Currently viewing the tag: "disaster on heels"
1. You left home wearing Spanx over your fishnets.
2. You drank PBR from a can, but decided to “class it up” but inserting not one, but TWO limes. When that failed to impress, you held out your pinkie finger, and left it there, erect. Your commitment to class is unsurpassed.
3. You refreshed your makeup in the bathroom mirror after your second tequila shot with bartender. Only instead of using your brown eyebrow pencil to perfect those arches, you used your purple eyeliner. (Fortunately, purple is a very regal color.)
4. You gave a man your phone number. You did this only because he could name the capital of Maine. You were so proud of this encounter, you high-fived yourself. In front of him.
5. On your way home you accidentally called your parents home phone from your purse, while rummaging for keys. They missed your call but immediately called back. When you didn’t answer, they naturally assumed you had been kidnapped and were being held hostage in the back of a trunk and calling for help, because why else would you be calling at 4 in the morning? It’s not like you would ever be out that late. It’s not like you’re in college or anything. But of course you didn’t answer–you were passed out. So they continued to call and text until you finally woke up 6 hours later, to 14 missed calls, and your mother saying: “For Pete’s sake! Don’t you think you’re a little old for Amber Alerts?”
Seriously?
Seriously. This is my weekend. I would tell you more, but I still don’t want to breathe on you. I’m afraid you could still get a contact buzz.
Happy Tuesday.
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Spotted in the Ukrainian Village at 2am. Poor Disaster. I can’t imagine that her night ended well.
Disaster on heels sighting? I want to hear about it! Send pics to disasteronheels at gmail.com, or share them on Facebook here.
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After you’ve been single for a while, and the only reason you leave your apartment is to buy more Lean Cuisines, you start to realize just how significant your daily interactions become. Community is essential, something you can default to: a network of relationships that are effortless to maintain. The only requirement is that that you keep doing what you already do, and frequenting the places you normally visit. It’s really a beautiful thing.
For example, I’m pretty tight with my cashier at Walgreens. We say “what’s up” when I walk in. And, I have loads of friends at the gym–whenever I show up there they smile and say, “haven’t seen you in a while” when they swipe my card. The people at Intelligentsia know I take my iced coffee with ice without me even saying anything — just a little perk of being a good neighbor. And the homeless guy on the corner, we keep a watchful eye on one another: I keep tabs each time he falls off the wagon, and he gives me shamed looks when he sees me on my second ice cream cone of the day.
I may be single, but I’m not alone.
But my Boo is an entirely different relationship. Boo [Radley] is a transvestite who lives alone in my apartment building and never looks up. I can only assume this is an attempt to hide her ginormous Adam’s apple. She wears immaculate white Keds and has poofy black hair, which she sometimes covers with a felt hat.
I once tried to hold the front door for her when she was getting her mail from the mailbox. She just slowly turned her head sideways, looked at me with vacant brown eyes, and shook her head. I ran upstairs and locked the door.
This morning I saw Boo outside. There is something terrifying about bumping into her in closed spaces like the elevator, but there is something even scarier about seeing her in the wild. I could only assume she had left her apartment to kill someone, so I ducked around the corner and sped up to catch the #135.
As the bus opened its doors, I saw Boo turn the corner, with her chin tucked to her neck and her unmistakable shuffle. For the first time, I felt bad for the tranny. But then, she cackled in my direction, jammed her finger up her nose, and scampered down the alley.
Maybe we could be friends, after all.
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“Hello, my name is Disaster. And I am a recovering monogamist.”
As you know, it’s Breakup Appreciation Week here in Disasterville, and I could not let this week go by without properly giving thanks to my breakup sponsor, “Pants.”
The funny thing about “Pants” is that she hates wearing them. I once picked her up at the airport only to find that she had made it all the way back from Florida wearing only black nylons (they were control top, but still), leg warmers and a waist-length puffy paint sweatshirt.
In other words, Pants is awesome.
And she’s also a Disaster Whisperer. She saw the panic in my eyes the moment I told her I was moving out, and did what any good breakup sponsor would do: she prevented relapse. Pants was on call 24/7, told me my ex was a fool, made sure I never texted back, and, most importantly, for three months straight she made sure that my blood-alcohol ratio never dipped below the legal limit.
She also helped me realize that the shot glass was half full. Due to the drama I was completely off solids; by August I hadn’t eaten in weeks and could cut a man with my cheek bones. It was Pants who helped me capitalize on these assets. I’d test drive outfits in her apartment before we’d go out, forcing a strut through her kitchen. In the early days, it went like this:
“Lose the leggings,” she’d say, and return to slicing limes.
“But this is just a silk shirt!
“DO IT.”
“I can’t wear just a shirt, belt, and heels!”
“You’re such a fetus,” she’d sigh, stirring her cocktail with her finger and giving me a look of empathy and pity that only mothers are supposed to know how to give.
And slowly but surely, Pants released me back into the wild.
It was Pants who taught me to believe in myself. Before then, I never knew the miracles my liver was capable of performing. From July to October we caught the swine flu three separate times. Our survival can only be attributed to a strategic mix of sassy water, martinis and the promise of the hunt.
And when we went to the funeral of the mother of the hot guy from our gym, it was Pants who stood there stoically by my side, scoping men in suits for untethered bling fingers. It was she who gave me the courage to get drunk at the reception and hit on a nephew of the deceased.
So I raise this Absolut Disaster to you, Pants. Happy Breakup Appreciation Week. I couldn’t have done it without you.
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“Ooooh, gurl. Doctor said it wouldn’t burn this bad.”
Thanks to everyone who participated in the caption contest. Let’s do this again sometime. If you spot a disaster on heels post the picture or email me: disasteronheels@gmail.com.
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Caption Contest! This Week’s Winning Disaster! Isn’t she lovely? Submit captions to me by email (disasteronheels@gmail.com), Twitter (@disasteronheels) or through the Facebook Fanpage. I’ll be naming the winner on Friday. You won’t win a prize, but you WILL win a very important place in my heart. Godspeed.
