s been a lot of hype around the new Sex in the City movie that opens tomorrow. I don’t get it. The way I see it, those Disasters are all wrong.
I’ll tell you about city sex. I’ve been single long enough, I know how this is outsourced.
Last weekend I had a pedicure by a VERY hot elderly Vietnamese man who spent extra time on my bunions.
Then I had a haircut from a divorcee. Since he left his partner my shampoo lasts a good 7 minutes longer, and comes complete with a neck massage. Yum.
Then last night, as part of Operation Orgasmo, I had a 60 minute back massage from a 300 pound man named Nevil. He hit my knots so hard I almost puked.
And for the climax, I took myself out for gelato and ordered sex by chocolate (ok fine, it’s not called that, but it should be).
Ohhh yeahhh Chicago. Riiiiight there.
Now that, my friends, is the real sex in this city.
Related Disasters:
Dear Doh,
I’ve been seeing a cute boy recently who I’m pretty into. So in true girly fashion I went to Facebook to look up his profile, but not to add him as a friend. I wanted to stalk him first. So I find his page and it’s not entirely public but some of his personal information is visible. Well, to my dismay his marital status was “in a relationship” but not just that, there was actually a specific person’s name following and needless to say, it wasn’t me! So you can imagine my shock and then disappointment at discovering this gem drop of knowledge. (Side note: it’s clear that he just hasn’t gotten around to changing it yet because there’s been activity on his wall within the last few days AND the “girlfriend” had commented on one of his posts!)
(Sigh) I decided that I would give him the benefit of the doubt and ask him about it the next time I saw him.
So jump to date #4(!) I confess my snooping around on his FB page and bring up his status. He tells me that yes, he was in a relationship as of recent. They broke up a couple weeks ago (before he met me) and that they were together for a year. He said he didn’t love her and didn’t want to continue the relationship any further if he wasn’t in love. Ok. Fine. I can deal with that. However, it’s been about a week since that conversation and I went to check back on his FB page and his status still claims that he’s in a relationship. This bothers me and makes me feel weird. I want him to change it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be a dick and change it so soon after breaking up? I want to get to the bottom of this without coming across as crazy but not sure what approach to take now.
Any thoughts?
Best,
Dismayed & Disappointed
Dear Duped,
I’ve met guys like this before. This is the same guy who says he’s 5’10 online, when he’s really 5’6. These are the rounder-uppers. In this case, he’s “rounding up” in regards to his fidelity. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe technically they are broken up, or taking time apart. But even if that’s the best case scenario, if he still feels obligated enough to leave her on his relationship status, then there is more to this picture.
United, can we check these? This guy’s got baggage.
Do you really want to stick around while this gets this cleared up? Four dates is a lot — if the “ex” is still commenting on his posts it makes me think she’d be shocked to know this, too. And that’s just drama you don’t need.
As for his claim, “I just decided I wasn’t in love,” my guess is he’s just feeding you douchebag candy. I’ve heard that one before. Somehow it sounds genuine, honest, and emotionally in-touch, and since we want to hear it, we fall for it every time. But it’s probably a partial truth.
My advice is trust your gut. It doesn’t feel right because it’s probably not.
Done with douchebagsly yours,
Disaster
Related Disasters:
My colleague and very dear Disaster resorted to one of my all-time favorite Disaster moves this morning: the staple hem.
The staple hem is truly brilliant because it does not require you to do silly things, like sew.
To achieve a good staple hem, simply fold your pant leg and staple around the edges. You’ll know it’s working when you hear the satisfactory “click” of the stapler (I find Swingline or PaperPro work best). When finished you should have a silver, shimmery seam.
Congratulations! It looks beautiful. You deserve a cocktail.
Related Disasters:
And let’s just say, it wasn’t as good for me as it was for me.
I’ll back up. Admittedly, lately I’ve been a bit of a disaster. Disasters use fitness videos as coasters and consider the gym steam room “detox.” (Who needs to work out when you can wear 6” heels and strengthen your core with every step?)
But allegedly, several weeks ago, I promised my good friend I would run the Alternatives Race for Youth with him. I believe in this organization, and it seemed so far away I said, “Of course! I’m in! I’ll pack us orange slices!”
Fast forward to last night, a roof deck, and several Dark and Stormies. (First the name of my drink, later the name of my suitor.) Running was the last thing on my mind.
Now, there used to be a time when I could compete without training. I nostalgically refer to these as my Super Hero Years. One time in college my best friend took a beer out of my hand at a party, told me to sober up, and informed me that we’d be running the Boston Marathon in two days. And sure enough, we bussed it to Boston, caught an AC/DC show at the Fleet Center, woke up, and bandit ran the marathon. (Granted they put me in a wheel chair at the end, but still…)
Needless to say, my days in a cape and spandex onesie have passed me by. I set the alarm for 7:00 so I could make it to the start by 8. I immediately started offering excuses as to why I would need to walk it, things like: “I really didn’t get much sleep last night,” and “You know, it’s been months since I last ran,” and finally in a desperate moment,“I was told by a doctor that my bunion has two months to live.”
But then they signaled the start of the race, and it was over. I couldn’t stop myself. In the moment I’m like a dog chasing a squirrel. Only in my case, the squirrel is 70 years old and has a limp. I don’t want to walk this race, I want to win it–and I want to take down everyone in my path.
Unfortunately, it didn’t go down like that. At all. (Let’s just say there were several stretches of assisted power walking.) But I wasn’t worried. I figured I’d just do what I did last year: get close to the finish line, peel off to the side, remove my chip timer and throw it away. After all, everyone knows if it can’t be Googled, it never happened.
But instead, two old ladies passed me in matching sweatsuits and BAM! Next thing I know I’m passing them and sprinting across the finish line, all before I’ve had time to remove my chip.
The finish is a bit of a blur but I vaguely recall the stages of gloat, nausea, and regret.
I’m so gonna get Googled for this.
Related Disasters:
My sister is to matchmaking as Velveeta is to fondue. It seems like a good idea, but inevitably it’s a hot mess.
My sister has moved from one long term relationship to another and landed herself in a marriage and a house. Lately it has become her mission to marry me off, too. Or at least get me happily dating in Chicago to reduce my flight risk. But after years of serial monogamy, my sister has lost her game.
A couple of weeks ago I brought her to a fundraising event where she won over the crowd with her grace and charm. “Wow, you’re an architect? You know, my sister loves buildings. You should talk to her. She’s the one over there–the one with two Chardonnays.” Then she proceeded to write down my name, email and cell phone number on the back of her business card, framed it with a heart, and handed it to him.
Needless to say I never heard from this guy, but that doesn’t stop BamBam from clubbing men over the head and dragging them back to the sister cave. And this problem has only gotten worse since she bought a house. I get calls at least twice a week. Yesterday she called and didn’t even say hello, she just jumped right in.
“We’ve got a hot roofer,” she said, frantically. “I think he’s got kids, but I don’t see a ring. Do you want me to stall him until you can get over here?”
Then there’s the termite guy. And the fence guy. And the general contractor, who she can’t understand, but she’s pretty sure it’s just the accent, not the fact that he’s a drunk.
And week by week BamBam lines up the suitors, and yet, somehow, I still wind up alone in the cave.
Related Disasters:
Dear Disaster,
I have tried to remain silent, but what are you thinking? Just because some guy knows how to write doesn’t mean you need to date him. Don’t be attracted to a man just because he knows how to dangle his participle. I fell for that with your father. You are too easily persuaded by offers of food and I have warned you about this since you were a little girl. How do you know that he doesn’t intend to make you the menu? There must be hundreds of Hannibal Lecters in NYC.
As for your offer to make out with this fellow–you haven’t even met him or checked out whether the restaurant is classy. You know better.
I am still blushing.
Mother
Dearest Mother,
You know that I was an English major. I can’t help but fall for the promise of good conjugation. You also mention Hannibal Lecter, and I agree–there is a very high chance he is a serial killer. But I also ride the bus. There are certain risks I’m willing to take.
As for the food thing, I really wish you and dad would have discussed “classy” before faking that I was twelve for four years to get the children’s all-you-can-eat price at Sizzler. I’m ok rounding up my age to get to ride the log plume at Disney, but faking my youth for cheaper access to potato salad is just plain inappropriate.
That said, don’t worry. I plan to bring those gently used Ziplocs you sent back to Chicago with me. Whatever I don’t finish at dinner, I’ll be sure to bring home.
Yours,
Daughter
Related Disasters:
Some of you may recall the Cinco de Mayo Initiative, my response to a question submitted through the blog by Roses and Thorns.
Yesterday I received a second message from R&T, which went like this:
Dearest Ms. DoH,
Thank you for prompt and acerbic response.
Rhetorically, you inquired whether we had ever had the pleasure of intersecting. I have no rejoinder save for: do you despise rhetorical questions as much as i do?
I’d wager no.
For the fact remains, had we had the pleasure of spending an evening together you certainly would have linked to my wiki “how to” page by now:
http://www.wikihow.com/French-Kiss
But that’s nothing more than the menu before the meal, which probably doesn’t surprise you given my pre-meal tactics that you so roundly dismissed. I actually encourage people in general to make out more. Imagine if making out replaced the greeting of the handshake or if first dates started with a kiss? Organizations like feedthedate.org and the snack fund initiative would cease to exist and I bet you tequila and Corona sales would go down as people become more confident and satisfied in their intimate relationships.
My results oriented approach seems to have touched a nerve, and not in the way I generally like to touch. You got me thinking about my carbon footprint. I know I can’t change the past but I am environmentally conscious and I want to have a positive impact on the future.
Which is why I wanted to ask you to dinner. I happen to know of a culinarily exquisite establishment not far from my home in Brooklyn that I’m certain would FEMA your heels issues (yes I just used FEMA as a verb) as well as highlight a much longed for trip to the east coast.
I’ve penciled you in for May 28th.
Looking forward to meeting you
Roses and Thorns
To which I reply:
Dear Roses and Thorns,
You had me at “dinner.” May 28th it is. I shall meet you at the aforementioned exquisite establishment. I’ll be the hot one with the rape whistle.
I look forward to making out with you.
Yours,
Disaster
PS I don’t have an email for you, as your submission is anonymous through Tumblr. You can email me at disasteronheels@gmail.com to get this convo going…
