Ok, so as many of you know, France lost to South Africa today. What you may not know is that I am fairly certain that I caused this.
I’ll back up. Yesterday was laundry day. As a Disaster, this happens once every 8 weeks and it’s something of a production. It’s so stressful I have to have at least two martinis and sometimes, in all the chaos of having to count quarters and find my detergent, I over look things. Like sorting “white” and “dark” loads. I don’t believe in this anyway. I’m a straight woman living in a gay neighborhood. I believe in mixing things up.
So I threw my clothes in and came back to find yet another casualty of laundry day: a gigantic World Cup jinx.
I can’t imagine what Zidane would have done if he was here to see his jersey stained pink. Actually, I have a hunch:
Fortunately, I didn’t have my new white capris in that load.
Vive la pants!
- No Related Disasters...yet
When I was 22 my ovaries started kicking. And since I was decidedly too young to have baby disasters of my own, I just decided to rent them. It was the best decision I’ve ever made.
It’s been almost 10 years since I’ve been a Parent Without Borders. I met Josecito on a surf trip to the Dominican Republic that went horribly awry when I wound up in the center of the country, miles from the beach. Josecito looked at me and I melted. I knew instantly that I wanted to send this child $35 a month for the rest of my life to assuage my guilt.
Turns out he’s named Josecito because when he was 3 he arrived at the orphanage with an older kid named Jose, who looked a lot like him (and apparently because the people in charge of giving out names were on lunch). He’s not so little anymore (I prefer to call him “big boned”) but the name “Josecito” has stuck. As has my maternal instinct. Turns out, I’m a pretty amazing mom.
First of all, I look amazing for having a teenager. Seriously. All the other moms can’t believe how much energy I have all the time. And being a parent hasn’t affected my sex life one single bit. Sure, sure, it’s sometimes stressful trying to balance it all, but I just make sure to carve out some “me” time, you know? I enjoy long massages and pedicures, knowing I can’t be a good parent if I’m not taking care of myself, first.
And thanks to my parenting, Josecito is doing remarkably well. He is now 13 and from what I’m told he is no longer in diapers and has even taken his first steps! His birthday is next month and I plan to send him a 6 pack of Corona just for being my little king. I told him to make sure he puts it under his bed this time so they don’t take it away like they did when I sent him cigarettes for his First Communion. (Next time I’ll have to send them one at a time–I forget that it must be ruthless in an orphanage, everyone always trying to take what’s yours…)
Anyway, yesterday I got a letter from the orphanage with an update on Josecito. It went like this:
Thank you for your support of the orphans. Thanks to people like you our children no longer have to be afraid, wondering where their next meal is going to come from. We are grateful to have your support and because of you Josecito is doing fantastic!
We’d also like to inform you that the debit card you have been using to make payments has been declined. We would like to rectify this as soon as possible so that we can buy Josecito new shoes and school supplies.”
Isn’t that the sweetest thing? I’m telling you. Sometimes you have to do something for someone else to remember just how amazing you really are.
- No Related Disasters...yet
You will eventually meet her dad. Inevitably this will be awkward and scary, but mostly awkward. If there are lulls in conversation, here are some quick tips for future suitors:
- Mention the fact that you’re not an actor, a comedian, or street performer. (If you are, then I’m relapsing. Please stop reading.)
- Compliment his wind pants, and the way they match his loafers.
- Tell him about the last thing you fixed. Especially if it was electronic or mechanical, and if I did not cause it to need to be fixed.
- Brag about your last amazing find at the swap shop.
- Lament the fact that it’s been far too long since you’ve heard someone do a good impression of Bob Hope doing an impression of Elvis. (This should tee him up nicely.)
- Express your love of free samples. If you’ve ever managed to a scavenge a whole meal by roaming the aisles of Sam’s Club on a Saturday morning, definitely bring this up. You two can trade stories.
- Talk about baseball. Pick any team and bet my dad a 6-pack they will beat the Red Sox. (If you don’t have a team pick the Yankees, but then be prepared to be asked to leave.)
- Tell him that he’s pretty tall for an Italian. Especially given his bow legs; if those were straight, he’d be like 4 inches taller.
- Ask for a tour of his basement gym. Be impressed with his homemade weights. (If he asks you to bench press with him, yell “cacaw! cacaw!” — I will come rescue you.)
- And finally, tell him that I’ve told you great things about him. Because by the time you’re meeting him, I definitely have.
You guys will be besties in no time.
And happy Father’s Day Dad. I could never be this much of a high-functioning disaster without you.
- No Related Disasters...yet
Last night I got sucked into the crazy vortex that is online dating. I got blown up by a Romeo on OKCupid and decided to check out the message. It went like this:
Well aren’t you adorable for being 31 and so thin. It’s not often I can say that about such a fragile and innocent girl being very attractive. You probably can’t keep up with a kinky stud unfortunately, can you?
…we’d definitely make good looking kids though.
No joke. Or maybe it was? It was so bad I had to figure out. So I checked out his profile. He’s been on OKCupid since 2007 and only has one photo, so I was immediately suspicious. More on our Romeo:
due to popular demand…here is a little bit of information about me. I have a great relationship with my mom….i have nice teeth and nice shoes but no, i wont go shoe shopping with you!
What I’m doing with my life:
taming lions during the day and performing super hero services at night
Things people first notice about me: dark, deep eyes and a devious smirk along with a smoking hot bod!
The 6 things I could never do without:
competition and gaining knowledge…i thrive on both
I spend a lot of time thinking about : maybe you….but probably not
On a typical Friday night I am: probably standing you up on our date!
You should message me if:
you’re not boring and have DEVELOPED a fun witty personality.
if you label yourself as a dem or repub, i think you’re a fool for playing into their game…probably won’t be a good idea to message me unless you are looking to expand your horizons
if you cried when Go-bama was elected and screamed out loud how its the greatest day of your life….put me on block.
if im on here, im probably playing poker so give me some time to respond
I figured this must be a joke, so I emailed back:
Me: Do I know you?
Him: you’re a genius huh?
Me: Your message was so awful, I thought I must know you. But if I do know you, it is hilarious. Thus the confusion. And yes, in many circles I am considered a genius.
Him: so you work at a mental hospital? noted. can’t stand having to constantly dumb things down for people….have to filter out those people so goodbye
And just like that, another Romeo slipped away.
Hello Disasters. I’d like to introduce a friend of mine, let’s call her “S.F.iasco.” She and I reconnected at the last Natural Disaster party and, having spent much time as a Silicon Implant, she has offered to weigh in with her insights on the female dating scene in San Francisco:
I love all my San Francisco boyfriends. Some shop with me, others work with me, and a lucky few peel me off bar stools when I’m too drunk to dance atop. Recently though, I’ve decided that many of my closest bros here are infected with serious cases of what the natives call “Peter Pan Syndrome.”
Having spent three college semesters as a pre-med major (read: I watched the first two seasons of “Grey’s Anatomy” while skipping class), I like to think myself a qualified diagnostician. So I created the following symptom checklist to ensure my brognosis was accurate for each test case:*
1. Is he mischievous … and open to wearing green tights during Bay2Breakers?
2. Does he believe he can fly … metaphorically like R. Kelly and physically whenever under the influence of substances procured in Haight-Ashbury?
3. Does he refuse to grow up after the age of 30?
Check. Check. Day-um.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the lost boys of San Francisco. They’re a killer time and genuinely good guys. But like Peter Pan before them, these lost boys like to spend their off-hours flying around chasing ladiez, sword fighting with the guys, and “hanging in groups.” Commitmentphobia seems to have hit “Will Smith” levels on their “Independence Day” meters. Even “The Bachelorette” had to travel SFO>LAX in order to find a band of misfits ready to take her out for dinner at a restaurant other than Taqueria Cancun.
*Results not guaranteed or typical. Side effects include disillusionment, “the talk,” and situational drunkenness.
In case any of you lovelies would like to make your own Absolut Disaster, look no further! Here’s how it’s done (we’re going with the NYC version, the SF version was kind of disgusting–even though manischewitz wine and vodka sounds like a great idea, don’t be deceived):
2 parts ABSOLUT BERRI ACAI
1 part fresh lime juice
1 part agave nectar (or simple syrup)
4 parts club soda
Build ingredients over fresh ice in a highball. Stir. Garnish with a lime wheel. Find a chaperone. Prepare for mayhem.
As you know I recently hosted Disasters in New York and San Francisco. They were so much fun, and I’m pleased to announce: disastrous. Thank you to everyone who attended, and congratulations to our two shake weight winners. I hope one of your biceps is disproportionately large.
At each Disaster people got to fill in a mad-lib of their worst date. As promised, here are the best-of responses:
* Does Montclair, New Jersey qualify as a New York date if I took a bus from Port Authority to get there? ( Why yes, yes it does.)
He showed up wearing jeans and a sweater. We went to a sushi restaurant next to the bus stop. We talked about nothing of interest. I knew it was battleship down when he took me back to the bus stop at 11pm to go back to Brooklyn and told me he does not like to kiss with tongue.
He showed up wearing a fitted thermal. We went to a West Village pub. We talked about his dance career. I knew it was battle ship down when he said “ever since 9/11 I started getting more serious about dating.” … This was in 2010.
She showed up wearing the stench of the guy she had been with the night before. We went to volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House. We talked about: we didn’t talk about anything. She prattled on about her asinine public relationship internship. I knew it was battleship down when she told an overweight childthe best way to lose weight was to skip breakfast every day and lunch every third day.
He showed up wearing a peacock. We went to burning man. We talked about animal sex. I knew it was battleship down when he showed me photos… with the peacock.
She showed up wearing a full leg cast. We went for her to drop off drugs to two people. We talked about how much she partied. I knew it was battleship down when I became the getaway driver.
She showed up wearing a low cut top and hot skirt. We went to Perry’s on Union. We talked about I don’t remember. I knew it was battleship down when I couldn’t stop checking my fantasy football score board on my phone.*
*I’m the asshole.
Got a disaster you’d like to add? Leave it as a comment below, or email me: firstname.lastname@example.org
In 2002 I moved to Boston. When I told my dad I was Boston-bound, he put his hand on my shoulder, took a deep breath and told me to take a seat. I quickly told him I already knew about sex, and that it is better in the movies, but he just jumped right in:
“You’re gonna fall in love,” my dad said shaking his head, “But even though it looks really promising at the beginning, never let your guard down…By the end of the season, the Red Sox will break your heart, every year.”
Turns out for a while there, he was right. But I was already used to it. When I was in high school all our teams sucked — the Patriots, the Red Sox, and the Celtics — but we cheered for them anyway. (In retrospect, I attribute this streak of losers and my unwavering support as a precedent to all the dating disasters that followed.)
And to make it worse, I’m from Maine. We don’t even have our own teams. We have to share Boston teams with a bunch of other states that, like us, have more John Deeres than athletes. So not only did the teams suck, we Mainers were defending our rights to be even loosely associated with them. There was barely room at the loser lunch table.
But on the flip side, when our teams started getting good, I got to be part of the ride. And this is the part where I warn you to proceed with caution. If there’s a team that matters to you, do yourself a favor and keep it for yourself. When I dated ActorMan the Celtics became the best thing that happened to our relationship. We watched every game; for the first time we were on the same team, and it was fun. Rondo became our very own Dr. Phil.
We later broke up, and when we did, I lost custody of the Celtics. Once a huge fan, now I don’t even want to watch. I see green uniforms and all I can think of are toilet seats left in the upright position, ditched date nights and birthday I.O.Us.
So, if you’re in the market, I’m selling some real estate in the Nation. Act fast, now’s the time to buy.
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