I ate a heck of a lot of donuts during my senior year of high school. Going out to eat wasn’t much of a thing when I was growing up. But by 1998 there was a change in the government, the nuclear power plant was back on, and there were early signs of development and Westernization, which brought businesses catering to developing and Westward-looking youth. My aggressive sweet tooth was happy because one such business was Yum-Yum Donuts (with an aesthetic rather reminiscent of Dunkin’ Donuts).
The pink and yellow lettering of the donut shop clashed with the moody image I was starting to cultivate, but unlike being all rock-n-roll and sitting on a cold park bench with a guitar, the donut shop promised warmth and coolness-by-association for the low low price of 25 cents: the price of a donut. The coolness was provided by other Yum-Yum patrons: boys wearing baseball hats, cargo pants, and Timberland boots, and girls with short hair, crop tops, and heavy eyeliner (it was 1999, people). So I would drag my best friend, Karine, to eat donuts and hate watch all the cool kids (we were certainly not cool enough). Until one day when Yum-Yum was full, and two of the really hip boys asked to sit with us.
The boys were Henry and Van (names altered to protect the innocent – y’all know who you are – love you both). I was 16 and moderately boy-crazy. The boys were funny (we’ve already covered how much I love people with whom I laugh), and I twirled my hair throughout the entire conversation. Karine was quickly over my hair twirling and these boys. But on my way out I did something that nice Armenian girls were absolutely not supposed to do – I wrote my number down on a piece of paper and left it for the boys.
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Packing List for Immigration 