Spokane: a city of so many nicknames (i.e. Spokanistan. Spocompton), none of which infer it could be anything but a ghetto sand trap that is possibly poverty stricken. Rather, it’s actually a nice place to visit (or attend college) – hot and sunny in the summer, snowy and sunny in the winter. And for a girl that enjoys sunglasses 24/7, the prevalence of sun is quite drawing for me.
That’s not to say that some sketchy things have not happened to me in the many years I lived, and have visited, Spokane – because they have. It’s possible some of these events were self-induced…but I refuse to accept the notion that I may have “asked” for any of the following. Truthfully, I am always cognizant of my actions and sometimes it can be beneficial. I’ll explain.
As a junior in college, I was the youngest of my roommates. The last to turn 21, and for those of you that know me, being left out really isn’t my “thing.” I prefer being included, invited and in the know. Everyone knows at 21 house parties become irrelevant whereas the Bar (really, any bar) is much more appealing. I mean, come on, that’s where all the guys are, right?
*BTW, this is not a new concept for me. I’ll tell you later about my interest in participating in activities that boys generally populate.
Recently 21, and in possession of a fake ID she no longer needed, my roommate passed hers onto me. At that time, Thursday was the new Friday (it still is, FYI) and my friends were frequenting the biggest dive bar within walking distance. An American-Chinese joint that offered karaoke and killer drink specials. At the time, Andrew was their main bouncer – sporting dark brown hair with a mullet that screamed I’m all business until I turn around. The photo in my newly acquired ID looked something like me, back in my “goth” days when I liked black eyeliner. At least, that’s what I told people when they gave me a quizzical look. What’s a girl to do when her ID’s legality could be questioned? Flirt. And flirt I did. Andrew took an immediate liking to me, and if you subtract the time they tracked me down and requested I leave, as I could not produce an ID that someone else hadn’t used moments before, he stopped carding me after my second visit. This did limit my libations to the one locale; however you make due with what you have right? Better than a house party with the freshman, right? Scoff. However, this meant endless minutes of flirting with Andrew before I could join my friends on the dance floor — then what felt like endless minutes of ridicule for shamelessly flirting with the bouncer.
Side note: What I wouldn’t give for a house party right now. As it happens, once you enter the world of the working-[wo]man people start to care about their dwellings enough to limit the beer-spilling, mess-causing keggers that produce the best dance EVER.
Fast-forward to this past year when passing through Spo after a weekend of skiing, J and I were invited to a house party. SCORE! ::queue dance party remix:: After a successful night of house-partying it up – we called a cab. I quickly curled up, closed my eyes and drifted off while J proceeded to have the following conversation with our almost English speaking cab driver.
Cab drive: So, what do you do over there for work?
J explains his job..putting me into a deeper sleep.
Cab drive: Whatthewenchdo?
J: The who? What?
Cab driver: Whatthewenchdo? The WENCH. What does SHE do?
I imagine that passing out on someone’s shoulder at 1am gives him the right to refer to me as a wench; however while assigning me that nickname why even bother asking about my profession? Urban Dictionary defines a wench as:
“A voluptuous female pirate type woman, usually with a firey attitude, and usually seen around taverns and bars, seaside fishing towns, and wherever pirates roam.”
“Historically a non-derogatory word for a woman who was not a lady. Thus a waitress in times of yore was a “serving wench.” more modernly synonymous with bitch or slut but slightly less offensive.”
I will give him voluptuous and firey – otherwise it seems he peg-legged me as a slutty waitress.
Which, looking back at my waitressing days, is debatable.