Whorelando

I love my good friends to pieces. Sometimes that means that we do things that we ordinarily wouldn’t do. Some would call this peer pressure.

I knew inevitably there would be the day where I would have to trek down Wall Street with Lauren and Rachel in order to keep friendship alive. After all, Lauren went to Independent Bar with me once, which led to a dance floor clothes swap between me and a friend (no, he is not missing teeth- he had something in his mouth... I don't remember what though), driving to find me an IHOP so I could eat pancakes in a drunken stupor but only making it to Steak N Shake, and me leading Lauren to the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce instead of my apartment… Which is by UCF. To this day, if I dare mutter the words, “Just trust me, I’ve got this,” I think Lauren will rip out my vocal chords. There are many more details to this story but that, children, is for another time.

Wall Street can be summed up in the repetitious “Ass and Titties” that I hear blasting over and over on the speakers. With jams like these, how can one not get laid in a place like this? No wonder so many people flock. Its the Orange Blossom Trail of Downtown Orlando. Demographically speaking, I would fit in here with the majority of post-college professionals. But my nights out don’t revolve around reliving Spring Break 2002, so I feel a little out of place as I try to order a drink. I see a bachelorette party scamper past, followed by a smaller group of guys. Its something that I notice here: larger groups of girls, and guys with a few wingmen at their side. After all, when going for a pack of margarita-filled corporate-world women its best to hunt like a lion.

I’m feeling spunky in my fresh threads from Dechoes that I bought earlier: a Ramones t-shirt that I got giddy over because in all of my years of loving punk I had somehow managed to never own a Ramones t-shirt. Pair it up with the skinny jeans and Converses I wore to work, and it’s a fun way to spice things up amongst a crowd of aging frat and sorority members that call Wall St home. My friend Kevin tells me he’s sure that the shirt will get me lots of ass, but I laugh it off. And just when I think I have thwarted the boys from lion-hunting me from my pack of ladies, I feel a hand on my shoulder and see Lauren’s Look of Uh-Oh.

Enter Mucho. Mucho is a boy I had a very brief fling with. He happens to work at Mucho, so for anonymity’s sake we shall call him as such. I try to keep my love life (or lack thereof) out of this site… But since we are talking about bars that will get you laid, it seems only fitting. Of course Mucho and I cover all of the topics: How Have You Been, I Haven’t Seen You Around, and of course Do You Still Have My Number. We talk for a few more minutes after making sure we have a way to contact each other, and he says he’s heading over to Finnhenry’s. He says to call him later, with the cute twinkle in his eye that a few months prior made me desperately want to hand over my panties.

I feel like I get an A+ in Running into an Ex Fling 101, but when I look at my phone I realize that I must have slept through Handling Texts from Unknown Numbers Workshop. I see the number and the little “Hey :-)” that goes along with it… And I have a feeling this is from someone that I used to know and deleted their number for very good reasons. I send the obligatory Sorry-New-Phone-Who-Is-This text and wait for a reply. Its Jason. And since he has no roots here in Orlando, so I have no other way to describe him, he shall remain as such. And his number did get deleted from my phone because when you mix alcohol with feelings stemming from a guy falling off the face of the Earth after you had some great times together, the outcome is generally disappointing. He’s hanging out with friends. I say I am too. He doesn’t disclose where. I do. He says that he doesn’t know how long its been since he’s been there, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Lauren diverts my attention from my text messages and we belly up to the bar for a second round, which takes about 5 tries since we find a bar, can’t get in, find a bar, can’t get served in a timely fashion, etc. Some nice boys make room for us at The Other Bar, and this naturally leads to conversation. But I soon realize that these are wingmen. And they, with help from a wingwoman, are introducing me to the bachelor in question. He likes my Ramones shirt. He looks like an accountant type and says he’s from Winter Park, which means I don’t see him as a threat when he follows the R-A-M-O-N-E-S across my clavicle with his finger. He is fairly tipsy, says he has a crush on me, and asks what bar I’ll be at later. I’m sure I won’t run into him again, and I feel a tinge of sadness as Lauren takes my hand.

Lauren leads me away back to the crowd that we left behind, and as we find Rachel and her 2 friends from Rollins I hear “Shake That Ass” by 2 Live Crew coming from Slingapours. Instantly, memories of Fall Semester 2005 overcome me and I’m hunting for a stage to dance on. Slingapours does not disappoint. And after I tell my story of how I got 2nd place in an ass-shaking competition at Mako’s back in the day, I feel a wave of somber wash over me as I start counting how many years ago that was. Before I get too worked up over how I’m not a co-ed anymore and how I’ve packed on about 30 pounds since then, Rachel saves the day and comes over with several Jager Bombs- the perfect drink, since we’re surrounded by men not too unlike those found in My New Haircut.

We still have an hour or so to kill, so we spend our time dancing to more sex-driven top 40 rap and finding bathrooms. I’m finally to the point where Lauren has since stopped questioning me if I’m having a good time, and I close out my bar tab to keep me from drinking anything else before I have to take the wheel. The texts from Jason have longer and longer pauses between them until they stop coming all together. I send out a friendly ‘How’s Finnhenry’s?’ text to Mucho, but I don’t really care when I don’t hear back from him and I don’t beat myself up over the fact that I shouldn’t have texted him to begin with. As the high of Wall St wears off, I feel sobriety- and myself- come back.

While walking Lauren to the bathroom, I see a woman stumble out, dressed to get laid with her short dress and heels. I see she brought a friend with her from the bathroom- a 3-square trail of toilet paper attached to her additional 4 inches. I smile to myself and let her keep walking.

Moving Time!

So if you’ve been around me in the past few weeks, you’ve heard me talking about my newest project. Yep, its that time of the year again: MOVING TIME! That’s right… Time to move, yet again.

Only this time I’m opting to do it differently for sure! Last summer when I had to pack up and trudge everything down and then back up three flights of stairs, I had the help of some fantastic friends. Even though I had I had a lot of help it was still a really stressful experience that was haphazardly thrown together. I’d really rather nor have to go through all of the stress again, so I’m starting my research early and looking to hire a moving company.

I did come across one website that I’m going to check out. They mostly seem to be promoting New York movers and movers the tri-state area, but they did have movers listed in most states. The site is www.CityMove.com, and its using a concept that is becoming more and more popular- people who are looking for a service will post what their budget is, and the service providers bid on the job. It’s a real win situation for the consumer, since they can get a great deal and not have to do a bunch of the leg work by contacting a bunch of people. Its also a win for the providers, since rather than turning down potential clients they can try to work with them better on the price and fill up their schedule books. And if you’re sketched out by having random people handling your possessions like I am, there is a section on the site where reviews are posted by customers so you can do a little research before you pick a mover.

I’m probably moving in the next 2-3 months, or as soon as I find someone to take over my current lease I have with my roommate Chris. I currently don’t see any movers in the Orlando area on CityMove.com, but I’m hoping that might change in the next few weeks. Fingers crossed!!

Oh, and where am I moving you might ask? I’m finally giving in to both my desire and practically and finally moving downtown! I’m completely stoked, not only because I work and play in the area but I can stop spending my money of gas and start spending it on fun things… Like brunch at HUE!

My Music Monday

A Real Pep Talk from Lauren Dz

The real deal, via Lauren Dz:

Myself: I'm scared to see the pics from Takeovr... Mostly because I always look like crap, and mostly because he's so cute and now I forever have to deal with it.

Lauren Dz: Wait what? Who am I even talking to?????? WHO IS THIS? My friend Heather does NOT always look like crap. She always looks HOT. Maybe you haven't met her yet... I really should introduce you... Also, this "cute" and "forever" stuff? It may not be over yet. Just take it easy. Even if it is-you have a lot going for you to just let some guy make you think this way. Jesus Christ, you bad bad bitch! Get it together!!!!!!

Pep Talks

I think we all could agree: sometimes your friends come up with the most inventive ways to explain a situation. These Pep Talks only become keener with the addition of alcohol. The lovely Lauren Dz was in town this weekend from Tallahassee. Lauren luckily comes as part of a two-some: her sister Rachel is just as witty and a blast to hang out with. It was Rachel’s birthday, and since Lauren and I like to spend the Saturdays that she’s in town at the more-bang-for-your-buck establishment Big Belly Brewery on Church Street for Power Hour, it seemed like a win-win. Who doesn’t like 3-4-1’s?

Little did we know that Chillers offered 3-4-1’s until 10:30p, which is when Power Hour starts at Big Belly. I can’t get over how much the bar at Chillers smells like a used diaper. If I could, I’d hand a gold medal to each and every bartender that works there for their enduring efforts. But I don’t, so I opt to hand an extra dollar to my bartender when she brings me the round I’m splitting with Lauren and Rachel. I also couldn’t get over what a sausage fest it seemed to be. We felt badly for the guys, but in our favor the majority of the crowd looked good enough for us to at least entertain the thought of hooking up with some of them.

Scanning the pack, we comment on who we find appealing. “That guy is not your type,” Lauren says when I ask about a fellow propped against the opposite end of the bar from us. Rachel concurs on the basis that he’s not bad-ass enough for me. “You like guys that have facial hair and look like they’d beat the shit out of a guy for ordering anything but Gentleman Jack.” I nod. I do tend to go for colored folk (a.k.a boys with tattoos), and attitude problems. “Hey, if they look like might have just been released from the Pen and won’t call after we sleep together, that pretty much puts him in the Keeper category for me!”

I do find one guy who is standing remarkably close to me to be somewhat of a fox. We’re about 3 inches apart, though there is no need for it, and he has his back only slightly turned to me so he can get a good view of the basketball that is on the TV above. He’s with a disproportionate group of guys to girls, so my chances of talking to him are very good. “If its not the Pistons, I don’t care,” Lauren says while I make glances at the TV, the guy, and back to the TV. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so I can’t see if he’s sporting ink. He looks clean-cut but his build hints at fisticuffs. He looks like a cross between John Cena and a young Brett Favre.

We hear one of the three girls amongst the John Favre group get a birthday shout out, and me being the person who always likes to make situations uncomfortable for others, I get the bright idea to run up to the DJ booth. Obviously, the 2 rounds the girls and I have split by now are kicking in. I’m beaming with delight as I make my way back from upstairs. Oh, sneaky-sneaky… (Not really.)

After numerous attempts to get the cahones to “bump” into him or strike up a conversation about the basketball, I see him chatting with Birthday Girl. I’m reading far too deeply into the body language, and I express my dismay as I interpret that they are getting familiar. Cue the Pep Talk. Rachel kicks things into gear with the standard opener, “You are so much prettier than her!” Lauren, with her unabashed sarcasm, sums up the girl in four words: “She’s hot in Iowa.” Rachel and I nearly spit out our drinks and wait with bated breath for Lauren to elaborate. “I mean, look at her. She’s wearing a jacket that I wore in 8th grade for Christ’s sake! She has Midwest written all over her!” I’m feeling my confidence growing with each and every word and sip from my vodka and tonic. “Besides, they totally are having a conversation about being exes and how it’s not going to be weird for them to hang out with the same group of people at the same bar.”

The MC booms over the Top 40 bar music. “We’ve got another birthday shout out! This one goes out to Lauren, from her two bad ass friends! GIVE IT UP FOR LAUREN!”

I’m excited as the bar erupts with cheers and woos. I have the same look on my face as George Dubya when he heard Saddam was caught. Lauren and Rachel look at me, choking back their laughter. “Heather, did you pregame before we came out,” Rachel giggles. “Seriously, dude, what drugs are you on?!” Realizing what I had done, I scramble for a witty way to twist the situation. “I just got so excited that we were all together! I drew a blank from all of the endorphins!” I didn’t have to wait long before the MC came over and corrected the situation for me. “Free shots for the birthday girl! Which one is it?” Rachel reaches for a shot and explains, “Its mine, but my name is Rachel.”

As my Pep Talk falls flat on its face, the MC pauses with a look of confusion so Lauren can finish up with, “Our friend here told the DJ the wrong name.” I’m turning about at red as the cranberry and vodka in Lauren’s hand and I’m trying to laugh off the situation. Assessing the situation in his head, he then says into the microphone, “Since your friend is a bit of a flake, here’s what we’re gonna do!” He hands me a shot in a test tube, and while still on the mic he instructs me to nestle it down into my cleavage. “Lower. Lower. A little lower. OK! Now Rachel! GO GET THAT SHOT!”

Before I can wipe the look of remorse for not only what I did but also what was about to happen, out of the corner of my eye I see John Favre watch with light amusement as Rachel takes a shot from my cleavage. Lauren snaps a photo, catching my penitence. We head up to Big Belly Brewery, where every round washes down my embarrassment.

Karma

I’m a firm believer in karma. Unfortunately, it always seems to bite you in the ass at the bar. Last night was no exception.

I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.

Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.

Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.

I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”

Fresh Ink

In college, I took German as a way to reconnect with my mom. I always knew bits and pieces since her side of the family is from Germany. She even spent the better part of her childhood growing up there. She still speaks it fairly well, and once you start speaking it with her she picks it up and runs with it. A few months ago, I asked my mom to write ‘Ich Liebe Dich’ a few times on a piece of paper and send it to me in the mail. It’s something she always says to me before she hangs up the phone.

I’m one of those people who believe that ink should be personal and should always have a story behind it. And no, not to sound pretentious or anything, the story shouldn’t start with, “Well, me and my friends were in Panama City for Spring Break…” Mom once asked me why I didn’t get a Tinkerbell instead of the ‘Tinkerbell’ I have written on my skin. It’s because it’s not about character Tinkerbell, but rather something that Nana has called me ever since I was a little girl. I proceeded to explain to my mom that butterflies and ‘faeries’ and initials are all things that will never find a permanent home on my body.

The first tattoo I ever got was the ‘Tinkerbell’ that sits below my hip bone. I had it placed there because I was 20 at the time and I didn’t want the parents to see it. It was sketched out by hand after the artist got a feel for my personality after a few minutes of chatter. It’s not exactly how I imagined it would be, but I loved it as soon as I saw it and gave him the green light to hike my pants down a few inches and carve a needle through my skin.

My second tattoo was something that I had been thinking about for a few years, as I did the Tinkerbell one. I’m a big believe in karma and the whole ‘do unto others’, so I went with ‘One reaps what one sows’ around my wrist (you reap with your hands, after all). I wasn’t prepared for all of the oh-wow-what-does-that-say’s that I’d get at the bar. And it’s in German, so people tend to grab me and pull my extremities into uncomfortable positions so they can better read it. I love how they just say, “Man,” then pause for a second, and switch to, “Is that in another language or something?” Sometimes if I’ve been drinking Vodka I’ll say, “You know, the closer you get the better it translates.” If I’ve been drinking gin and the person is particularly douchey I’ll say, “Even if I told you what it says, you still wouldn’t understand.” My ex Eric particularly loved the reaction of one person when I said that. My favorite question hands-down has to be, “Did that hurt?” It felt like I placed my wrist in front of a chainsaw, personally, but if I’m in a particularly fiery mood I’ll tell you that I orgasmed as soon as the ink hit my flesh.

The guy that branded me was a sketchy fellow at your stereotypical strip mall ink shop, since my first artist went AWOL. He wasn’t very personable, and I think he might have been on meth. Quite possibly not the best person to do the job, but I was feeling compulsive. Plus, there was a great little pizzeria that had the only garlic knots in Orlando that taste like the ones from a little pizza joint in New Smyrna Beach that I love. Eric and I stopped in there afterwards for a slice and conversation with the people that ran it.

Daniel Coverstone, however, is my artist of choice from now on. Introduced to me through a college friend of mine, I’ve let him imprint my mom’s handwriting behind my ear. Dan’s studio is at his place, and is far nicer than 95% of the shops I’ve ever walked into. He told me stories about the people he’s learned from, how he would change the industry, and why he likes his home studio better than any shop. He was meticulous with the project- something that the last artist wasn’t and I regret it now. Dan will be commissioned to fix my wrist, actually. The whole project took a good hour and a half between sizing the writing sample and placing it, with the actual tattoo being done in about 15 minutes.

No, it didn’t hurt. And you know what? It’s exactly how I always wanted it.