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.

Crap.

“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.

Come on, Irene… no, really. Was that all you had???

So apparently it’s natural disaster week here on the east coast, but unlike with the freak earthquake, at least we had warning for Hurricane Irene.

Which of course, meant that the DC area went into apocalypse-style panic mode.

Not that this surprised anyone, because the DC area does that at least twice a week whenever rain, snow, ice, hurricanes, tsunamis, elections, or Glenn Beck rallies are predicted. (Which is understandable in the case of Glenn Beck rallies. Whenever one of those is in the forecast, I tend to start hoarding toilet paper, canned goods, Stila cosmetics, Harry Potter books, and shotgun shells in anticipation of the impending insanity. I strongly urge you to do the same.)

I actually got a notice from my apartment complex on Friday warning all residents to bring in any balcony furniture, put masking tape across windows and glass doors, don an aluminum foil hat to prevent the government from reading your thoughts, and stock up on canned goods, bottled water and flashlights in anticipation of Irene.


Oh, and it also said that the pool would be closed Saturday and Sunday.

Which really pissed me off because yesterday was gorgeous and what better workout is there than swimming in a pool full of hurricane-wind induced waves?

For the record, I did none of the things recommended by my apartment complex. Mostly because I pictured myself as a badass who wasn’t phased by the hurricane, a la Lieutenant Dan. And guess what? My balcony furniture is EXACTLY where it was before the storm started: smashed to pieces five stories below my balcony.

Crap.

But I did stock up on the essentials that I knew I would need when the power inevitably went out.

How did I know the power would go out? Easy, Pepco called and told me it would. On Friday. You see, our power system is so inept that they literally called and told hundreds of thousands of people to expect widespread outages due to the storm BEFORE IT WAS EVEN DEFINITE THAT THE STORM WOULD HIT US. How thoughtful of you, Pepco. Of course, SOME people might argue that the time and energy spent on warning us of the impending outages could have been better spent preparing for the storm. But those people are just silly.

So I went to the store to make sure I’d have everything I would need to survive the storm. And I was really surprised because everything that I planned to buy was in stock. Apparently most people buy all the milk, bread, toilet paper and C batteries in a store when they’re getting ready for a hurricane. Amateurs.

Who wants all that junk? As long as you have a gas stove, the only things you need to survive any natural disaster are marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate.

Yup, when the power goes out, I, like any rational and sane individual, make s’mores.

In fact, when my old roommate and I lost power during Isabel for about a week, we survived solely on s’mores and Pop Tarts that we heated on the gas stove by skewering them with fondue forks. (Little known fact: Pop Tarts, as long as you get the frosted strawberry kind, count as your daily servings of fruit and vegetables for a full day. The unfrosted ones count as nothing. You’d get more nutrition from eating a piece of cardboard. I don’t even know why they make unfrosted Pop Tarts except to punish people whose moms don’t love them enough to buy the frosted ones.)

I also bought the store’s entire supply of AA batteries so that I could power my portable ipod speakers, Kindle booklight, mini LED lantern, Rosie’s anti-bark collar, and my talking Pauly D bobblehead doll. You know, the absolute necessities.

Then I made sure that my kindle, ipod, cell phone, and new iPad were loaded with music, books, and movies and were all fully charged.

I was ready for the storm.

Which was the most boring hurricane ever because not only did my balcony furniture not even budge, but my power didn’t even flicker. So I now own the world’s largest supply of AA batteries for nothing. Seriously, they’re all going to go bad and explode before I can use this many.

Granted, Pepco will probably utterly fail for no apparent reason in about ten minutes and I’ll get to use them then, but still. I’m not a big fan of Irene.

So instead of using all that time to play on my new iPad (because really, the only scenario that I can come up with for an iPad being a necessity is when the power is out during a hurricane. Otherwise, it seems to be a gadget whose sole purpose is to entertain people who have so much money that they don’t know what else to spend it on. And I’m not one of those people. It was a birthday gift. And its utter uselessness will probably be the subject of an upcoming blog) figuring out why we, in the same week, had an earthquake and a hurricane.

And I came up with two reasons for the natural disasters (OTHER than the upcoming, Mayan-predicted end of the world).

Reason #1 Mother Nature is a Racist Bitch.

Yeah. I said it.

We were all thinking it. But I said it.

Why? Think about it. Yesterday was a BEAUTIFUL, albeit a little windy, day. Gorgeous. Sunny. Not too hot. Not too freakishly humid. Gorgeous out.

Would have been a perfect day for that whole MLK dedication thing, wouldn’t it?

But oh wait, that had to be cancelled because of the hurricane.

See, I think Mother Nature TRIED to undo that with the earthquake, but when that didn’t work, it was hurricane time.

Not buying it?

Okay, that leads us to the second reason.

Reason #2 God is trying to wipe out the plague that is Jersey Shore.

Irene hit at Little Egg Harbor, just south of Atlantic City and spun up the Jersey Shore wreaking havoc in her path. Washington was spared the brunt of her wrath. She had mostly burned out by the time she reached New York. This one was all new Jersey.

Now okay, MAYBE it was really an attempt to inspire Bruce Springsteen to put out another album, but it seemed to be trying to destroy New Jersey.

And for once, I can’t say that I blame the universe for wanting to destroy the state that spawned Jersey Shore.

Because if I have to sit through another season of Ronnie and Sam fighting, I too am going to lose it and pummel New Jersey with hurricane force.

Better stock up on s’mores ingredients now. Hurricane season is upon us.

We had a deal, California: You get the good weather, we get the solid ground!

It’s a miracle that I’m alive right now.

Yes, I’m talking about the earthquake that shook the entire east coast yesterday.

And yes, California people, I can hear you laughing at me right now.  All the way from California.  But shut up. A 5.8 (or 5.9, since in true Washington fashion, the experts keep flip-flopping on the actual answer) earthquake is really intense for us. But it’s normally a fair trade. You get the good weather, we get the solid ground. No one gets both. It just doesn’t work that way. You made your choice and we made ours.

But the planet broke that sacred trust yesterday, and took my earthquake virginity.

Yes, I know that it’s shocking, but I was an earthquake virgin.

I mean, there had been other earthquakes, but they didn’t count because I didn’t actually feel them. (Which is the definition of date-rape logic, but we’ll ignore that for now.)

Like the one last summer that led to this picture of the damage being circulated.

Yeah. Saw that one last summer. So those of you who think you’re being clever by sending it around now, you’re not. The National Cathedral was actually damaged. Don’t feel so clever now, do you?

But I didn’t actually feel the one last summer. Which is how I know it doesn’t count, because I slept through it. And I’m the world’s lightest sleeper. I suffer from the Butterfly Effect. If a butterfly flaps its wings anywhere in the world, I’ll wake up.


(Okay, I’m not sure if that’s actually what the Butterfly Effect is because I categorically refuse to see Ashton Kutcher movies. I won’t even look up terms from his movies on Wikipedia to find out if I’m defining them right. Dude may be pretty, but he can’t act.)

Yesterday, however, was a legitimate earthquake. Maybe not by those lofty California standards, but I come from the DC area, where nothing earth-shattering ever happens—because Congress can’t work together well enough to make anything earth-shattering happen! (Sorry. I know that was terrible. But it had to be said. And because it had to be said, I’m going to need you to laugh now. It’s a requirement of reading my blog. Don’t ask questions. Just do it.)

And like the true earthquake novice that I was, I had no idea what was going on. There I was, sitting in a meeting in my new school, when everything starts vibrating.

Which I, quite logically, assumed was the rapture and that the Mayans had only been off by a year.


No, not really. But I did stand there like an idiot in a room on the third floor, while everyone else ran out into doorways. And I’m ashamed to say that the first thing that I thought of when I felt the earth quaking wasn’t “earthquake” but, “hey, this feels like a moon bounce! Cool!”

Then, when everyone ran out of the room yelling, “Earthquake!” I laughed and sauntered out into the hall after them, then went back to my room to get my purse before leaving the building.  Because we don’t get earthquakes. We live in DC! We have a deal with nature! Ten billion percent humidity at all times and no earthquakes.

Damn you, Mother Nature.

But Sara, you’re fine. And unlike all other disasters, both natural and man-made, it didn’t even damage your car!

(Sadly, my car does tend to be the first casualty of any and all disasters. And I JUST got the most recent damage—from when construction workers dropped something through a hole in the ceiling of my parking garage and put a hole in my convertible top—fixed, so Murphy’s Law does indicate that any disturbance in the universe is bound to damage my car.)

So why am I so pissed at Mother Nature?

Because I believe in evolution. And during natural disasters, I become incontrovertible proof that natural selection does not exist. And I REALLY do not want to give the creationists any solid evidence that they can use to dispute evolution.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. Because I apparently have the worst survival instincts in the world. And if natural selection existed, I would be dead by now. But as I’m not writing this from beyond the grave, evolutionary theory has a problem. Sorry Darwin.

Need more proof other than my moonbounce analogy?

Well there was that catastrophe that happened almost exactly ten years ago.

No, I do NOT mean September 11. In fact, I want to punch everyone who compared yesterday to 9/11. It was an earthquake people, not a terrorist attack. The only things the two have in common are that it was hard to get a cell phone call through and the Pentagon had to be evacuated in both situations. And in case you missed the memo, we got Osama months ago. (Although I do have a theory that people secretly loved Osama Bin Laden. Think about it, he’s caught on Obama’s watch and Obama’s approval rating goes to hell. Talk about letting the terrorists win! And by terrorists, in this case, I mean Glenn Beck and Fox News.)

I’m talking about the tornado that hit College Park in 2001.

I’m quite familiar with tornados and have been since a very young age, thanks to a slightly unhealthy obsession with The Wizard of Oz. And I do know that you’re supposed to get away from all windows during a tornado. Under no circumstances should you stand there with your face pressed up against the glass.

Like I did.

Then there was the tsunami incident.

Well, okay, I guess it wasn’t TECHNICALLY a tsunami. But the one time I got in the ocean this summer, I wound up facedown in the sand and minus one bathing suit. Disaster caused by nature = natural disaster in my book.

I mean, I’m sure it was a good day for the guys on the beach.  But a bandeau-bikini top in the ocean was not my finest hour.

But I do have a newfound sympathy for my California cousins and my brother, because that feeling of having no control over your environment is pretty scary.

Actually, I take that back. I feel no sympathy for you. You have the good weather. If you want to make fun of us for freaking out about a 5.8 earthquake, I want to see how you react to a blizzard in LA.

Which, sadly, would still probably be better than how DC reacts in a blizzard.

Fine, California. You win this round.

But we never elected Arnold Schwarzenegger to any position of power.

So I think we’re about even.

Who says nuclear disasters can’t be funny? My friend Godzilla begs to differ…

So I know I’ve been slacking on the blog front lately, but for once it has NOTHING to do with my obsession with people from New Jersey.

No, really! Bruce isn’t touring, Gaslight Anthem isn’t touring in this country, and Jersey Shore tragically finished its third season last week. I’m so depressed I don’t know what to do with myself. Seriously. It’s reached the wearing yoga pants and sneakers to places other than the gym level. I mean, Don’t worry too much yet though; I’m still wearing makeup, but if you see me in yoga pants, sneakers and no mascara, it’s time to call the suicide hotline and get me some help…

The real answer is that I’ve been editing my next book so that you’ll have reading material this summer that, unlike this blog, I’ll actually make some money off of. Because while I appreciate my family clicking the ads on my blog, I get approximately 1/18th of a penny for every click I get. Which means that in seven months of blogging, I’ve earned ALMOST enough to buy a gallon of regular gasoline. As long as I go to the super cheap station where you have to pay cash. But it’s a start.

But I digress. That’s not what I came here to talk about (blog about?) today. I came to talk about the draft.

Kidding. Please tell me that someone other than my parents got the “Alice’s Restaurant” reference. Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? (And if you didn’t get THAT one, it’s time for YOU to put on yoga pants and no mascara. Seriously. What are you doing with your life?)

In the week and a half that I’ve been ignoring my blog, a lot has happened in the world. I didn’t get the Charlie Sheen internship (which, let’s be honest, contributed to the yoga pants shame spiral. I really wanted that job. But it’s probably for the best. As I’m already COMPLETELY and utterly sick of Charlie Sheen and think he needs to go crawl back into his drug/alcohol induced crazy cave), and the situation in Libya has deteriorated to the point where my earlier blogs making gentle fun of Gaddafi are no longer funny. Which is the real reason why I personally hate Moammar Gaddafi. If you’re going to be enough of a psycho to make it NOT funny when I mock you, you also need to retire to Charlie Sheen’s crazy cave in yoga pants and no mascara.

Oh and there was that whole Japanese earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster situation.

Which, as I’ve been told repeatedly by the media, is not funny in ANY way. In fact, people have started pulling episodes of The Simpsons that deal with Homer Simpson-induced nuclear meltdowns from syndication because of the situation in Japan.

Yes. I’m serious. Episodes from 15 years ago in which Homer sets off a nuclear crisis by being a stupid, fat American are now “not funny” in light of the natural disasters that caused a nuclear crisis in Japan. Which has to be Gaddafi’s fault somehow. I don’t know how yet. But it is. No one else is evil enough to make people think classic Simpsons episodes aren’t funny. Damn you, Gaddafi!

But because of how serious everything in the news has been, the world seems to be ignoring the fact that two of the current biggest news stories aren’t really anything new. In fact, two of the biggest news stories of the moment seem to have come straight out of the movies.

I’ll give you a hint: they both involve reptiles.

For example, I hate to break it to you, but the cobra escape from the Bronx Zoo is NOT news. I saw that movie already when it was called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Worry less about finding the snake, worry MORE about finding the 11-year-old wizard who removed the glass keeping the snake contained with his mind. Seriously. The snake is gone. Get over the snake. The WIZARD WHO FREED THE SNAKE IS STILL OUT THERE. Want to get rid of Gaddafi? A simple “Avada Kedavra” curse would do it. But we muggles can’t perform those. FIND THE WIZARD.

(All the non-Harry Potter fans out there have no idea what that last paragraph was talking about. And all the obsessive Harry Potter fans out there are super pissed off at me because they’re sitting there saying, “Harry would NEVER perform the Avada Kedavra curse, even on Moammar Gaddafi,” and they’re planning to trick me with something from Fred and George Weasley’s shop that will seem like candy but will really cause horrible discomfort. Get over it guys. You’re not wizards. You never will be. And if somehow you ARE, I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.)

The second story, I’m pretty sure that I can’t be the only one who made this connection, but considering that people are pulling Simpsons episodes, I may be the only one brave enough to talk about it.

Yes. I mean the radiation levels in the water in Japan.

Because I saw that movie too. And I know what comes next.

Need another hint? Let’s act it out. Stand up. Point at the sky. Move your mouth in silent gibberish while someone else dubs over you, “Look, it is Godzilla! We must flee!”

I mean, this is how Godzilla was born. Radiation in the coastal waters of Japan. And I think people need to be prepared for the fact that a giant, martial-arts practicing, building-stepping-on lizard could be about to emerge and begin stomping on what’s left of Japan.

But, as usual, I have a plan. Lure Godzilla off with a blonde, King Kong-style, and deliver him to Libya. Because Gaddafi is JUST crazy enough to think he could beat Godzilla. And it might be a close fight. But my money is on the giant radioactive lizard. A young Gaddafi might have been able to give Godzilla a run for his money. Crazy old man Gadaffi? You’ve got this Godzilla.  This is your moment.  Shine on you crazy lizard, you.

It really is a win-win situation. Plus, unlike when the US gets involved in a situation like this (cough Iraq cough), when the problem is over, Godzilla doesn’t need a real exit strategy. He can just retire into the Mediterranean, or, if he wants to keep fighting, can go back to Japan and battle Mothra and whatever other giant mutants emerge from Japan’s radioactive waters.

And now I’m going to go donate some money to the Japanese relief efforts because I’m probably going to hell for mocking them in their time of need. And if you laughed at any part of this blog, you’re probably going to be there with me. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when Godzilla gets here. Because he’s coming. And we should flee.