Posts by: Disaster On Heels
10:00 am
Here’s a great date idea: It’s Saturday, it’s a beautiful fall day in Chicago, so let’s go sailing! I’ll wear my most favorite Patagonia jacket. You can wear your best Nantucket Reds. We’ll go meet at Belmont Harbor and cruise around on the lake and talk about things that we don’t know anything about, like who has the right of way, and Tibet.
It will be so romantic. We’ll just be outdoorsy and organic. I’ll bring sandwiches on wholewheat bread from the farmer’s market, and we’ll eat them under sail in open water. Can you think of a better day? ME EITHER!
12:00 pm
Wow, it’s kind of windy out here, eh? I didn’t think that it would be so choppy. Well, good thing you know how to sail! You don’t mind if I lie down on this bench while you man the ship, do you? I had a couple of glasses of wine last night, and I think maybe I should just take it easy for a second. You can handle that jib stuff on your own, right? Great. You’re such a good sailor!
12:15 pm
Oh, no, I’m fine. I just drool a lot on boats.
12:20 pm
You know what? I think I’m going to sit up, so I can keep an eye on the “land ahoy, matey!” Yeah, I know I do great pirate voice. Isn’t this fun?!
12:30 pm
12:31 pm
What do you mean what am I doing? Apparently Lake Michigan is just a humongous vomitorium. What’s that? You think I should have told you I get seasick before we left? I would have, but I didn’t think you were gonna rent the goddamn S.S. Yack n’ Tack… Okay, you need to stop talking, I think I’m gonna…
12:40 pm
I don’t care if there’s crusty puke on my chin. A seagull will get it when I finish dying.
1:15 pm
Are we back in the marina?! Nice! I must have fallen asleep for a bit.
1:25 pm
Ah, terra firma! Watch your step getting off– here, hand me the sandwiches. What a day! Don’t you just love sailing? We have to do this again. Call you tomorrow?
Related Disasters:
I just can’t get enough of happy endings. Just ask Disasterella who, thanks to my staunch belief in princesses, received her very own pair of hooker shoes. (Hey, worked for Pretty Woman…)
So without further adieu, I introduce my newest favorite obsession, Belle. I like it when a princess can loosen up the corset and get real.
Related Disasters:
Let’s just say that while I do it often, I hate to fly. I always sit next to people who don’t respect the Arm Rest Demilitarized Zone and I spend the whole flight defending my personal space from germy arm invasion. Between that and the air filters that blast freezing cold cooties at my face the whole time, after long flights I almost always end up sick.
I was blowing my nose outside of the United terminal when my friends pulled up. I was barely inside the car before my friend Bongzo announced, “Guess what?! I finally got my medical marijuana prescription!”
Now, for those of you who are not familiar with SF, getting a marijuana license is as big of milestone as a quinceañera, and it’s celebrated the same way: a big party with lots of food where guests give money to the honoree in return for party favors.
“Congratulations!” I said. “What did they write it for?”
“Glaucoma,” she said, beaming.
As soon as we got home I went back out to the Walgreens for something to help my imploding sinuses. In the decongestant aisle, I picked up a card for Wal-phed (I’d buy Sudafed, but I’m not made of money, people) and followed the instructions to take it to the pharmacy window.
“You don’t keep this on the shelves?” I asked.
“Not in California—just trying to regulate it. Can I see your license?”
“Woah, there must be something way more fun I can be doing with this,” I said, handing over my Illinois ID.
Note to reader: Never make jokes about methamphetamine in a Walgreens on Haight Street. If you do, you may wind up answering a lot of questions from Luis, the pharmacy manager, who will try to count your teeth while you respond. Turns out that while San Francisco gives out weed like beads at Mardi Gras, it takes colds very, very seriously.
After the background check was complete, I paid from my nose spray, Vitamin C drops and Wal-phed and headed home where Bongzo managed to hot box the entire two-floor apartment and I began intense round of nasal flushing.
Oh San Francisco, I’ve missed you.
Related Disasters:
It begins! This week I’ve received online dating emails from Disasters around the country, and it with great pleasure that I am able to respond. This OKC email was sent to me from a nice lady in Denver:
________________________________________________________
Hi there–
I am a boy with a small b…I understand in part, at least, natural beauty. Few people notice, fewer still care about, the smell of warm earth underfoot or the scent of the whispering pines borne on the wind… I think my favorite punctuation has become the ellipsis…
I love music….there’s a Joy Division tribute on Youtube, set to a Radiohead song you should probably listen to if you are interested in how music affects me… Here’s it is:
Anyway, let me know if you’d like to chat sometime…I enjoy expressing affection and am very tactile, incredible enthusiasm for this so-called life, my point is…I think we could be a match, but one of the first things I have to find out is what you smell like.
Jon
Nice Lady in Denver, here is your response. He is clearly your future-fiance, so be sure to send immediately!
Dear Al Pacino,
At least you’re not a boy with a small “p”! Yes, I agree. You must know what your partner smells like. Did you ever have a sticker book? I had one with more than 200 scratch n’ sniff stickers. Anyway, I’d say I smell like a cross between the pickle one and the pizza one. Does that help?
I’m glad you emailed because it’s clear we have so much in common. I also appreciate the ellipses–grammar’s very own bachelor! Why commit to the end of the sentence when you can just fade out right into the next one? Just make it clear you’re bored, distracted, or can’t find the time to see this syntax through… Sure, at first it’s tough, but do it enough and people will get the idea. Like I always say, ellipses are for men…periods are for women.
I’m definitely interested to know how music affects you, so thanks for sending me this song about suicide. If you’re anything like me, this music makes me want to dance dance dance! It’s going straight to my workout playlist.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Denver
________________________________________________________
Send me your disastrous dating emails. You can submit anonymously through the “ask me anything” tab–or send an email to disasteronheels[at]gmail[dot]com.
Related Disasters:
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.
Loading ...Related Disasters:
Dear Irene,
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,
Disaster
Related Disasters:
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:
This is why I love fashion.
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.
Related Disasters:
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.
