From the monthly archives: April 2012
Hey Rachie!
First I just wanted to say “wassup girl!” It was soooo good to see you this weekend at The Second City. I thought we might get to hang out after your reading but I totally get you’re busy. That’s why I thought I’d just wait outside the theater until the end of the show to see where you went. I even waited until the security guard locked the building. It’s too bad, Rach, because I made a handshake for us, and you’re totally going to love it. It ends with us making faces like Debbie Downer!
Anyway, I just wanted to thank you again for signing my copy of your new book. I know you tried to write “Enjoy the book!” but I think I made you nervous, because sometimes when I get excited I forget to blink. Maybe that’s why it looks like you wrote “Crazy the look!” No worries though–I totally know what you meant.
And it goes without saying that your book is like, totally awesome. My favorite part is the way it smells. Did you have to request that special? So smart! I threw out my Febreze–now, when I put on my shirt from the day before, I just rub the book under my pits and I’m good to go. I call it “La Livre de Raquel.”
Needless to say, this book has like totally changed my life. I’d like to think I made that clear during the Q/A session. Thanks again for answering fourteen of my questions. Except, I still don’t know why you wouldn’t answer me when I asked for your mailing address. I took like a million photos of you during the reading, and I already turned them into a kick-ass scrapbook for us. Thanks to Photoshop we’re in Mexico in all of them drinking Skinny Girl Margaritas, and instead of reading reading Girl Walks into a Bar, we’re reading US Weekly and counting Matthew McConaughey’s abs. Honestly, Rachie, it’s so us!
Anyway, you can just message me your address when you accept my Facebook friend request, and I’ll send it to you when I send you your half of our Best Friends necklace.
Hugs from your Number 1 Fan!
Disaster
Related Disasters:
Yesterday the best thing happened. My Mac broke, which meant I had a legitimate excuse to go trolling for Geniuses. I put on my favorite red lipstick, packed my nerd-bait, and sauntered into the Apple store.
Me: Hello. I’m here to speak with a Genius.
Genius: Sure. I can help.
Me: Yes, but are you a Genius?
Genius: Yep. Why else would I have this walkie-talkie in my belt holster?
Me: Excellent point. Ok, great: I’ll have a dirty martini, extra olives.
Genius: Um, we don’t serve alcohol here.
Me: You mean this is a dry Genius Bar?
Genius: Yep, repairs only.
Me: Well I’m an Average Intellect but I’ve never known anything a little alcohol couldn’t fix…if you know what I mean.
Genius: What’s wrong with your eye?
Me: Nothing. Never mind.
Genius: Well, what seems to be the problem with your laptop today?
Me: I was told by a Genius this morning that I needed to come back for a new fan and have it installed.
Genius: A fan?
Me: Yes, I know. It makes like, NO sense. How the hell would you fit a fan in a MacBook Air? Duh.
Genius: Let me just go take a look and I’ll be right back.
Me: Sure. No problem. I’ll just read my book: The Dungeon Master’s Guide. By the way, you probably hear this all the time, but you look really good in blue.
**Twenty five minutes later.**
Genius: So good news and bad news.
Me: They are making another Star Wars.
Genius: What? No. We fixed your computer.
Me: Excellent! So what’s the bad news?
Genius: Well it’s not so bad, really. It’s just that it was never really broken.
Me: What do you mean?
Genius: Well, apparently you had it repaired here a couple of months ago, and when we did that repair, we just actually… well, we never plugged the fan back in.
Me: What? I’ve made two trips to the Apple Store today because you forgot to plug the fan back in? You know what I think? I think a real Genius never would have let that happen. Somewhere in the middle of playing Settlers of Catan, he would have put down his Mountain Dew and thought, “You know what? I’M GLAD I PLUGGED IN THAT FAN.”
Did you even go to math camp? I’m sorry. I don’t think this is going to work between us.
Related Disasters:
Now that I’m newly single, I’ve thrust myself back into the abyss of online possibility. Line up the suitors: this Little Disaster has gone to market. Fortunately, it’s taken no time at all to start receiving love letters from near and far.
My most recent came from OKCupid:
hey-wow, you sure are beautiful and seem strong and confident . i am looking for an open minded girl as friend and cuddle buddy and try new experiences which are comfortable . pls don’t be offended , but got to ask, do you have a dominating side or want to try it , or like your armpits admired ? i am not for hookups or a serious relation . are you interested ?
To which I wasted no time replying:
Dear Hemingway,
Let me start by saying I admire your simplicity of language– so sparse, yet so descriptive. I also think it takes a strong, confident man to ignore capitalization altogether. Away with it, I say! Love knows no limits. Or grammar.
As per your inquiry about my dominating side, I am left-handed. This often takes people by surprise, they say, “Really? You’re left handed?” And I have to say, “Yes! Didn’t you see me try to use your carrot peeler? It was a disaster!”
Regarding your interest in my armpits, I’m flattered. I always thought I had fat armpits. (What can I say? Seventh grade was the worst.) But if you’d like to admire them, my underarms would like nothing more than your affection. Just keep it casual–don’t say things you don’t mean, especially if you don’t intend a serious relation. My armpits are very skittish. They’ve been through a lot: the last guy that tried to adore them turned out to be gay.
Looking forward to hearing from you again, my little Scribe.
xox
Disaster
Related Disasters:
It’s Tax Day today, and if you’re anything like me it means you put this off to the last possible minute. After unsuccessfully trolling for accountants on OKCupid last night, I eventually turned to TurboTax. Much like my grandma who always asks me why I didn’t bring someone home for Christmas, TurboTax also manages to rub my relationship status in my face, year after year:
Ultimately it wasn’t that bad. I even got money back because as we know, I’m very big into charity. Even though I stopped I supporting my child in the Dominican Republic last year, I did donate two garbage bags of dresses and accessories to the The Brown Elephant, which is kind of the same thing.
And you can only imagine my surge of patriotism when while e-filing I learned that Uncle Sam considers being a Disaster a tax write-off. Why else would those wrinkled, champagne-stained chiffon dresses and extra strength support girdles be tax deductible?
Thanks to my 2011 tax refund, I’m in the money, and some Disasterella is going to give my dresses a second chance. In their former life they were worn to bed by a passed-out bridesmaid with Cheetos-stained fingers. But not this year. This year they will be worn with heels without orthopedic inserts and will wind up on the floor at the end of the night thanks to a grabby groomsman.
And that, Dear Disasters, is a tax write-off that warms the heart.
Here’s to 2012!
Related Disasters:
One Saturday in November I got my hair done for the first time at the Kelly Cardenas salon. This would have been like any other day in November except it happened to be the day after I had gone on the most amazing first date ever. He was charming, he listened intently, he paid for everything, and by the end of the night we’d planned dates two and three.
Now I should have had my eye out for red flags, but how could I see straight? I was temporarily blinded by fireworks. I was still floating when I introduced myself to Nicole, the stylist who would later become my hairapist. It was while under the influence of romance that I decided to do something dramatic to my hair.
“Give me a new cut and color,” I said. “Something fun, and fresh–for the new me.”
“What do you mean ‘new you’?”
“Oh Nicole, honey. I met a guy. And let’s just say: there were fireworks.”
But by February, things weren’t looking so good. I needed hairapy in a bad, bad way. Not only was my hair fading, but I could feel my relationship washing out too. I went in to see Nicole in the hopes she could help me bring back that spark.
“How are things going with the suitor?” she asked.
“They’re good. I mean, I don’t know where he is right now–he travels a lot–but he’s going to call me when he’s back in town and we’re for sure going to hang out then. Things are really great when he’s in Chicago.”
“Uh-hum.” She said with the raised eyebrow of a woman who has heard it all. But I wasn’t listening.
“Make me look like Rihanna,” I said. “No, make me look like Rihanna’s older sister. No no, make me look like Rihanna’s accountant. Something edgy, yet practical.”
But even my spunky red highlights weren’t enough to keep this relationship from splitting at the ends. Last week I went back to the salon for the third time:
“Can you please just do something about this red, it turned all brassy in the sun, and now that it’s growing out I’m starting to look like the actual Rihanna… And can you just bring that wine bottle over here, so I don’t have to keep asking that poor assistant to fill this up?”
“Uh oh. What’s going on?” she asked, tying the hair smock around my neck.
“I broke up with my suitor,” I said through my tumbler of Chardonnay.
“What happened?”
“Remember how I told you it was fireworks?”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong. It wasn’t fireworks, it was a sparkler. They kinda look the same, but one fizzles out and burns you if you hold on too long.”
“I’m sorry,” my hairapist said, examining my mismatched hair. “What should we do about this?”
“Take me back to the old me,” I said, looking in the mirror.
And with that I began the slow and tedious return to the brunette I hadn’t seen in months. And while I waited patiently in foils, I ordered myself a large pizza and had it delivered to my chair.
It feels good to get back to my roots.
Sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. Disasters. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back.
