Currently viewing the tag: "dating"
No matter how you shake the snow globe, winter is problematic for single people. Cold weather not only signals the start of social hibernation, it also means it’s time to bundle up. Now, as a long-time resident of cold weather climates, I was forced to overcome my vanity long ago. From the months of October to April, I walk around like a snow hobo (or as I like to call it, “snobo”). If you’re looking for me, I’ll be the one wearing the neckwarmer, scarves, ear muffs, hat and multiple pairs of long johns. And while I may look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, padding my curves is not even my biggest concern with the Bundle Up.
See, every time I go for a run along the lake I see so many hot guys walking their dogs, running, or biking. One of these days I will offer up a coy left hand wave and they’ll notice my untethered bling finger, start up a conversation, and the next thing you know, we’ll be splitting protein shakes and pushing a double-wide stroller down the bike path. It’s really just a matter of time.
But when temperatures start dropping, that daydream is put on pause. Why? Because it’s glove season: now there is no way to know who’s single and who’s not.
That’s why I came up with a plan. Fear not Disasters! Here’s an easy guide to winterizing your game:
1. Start with a pair of gloves. (I like to go with black–it makes my hands look so skinny!)
2. Simply cut the ring finger off of the left hand. Note: Kitchen scissors will work fine for this.
3. Test drive the look in the mirror, to ensure you have optimal ring finger exposure.
And voila! Three easy steps to liberating your ring finger. You’re ready to hit the trails. Go get ‘em, Snobos.
Related Disasters:
Marketing junk food to children is terrible. Marketing junk food to girls is even worse. It may seem like simple syrup fun when you’re young, but take it from one who knows–it takes years to undo those sticky sweet illusions.
My favorite candy growing up was Charleston Chew- its chocolate marshmallow goodness was not only delicious, it was educational, too! It made for excellent temperature experiments: it somehow got even more tasty frozen, and when heated in the microwave, it exploded and broke your mom’s best glassware. But what I didn’t know then was that this sugar high would come crashing down when I’d meet the real Charleston Chew a decade later: the frat boy I dated from South Carolina with a tobacco problem. (He was not sweet, but did explode and break shit when heated.)
It’s sad when reality overrides nostalgia, but it’s inevitable. Girls are raised thinking a “Happy Meal” is something you get at McDonald’s, only to realize it’s just a date that doesn’t end hiding in the bathroom. But even that false advertising is nothing compared to the class action suit I’d like to bring against Hostess for deceiving American children. The hardest thing about the childhood version of a Hostess was licking abnormally hard frosting off of a cupcake. The hardest part about the adult version is fitting all your dirty laundry in the oven, plating the takeout before your guests arrive, and still remembering to hide your antidepressants.
Not. The. Same.
I guess the moral of the story is this: the next time you find yourself cruising the snack aisle, think twice. The food industry has been polluting our bodies and minds with empty calories and empty hopes since we were children. And while you think you may be just one fix away from sugar bliss, it will never be as good as you remember.
Well, with one exception. The juice box still delivers a smile:
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
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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:
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:
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:
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:
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.
