I’ve been emailing with a guy. I was so excited– I was almost certain he was a normie. Then, last night, he sent me his picture from a bar:
Disasters, what’s our policy on Storm Troopers? Is it < or > the way we feel about Ewoks? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure the answer is “no” on Ewoks, but Storm Trooper is a little gray.
Hi there—I just wanted to drop you a line, woman-to-woman. I know we haven’t met, but I do think we share a lot in common. We both love to travel, and share an affinity for the coast. (Ack! I’d love to go to the Outer Banks! What did you think of it?)
I don’t know about you Irene, but I hate when I hear people gossiping behind a woman’s back. There’s no excuse for it. I mean, isn’t that why man invented the Internet? So you can hate on people to their face, with a fake screen name? Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this weekend I heard a couple of people talking smack about you—and I think you may need to do a little reputation management.
I talked to one friend on the East Coast. He was so excited for your arrival—he’d been to the store and stocked up for you, and he even had all these “contingency plans” depending on how things went. (I know! A guy who can plan—so hot!) But apparently you stood him up? Don’t get me wrong, I totally know how that goes—you get distracted and lose track of time—but, he was kinda pissed Irene. He called you a tease.
Then I heard from someone in Vermont that you had ruined her wedding. You got all wound up and started breaking shit, and caused a total disaster. I’m sure you don’t mean to be “that girl”—who does? — but at the very least, I thought you should know.
I’m sure anyone who knows you knows you’re fabulous. Don’t listen to the jerks out there, but do be discrete. You don’t want to be known as the girl who storms into town for a quick blow and leaves a path of destruction behind. That’s the kind of rep you just can’t shake.
Have an awesome week,
- No Related Disasters...yet
Recently I had a very exciting opportunity to go to Macy’s Glamorama, which for those who don’t know, is a fashion show put on by a department store and therefore very fancy.
How did I get to go to such an event for free, you may ask? Well, as it turns out, I am a member of the Midwest media elite. I was given a media pass through a friend who is an Actually Talented Journalist (as we bloggers like to call them). She writes for a magazine and website called Make It Better where she serves as a fashion editor, and was able to extend an extra media pass to me, an up-and-coming fashion icon of mass influence.*
*My words not hers.
You can imagine my excitement. Our first assignment was to put together the right outfit–I mean, this is a fashion show, people. As any DOH knows, the perfect outfit begins with the shoes. We found a pair of Calvin Klein shoes on sale, and it was love at first sight. (They make my feet bleed but that’s why God made Band-Aids.) Then we bought the dress. It came from H&M and was only $39! Granted, this is because it was made by small Guatemalan children with no hands–but it fit like a glove! We added a belt for $9.95 and I recommend it with this dress so you don’t look like you are pregnant, or like your Meemaw. For accessories we decided to extract my inner Cleopatra with some nice gold flair. The earrings were purchased for $20 and their simplicity really draws focus to the dress. Fun fact: they also leave green smudges on my ears.
Here’s how the look came together:
Once you look fancy, the next step is to gain access to places where normal people can’t go. You can usually tell where these places are because they are marked with red ropes, and guarded by men with disproportionate bodies. In my case, this was was the media room, which just so happened to be in a basement.
Once inside, I got to stand in the rope line and interview people like Cee Lo Green. Of course, I did not have dictaphone with me (see name of this blog) so unfortunately our discussion about Gadhafi and the future state of Libya was not captured on tape. But I did get this picture with my iPhone:
Next we got to watch the fashion show. Oh my goodness—the fashion! I don’t want to bore you with all the details but let’s just say there were lots of things like skirts, and dresses, and skinny people. I managed to capture my favorite moment on film:
Now, once you get access to an event like this, there is almost always an after party. The best part is if the models attend. (Not because you get to hang out with them, but because they don’t even touch the buffet. No lines!)
The next step is to mingle, so that you can make connections to future events. I forgot business cards, but fortunately a Disaster is always prepared (did I mention my feet were bleeding?). I quickly made some in the women’s room:
I managed to hand out exactly one Band-Aid card. It was given to a handsome man from Australia who was “taking in the event” before heading to LA. Our conversation went like this:
Him: What did you think of the show?
Me: I thought it was fabulously fabulous.
Him: Better than last year, I think.
Me: Oh for sure. Last year was so…last year.
Him: Is that teriyaki sauce on your arm?
Me: Yes. Yes it is.
Then, once you’ve wowed the crowd and have had your fill of free cupcakes, it’s time to leave. Don’t forget your swag bag! They give these out at the door, and while they don’t tell you this explicitly, they will definitely give you extra chocolates if you tear up a little.
And voila! That’s all there is to it. You’re so fancy! Well done.
- No Related Disasters...yet
I’ve been quiet lately. That’s because I’ve been on vacation at my parents’ home in Maine. I love where I grew up: when you land at the Portland International Jetport (we serve CANADA!) you just collect your things at “the” baggage claim. And it’s perfectly accepted (and expected) to go to dinner in your “fancy” flannel. What’s not to love?
Well, maybe one thing: my town is to “white” as Disney is to “magic.” And like Disney, where I come from is a small, small world. Here’s how I know I’m home:
1. The local paper arrives once a month. It includes a police log, which is the only part people read, anyway.
What it says: A resident of Spurwink Avenue turned in a purse discovered on Two Lights Road that contained cosmetics and the name of a possible owner.
What it means: Someone from Away was in our town. We do not yet know whether there was drinking or drugging involved but they DID leave a purse in the woods, so it’s likely they were up to no good. We know they were from Away because there was makeup in the purse.
2. Neighbors drive vans. And boats. And vanboats.
3. Dogs wear life jackets.
4. People keep disposable pans in their cars,
in the event they need to roast a small game at a moment’s notice.
5. Even the stop signs are white.
Growing up I wore pink, but was always a “guy’s girl.” I may have played rugby for a couple seasons in college, but I also I owned a porcelain teapot and a set of matching demitasse. When I was 29 I traded in my kitchen set for a Lean Cuisine and a coffee table, and I never looked back. But I still own more than 30 pairs of heels and am every bit a lady–something that recently came into question after a conversation with my older cousin. He told me part of my “problem” [read: reason I'm single] is that I’m “too much of a dude.” I couldn’t believe it. I may have planned a date before. I may be direct on occasion. I may even be known to watch The Bounty Hunter from time to time–but that doesn’t make me a dude.
And you know how I know I’m a woman? I made a list.
- I take birth control pills. Because, you know, I have ovaries.
- I apologize for everything, even when it’s not my fault. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.
- I would never in a million years have the ingenuity or audacity to approach someone in a bar and say: “If I was a squirrel, and you were a tree, I’d climb into your hole and bust a nut.” My brain tries to think of a pickup line and misfires. My brain hears one, and shuts down.
- I wax my eyebrows, pluck my chin, and shave my legs. Then I spend hours wondering—if I have to spend this much time course-correcting nature, am I messing with evolution? What if there is another ice age, and we can’t find our tights. Our legs will freeze and we’ll all be fucked. This thought is so depressing that I eat half of a container of dark chocolate covered ginger from Trader Joe’s that I keep in the freezer for existential crises.
- I never order dessert. But I have no problem asking you for a bite of yours. And then eating all of it.
- My bed broke. The corner fell through the frame and now it sags. I don’t own tools, so I tried to fix it with a butter knife. I placed the butter knife under the box spring, hoping it would prop it up. It didn’t work, so now I have resigned to sleep downhill.
- I believe honesty is important. That’s why I grill each new boyfriend about his ex-girlfriends, and make him rate them on a “hot scale.”
- I spend $17 dollars on a manicure each week. Afterward I feel so guilty about this frivolous expense that I vow not to buy lunch for two days. But then I get hungry, so I spend $22 on Balance Bars to tide me over.
- I drink my coffee with heavy cream and Splenda. I order egg white omelettes with bacon.
- When someone insults me I yell “I DON’T GIVE DAMN!” Then I systematically call every girlfriend in my phone and talk about it for hours.
I provided this list to my cousin. He apologized to me profusely, so I said, “Don’t even worry about it. It’s no big deal.”
I’m so pissed.
I had so much fun! Thank you for watching “Antiques Roadshow” next to me without complaint or interruption. And thank you for paying attention to the entire iceless figure skating routine that followed (I promise to land that triple axel next time without the rug burns). You even laughed at all my jokes– even the ones about Polish people. There just aren’t many like you.
On the train to work this morning I read this article about a woman who lives alone with 100 cats. One hundred cats! I wished you were there to laugh with me. I mean, can you imagine, Pierogi? Who would ever do something as crazy as that? So sad.
See you tonight, my little dumpling.
- No Related Disasters...yet
I don’t know exactly how I embarked on this dating Odyssey, but I’ve had my share of adventure. Last weekend I encountered a suitor in shorts and flip flops. Turns out, I am exactly his type. He eyed my friend and I across the bar, waddled over and hovered behind us until we were forced to turn around. It went like this:
“I’m sorry, I know you ladies are chatting, but I just had to come over and tell you…you two look like models.”
“Thanks. We actually were just modeling earlier tonight, but we took the rest of the night off to eat these cheese fries and drink white Russians,” I said, licking orange cheese off my finger.
“Seriously! You are like a Greek goddess.”
“For real?! Thanks, I wasn’t even in a sorority!”
“I’m not kidding–someone must have told you look like a goddess before. Athena, perhaps?”
“Nope. Never gotten that. I’ve gotten ‘you look like you enjoy healthy portions,’ or ‘you look like you woke up on the wrong side of a trucker’ but no…not that one.”
“Go on a date with me.”
“Are you a trucker?”
“No. I have a great job. What I lack in hair I make up in money. I have three cars. I am Greek. I can make dolmades.”
“Dolmades? I don’t like them.”
“Ok wait, let’s take a poll. It’s a Greek forum!” He said splashing his rum and Coke with an over-exaggerated arm gesture. ”Excuse me! Listen up everyone–I have a question…”
Oh dear god. Which Greek goddess can disappear? I want to be that one.
“This lovely lady won’t go on a date with me. By way of public vote, do you think she should reconsider?”
The old guy at the end of the bar started chanting: ”Date! date! date! date!” The woman across the bar on her fourth chardonnay raised her glass and winked. The bartender looked at me and shrugged.
We’re going out next week.
I fucking hate democracy.
As you know for the past week I’ve been searching for Disasterella – the Disaster with the best walk of shame story. I received so many, it was hard to decide — I can’t tell whether to give you all hugs, high fives or frienderventions — but today, I am happy to announce the winner.
Congratulations Amie B! I’m still not sure how she wound up soaking wet in the wrong bed, but I don’t really think it matters. A Disaster is as a Disaster does, and she does it with her head held high. Here is her winning story:
My Belgian Walk of Shame, by Aime B.
I wake up and look at the wall next to me. It takes me a minute to realize I don’t recognize it. At all. I slowly turn my head to the side in an effort to get my bearings. I see the tell-tale bars of a hostel bunk bed. I wouldn’t have known this before last week, but since this is the seventh hostel in as many days, I’m getting used to memorizing the color of the beds. I’m pretty sure I’m still in Brussels, home of the blue-railing hostel. As I roll over to my stomach, getting on my hands and knees in an effort to keep my head from spinning, I feel my shirt stick to me. I realize with a frown that I am wet. Sopping wet, head to toe, along one side of my body. And I’m not wearing pants.
I am not wearing pants. And I have to pee. I slowly move over to get off the bed when I see that I am on the top bunk. I look over the side, hoping my pants will be lying-in-wait for me to rescue them from their leg-less existence. My cursory look with blood-shot eyes reveals I have nothing there. Not my backpack or my purse…..or traveling companion. I take a deep breath and realize with a smack of confusion that I am in the wrong bed, in the wrong room and I’m still not sure if I’m even in the right hostel.
I peel the sheet off me and assess my situation. I have to get down the bunk bed ladder, preferably without vomiting everywhere. I soon discover there is no graceful way to do this. I crawl down, ass in the air, praying quietly no one would wake up to my descending thong. I see 5 people in their beds, all sound asleep. As I pull my clothes away from my body- Why am I wet?!!? – I double check that my travel companion is for certain not in the room. He is not. There is nothing for me to do but walk through the hostel and hope to find him. In my underwear.
I have a fleeting thought that a shower might be nice, but since I cannot find my pants I’m certain a towel is not in my near future.
I open the door out to the hall, positioning a random shoe in the automatically-locking doorway in case I have to return. I walk down the hall, my urge to find my pants trumped by my need to find a bathroom. I succeed in finding the ladies room and splash some water on my face. The shower taunts me, but I tap the door with resignation and continue on my search. With new-found determination I head out to find my companion, and my pants.
Three doors, and room searches later, I find him, sleeping soundly. On the top bunk. At this point I am so happy to see him I no longer care that I have to climb, ass out, up to see him. This time with the tell-tale stirrings of people waking up so I’m certain the thong show was seen in all its glory. I also am too happy to see him to consider that he might not want a soaking wet, pantless, hungover girl crawling in bed with him. He didn’t. I was greeted with a groggy “Why the HELL are you wet?!!?”
I answer him with a pat him on the cheek and lay down next to him, squeezing myself next to him on the twin-sized bed, slyly stealing the covers from him. He tells me my pants are in my backpack, which is on my bed underneath us. I smile and tell him to wake me when it’s time to go. He laughs sinisterly, tells me the train leaves in 45 minutes and to get my pants on.
45 minutes? Apparently my hangover will follow me to Bruges.
Amie, you’re awesome! Message me with your address and shoe size so I can send you your walk of shame shoes and Svedka walk of shame kit. When they make their debut please take a picture and tell us about your night — and the walk home the next morning, naturally. (We’re living vicariously, Princess.)
Thanks for sharing your stories Disasters, you made my week. And remember, if the shoe fits…strut in it.
Last week I told you that if I received even one walk of shame story I would share mine. Not only did I hear from someone, I heard from many (so far nine amazing stories). So, this time something a little different: rather than write my story, I’m going to tell you my story. Without further adieu, Dear Disasters — the tale of my favorite walk of shame:
In the meantime, keep your expectations low, and your heels held high. You’re fabulous.
Special thanks to Steve, my Disaster patron at Immersion Edit, who does amazing work.
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