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.