Application for dating me

Taking a page out of Tucker Max's book is only useful if you're out of wiping material, so I'm leaving all of those pages firmly fastened in his book and on his website. However, the whole "checklist" idea of what is appealing in a partner is kind of useful for those of us who are a little more choosy and try to avoid riding town bicycles or barflies who've already had their wings pulled off. If you're racist, sexist, homophobic, anti-semitic or any kind of supremacist I don't want to know you let alone date you or sleep with you. If you have some other belief that compels you to try and convert others, knock on someone else's door. If you have what's referred to as "Peter Pan Syndrome," take your fairy dust and your game console and fly back to Neverland as fast as you can. If you have a totally distorted and unhealthy (and usually unwarranted) overly inflated ego and/or self perception, I hate to burst your bubble but... *pop*. If you have an annoying nasal and or squeaky voice I can promise you that I've thought of what it would sound like in bed and nothing not even duct tape and ear plugs would tempt me to sleep with you even if you looked like Clive Owen. 4 year degree required and higher education level strongly encouraged. If you have never been outside of the contiguous United States (or your own for that matter) you'd do better finding a girl from your hometown or the one just down the road. If you have no sex drive, you can only call me when you've gotten your engine overhauled. Alternatively, if you've got fixations on backdoor action, bondage, sharing, excretion, exhibitionist tendencies or anything else like that, you'd probably do better with a 1 900 number and a big bottle of Jergens than you would with me. If your motto is "it's not the size that counts..." I'll refer you to the whole breast size issue and then ask you if you really want to stick to your original statement. If your member has more bends than a paperclip, you may want to see someone about that and I mean a qualified medical professional, not me. If you can't remember the number of sexual partners you've had or if your bedroom has a revolving door is a revolving one, have fun with that, I won't. If your idea of foreplay is buying me dinner, you can stay in your car and head to the drive thru (and if your idea of buying me dinner involves a drive thru, keep on truckin). Quite obviously, I wouldn't tolerate violence towards me but I wouldn't tolerate it towards anyone else either. If you don't like beer I would say great more for me, but if it's "lite" or watery like most Domestics, more for you (unless you're up for trying the better beer the rest of the world drinks- in which case you just gained points) If you believe that the food groups are meat, potatoes, beer, candy and soda/pop we're going to have problems. If you spend more time on your hair than I do or in general look prettier than I do, you may want to find a more suitable companion. If you're desperately seeking wife/baby maker, you'll see a cloud of dust behind me that resembles that of the Roadrunner in Looney Tunes. Last but not least, if you do/have done any of the following consider yourself automatically disqualified: Been arrested Participated in competitive eating (aside from chubby bunny competitions) Do drugs Killed or maimed a person or animal (hunting is exempt) Donated money to a televangelist Voted for George W Bush Chew tobacco Been an extreme activist of any kind Believe that you are the messiah or if you were previously married to or otherwise entangled with me or someone I know

Heather and the set up

By sending out a simple text expressing my lament for the lack of male companionship, (i.e. "I need a man") my dear friend offered to fix me up with another singleton, saying that if nothing else, the date could be more fodder for my blog cataloging all of my dating disasters.

My friend sent me a picture and I agreed that she could give him my phone number, which he promptly phoned about an hour later. He was jittery and talkative and said he was trying to be assertive because he was normally way too shy for this kind of thing- calling a complete stranger to try and set up a date. I reassured him that I'm not that intimidating and he should just relax, which he follows up with "okay, well how about this, come roll around with me for about 25 minutes and if you don't like me you never have to see me again."

If your mind went straight to the gutter on that one, you're not alone. I asked for clarification and he explained that what he meant was to offer me an alternative date of sorts. If I wanted to ride along with him while he hauled sugar beets it would be better than if we met up at a bar or cafe instead and "stared at each other awkwardly trying to make conversation."  I politely declined that offer for the same reason that I declined scrot guy's offer to go to his house for a massage. Safety and common sense often dictate my decision making (unless of course there's alcohol involved- then I seem to do the opposite, but I digress).

I agreed to meet him the following night after he worked a 12 hour shift but before hanging up, he stipulated that he was not interested in meeting someone who was "keeping their options open" as he phrased it. I wish I could say I wasn't fazed by the request for exclusivity but usually, I'm on date 4 or 5 by the time that question comes up and not minute 24 or 25.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a particularly good 12 hour shift and we miscommunicated time frames and destinations. He walked in looking better than his photo and smelling rather lovely (I do love cologne something fierce) but unfortunately, that's where the good points ended. After about an hour of trying to find common ground (which was like searching for land in the middle of the Atlantic ocean) we decided to call it a night and I pointed to my car in the parking lot and he mocked my choice of automobile. Seeing as it's a 2007 and brand new to me (though it was attacked by a little old lady only 4 hours after I purchased it) the car is pretty swish and I'm proud of it. If he hadn't already struck out, I would have added extra innings as if it were a recent Twins game. Long story short, he's a catch for someone else's net.

Heather and the married guy

After the original 5 e-dating disasters, and the infamous "scrot guy" you'd think that I was completely put off of e-dating and maybe even men in general, but no, there was one last would be suitor who presented himself before I removed myself permanently from the e-dating circuit.

I met with the man that we'll call the entrepreneur for dinner after slightly bruising my ego on someone else who I also met through electronic means. In town frequently on business, the entrepreneur was looking for someone to spend time with during the evenings and not really looking for or interested in a long term or serious relationship that would "go somewhere" like pretty much everyone else in Fargo seems to be.

Although I knew it could be dangerous having drinks in or near his hotel, I decided that under no circumstances was I going anywhere near his room so it would be alright to meet there. When he arrived  he was fairly good looking, not exceedingly tall, personable, had incredibly curvy biceps peaking out of his short sleeved button up shirt and curly black hair.

I'm a little embarrassed that my first drink made me light headed, but I responsibly ordered pasta to soak up the martini and very casually nursed a beer over the course of dinner while he drank three in rather rapid succession. Dating is a nerve-racking activity so I can understand the need to take the edge off, but he had another reason to be nervous... that's right, he's married.

Now this wasn't some revelation that came up over forkfuls of alfredo, I knew that he was married before I walked into the hotel. He told me very early on in our communications that he has a wife and that he understood if I no longer wanted to meet with him. Having been the victim of OWS (other woman syndrome) myself, the situation piqued my curiosity. Maybe I would be able to in some way tap in to that mentality and understand a little more about how my own marriage unravelled. So when I agreed to meet with him after vigorous debate with myself, I agreed on the basis that it would be platonic. Who knows, maybe he just needed someone to talk to or convince him that it was an all around bad idea to involve a third party in the break up of a marriage. (Yes, I am actually that delusional and optimistic.)

Of course, he asks if I would like to come up and watch a movie, and naturally, he asks out of sheer concern for my well-being if I've had too much to drive, and insists that if I came up nothing would happen. And then after walking me to my car phones me to make sure I got home safely when I had just texted to tell him I had and thanked me for meeting him. And emailed me the next day saying that he really couldn't drink if we went out again because he was having trouble keeping his mind in platonic mode.

All in all, I'm glad that I went, it was insightful and I didn't know what I was going to get out of it and I still don't know what I actually did get out of it save this: maybe marriage is an outdated idea that takes otherwise happy people and makes them feel trapped and when any animal, human or otherwise feels trapped, they all revert to some primitive instinct that makes them claw like hell at the ties that bind.

Heather gets a tattoo

Since the age of about 12 I wanted a tattoo. Well, that's not entirely correct, I was very conflicted about the whole thing because it's permanent- therefore requiring a level of forethought, commitment and endurance (these are all things I struggle with and consequently haven't had much previous success with).

I didn't want anything girly or cliche and I didn't want something that I could even fathom the idea of regretting later. Most importantly, I didn't want it in a place that my dad would see it.

So on January 17th 2008, I had decided to go and book an appointment. Circumstances, experiences and well, just a need to do something all contributed to the decision and I even had a tattoo buddy who was going to get ink with me. Just after I had finished production day for the magazine I worked for at the time, I walked into the tattoo parlor in Stephen's Green Shopping Centre and asked for the appointment. I figured I still had 3 days between Thursday and Saturday to change my mind and forfeit the 50 Euro deposit they needed to book the appointment but to my surprise, the man asked what I wanted and said rather than wait it would only take him 3 minutes to do and to follow him back to the tattooing area.

I selected the Chinese/Japanese symbol for strength and asked him to leave it as just the outline. Very glad that I hadn't decided to wear a skirt that day, I opened the fly of my trousers and pulled them down to show him whereabouts I wanted the calligraphy and he transfered the outline onto my skin right between the cute mole adjacent my navel and my hip bone.

After looking at the transfer in the mirror as per his instructions, I waited for him to say something along the lines of "last chance" but he picked up his needle in his gloved hand and started right in.

The sensation was odd, kind of like a bee-sting that I wanted to swat away for being annoying rather than pain. While sat there, or maybe later, I realized that tattooing and piercing are semi-tolerated forms of self harm probably on the basis that there's an economic interest. Societally we chastise people that hurt themselves intentionally and really that's exactly tattooing is, it punctures, scabs and heals just like any other wound of that nature. It had never before occurred to me that potentially the reason why we chastise people with tattoos is because they're pretty (or scary) self harmers.

The guy drawing on my abdomen wasn't kidding, he was done in three minutes. I looked down at the quarter-sized angry red skin and was far from disappointed. Unlike people who drag razor blades across their bodies to feel some form of control or release from emotional overloads, I now had a tiny symbol of what I think is one of the most important virtues that an individual could seek to attain- strength.

I've pondered adding to the little outline since several other virtues require strength- honesty, faith, love, wisdom, and kindness but I haven't found the commitment yet (or the cash). But every time I see that tiny piece of flesh that I damaged it reminds me that good things can come out of hurtful ones, and that led to thinking of adding a phoenix... but thus far, nothing has warranted that much self harm.

Heather goes to Madrid

Written 2009
Happened 2008

Before heading back to the US of A on a permanent basis, I decided that I would take full advantage of my being on the other side of the Atlantic one last time and booked a whirlwind tour of the places that I should have visited back when I was an exchange student. I spent 3 weeks flying with cheap airlines and staying in youth hostels, living on a diet of architecture, language, culture and art, eating when I was hungry, resting when I was tired and just meandering from place to place at my own pace, and of course sampling more than my fair share of alcoholic beverages.

I had been in Madrid for three days and was due to fly to Barcelona the next day. I hadn't made great friends with anyone at the hostel in Madrid, but I got talking to some very young surfer-looking Dutch boys and though it was against my better judgement, they convinced me to come out on the hostel pub crawl with them. While in the lobby waiting for the group to get organized, I over heard some fellow American accents and we introduced ourselves, the two guys were from Green Bay- small world.

I had more in common with my fellow midwesterners than the Dutch boys (who were too busy chasing women to chat with me anyway). So by our seventh or eighth drink we find ourselves at this packed club and I overheard the MC saying "we're still looking for some more lady dancers for the contest up here on stage, the prize is 50 euro." Then he started introducing the ladies one at a time as they told him what country they were from.

I handed my drink money to one of the Green Bay twins and made my way to the stage- I like to think I'm a fair dancer, but when I'm drunk I'm sure I'm amazing at damn near everything. So I climb up on stage and he asks where I'm from and I say USA and he closes the entry. Then announces that the line of ladies that I had just joined were all participants in a wet teeshirt competition. Whoops.

Rather than be a spoil sport or worry about saving face in front of a room full of drunk strangers that I would never see again, I decided to just go with it... as the saying goes, when in Rome, you know the rest. The MC then pulls out a bottle of tequila and starts pouring shots into each of the participants mouths, being last, I ended up with more than my fair share and started dancing early in effort to get the crowd cheering for me early on in the competition.

Sadly, USA did not take the title that night because Miss UK had been wearing a dress and therefore competed in just her knickers and the skimpy white tank top, that is, until she took the tank top off completely and well, I just couldn't compete with that... or better stated, didn't want to.

Heather "Can Drink Jack Daniels Like a Fish"

Happened 2002
Written 2009

Visiting friends in the Irish city of Cork, one of my friends thought it would be a good idea to bring me to his local pub where he often drinks with lots of his hometown mates. He invited his friends and one of his brothers to the pub and being cordial and a good host to someone in his city, one of his friends offered to buy me a drink.

After several minutes of insisting that he didn't need to buy me the beverage, afterall, I'm quite literally just the friend of a friend, he asked if I liked Jack Daniels. My reply was, "oh I drink Jack Daniels like a fish," and sealed my fate by issuing a drinking claim to an Irishman. His reply was something along the lines of "oh do you now?" and then he handed me a glass of greenish looking liquid and said "try this". I realize now that it was only a tad off from a lynchburg lemonade, but with Rosies Lime Cordial instead of lemonade. But after tasting the drink I said that it was very nice and would let him buy me one.

The young man obliged and bought me a triple Jack Daniels and lime. I toasted him and took a sip. His response was "oh no, you said you drank JD like a fish girly, down your neck." By that time, I had spent 6 months in Europe and was quite tired of hearing the same old same old "Americans can't hold their drink"
so I tipped the glass back and polished off the welcome beverage as quickly as I could manage.

Shortly after the small tumbler of alcohol was gone I was part of the way through my pint (which I picked specifically because I would have to drink that slower) when the term liquid courage started to take effect and challenged our mutual friend to a drinking contest- first one to down a bottled alco-pop won. Just to give you an idea of how foolish this was, my friend is a guy, 6'4 and had been drinking for at least 4 or more years than I had, and I'm 5'2, a girl and had never beaten him in a drinking contest since I'd known him. In fact, I've only ever won one drinking contest and that was because I had sheer stubborness on my side and held a red hot cinnamon liquer in my mouth until I burned all of the first layer of skin off the inside of my cheeks. Anything that had to do with speed on the other hand I lost abysmally, and this was no exception, I just downed half a bottle of alcohol and the only result was I started feeling more tipsy.

I got up to excuse myself to the ladies room and must have stammered or swayed because my friend's brother was now in on the new game of how drunk can we get the American girl before she says 'uncle'. I insisted that I was NOT drunk and then to prove it tipped my head back and touched my nose with alternating fingertips. He then instructed me to "pick up one foot" and I failed parlessly by wilting to my right. After responding to their sneers with a few choice words and coinciding sign-language I made my way to the hallway with three doors, one labeled ladies, one labeled gentlemen, and one labeled disabled.

Somewhere around ten minutes later, I could hear my friends outside the bathroom door calling my name and then the astonished "she's not in here?!" I hadn't made it to the ladies room which was the farthest door to my left at the end of the hallway. In my drunken state I reasoned that I was in fact disabled by alcohol and probably wouldn't have made it down to the end of the hallway in my high heeled boots without breaking something.

The story ends with my head hung in shame waiting for a taxi to take us back to my friend's house having to admit to him and every one else that "No, Heather cannot drink Jack Daniels like a fish afterall."

Heather goes to the porn store

Written 2009
Happened 1999

Different birthdays come with a set of abilities and expectations. On my 10th birthday I could finally get my ears pierced, 13 I could stay up until eleven on a school night, 16th birthday drive a car, and at the magical age of 18, the age of adulthood, the states of Minnesota and North Dakota allow you to purchase cigarettes, lottery tickets and porn.

My friend's 18th birthday fell on a Monday and we were both stuck closing down the gas station we worked at. So after singing him a few bars of "happy birthday" I ceremoniously sold him (though it was with my money) some Swisher Sweets mini cigars and a few scratch offs (because a Powerball ticket didn't have that instant gratification that a scratch off does). Then I proudly slapped my hand on the counter and announced that we should go and find him some porn because that would complete the trifecta of his new title of 'adult'.

We got in the car and drove down town to the "adult bookstore," which is a fairly misleading title because as far as I recall there was only maybe one or two books in the whole store, but because Midwesterners can't stand the idea of calling a porn shop a porn shop and referring to it as an adult bookstore saves from having to explain its purpose to the kids.

So we arrive and giggle and marvel at all of the devices and material that someone somewhere actually might be interested in sexually. There was a bowl of flavored condoms on the check out desk and I grabbed a 'tasteful' three (pun intended). I felt strange just standing and staring and a sign above the desk stated that there was a $5 browsing fee if you didn't make some kind of purchase. While at the check out I also noticed that a door behind me led to a stair case and with the word "Arcade" written over the doorframe and below it said "tokens available at the desk."

Now remember that at the time I was only 19 and sweet innocent as the day is long... ok, let's just say I was niave. The only kind of "arcade" I had ever heard of was the ones at the mall or Chuck E. Cheese, so I assumed that this was a hall of raunchy video games so I bought $5 worth and told my friend, to come on down to play. The guy behind the counter didn't turn a hair and let us go down to the basement.

We marched right back up with all $5 worth of tokens in our sweaty palms as soon as we had reached the last step of the darkened basement. The "arcade" was actually several viewing booths in which customers could spend their tokens not on Playboy trademarked pinball machines, but on Playboy trademarked videos (and from the looks of it upstairs those would have been the mild ones).

White as a ghost and completely mortified (remember I bought the condoms and the tokens at the same time!) I asked the guy behind the counter if I could re-fund my tokens, and to my great disappointment he said "No." I tried explaining that we didn't know what the "arcade" was but it didn't matter until I noticed a small plaque on the other side of the cash register that said "Monday night is ladies night- 10% discount on all purchases." I asked him if I got my discount and he said "No" and promptly refunded my tokens and gave me my discount for being female and in a porn store.

I parted company with my friend shortly after telling him that his next porn purchase he'd have to do solo.

Heather goes to Glasgow

Happened 2002

Written 2009

I hadn't really intended on going to Glasgow, but when I saw that my favorite painting of all time (Christ of St John of the Cross by Dali) was housed in the St Mungo's Museum of Religious Art, the city made its way into my travel diary.

When I arrived, I wandered the small city center with a rather large suitcase and no less than 3 people walked up to ask if I was lost and needed help finding my way. I said no, I was just having a stroll and went about looking for a place to eat and spend the next few hours waiting for my hostel to open for check-in.

The hostel website had 3 hours listed that it was closed- from 2-5, now whether or not I assumed this was a.m. or p.m., I don't know but either way, it led me to opt to spend my few spare hours in a lovely little pub called the Droothy Neebors, where I met Frey the bus driver.

I parked my suitcase at the bar and the barmaid interrupted her conversation with the bald man a few seats from me to get my order. We chatted for a few minutes as she poured me a Stella Artois and punched in my order. A few minutes later a man comes up to me (on the side away from the barmaid and Frey) and starts talking to me, only he's talking out of the side of a crooked mouth in an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. I nodded and smiled and after the first seven times of asking him to repeat something because "I didn't understand that," I resolved to just nodding, smiling and saying Mmm Hmmm and yeah. I probably agreed to do any number of unspeakable things with him and agreed to be his slave but I'm from the midwest and we hate to be rude.

The barmaid, having had a great laugh at the situation, finally comes to rescue me and invites me to the chair on Frey's other side. Now, on my third beer, having eaten a rice and mushroom stroganoff, I'm feeling pretty good and chatty (as long as I can understand the other half of the conversation).

Frey and I started buying rounds and at about our sixth beer, he decides to tell me this story:

Frey says: "So I'm on this website for people who come to Scotland looking for information about their ancestry and I get this call one day from this bloke who says he's going to be in Scotland on tour with his band an he asked if I'd meet up with him to chat family history. Then he says my name is Glenn Frey I'm in the Eagles. I said sure, I'll meet up with anyone for a pint but you ought to know mate you're pronouncing your name wrong it's not FRY it's FRAY."

At this point I'm gaping at the guy having always been a huge fan and the time frame for the story was the Hell Freezes Over Tour. So I said, "So did he show up? Was it Glenn Frey from the Eagles?"

Frey: "Yep, he showed up with back stage passes just for talkin with him, an let me tell you, those boys live like kings!"

While I'm sat in disbelief and total jealousy five American girls walk into the pub- it's now around 9p.m. and they sit adjacent to us and inevitably joint our conversation. One girl decides to ask Frey about Scottish reaction to movies about Scotland-

Rob Roy?

Frey: A bloody Irishman filmed in England*

Braveheart?

Frey: Australian filmed in Ireland**

Shrek?

Frey: Bloody Brilliant!

As I look at my watch and realize that I have to close one eye to tell the time, I figure I've had enough and should go to bed promptly when I get to the hostel. I thanked Frey for everything (the entertainment, the rounds, and a free bus pass for his tour company the next day). I got to my hostel in very quick time and didn't even bother changing out of my clothes for bed.

The next day I went and saw the painting and it was breath-taking and luminous, even more so than expected, but after discovering the work of Renie McIntosh and the Droothy Neebors, I found the whole stop to be more than I had expected.

*according to IMDB Rob Roy was actually filmed in Scotland

**according to IMDB Braveheart was filmed in a myriad of places including Ireland, and Scotland

Heather goes to the fair

Written 2009

Happened 1998

We all trust our friends but when my friend asked me if I'd double date with her and this guy she met on the internet, I was less than enthusiastic- of course, this was many years ago before dating real people on-line through vetted websites was an en vogue thing.

So we go to the Red River Valley Fair to meet up. I thought, public place, lots of people, and security guards just in case things get a little dicey and we need to get away... that thought worked until I was up on top of a ride called the zipper.

A few years earlier, I learned through a vigorous roller coaster competition with my cousin that there's a trick to roller coasters (look up not down) and that I actually liked the rides because they're only two and a half to three minutes long, i.e. you don't really have time to be scared or uncomfortable, but that was before getting on this particular ride.

Because only two of us wanted to get our money's worth out of our tickets, I ended up boarding the little car with my friend's date not mine.

After we were a safe distance above the ground he starts jabbering away, and I politely reply until he says, "can I tell you something that you won't tell your friend?" The alarm bells in my head are going off but when you're 50 feet in a metal box there's not a lot that you can shout to get you off the ride that won't get you in serious trouble. He says, "I'm a lot more attracted to you than your friend, is that weird?"

Now remember the fact that this was supposed to be a double date, he brought a friend to be there with me. What did he figure he'd do? Just revert to being 12 and swap us like we were baseball cards? I wish I knew. He then asked, "so are you into romance and stuff?" What can I say, the guy was a real gem.

I wish I could say the ride ended there, but oh no we had to sit in this tiny car (which now felt so much smaller than it was when the ride started) and wait our turn to exit and act normal around our friends.

As soon as we were leaving the Fair (which couldn't have happened quickly enough at that point) I told my friend about the ride and I don't think she ever called him back, and neither did I.

Heather goes to the Guggenheim

During a whirlwind 3 days in New York City with one of my best friends, she obliged me to visit one more museum at the very end of our trip when our feet were killing us, the heat was borderline ridiculous and we'd already spent a week of hardcore touring, but given what happened when we went to the Guggenheim, I think she'd tell you it was worth it.

After wandering in the wrong direction for several blocks we jumped in a taxi. The funny thing about taxi's in New York is they're actually nothing like the movies- they don't pull over when you yell taxi and if they do, then they'll decide whether or not they want to take you and not the other way around. But I digress.

We arrive at Frank Lloyd Wright's white spiraling masterpiece and presented our city pass tickets to get in- (side note for anyone traveling ANYWHERE who likes to do touristy things I highly recommend finding out if the city or country you're visiting does these- they may seem expensive up front but when you add up all the stuff you're going to do together, you save a fortune larger than the one you spent on the pass- trust me!)

So tickets done, we start up the spiral and up to the level one gallery, on display are a few of Frank Lloyd Wright's own sketches and models including one of his most famous Over Falling Water. I resisted texting my architect friends with every fiber of my being- actually, it had more to do with not having their numbers in my phone and international texting charges.

Second floor, some impressionism and some more modern surrealist pieces- a Pollock (which I later saw the film based on his life with Ed Harris- awesome- check it out, he's like an American Van Gogh personality wise). I'm rounding the pieces while my friend sits patiently in the foyer rubbing her feet (she also hates modern art). Nearing the end, I come across this piece entitled "Ant Farm" by Roni Horn (there's no image on the Guggenheim website sorry). As I'm looking at this piece I start to think to myself this thing looks like the one page book company did a one page edition of the Kama Sutra. Seriously.

As I'm contemplating this large piece, a large security guard comes and stands beside me and says, "Excuse me ma'am, can I ask you what you see in this painting?"

Now he is asking this question when he and I both know the answer already, so I did what any good demure midwestern girl would do- I lied. I did see shapes and letters in the painting but the shapes were mainly phallic and/or other parts of male genitalia intermingled with... well let's just say intermingled.

I guess I don't pull off the sweet and innocent virginal girl act very well, because the conversation didn't end there, because he tells me that, "this other lady said she saw one big motha f-in orgy up in there!"

Great, he said it. What we were both thinking and I didn't want to hear, now it's awkward and I really can't make my escape to the next painting because conversations never end smoothly after someone brings up sex, unless that is of course that you want to sleep with the other person your conversing with.

Sure enough, if I had any doubts about that, the security guard cleared that up by saying that I was a beautiful woman and that black men appreciate a woman with curves and not any of those "skinny bitches." Now it's strange when someone calls you fat and means it as a compliment, but when they also use it as a pick up line, that's something real special.

The rest of the conversation goes something like this:

Him: So where in New York do you live?

Me: I don't, I live in Fargo (thank God- and that is honestly I think the only time I've EVER had that thought!)

Him: I got a cousin who works for the airlines, you could come back here real cheap if you wanted and stay with me.

Me: ...oh...I see.

Him: Let me give you my number.

Me: *pretending to rummage through bag- I haven't got a pen.

Him: I do, here *takes brochure from my hand* Now let me ask you, do you date black men?

Me: I haven't but I'm in the middle of getting divorced (hopefully that will work?)

Him: I'm sorry to hear that what happened?

Me: He just wasn't ready to be married

Him: Oh he played around on ya? What a damn fool, you're beautiful.

Me: Thanks, I should really be getting back to my friend who is out there waiting for me (WHY did I not think of that sooner? Oh wait I did but this is the first time he's shut up long enough to let me say it!)

I walked away, feeling his gaze the entire way to the corner and grabbed my friend while bursting at the seams with laughter. I begin to relay the story but she wants to take the elevator to the top so we get in and another museum employee is already in the elevator. I decided I really didn't care and continued with the story. Now the other museum employee is laughing with us and trying to guess whose number is on my brochure.

All in all, the Guggenheim was just another museum after a slew of other touristy things and to be honest, if I had to choose between that and the MoMA, I'd go for the later for a lot of reasons, volume of artworks for one and personal preference in art for another, but then again, maybe there's something to be said for a museum where the staff is more interesting than the art...

Heather goes to the gay bar

Written August 2009

Happened June 2008 & August 2009

There are certain rites of passage that everyone goes through and then there are the rites of passage that can only happen after turning the magical age of 21- i.e. strip clubs and gay bars.

Dublin hosted the Bingham Cup in the summer of 2008. The Bingham Cup is also known as the world cup of gay men's rugby. I had an email from my friend Matthew who I'd met in Portsmouth back in 2001 that said he was going to be in Dublin and he'd love to meet up. Of course we didn't actually get to go out until the night of the final match when everyone really let their...er... hair down (this was literal in the case of the Australian team as they all dressed up in drag for the party).

The first bar located on the north end of Temple Bar wasn't really that exciting. It looked like a post game party- with drag queens. The second bar, called the George & Dragon, filled in late just like any other club, but by midnight I began to feel like a diabetic kid in a candy store. Beautiful broad shouldered and built men everywhere and they all played for the other team.

Finding a man who did play for my team proved to be more difficult than scoring a try on the field. One poor guy who had been singled out and presented to me announced in a rather panicked voice "No, I'm gay!" when he realized that the other lads were trying to set him up with a girl.

I ended up dancing the night away, which was also a very startling experience as most of the men on the dance floor had taken their shirts off. I like to think that it wasn't the same-sex bumping and grinding that heightened my awareness of my surroundings but rather their semi-nakedness. I'm not really one for public displays of affection in clubs and often wish that people who do would just go home and get on with their bedroom olympics rather than doing it on the dance floor for all to see.

I left the club in a taxi around 4a.m. and discovered that taxi drivers get really annoyed when you don't know how to get to your destination because you don't know where you live. I had just returned to Dublin and would only be there for two months before going traveling and then back to the USA, so I let my old apartment go and rented a room in a house near my office in Dundrum. I didn't know the area very well and was consequently less than helpful explaining where I needed to go. He finally dropped me off near the Beacon Hospital (because I knew I could see that landmark from my bedroom window). Who says all bar stories that end in a trip to the hospital are bad?

E-dating disasters

Written July 2009

Happened February-March 2008

So I joined one of those website dating services in part because my friends were doing it, in part because like Drew Barrymore says in He's Just Not That Into You, "it's hard to meet people organically," and in part because well, egos suffer after break ups and need to be repaired.

Date number one: the Kiwi

He's very good-looking from his profile and after a few clever emails back and forth, we exchange numbers and decide to meet up. He's funny and quick so over some mild text flirting, I ask what I should wear to this date and that his reply should not be "come naked," to which his reply was "that just made my cock shoot straight up."

You'd think that after this, I would have canceled the date or tried to get out of it early some how, but what can I say? He was hot and interested and after a long dry spell you are a little less picky about the small details... if they're hot.

Date number two: the Northern guy

Like the Kiwi, he had a really amazing accent which is a turn on, but unlike Kiwi guy, he is NOT hot, not even luke warm.

We met at a bar in Temple Bar on a Saturday night, which for those of you who have never been is crowded and touristy and this bar was both. He did a gentlemanly thing by giving me the one bar stool but then followed it up with the worst conversation ever. He actually said the phrases "All women are fascists, just look at Hitler, women love a man in uniform, that's how he got in." (FYI my master's degree is in Women's Studies, just to add even more hilarity to that statement).

I bought the second round so I wouldn't feel obligated to this guy and then pulled out every not interested card that I could think of including the divorce card, going out and smoking when I know it annoys him and finally faked a stomach ache to get out of there. It was only mildly amusing when he had the gall to look surprised that the date was ending so early.

Date three: Irish guy 1

He looked nice, had a good sense of humor and seemed like a collected sound and professional guy. He even bought dinner when I got up to use the ladies room, which was not my intent, I like paying for myself because it tones down the weird factor for me, and if I managed to feel beholden to Hitler boy over one beer, I really felt bad when this guy bought my mini nasi goreng.

So what was the problem? He had an enormous head. I seriously sat there throughout the whole date thinking about the size of his cranium. I just sat there thinking that I could never have his children because it would actually kill me. Seriously, this is not a normal thing to think on a first date (or any date fore that matter) as procreation and dating are two things that probably should not go together. I ended up kissing him goodnight, which was awkward as all hell and then tried to think of a nice way of saying we're not going out again because you have an enormous noggin... I hope he's not still waiting for that text. Thankfully a chat with a colleague later made me feel a lot better about this because she'd had a similar situation with another big-headed man.

Date number four: the Scot

Bars seemed to be shorter and less painful meeting places than restaurants after big-head guy. He chose the place for mojitos and the conversation went well so we carried on to another bar. He had a great accent (like all of the others) and despite being 5'3 height has never been a problem for me, because it's hard to find someone shorter than I am without going into midget territory- (is that the PC term? Little people makes me think Leprechauns and although I was in the right place for it, I never dated one of those- to my knowledge).

We sat at the second bar and he was telling me all about working for Guinness and picking out the exact shade of red for one of their ales, which believe it or not was actually much cooler than it sounds as I type it. When the conversation began to run out I started trying to remember things from his profile to talk about (I'm sure the fact that I had to keep a close eye on the time didn't help with the flow of the conversation, but I was flying to Paris to see a friend the next day and needed to be responsible).

So I remembered that this guy was Buddhist and asked him how he came into that faith and his response was "because I found it was most accepting of my fluid sexuality."

Now I've been around the block a few times (at least I thought I had) and I'd never heard that one before, so I asked him to elaborate.

His response: "Oh I've had both male and female partners," and I about died. Now, I have no problem with bisexuality or homosexuality, but I don't like competition and upping the ante from 50 percent of the population to 100 doesn't seem to increase my odds now does it?

I drank my fourth drink rather hastily not knowing how to respond to that last exchange and decided it was time to head home. On the way, I decided to ask the $64,000 question, "How many?" His response was, "Men, three and women, I quit counting after I turned 23," (for the record he was 33 at the time of our date.

I didn't make my flight the next morning, I went home and celebrated my single girl status with my housemates. To my credit, I only missed the check in for my flight by five measly minutes and was actually kind of grateful for the extra time I got to sleep until the next flight left for Paris.

Date five: Irish guy 2

He picks the place; it's a blues bar on the north side of Dublin. We have a bite to eat on the way there and when we arrive, there isn't blues as such, it's blues for kids. There are kids everywhere, crawling under the tables, under our feet, shouting and slightly engaging with the musicians who are trying to keep the children's attention.

The word awkward doesn't even begin to describe it, I never got in touch with him again and neither did he.

Scrot Guy

Written January 2009

So last night Heather went out on a second date with a local businessman. He has good banter via text and a similar dry sense of humour thus necessitating a second date to determine if he was actually worth keeping around, the end result was a resounding no.

Highlights of the date:
He does not drink- had to quit at 25 because he was on the verge of becoming the next Hunter S Thompson

He has moderate ADHD to the point of distraction (which he explained during the first date). He cannot sit facing a wall, watches everyone as they pass, surveys the whole of the restaurant and more often that not looks like he doesn't care what you're saying (but he is listening- and could repeat back everything you said verbatim, trust me I tested him on this.)

He is rude to the server and makes snapping gestures when the server isn't there (albeit jokingly) anyone who was ever a server knows how annoying and not funny this is.

He is still asking me to come over to his place to give him a massage (he has done since trying to organize the first date) was kinda cute before but now at the hundred and sixtieth time it's getting a bit annoying and old.

He shows me a check for over $5,000 underneath a stack of cash he's carrying around in his wallet, don't ask me why, I don't think I give off the gold digger vibe because talking about money is one of the top five sure-fire ways to turn me off.

He tells me about how he bought a skeleton and a coffin from a woman near South Dakota and it's positioned in his store so that no one knows it's in there but would love to mechanize the hand to push the lid so "Jack" could peek out and scare people. He then explains that it was a medical-purposes body donated to science one so that it's perfectly legal to own it- apparently he's looked into this extensively.

He shows me a picture text of a scrotum pulled into a heart shape where there's a I and a U photoshopped in to read I heart U.

Then tells me a joke about having a tattoo on his member that reads Jesus- so he can ask a girl during sex what it feels like to have Jesus inside her, to which I said, "Seriously? That was the punch line? You couldn't have come up with a better one like the second coming of Christ or something?"

Now in and of themselves, each of these things could normally have occurred among friends in the pub and I probably would have given exactly the same kind of responses that I did to this guy, laugh and have another beer and be glad I'm not going home with this person.

I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humour and it takes a lot to gross me out or shock me- but when you're trying to impress someone (or at very least sleep with them) you usually leave the scrotums and such for a later date right? Fourth or fifth at very least...