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.
Related Disasters:
Dear Pierogi-From-Last-Night,
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.
xox,
Disaster
Related Disasters:
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.
Related Disasters:
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.
What?
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.
Related Disasters:
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about fairy tale endings. Maybe it’s because I’m in the midst of my search for Disasterella, but the more I’m convinced my White Knight is out there, the farther away he seems. Finally, after many dating disappointments, I decided to get smart in my approach. When Eddie Murphy was looking for a Queen in Coming to America, where did he go? Queens. I know people say love is crazy. It’s also ridiculously logical.
So when I learned my sister and some friends had organized an outing to Medieval Times last night, I had to go. When you’re looking for a Knight in Shining Armor you need to go where they hang out: a cement castle off of 1-90 in the suburb of Schaumburg, just past the Denny’s. Once inside I would have my pick from a whole kingdom of knights, and I could choose my suitor while eating half of a chicken the medieval way, with my bare hands. Who says dreams don’t come true?
When I walked in I immediately sized up the castle: the Green Knight section was almost entirely filled with a 7 year old’s birthday party. The Yellow Knight section was packed with a crusade of smelly summer campers. And my section, the Red Knight section, was filled with people old enough to have played bridge with King Arthur himself.
There’s not even any competition! I thought. This would be like shooting fish in a barrel. (Only instead of “fish” they were “knights.” And instead of a “barrel” it was a “hockey rink-turned-kingdom.”)
As I surveyed the audience, a man in a vest came by and introduced himself:
“Hello, my name is Mark. I will be your Man Wench tonight…”
“Excuse me? Did you just say Man Wench?”
“Yes, I am your Man Wench. I will be serving you tonight.”
“A MAN WENCH! I’ve always wanted a Man Wench!” I said, clapping and grabbing my sister by the shoulders.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“How about a Diet Coke to start.”
“One mug of Dragon Saliva, coming right up.”
“No, no– Diet Coke.”
“Yeah, I’m not allowed to call it that. It’s part of my contract. But I would be happy to give you some Dragon Saliva.”
“Fine. Just make sure it’s Diet Dragon Saliva,” I said, extending my glass. “You know, for a Man Wench, you sure have a lot of attitude…”
Just then the lights dimmed, and the only thing that lit the arena were the hopes and dreams of enchanted children. Well, that and the glow-in-the-dark $6 lemon drop shots that the Lady Wenches were trying to sell to octogenarians.
It was just so…magical.
Now obviously, as a member of the Red Knight section, it was my duty to cheer for the Red Knight. This wasn’t hard: he also happened to be the knight with longest, dreamiest hair. Double score!
My heart raced. While the Red Knight circled the kingdom on a horse with a diaper, I coyly sipped Diet Dragon Saliva out of a plastic mug. Finally, the fairy tale I was waiting for was unfolding before my very eyes.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, I noticed Red Knight had something in his hand. It was a red carnation. Having watched many episodes of the bachelor, I know exactly what happens next. “He’s going to chose a wife tonight!” I said. “Thank god we came to the Sunday show!”
I stood up and cheered loudly, my mug in one hand, a drumstick in the other. “Pick me, pick ME!” I shouted.
But do you know what he did? That rusty piece of medieval hardware gave his red carnation to a 4-year-old in the front row who was crying because she was freaked out by the smoke machines. Ridiculous.
Honestly, that’s the last thing I remember. I think there was some jousting and maybe some horse dancing, but I switched out my Diet Dragon Saliva for several rounds of mead until I was informed that I would no longer be served.
“What do you mean you can’t serve me?! Who are you? Are you Man Wench’s boss?…Are you the Head Wench In Charge?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, no more for you–four mead maximum, castle rules.”
“Fine, I said, I don’t need your wenching, anyway. And you know what else? I think think your castle is stupid! You don’t even have a moat,” I said, turning to the senior citizens behind me, “What kind of castle doesn’t have a motherfucking moat?!”
The Head Wench In Charge tried to grab me by the arm, but I resisted. “Don’t worry, I’m escorting myself. RELEASE THE DRAWBRIDGE I’M LEAVING THE CASTLE!”
And so I waited for the show to end from the castle parking lot, where I joined the company of my fellow countrymen, like this nice damsel:
For a moment I contemplated starting my own kingdom, one in which justice would always prevail: there would be no four-mead-limit, and knights would know a good thing when they saw it–or else they would be banished from the kingdom and forced to go to Supercuts.
But then I decided to take a nap on a Volvo instead.
Related Disasters:
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.
