Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 4, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
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."
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.
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.
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