From the monthly archives: July 2011
When I heard that Svedka vodka is hosting a campaign for the Walk of Shame, I felt compelled to participate. It just so happens I have something to say on this subject. In fact, I may go as far as to say that the walk of shame is one of my core strengths. (Not because I’m easy, but because I just happen to be very good at getting drunk in strange places and forgetting to do things, like go home.) Plus, if being a Disaster is all about embracing life’s awkward moments and laughing at them, then I waive my Walk of Shame flag high.
I mean, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. These stories are as old as time. Even Sleeping Beauty is just the story of one long walk of shame (that girl was black-out-city!) and we all know Cinderella stumbled home from the ball with only one shoe. Shit happens.
I should know. I have a lot of stories about this, and I’ll share my favorite one with you next Wednesday — but only if I hear from you, first. You can email me at disasteronheels @ gmail, leave your story in a comment below, or just add it directly to the Svedka Facebook page (just be sure to let me know you did). Don’t worry, I’ll keep your submissions anonymous if you tell me to.
Oh, and don’t forget to send me your shoe size. As part of my ongoing search for Disasterella, I am going to give out a pair of these Walk of Shame Shoes to my favorite story. Because let’s face it – you’ve earned them, princess:
Only deal is you’ll need to wear them out and tell me about your night. (You will definitely need a Walk of Shame Kit if you leave the house in these beauties, so I will send you one of those, too.)
So I guess, in a way this makes me your Disaster Fairy Godmother (which is just like a regular Fairy Godmother, only slightly more drunk).
Ready? Let’s turn this story around. It’s not a walk of “shame” until you decide it is. Send me your tales, and let the magic begin.
Related Disasters:
This Hump Day. I present a little something I like to call “romance.” I received this (unsolicited) note from a suitor on OKCupid. I think he likes me likes me, because it read like this:
Hi.
My whole life I have been rejected and brushed off by women and am getting so sick of it. I’m too old for this crap.
I am fed up with being alone when I go out. I feel like an idiot when I go to a sporting event, the beach, the casino, the horse race, the zoo, the air show, or any social event by myself while everybody else has someone to dry hump. As a result, I have lost interest in doing the things I used to like.
I have been rejected or brushed off by women because my physical appearance doesn’t make them want to drop their panties and bang on the spot. If you people would just set aside your deviant sexual urges and get to know me without worrying about getting laid at the end of the 1st date, you might actually have a reason to like me or, HEAVEN FORBID, meet with me again. Think what you want about my appearance but I am a great guy with a ton to offer. I am a highly ambitious and successful full-time professional making great money with a wide variety of interests who is easy to talk with. Perhaps looks are all you have to offer.
I know women want to like me because they see a loyal boyfriend, husband and father of their children. But what they want to like and what they actually like are two different things. Even in their 20s or 30s women are still not over the cocky, towering, steroid-infused hot-headed, immature and alcohol-fueled players. I’m the guy who’s been told for years that I will make some woman very happy. I’m 28. I’m not getting any younger so this WILL happen before the end of 2011.
I am taking control. Your days of looking down on me with your condescending eyes are OVER. We are going to meet and have a great time which will NOT be cut short no matter how convincing your excuse is (do NOT try to text or lie your way out. I will see right through you). You will give me the same respect I give you and will not make me feel like a worthless degenerate because you think you’re out of my league. I don’t want to hear about how you didn’t feel a connection or chemistry or some other stupid buzzword. We will meet again and again while growing increasingly attracted to one another until we get married, own a home together, and start a family.
-Henry
So naturally, I replied.
Dear Scott Peterson,
I’m sorry to hear that your failure to dry hump has made you feel like an idiot, and worse, lose your libido for life. I mean, sure, I understand the need to dry hump at an air show (those vibrations!) But there is nothing worse than not being able to get it up at the zoo. Especially when the baboons in the primate house are doing it right in front of you. What teases! I can only imagine what you’re going through.
It’s funny you mention that about dropping panties and banging on the spot, because typically that is the result of some serious dry humping. I’m still waiting for OKCupid to list that as an option. It would be so much easier if they would just list “looking for” like:
- Long term dating
- Short term dating
- Activity partners
- Dropping panties and banging on the spot
It’s so annoying that have to manually fill that in each time. Whatevs.
Anyway. It sounds like we may not be such a fit, and since you are on somewhat of a time frame, I figured I’d just cut to the chase so you can start getting someone pregnant, having children and commanding them to do things like take out the trash, and respect you, dammit, even with that vein throbbing in your forehead. (I had a New Years resolution in 2011 as well, but it was to find more alcohol-fueled juice heads, not a mortgage.) Please don’t think I’m saying this because there is no chemistry, or some other buzzword. I am saying this because I’m pretty sure you have a sex dungeon.
Anyhoo, I’m sure if you keep dropping rainbows like this in other people’s inboxes you will find a woman who, if she doesn’t fake her death during your first date, will let you dry hump her at the racetrack.
I wish you all the best in that.
Disaster
—-
Have you received a ridiculous email from an online suitor? And you’re just going to let that beauty wither in your inbox? Don’t do it! Share with the world! Please send it to me at disasteronheels @ gmail. I will write a response and post through the blog (and keep it anonymous, I promise).
Related Disasters:
Nothing like a heat wave to bring out the passion in people.
Last week I had a date with a guy I met on OKCupid. He sent me three emails, and finally after his fourth, I decided to go out with him. His email read like this:
“Hi! I just wanted to write you back because I promised I would write more later, but nothing really happened since I last emailed you. Except that I made some homemade sausages…and they were delicious!”
In these two simple lines he’d managed to meet my most basic requirements: he’s an attentive man who can prepare meat. I figured, what is there to lose? He looked attractive and athletic in his photographs, and according to his stats he’s 39 years old, so naturally, he has his life together. He just happened to have never married, and he just happened to have a spoon on his nose in his profile picture.
Despite the fact that it was 100 degrees at 8 pm, I went all the way uptown to meet him at The Fat Cat. He beat me there, and texted to indicate he was seated in the back, behind the microphone booth.
The microphone booth?
When I saw him he waved at me quickly, and pressed both hands to his face like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.
“OH. MY. GOD,” he said, “It’s soooo hot outside!”
Oh my god, I thought. He’s soooo gay.
After years in Boystown I have what is referred to as a highly tuned gaydar. And this man was what some would consider a Threat Level Pink. But I was thirsty, I had already commuted 35 minutes to get there, and the way I saw it, I might as well enjoy a beer.
“What’s with the microphone?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, flashing me an over-exaggerated frown, “Turns out, Tuesday is trivia night.”
I did a quick mental calculation: four rounds of trivia would be at least an hour and a half. I could not, under any circumstance, commit to this.
“That’s ok, we don’t have to play,” I said, “I’d just get frustrated anyway.”
Now, here’s the thing about trivia night: if you’re in a bar with an emcee shouting trivia questions, whether you like it or not, you are going to wind up playing trivia. You can only listen to questions about the chronology of U.S. presidents, retired hockey jerseys and The Terminator so many times before you will spontaneously start shouting “Spiro Agnew!” “Wayne Gretzky!” and “James Cameron!” with the sudden fervor of trivia-induced tourrettes.
But not my date. He just sat there sipping his mojito, tapping the table with his straw. That is until the photo round, when the emcee announced with great bravado: “The theme of the photo round is actors in drag.”
My date stood up, grabbed the sheet from the microphone booth, and said, “We should have the pictures too, so we can see what we’re missing.”
I swear, I’ve never seen such intensity–it was like watching a Chinese student with an abacus. Within two minutes he had correctly identified all 15 of the actors dressed as women.
“This is so easy, it’s like cheating!” he said, reviewing each name. “Arsenio Hall, Coming to America, Tom Hanks, Bosom Buddies, Dustin Hoffman, Tootsie, Tyler Perry, Medea … And of course, David Cross from Arrested Development.” He looked up at me with utmost sincerity. “That is an amazing show. Have you seen it?”
“Seen it? I’ve own the DVDs and still watched all 53 episodes on Netflix. It’s probably the best show ever made.”
And with that, I had a flash-forward. I thought about our progressive home. We would grill organic meats. We would share a subscription to Vogue. We would have beautiful children who would eat Cocoa Puffs and then hang their spoons on their noses. And after breakfast I would go to work and hand over parent duty to Bob The Boyfriend who would share a basement apartment with my husband. I mean, maybe this could work, after all…
“Tobias is my favorite character,” he said, interrupting my daydream.
“You mean the repressed gay man married to a woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know if he’s necessarily gay,” he said. “But even if he is, he loves his family, and would do anything to make it work. Is that such a bad thing?”
“No, not at all,” I said, packing up my mental U-Haul in our imaginary driveway. “Here’s to Arrested Development,” I said.
And with that, my beer and his mojito met with a clink in the middle.
Related Disasters:
It’s. Getting. Worse.
Yesterday I told you about the heat wave that has taken Chicago hostage and is making us crazy. Well, I’m sad to report that today is even hotter, and my apartment building is slowly turning into One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Remember the Cling-Free Pepper? The pepper that rode the elevator on a dryer sheet for 24 hours as building inhabitants slowly went mad with lack of air conditioning? In case you don’t remember here it is, from yesterday morning (7am: temperature, 86 degrees; heat index, 99 degrees):
And here’s what it looked like when I got home last night (10pm: temperature, 95 degrees; heat index, 105 degrees):
You’ll notice Cling-Free has turned his dryer-sheet-diaper into a dryer-sheet-do-rag, gotten mixed up with some jalapeños, and apparently joined the Latin Kings.
But as I stood there sweating in the elevator, I couldn’t help but think: Is Cling-Free hitting on me?
Which, of course, led to the deeper question: Why am I always attracted to food that’s bad for me?
Seriously, Chicago weather. This has to stop.
Related Disasters:
It is now the third day above 95 degrees in Chicago. On Sunday it was fun–waiting for the bus was like being in the sauna, but without the threat of sharing your bench with large naked women in tiny towels. But by yesterday the scorching temps had lost their charm. By the time I got to work I had pit stains the size of Rhode Island, and was starting to see things. I swear I saw Michele Bachmann making out with Keith Olbermann, but in an instant, they were gone.
Simmer down, Chicago. Simmer down. This heatwave is making us CRAZY.
And I can prove it:
Exhibit A: Last night I watched five episodes of Swamp People on Netflix and recreated the Bayou with couch pillows in my un-airconditioned living room.*
* This evidence requires no further explanation, Your Honor.
Exhibit B: Status update from my Facebook friend, the mailman.
I was never good at math, but I’m pretty sure popsicles + underwear = crazy (also some very inopportune melting).
Exhibit C: Photograph taken in my elevator last night.
It is a lone red pepper. On a dryer sheet. And it rode the elevator from at least 7pm-7am this morning, untouched. Maybe we’re all in such heat stroke we think we got a new apartment mascot: the Cling-Free Pepper. Or maybe, it’s installation art from a dehydrated neighbor?
I don’t really care. All I know is that I’m too wiped from heat exhaustion to pick it up.
Chicago, please make it stop. Our very sanity depends on it.
Related Disasters:
On Saturday morning I rolled out of an unfamiliar apartment in my outfit from the night before and strutted to the El as if 1) It is totally normal to wear electric blue heels at 10:00 a.m., and 2) I had brushed my teeth.
Sound familiar? It should. It’s commonly referred to as “the walk of shame,” or as it is known in Latin: ambula de slutares – “walk of the slutty people.” I have witnessed it hundreds of times. Just yesterday, on my way to early morning coffee, I bumped into a guy in a wrinkled, untucked blue button-down shirt, pants and loafers. I looked at him and smirked, but he avoided my eye contact. He knew what I was thinking: “It’s 100 degrees. You’re wearing pants. Either you’re hiding a skin condition, or you didn’t go home last night. Hookup or eczema: which one is it?”
For women, the walk of shame is even more obvious. The four-inch heels are always a dead giveaway. Your click-clack among flip-flops is severely misplaced, and will even catch the eyes of children. Their mothers will lengthen their stride to quickly push their strollers by, so as not to let their offspring catch your questionable morals. Homeless men will whistle, and give you their change. This was me last Saturday.
On Friday night, I met SFiasco for happy hour on her roof deck. It was the perfect summer night to just sit on chaise lounges and catch up. We had planned to go to a bar across the street after we finished our wine. But one bottle led to two, and when we were done, I staggered to the elevator so we could go to her apartment while she changed for the second leg of the night.
I woke up the next morning in my dress and earrings, and saw SFiasco, asleep on the couch, her hair still wrapped in a towel. It was 9 a.m.
“Oh my God, my head hurts. What did we do last night? Was it awesome?” I asked.
“When I came out of the shower you were passed out.”
“I definitely wasn’t passed out, I was taking a disco nap.”
“I asked if you still wanted to go out and you kept saying, ‘DO NOT DISTURB!’”
“Well, usually when I say that I just need a little more prompting…”
“Then you said, ‘I’M HAVING THE SLEEP OF A THOUSAND ANGELS!’”
“Oh,” I said. “I see. Well, this bed is really comfortable….”
“Yeah,” my friend said, untangling herself from the couch and stretching her neck.
“Well, I guess I should, you know… get going.”
“You sure you don’t want to have brunch?”
“No, I should probably go. I have a lot to do today,” I said gathering my purse. I stared at my heels: “You don’t like, have an extra pair of flip-flops do you?”
“I do, but I wear a size five.”
“Right. Ok. Well, I’ll call you?” I said as I walked to the door. I didn’t even wait for her response, because my blue heels and I were already click-clacking our way to Dunkin’ Donuts for an iced coffee revival.
While I was sitting at Dunkin’ Donuts, pulling clumps out of mascara out of the corners of my eyes and contemplating the long journey home, a group of guys walked in. They took one look at me in my dress, whispered something, and gave me the glance I’ve given so many times before.
I smiled to myself, and sipped on my straw seductively. These men thought I was hot enough to get some! I could tell by their stares, they even thought I may be spontaneous enough to be a slut!
Yessss.
Fortunately, they will never know the truth: that I was headed home because I’m too old to handle my chardonnay, and passed out spooning a pillow in my friend’s bed at 11 p.m.
Because that, dear Disasters, is the real walk of shame.
Related Disasters:
You may have noticed that last night I had a little work done. Nothing serious, just a little nip here, and digital tuck there (I have been advised to take things gradually) but let me tell you–I feel so much better already.
First thing, the “search” function actually works now. I know, no more looking under couch cushions to find my disaster recipes, tips on hosting, shopping, or my love letters to suitors. Now it’s even easier to leave a comment, and thanks to a friend and design ninja, I even have a logo! (Pinkies up, bitches.)
Why the face lift? Because something exciting is happening. And it couldn’t be better timing, as we gear up to celebrate our second-annual Breakup Appreciation Week. I can’t tell you about it now ( I hate having secrets between us, too) but I will tell you all about it on Tuesday, I promise.
In the meantime, I could really use your help. Imagine, I’m in front of the mirror and just texted you a picture of my outfit. What do you think? Can I wear this out? I really want to make a good impression. Leave a comment and let me know if you like the new look, I’d like to hear from you.
Thank you. And be sure to have a fabulous weekend.
—-
Tuesday Update:
No more secrets! Go download the new Float Reader from Scribd. It’s awesome! Don’t just take my word for it, everyone is saying it. And guess what? Disaster On Heels is featured in the humor category among a handful of awesome sites like The Frenemy and Cracked… And I didn’t even have to sleep with anyone! Oh snap.
Related Disasters:
Road Rash [rode-raa-sh]
–noun
1. The wounds one receives after being pushed out of the passenger side of a speeding relationship on the Disaster Expressway.
2. Avoidable but good conversation fodder for girls’ nights out
There are a few road rules to abide by in dating. Don’t date anyone who is too young to remember when Pluto was a planet. Friends don’t let friends drink and dance. Texting is for hookers; email is for ladies.
Beyond those master rules, there are a few Road Rash-specific precautions to be taken seriously–not just for your safety but for the safety of passengers, pedestrians and those around you, namely your friends who are going to have to bite back a barrage of “I told you so’s” while you cry into a Xantini about how you never saw this coming.
And since many of you are traveling for the Fourth of July weekend, remember, even if you’re out for a joy ride, you must always keep your eye on the road. Follow these three simple rules and you’ll be safe:
Mind the speed limit. No matter how seemingly open the road ahead, maintain a safe speed so as to avoid a dangerous collision. This means that you should refrain from memorizing his favorite beer, the names of his cousins or his travel plans. Also you should never sleep with him until you know that he knows your last name, and can tell the difference between “abstinence” and “absinthe.”
Look both ways. Before skipping out into lovers lane traffic, for God’s sake look at all the possibilities. This is one of the most basic rules, but too commonly overlooked. You never know when you could get blindsided by an ex-girlfriend, a ferret fetish or the fact that he self-tans.
Obey parking laws. Never park illegally: a legitimate start begins with a legitimate spot. Under no circumstance should you allow your man to park in a loading zone while he makes a late-night visit to your apartment. As romantic as it sounds, no woman wants her man to unload and leave.
So there you have it, three rules to keep the roadways to love safe and clear. And remember, when it comes to dating, buckle up, my dearest Disasters. Buckle up.
Help raise Road Rash awareness: in an effort to avoid careless injury this holiday weekend, if you or a loved one has suffered from Road Rash, please share this post.
