The Red Shirt Chronicles
It's time. The plans for "The Red Shirt Chronicles and Other Disasters" have been laid for quite a while now. Although I have written much that could easily fall under the heading of "other disasters," I have yet to actually immortalize THE Red Shirt Chronicles. The following stories are absolutely true, and I was absolutely wearing "the" red shirt on each of these occasions. So here they are, appearing in print for the first time ever...
Preamble
The year was 2001. Picture, if you will, a bright-eyed, idealistic, and hopelessly romantic 19-year-old girl whose luck with men up until that point had been, well, nonexistent. Then, one not-extraordinary day in June, everything changed. That same girl chanced to purchase a magical red shirt from someplace like Old Navy. Said shirt was not low-cut, tight, glittery, gold-lined, diamond-studded, scented like chocolate chip cookies, or otherwise spectacular, but for some reason that shirt was IT. This magical shirt transformed this girl from ordinary into a veritable "magnet for the weird" in an astoundingly short time span. Suddenly, she was being invited on dates right and left, albeit with men she would not have chosen for herself...
The Red Shirt Chronicles
The first tale in these chronicles stars a man who has come to be affectionately known as "Nine-oh-five-er-so Ted*" (*names have been changed to protect involved parties). He was a friend of a friend, and to be fair, was not an altogether bad guy. We met whilst having dessert at Cafe Latte one night, and he was the first male to fall victim to the red shirt. He asked my friend for my number and called the next day.
We decided to meet in Uptown for dinner. (Side note: The 19-year-old version of Erinn had no clue how to get to Uptown, nor could she be persuaded to drive there for any reason. So she did what any reasonable young lady would do, which is ask her father to drop her off and then make up some lie about not being able to borrow the car). Everything was going fine. Suddenly, somewhere in the middle of our discussion about techno music, which I was not and still am not at all interested in, Ted suddenly stopped short, and asked, "So, um....how are you going to get home? I mean, I would drive you....if I didn't have to be at home SLEEPING!" At home sleeping? I'm pretty sure it was approximately 7:30 pm. The date kind of went downhill from there, however, Ted didn't seem to notice. After nearly departing from the restaurant without paying the bill (I don't expect guys to pay for me, but he seemingly was not even planning on paying his half!), I had a decided that Ted was not the guy for me. At least he had the decency to walk me out to the car to meet my dad, who I had called in a state of utter embarrassment to come to pick me up.
Ted promised to call again soon. And call he did. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to answer the phone, because he left what was undoubtedly one of the top three most hilarious messages to ever be left on the Danielson family answering machine. (We saved it on the machine for almost a year until my Mom decided to record it into one of those talking picture frames, which I later received as a Christmas present.) The message went something like this, and MUST be read with the worst possible Minnesota sing-song accent you can muster: "Hi Erinn...it's about niiiiiine-oh-fiiiiive-er-so, just called to see what was goin' on, no big deal!!!" That was the last I ever heard from him. At least I can still play his message on my picture frame whenever I need a little pick-me-up.
Not even a month later, the red shirt again worked its magic. I was working as a nanny for my neighbors across the street at the time, and one of the kids I took care of was a huge skateboard enthusiast. Since no aspiring skater boy should ever have to go without his very own quarterpipe ramp to practice on, the proper reinforcements were immediately summoned. Yes, good old Dad had actually hired "Chad" to build a miniature skateboard park in the family's driveway. While I was able to properly identify and comment about all the parts of a skateboard ("Hey, nice trucks! "Oh, is that new grip tape?" "That kid has the ugliest deck I've ever seen!" etc.), I never mastered the ollie, the railgrind, or in fact, even standing up on one of the darn things. I guess my elementary knowledge of terminology must have impressed someone, because before Chad packed up his skateboard-ramp-mobile for the last time, he asked me if I might like to go out for drinks sometime. "Um...how old are you?" I asked, stalling for time a bit. "29," he answered. "Well, I'm 19. And I think that you are a little too old for me." "Oh, I thought you were at least 21." "Nope." "Oh. Oh well." Unfortunately, the professional skateboard ramp builder and I were not to be. It's alright, I'm pretty sure he's dating Avril Lavigne now.
Several weeks passed without further ado. Finally, one afternoon, as I was outside making encouraging comments about the progress of all the neighborhood hooligans' skateboarding skills, one of those overzealous magazine sales-people showed up. I told him that we didn't want any magazines, which was fine with him, but he decided he wanted to stay around for awhile and chat with us. I learned over the course of the next few minutes that his friends called him "Eminem" because coincidentally enough, he was also a rapper from Detroit! He also considered himself to be quite a fantastic skateboarder, and asked if he might try to impress us on the newly-crafted quarterpipe. I told him absolutely not, which he disregarded. He went ahead and "dropped in" from the skateboard ramp--right through my neighbor's wooden fence. As I stood, fuming, wondering what to do about this infuriating magazine salesman who had just broken my neighbor's fence in half, Eminem had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to come "party with him at the Baymont Inn!" I most certainly did not. He was probably happy that I asked for his name and phone number anyway, since I was pretty sure that the parents would want to know who was responsible for the broken fence.
I guess I should have known better by this time than to wear the red shirt out swing dancing, but some people just never learn. I rarely, if ever, can find a male interested in coming out dancing with me, so I usually go with my sister or a friend and just dance with whomever happens to be around. Usually, I end up dancing the night away with 83-year-olds, but I don't really mind, because they are often quite good. On one particular evening, however, I was dancing with "Sayid", a balding man from Bangladesh. (I have nothing against balding men, I only use this detail to point out that he was likely many years older than I was.) He was absolutely fascinated to find out that I was a musician. He told me that he was planning on going back to Bangladesh to start a rock band! Thinking we might actually have something in common, I asked him if he sang or played an instrument. "Oh, no," he said. "Would you like to go out to a dinner?" I may or may not have made up a little white lie at this point. I wasn't sure how aforementioned rock band was going to come into existence without the presence of actual instruments, but I wished him the best of luck. I'm sure he's all over the Bengali version of MTV. To think, I could have gone out to dinner with a future rock star! I don't know what I was thinking.
As I mentioned, some people just never learn, and the following summer I had yet again made the mistake of wearing the red shirt swing dancing. What I am about to describe is probably my favorite incident yet. I was dancing with Roger (ok, that actually was his name) and he was feeling quite chatty. "So," he asked, "what do you do for fun?" "Well, music stuff...playing, singing, dancing, etc," I answered. "How about you?" "Weeeelllllllll....I've always wanted to take up sewing." When I asked him about this interesting choice of hobbies, he informed me that he'd always had a secret dream of making costumes that looked the characters from his favorite video games. I may have been missing out when I turned down his invitation for dinner the next week, but that was a risk I was quite willing to take. I only regret that he wasn't around to whip me up an adorable video-game costume for my Halloween party.
The red shirt has been tabled, or rather, closeted, since that incident. It's still hanging there; I can't quite bring myself to get rid of it. Who knows what luck it could bring me in the future? Will the red shirt chronicles end at episode five? Only time will tell....
Preamble
The year was 2001. Picture, if you will, a bright-eyed, idealistic, and hopelessly romantic 19-year-old girl whose luck with men up until that point had been, well, nonexistent. Then, one not-extraordinary day in June, everything changed. That same girl chanced to purchase a magical red shirt from someplace like Old Navy. Said shirt was not low-cut, tight, glittery, gold-lined, diamond-studded, scented like chocolate chip cookies, or otherwise spectacular, but for some reason that shirt was IT. This magical shirt transformed this girl from ordinary into a veritable "magnet for the weird" in an astoundingly short time span. Suddenly, she was being invited on dates right and left, albeit with men she would not have chosen for herself...
The Red Shirt Chronicles
The first tale in these chronicles stars a man who has come to be affectionately known as "Nine-oh-five-er-so Ted*" (*names have been changed to protect involved parties). He was a friend of a friend, and to be fair, was not an altogether bad guy. We met whilst having dessert at Cafe Latte one night, and he was the first male to fall victim to the red shirt. He asked my friend for my number and called the next day.
We decided to meet in Uptown for dinner. (Side note: The 19-year-old version of Erinn had no clue how to get to Uptown, nor could she be persuaded to drive there for any reason. So she did what any reasonable young lady would do, which is ask her father to drop her off and then make up some lie about not being able to borrow the car). Everything was going fine. Suddenly, somewhere in the middle of our discussion about techno music, which I was not and still am not at all interested in, Ted suddenly stopped short, and asked, "So, um....how are you going to get home? I mean, I would drive you....if I didn't have to be at home SLEEPING!" At home sleeping? I'm pretty sure it was approximately 7:30 pm. The date kind of went downhill from there, however, Ted didn't seem to notice. After nearly departing from the restaurant without paying the bill (I don't expect guys to pay for me, but he seemingly was not even planning on paying his half!), I had a decided that Ted was not the guy for me. At least he had the decency to walk me out to the car to meet my dad, who I had called in a state of utter embarrassment to come to pick me up.
Ted promised to call again soon. And call he did. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to answer the phone, because he left what was undoubtedly one of the top three most hilarious messages to ever be left on the Danielson family answering machine. (We saved it on the machine for almost a year until my Mom decided to record it into one of those talking picture frames, which I later received as a Christmas present.) The message went something like this, and MUST be read with the worst possible Minnesota sing-song accent you can muster: "Hi Erinn...it's about niiiiiine-oh-fiiiiive-er-so, just called to see what was goin' on, no big deal!!!" That was the last I ever heard from him. At least I can still play his message on my picture frame whenever I need a little pick-me-up.
Not even a month later, the red shirt again worked its magic. I was working as a nanny for my neighbors across the street at the time, and one of the kids I took care of was a huge skateboard enthusiast. Since no aspiring skater boy should ever have to go without his very own quarterpipe ramp to practice on, the proper reinforcements were immediately summoned. Yes, good old Dad had actually hired "Chad" to build a miniature skateboard park in the family's driveway. While I was able to properly identify and comment about all the parts of a skateboard ("Hey, nice trucks! "Oh, is that new grip tape?" "That kid has the ugliest deck I've ever seen!" etc.), I never mastered the ollie, the railgrind, or in fact, even standing up on one of the darn things. I guess my elementary knowledge of terminology must have impressed someone, because before Chad packed up his skateboard-ramp-mobile for the last time, he asked me if I might like to go out for drinks sometime. "Um...how old are you?" I asked, stalling for time a bit. "29," he answered. "Well, I'm 19. And I think that you are a little too old for me." "Oh, I thought you were at least 21." "Nope." "Oh. Oh well." Unfortunately, the professional skateboard ramp builder and I were not to be. It's alright, I'm pretty sure he's dating Avril Lavigne now.
Several weeks passed without further ado. Finally, one afternoon, as I was outside making encouraging comments about the progress of all the neighborhood hooligans' skateboarding skills, one of those overzealous magazine sales-people showed up. I told him that we didn't want any magazines, which was fine with him, but he decided he wanted to stay around for awhile and chat with us. I learned over the course of the next few minutes that his friends called him "Eminem" because coincidentally enough, he was also a rapper from Detroit! He also considered himself to be quite a fantastic skateboarder, and asked if he might try to impress us on the newly-crafted quarterpipe. I told him absolutely not, which he disregarded. He went ahead and "dropped in" from the skateboard ramp--right through my neighbor's wooden fence. As I stood, fuming, wondering what to do about this infuriating magazine salesman who had just broken my neighbor's fence in half, Eminem had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to come "party with him at the Baymont Inn!" I most certainly did not. He was probably happy that I asked for his name and phone number anyway, since I was pretty sure that the parents would want to know who was responsible for the broken fence.
I guess I should have known better by this time than to wear the red shirt out swing dancing, but some people just never learn. I rarely, if ever, can find a male interested in coming out dancing with me, so I usually go with my sister or a friend and just dance with whomever happens to be around. Usually, I end up dancing the night away with 83-year-olds, but I don't really mind, because they are often quite good. On one particular evening, however, I was dancing with "Sayid", a balding man from Bangladesh. (I have nothing against balding men, I only use this detail to point out that he was likely many years older than I was.) He was absolutely fascinated to find out that I was a musician. He told me that he was planning on going back to Bangladesh to start a rock band! Thinking we might actually have something in common, I asked him if he sang or played an instrument. "Oh, no," he said. "Would you like to go out to a dinner?" I may or may not have made up a little white lie at this point. I wasn't sure how aforementioned rock band was going to come into existence without the presence of actual instruments, but I wished him the best of luck. I'm sure he's all over the Bengali version of MTV. To think, I could have gone out to dinner with a future rock star! I don't know what I was thinking.
As I mentioned, some people just never learn, and the following summer I had yet again made the mistake of wearing the red shirt swing dancing. What I am about to describe is probably my favorite incident yet. I was dancing with Roger (ok, that actually was his name) and he was feeling quite chatty. "So," he asked, "what do you do for fun?" "Well, music stuff...playing, singing, dancing, etc," I answered. "How about you?" "Weeeelllllllll....I've always wanted to take up sewing." When I asked him about this interesting choice of hobbies, he informed me that he'd always had a secret dream of making costumes that looked the characters from his favorite video games. I may have been missing out when I turned down his invitation for dinner the next week, but that was a risk I was quite willing to take. I only regret that he wasn't around to whip me up an adorable video-game costume for my Halloween party.
The red shirt has been tabled, or rather, closeted, since that incident. It's still hanging there; I can't quite bring myself to get rid of it. Who knows what luck it could bring me in the future? Will the red shirt chronicles end at episode five? Only time will tell....
posted by Erinn @ 5:38 PM
2 Comments:
At 10:29 PM,
helmcke said…
Hi Erinn,
The "Red Shirt Chronicles" were really entertaining. Does that mean...you may wear the eponymous clothing on your future trip...? Maybe on your trip you could: wear the red shirt while skateboarding and eating M&Ms and breaking fences. BTW-very impressed that you knew all that about skateboarding. The only skateboarding terms I know are: "Tony Hawk," "half-pike?" and "I think I broke my hip."
At 9:57 AM,
Anonymous said…
can i just say i love your blog? and im excited for your book. someday... yipee!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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