My dad doesn’t want to fix my house anymore–time to get married!

Friday night, my garbage disposal stopped working.

But I didn’t panic. Oh no. I very calmly did what any independent, self-reliant young woman with her own home would do.

I called my daddy and cried that I broke my house.

Sadly, this is not an uncommon occurrence in my life.

Call me melodramatic if you will, but I tend to rank anything broken around the house that I can’t fix on my own as catastrophic on the level of a Godzilla attack. And consequently, if I call my dad and just say “Hey dad, my garbage disposal isn’t working. Can you come take a look at it?” he’s not coming. But if I cry and tell him that I broke my house, I’ll usually get the help that I need.

Unfortunately, this has led to a bit of a boy-who-cried-wolf (or in my case, girl-who-cried-broken-house) dilemma. So when I told my dad that my house was broken, he sighed and asked what it was this time. And when I told him what the problem was, he tried to tell me how to fix it myself.

Meaning what I heard was something akin to Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. Seriously. He told me to try pushing the button on the bottom of the garbage disposal and I heard “whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp.”

But I’m making an attempt to be less helpless, so I decoded what he was saying and eventually ventured into the murky shadowland under my kitchen sink looking for this mysterious button that he spoke of.

And, feeling like Indiana Jones about to swipe that weird gold thing in Raiders of the Lost Ark (and equally expecting a giant bolder to chase me out of my kitchen after pushing the button), I pushed it.

And nothing happened.


“It didn’t work, daddy.”

Another sigh. And some more whomping that equated to “check the fuse box.” Which I’m actually an expert at, because thanks to those lovely “hot girl problems” that I have, I blow fuses pretty regularly when I’m drying my hair. (And because I have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy, blowing fuses sounds really dirty and I’m giggling as I’m writing it. I also can’t say the word “penis” with a straight face.)

But no fuses had blown. And my dad’s next instruction, to stick an appropriately-sized allen wrench in the hole on the bottom of the garbage disposal and turn was so far outside of my home-repair abilities that I was forced to return to my initial assertion that my house was broken.

And for the first time in my life, my daddy seemed reluctant to come over and fix my broken house. Which led me to the only logical conclusion that I could draw from this scenario: it’s time for me to get married. Because there are just some tasks that I’m incapable of doing (or, more realistically, completely unwilling to do) on my own. Specifically, I mean anything more complicated than a burned out lightbulb.

I’m not going to lie and claim that I’m the poster child for feminism—if you’re a loyal Sara*ndipity reader, you’d know that’s not true anyway considering that I wrote a post on hot girl problems and one a while ago about my inability to jumpstart a car or change a tire. But I think it’s only fair that guys should have to deal with certain icky jobs around the house that I don’t want to do. Like anything dealing with plumbing. Or killing bugs.

The girls reading this are probably all nodding right now, while the guys are asking why that’s supposed to be fair.

Well, I’ll tell you. There are two main reasons.

Okay, I guess there are other reasons to get married as well. Like love and children and tax breaks and all that stuff. But for me, I think the main draw right now would be having someone to take care of all the things that I can’t (won’t) do.

For example, if there is anything wrong with the toilet, I’m not fixing it. I’m just not. A couple years ago, mine was running randomly, and my dad tried to walk me through the process of replacing that rubber floaty thingy in the tank to make it stop.

Three hours, some yelling (on my part), some crying (on both of our parts), and a minor apartment flood later, my dad came over and fixed my toilet. And to this day, I have no idea why I was incapable of doing that myself when it took him less than thirty seconds to do, nor do I have any idea what that rubber floaty thingy is called.

But it’s the kind of thing that, if I had a live-in man, could have been fixed quickly, with less yelling, crying, and flooding.

So, with no rational solution to the garbage disposal situation in sight (because I wasn’t going to pay someone to fix it. I’m broke from buying tickets to see Bruce four times in the same week on this upcoming tour), I started husband hunting.

Which did not go so well.

Apparently men these days are looking for a little more romance than, “Let’s get hitched so you can fix my garbage disposal and any other random crap that I manage to break around my house.” Who knew gender roles had done such a complete 180?

Luckily, my dad proved that he does love me and doesn’t want me to marry someone solely for plumbing skills, because he came over bright and early the next morning with a set of allen wrenches, and within approximately 2.6 seconds of walking in the front door, my garbage disposal was working like a champ again.

Which made me feel like a complete moron for not being able to fix it myself. But better to be a moron with a working garbage disposal and a daddy who loves me than a moron with a broken garbage disposal, right?

I’ll keep telling myself that.

And thanks dad.

I’ve found my dream job: Charlie Sheen’s intern. If I get it, I’ll DEFINITELY be #WINNING

I recently applied for the best summer job in the world. Well, okay, I guess the SECOND best summer job in the world, because the position of Bruce Springsteen’s wife is filled. So I had to settle for applying to be Charlie Sheen’s Social Media Intern.

What does that mean?

Well… um… it means… hmm… I have no idea. But I know it’d be awesome. Because as I understand it, I’d basically be getting paid to talk about how great Charlie Sheen is these days. And I’m doing that for free now, and they say the BEST careers are when you can get paid for doing what you love.

And Charlie, I do love you. Way more than is probably normal or healthy. I mean, it’s been a couple of weeks since #winning and #tigerblood entered our vocabulary (and yes, the hash tag is necessary. Without it, you’re not using officially licensed Charlie Sheen language. And who wants a knockoff Charlie Sheen? No one, that’s who. I mean, in theory, John Stamos COULD play the part on Two and a Half Men. But he’s Uncle Jesse. Not Charlie Sheen. It’s not like when they replaced Darren on Bewitched and no one really noticed. People will notice with Charlie gone), and not only do I not know how we would live without these terms, I’m not even a little sick of Charlie Sheen. Which is how I know it’s love.

Of course, he’s actually a far more prolific actor than most people give him credit for. Did you know that he’s starred in some of the greatest movies of all time without even taking credit for his parts? It’s true. Because that’s just the kind of guy Charlie Sheen is. I mean, YOU thought he was just a crazy, drugged-out, prostitute-loving alcoholic. Which just shows how ignorant you truly are.

Luckily, I’m here to enlighten you.

For example, did you know that Charlie starred in three of the four Indiana Jones movies? No, he didn’t transform into Harrison Ford or anything like that. But without Charlie Sheen’s role in the movies, Indiana Jones could never have succeeded.

Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof. Watch this scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Did you spot Charlie?

That’s right, HE is what is actually contained inside the Ark of the Covenant! Think about it—what melts faces? Only one thing I can think of, and that’s Charlie Sheen.

And in fact, George Lucas loved Charlie’s work so much that he hired him again for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In this scene, Indiana jones drinks water and is fine. The bad guy, however, drinks from a cup that was secretly coated with—yes, you guessed it! Charlie Sheen. Therefore, his face melts.

He chose poorly?  Understatement of the year, dude.  If the Indiana Jones movies have taught us nothing else, it’s that Nazis are NOT prepared to handle Charlie Sheen.

Then, many years later, when they decided to make Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, they realized that they HAD to hire Charlie Sheen again. Because the only movie that they didn’t put Charlie in, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, kinda sucked compared to the others. I mean, it was okay. But it didn’t have Charlie Sheen. Meaning that it was automatically NOT #winning. So at the end of the fourth movie, when the aliens give all of the knowledge to Cate Blanchett, what they’re REALLY giving her is Charlie Sheen. Which results in—say it with me now—face melting!

(I wanted to put the clip here.  But embedding is disabled.  Damn you, George Lucas!  You ruin everything!  But click here to see Cate Blanchett’s face melt on YouTube.)

But that’s only a small percentage of Charlie Sheen’s uncredited appearances in movies. Remember the briefcase in Pulp Fiction? It had that gold glow, but we never saw what was in it.

The reason? Because it was Charlie Sheen! And if we saw what was in it—pure, unfiltered, genuine Charlie Sheen—our faces would melt and our children would weep over our exploded bodies. And while Quentin Tarantino likes to shock people, if he caused his entire audience to melt/explode, who would see his other movies? Well played, Mr. Tarantino. Well played.

Of course, not everything Charlie has done in Hollywood has been as beneficial as his performance in these films. I’m pretty sure that it was exposure to Charlie that caused Robert Redford to look like his face has started melting.

Why him, Charlie? He looked so good when he was young!

Why did you have to melt HIS face? I mean, I guess it’s not YOUR fault, it’s Robert Redford’s, for not being able to resist the awesomeness that is Charlie Sheen. I get it. He’s not the first one to suffer from loving you too much. And I doubt he’ll be the last.

So with that all said, why should you hire me to be your Social Media Intern for the summer?

Well aside from my belief that you deserve recognition for all of the work you’ve done in the film industry, I have lots of great ideas about how we can keep you on top so that you can continue to wave machetes on top of buildings and drink your tiger blood.

For example, we need to make an energy drink called #TigerBlood. Hash tag and all. But here’s the brilliant part: the universe has thrown a unique opportunity our way in the last few months. Four Lokos is no longer being made, leaving a hole in the energy-drink/alcohol market and YOU, Charlie Sheen, are just the man to fill it. I mean, we probably couldn’t put REAL tiger blood in the drink (the animal rights people would be all over us… damn treehuggers), but as long as it has the hash tag, everyone will know that you have approved it, and it will fly off the shelves.

I’ve got other ideas too, but I’m hesitant to post them here because I don’t want people stealing them and marketing their own non-hash-tagged version of a Tiger Blood energy drink.

So Charlie, pick me. I’ll do a great job and help you keep #winning.

Not that you need help when you have #AdonisDNA and #tigerblood. But I still want the job.

#TeamSheen all the way baby!