From the monthly archives: July 2010
Warning: This post contains erotic content for those with foot fetishes.
One casualty of being a disaster on heels is that inevitably you end up a disaster in heels. Eventually those elevated arches lead to your decline, and you wind up in Foot Hell, where they only allow you to wear flats with arch supports, and you find yourself rubbing your bunions in your cubicle, staring longingly at the world of long-legged people.
No one belongs in Foot Hell. So after years of foot pain, I finally went to the podiatrist. I think it was a great appointment, but to be fair, you’d have to ask my doctor.
I was so excited to meet the knight in shining armor who would rescue me from Foot Hell that I documented my visit. This is me waiting:
Shortly after this picture was taken I smelled something awful in the small, un-ventilated doctor’s office. I realized it was my cute gold flats, which meant that by default, my feet smelled, too. What if my doctor was hot? Under no circumstances could a potentially hot podiatrist smell my feet — that would be a disaster.
This is me escaping the office in my slippers to use the restroom down the hall:
Fortunately I am quite flexible. I was able to wash my feet in the bathroom sink. (Only slightly awkward when a woman emerged from the stall, and only slightly more awkward when she saw my camera.)
This is me drying my feet under the hair dryer for my podiatrist future-husband:
I snuck back into his office before anyone could notice and by the time the podiatrist arrived I was smelling like roses (if roses smelled like hand sanitizer). When he arrived, I was slightly deflated. Let’s just say that he’s more “mature” than I had hoped, and slightly “big-boned.” While I question his choice in eyewear (2″ thick glasses), I do think the wedding will be wonderful, provided he doesn’t breathe on me, and I remember to wash my feet.
While I was contemplating my life as a doctor’s wife, he was examining my bunions.
“You need surgery.”
“But then I have to wear that horrible boot!”
“Only for about 4-6 weeks.”
“There must be something you can do!”
And, in a moment I will never forget, he made me a woman. That’s right, he gave me my very first round of injectables! (In many cultures this is just as good as ring.) He loaded up his needles and pumped my bunions up with enough cortisone for the entire Superbowl starting line, and now I can’t feel a thing. Thanks to my podiatrist future-husband, I’m good for the rest of the wedding season. Put me in, coach.
Related Disasters:
I went to a wedding this weekend that was so beautiful, so full of love, and so intimate that it restored my belief in relationships and renewed my conviction that it’s always worth the wait.
In the short term, however, it also confirmed the fact that I will have to sit the bench for the rest of this wedding season, lest I have a complete and utter meltdown.
As I get older the gap between “me” [Disaster] and “them” [Happily-Ever-Afterturds] gets wider. Where there used to be a cabin full of single guests, now there are only two of us (and the only reason she’s still single is that she lost a lot of time due to a long stint as a lesbian).
The tide has turned, and I should have known it the moment I arrived. I showed up at the lodge with a grocery bag full of Gatorade, Advil and late night snacks (I’m the ultimate provider where orange carbs are concerned). One of the Happily Ever Afterturds turned to me confused and asked, “What’s that for?”
Sigh.
But it’s not the late night that’s hard for the Disaster, or the ceremony. It’s the reception, hands-down. The brutal “All the Married People come to the dance floor please!” song. Followed by the slow songs. Then the bouquet toss. And inevitably, the Disaster Anthem: “All the Single Ladies.” When this comes on, we find ourselves thrust into a sea of 16 year olds, busting dance moves that say “Woohooo! I love being single!” Even married women come to the floor to show their solidarity and we let them dance with us–a nod to say “It’s TRUE! Our grass IS greener!”
But of course, we’re faking it. And in a small wedding, the feeling of being “singled out” is even more intensified. Where there used to be 20 single guys, now there were only two, a statistic that had me making out with the cupcake table, and my married friends working overtime.
“Oooh, what about him?” one Happily Ever Afterturd asked me.
“He’s wearing suspenders and a bow tie. And he’s definitely not wearing socks.”
“You’re not supposed to when you’re wearing loafers.”
“You’re not supposed to wear loafers.”
“Please. If you keep this up you’re going to be single forever.”
“I’m not being difficult. Loafer guys don’t like me, either. I’ve just saved us both a lot of angst and awkward dates. He should probably thank me.”
Just as I finished saying this Loafer slid across the dance floor a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, stopped just short of me, and held out his hand.
My friend pushed me into him before I could even turn around to give her my highly perfected “SOS” look. There was no turning back: before I knew, it, I was dancing.
He was short, shorter than me, which made our dance moves awkward and jerky. He twirled me into a great aunt more than once, and stepped all over my pedicured toes. But he was It. I was surrounded by couples, and I smiled. I danced. I tried to like it. I counted the fish on his bow tie and suspendered my disbelief.
Related Disasters:
I kicked off Breakup Appreciation Week with an ideaphoric, high-caloric science experiment.
It is now day 5 and already I have significant data to share:
Chocolates Consumed: 26.75
Chocolates Remaining: 13.25
Rate of consumption: 5.3/day
Conclusion: 17 days until I start refashioning beach towels for maximum coverage.
Exhibit A:
Related Disasters:
“Hello, my name is Disaster. And I am a recovering monogamist.”
As you know, it’s Breakup Appreciation Week here in Disasterville, and I could not let this week go by without properly giving thanks to my breakup sponsor, “Pants.”
The funny thing about “Pants” is that she hates wearing them. I once picked her up at the airport only to find that she had made it all the way back from Florida wearing only black nylons (they were control top, but still), leg warmers and a waist-length puffy paint sweatshirt.
In other words, Pants is awesome.
And she’s also a Disaster Whisperer. She saw the panic in my eyes the moment I told her I was moving out, and did what any good breakup sponsor would do: she prevented relapse. Pants was on call 24/7, told me my ex was a fool, made sure I never texted back, and, most importantly, for three months straight she made sure that my blood-alcohol ratio never dipped below the legal limit.
She also helped me realize that the shot glass was half full. Due to the drama I was completely off solids; by August I hadn’t eaten in weeks and could cut a man with my cheek bones. It was Pants who helped me capitalize on these assets. I’d test drive outfits in her apartment before we’d go out, forcing a strut through her kitchen. In the early days, it went like this:
“Lose the leggings,” she’d say, and return to slicing limes.
“But this is just a silk shirt!
“DO IT.”
“I can’t wear just a shirt, belt, and heels!”
“You’re such a fetus,” she’d sigh, stirring her cocktail with her finger and giving me a look of empathy and pity that only mothers are supposed to know how to give.
And slowly but surely, Pants released me back into the wild.
It was Pants who taught me to believe in myself. Before then, I never knew the miracles my liver was capable of performing. From July to October we caught the swine flu three separate times. Our survival can only be attributed to a strategic mix of sassy water, martinis and the promise of the hunt.
And when we went to the funeral of the mother of the hot guy from our gym, it was Pants who stood there stoically by my side, scoping men in suits for untethered bling fingers. It was she who gave me the courage to get drunk at the reception and hit on a nephew of the deceased.
So I raise this Absolut Disaster to you, Pants. Happy Breakup Appreciation Week. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Related Disasters:
Breakup Appreciation Week takes militant mental discipline. You must continue to fight the battle against spanx and granny panties, lest you fall on the wrong side of the Axis of Single.
From time to time, I feel the need to channel my own Special Forces. This week, with the mental terrorism alert at Code Red, I was prepared to be deployed.
It happened on Sunday morning when I woke up feeling like a washed-up whale on a topless beach. I got up, power-lifted a couple of shopping bags, did a few pucker exercises in the mirror, and headed downtown to the Magnificent Smile for a Special Operation: I was on a face-keeping mission.
I went to Nordstrom just knowing those perfumed bitches behind the counter better not mess with me or they’d have a pretty woman situation on their hands. I was ready to spend, and I was ready to spend big.
Laugh lines? Does this look like a face that’s laughing? Get rid of them. GIMME CREAMS AND DON’T MAKE ME TRY THEM ON JUST OVERCHARGE ME AND PUT THEM IN A LITTLE BAG!
These eyebrows? Give me a pencil and let me look surprised without even trying. I want to channel my Italian grandmother, and I don’t care what it costs!
These lips? “Lube them up with your shimmeriest, shiniest paints,” I barked at the girl behind the MAC counter.
“SIR, YES SIR!” She replied, while scrambling to ring up tubes of glossy pink goodness.
All-in the recon took 37 minutes (and that included time in the chair, something I hate to do, but the woman at Estee Lauder promised me free samples, which is like kryptonite to my Yankee sensibilities).
In total the mission cost me $182.42, but, like me … so worth it.
God bless America.
Related Disasters:
For those of you who don’t know, it’s Breakup Appreciation Week. Hard to believe this time last year I was wheeling my way towards freedom, with nothing but a bottle of Grey Goose and frozen spinach in tow. Now look at me. I have two bottles of Grey Goose in the freezer and haven’t eaten spinach since! (Vegetables were sooo 2009.)
In celebration of my Independence Day, BamBam took me out this weekend. It was so hot, I decided to wear a sundress. I wore a strapless white treasure I recently excavated from a secondhand store, and paired it with my new favorite yellow wedge sandals. I was a hot plate of summer with a steamy side of single.
We started the evening off at a gallery opening in Bucktown. (Reader’s note: turns out art shows are a great way to score free food and wine without having to deal with the annoying small talk and the obligatory sex.)
From the art gallery we headed to the Sheffield Garden Walk. This is a lovely festival if by “garden” you mean “mosh pit” and by “walk” you mean “grope.” (I believe I’ve already told you how I feel about Chicago street festivals.) The music was good, but I got claustrophobic amidst the sea of clothestrophobic shirtless men with backwards hats. And I don’t know what it is about being surrounded by douchebaggery, but it makes me self-conscious.
Or maybe it was just the white dress.
“BamBam, can you see my underwear lines in this?”
“No, not at all.”
“You’re lying.”
“No I’m not I swear–you can’t see anything, just white.”
“I know you can’t see my underwear, they’re beige–that’s underwear camo! But can you see the lines? I forgot I’m wearing Granny Panties!”
Granny Panties are the tragic consequence of being either too single or too attached for too long. On the eve of my Independence Day, I realized I was passed the sweet spot.
“Hold my beer, I’m going to the port-a-potty.”
Have you ever tried to remove your underwear four beers into the night, in a tilted port-a-potty in the parking lot of a street festival in 90 degree heat?
Me too!
And did you stumble, thrusting yourself at the door, forcing you to grab on in a desperate attempt to avoid the toilet, only to accidentally open it with your Granny Panties still wrapped around your espadrilles?
That’s ok. You don’t have to answer.
My sister stood there, a beer in each hand, looking at me in shocked disbelief.
I stared out for a moment contemplating my next move. Fortunately I didn’t have to think for very long. I was saved by a girl in a Cubs tank top who staggered to the door so drunk she could barely focus. She looked up at me in my pristine white sundress, and in a moment of sudden recognition exclaimed:
“OH MY GOD!!! ARE YOU A BRIDE?!!”
“Why yes,” I answered, gracefully folding my Granny Panties and putting them in my purse. “Yes I am.”
Related Disasters:
I’m a woman, I’m into shoes, and I’m also into… science.
For my latest experiment, I’m trying to determine the exact lifespan of theobroma cacao left unsupervised in my winterized shoe closet (that’s “refrigerator” for you non-science people).
Precocious Student, it is now Day 1:
I may have to publish a white chocolate paper on this.
Related Disasters:
Here’s what happens when people stop wearing socks, and start getting real. This is another gem I received on Match.com. It was so romantic, I had to respond.
______________________________________________________
Hello….
I read and love your profile. I just got on Match again and don’t even have a picture yet.
I’m hoping you’re open minded. If this message offends you, I apologize but I figured I’d give it a shot. I am not trying to be disrespectful at all.
Anyway, here goes. If you knew a guy who was a nice, safe, legit, no head games, no BS…..and he would pay you to stick your barefeet in his face, he does absolutely nothing to them, would you do it? Weird question, I know. But this can actually happen. It’s not a game, I don’t have time for that.
Let’s say it was a friend of yours and you knew you could make easy money doing that whenever you felt like it, are you open minded enough to take advantage of it?
I have no problem getting a pic to you to show that I’m serious.
I hope to hear back from you. Again, if you take this the wrong way and are offended, I really am sorry. I wish you luck in finding what you’re looking for.
Gabe
BTW, I’m a single white male, 35. No kids, never been married.
______________________________________________________
Dear Gabe,
No worries at all, I totally don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not offended. I mean, I’ll admit I’ve never stuck my foot in someone’s face before for sexual pleasure, but I do give myself the chills sometimes when I clean my ears with a Q-tip, so who am I to judge?!
And I too have a recurring foot fantasy. Only mine involves a glass slipper and a bunch of footmen that turn into mice.
I love mice. I love all animals, actually. How do you feel about animals, Gabe? Have you ever dressed up in a giant mouse costume and made passionate animal love? It’s so primal but so innocent. Do you think you may be down?
My uncle runs a costume shop, so if you’re not into mice, that’s cool. I’m also into mermaids, lions, dalmatians and clown fish.
Hope to hear from you!
BTW I’m also single with no kids. But I do have a ferret, an iguana and several hamsters. All of them (with the exception of the ferret) have feet.
______________________________________________________
Have you received a Disaster email from an online dating site? Send it to me at disasteronheels[at]gmail.com, or through the Facebook page. I’ll write your reply and post it to the blog.
Related Disasters:
Here’s the scenario: you go out to dinner, have several margaritas start walking towards a bar when suddenly your companion announces: “Thanks for dinner. I think I’m going to go to Jewel Osco. I’m out of Kashi.”
Was that a date?
And if it was, is it still a date if you offer to go with?
This is what happened to me, and I don’t wish it upon any Disaster. Have you ever been inside a Jewel-Osco at 10pm on a Friday night? It’s a freakshow carnival. But I was too buzzed to go home, and too drunk to make good decisions. And when I make bad decisions I don’t wind up with STDs, or pregnant, or thousands of dollars in debt. I wind up wandering aisle 6, looking for my “date,” and wondering why if the Quakers have their own line of cereal, home come I’ve never seen Frosted Catholics or Jew Berry Crunch?
My companion was nowhere to be found, but I followed his lead. I picked up some Quaker Oats (who actually eats these? I told you, I was wasted, but that oat guy—there’s something in those eyes of his…) and headed towards the dairy aisle so I could buy some milk. With milk and cereal in my apartment I’d really be dangerous! Now I wouldn’t need to go to brunch alone. No more solo Sunday Sudoku while girls around me order egg white omelettes with bacon and pretend they’re not in the same hoochie outfit from the night before. Gag me with a wooden spoon, Quaker Man. I’m over it.
But somewhere in the array of milk options it started getting weird. I mean, beyond buying-Kashi-on-a-date kind of weird. I saw a homeless woman with puke on the front of her shirt shoplift a lemon yogurt. A lemon yogurt. I don’t know whether I was more sad or revolted, but I do know I was drunk. So I did what any good drunk person would do: I Cindarella’d. I peaced out. I just walked away from my cart, leaving Quaker Man in front of the dairy case, staring back at me in silent disbelief.
I walked past the register and out the front door all the way home to my empty kitchen where I enjoyed a late night snack of ice.
I’m sorry Quaker Man. It’s not you, it’s me.
Related Disasters:
I was in a Disaster tailspin on Sunday. I think I’ve just gotten picked up for dates in molester vans one too many times, you know? My date on Saturday left me 1) still hungry 2) contemplating launching myself out of a moving car to avoid the goodnight kiss. Anyway, I needed a quick fix to get my mind of things, so I did what I do best. I went for a manicure.
Turns out, the medicinal properties of OPI were just what I needed. Have you ever noticed how happy you feel on lacquer fumes? I once donated $150 to UNICEF after a euphoric pedicure and another time pledged a kidney after a getting transcendental new set of acrylic gels. The application of pink paint calms my soul — I may be sustaining myself on Lean Cuisines and credit card debt, but … my nails! They look as sparkly and full of promise as a Barney’s display window on the first day of the fall collection. Simply sublime.
It’s a powerful high. But it’s no coincidence. After all, OPI happens to be the first three letters of my other favorite sedative: opium. Which is yet another proof point that my nail polish is, in fact, laced. Still not convinced? Consider this: how else does OPI come up with all these ridiculous names?
Some of my favorites:
- Let them Eat Rice!
- My Auntie Drinks Chianti
- Tijuana Dance?
- Smitten with Mittens
- Suzi and the Lifeguard
- I Don’t do Dishes
- I’m not really a Waitress
- We Met on the Internet
These folks are high on more than paint fumes, folks. They’re high on the knowledge that they’re operating one of the largest legalized narcotics rings in the world.
Keep up the good work, OPI. When it doesn’t have the shakes, my manicured hand salutes you.
