October 25, 2010
After much hard work (none of it by me), I now have my own official site! Although we are still working out some weird glitches, the sight is basically functioning. All future stories will be posted to the new It’s Not That Complicated site. A new story is soon to follow…get excited people.
The new site is: http://notcomplicated.net/
For those who have already subscribed, unfortunately there was no way to transfer your email addresses to the new site. Please go under Sign Me Up to continue to get email notifications.
Thanks for reading!
October 18, 2010
One of my good friends who is a teacher not only is beautiful but also the sweetest, nicest person you’ll ever meet. People are constantly trying to set her up with men. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like “dating.”
I mean, I really can’t understand what she is talking about. Who doesn’t love telling the same tired stories over and over? Who doesn’t love being all appropriate, polite and dignified? Who doesn’t love hiding their obsession with small people and facial hair?
Oh. Too soon?
After much persistence by his mother, she finally agreed to be set up with the son of her school’s bus driver. And the bus driver planned the date, time and place. She even went so far to set up a Facebook account for her son, as he was “just too busy.”
As a neurologist, I imagine he is busy. But what 40-year-old man has his mother set up a Facebook account for him?
Red flag! Mayday mayday!
So she had yet to speak or email with Mama’s Boy, but figured she had nothing to lose. They met at a local Italian restaurant. Mama’s Boy was very handsome, fit and, for all intents and purposes, looked surprisingly normal.
Unfortunately, he spent the ENTIRE date talking about medical terminology. My friend basically slept with her eyes open and pretended that she was interested in knowing the chemistry of the human brain. There was a lot of head nodding and hmm hmming.
Although a very successful man, he clearly had some social awkwardness. On the right person, it can be endearing. But if you can get blackout drunk during a conversation – take a shot every time your date says “Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors” – clearly there are some issues with your date’s choice of conversation topics.
The kicker was when the date came to an end, as they were walking to their respective cars, Mama’s Boy (and I quote) said, “Well, my mom has your email, so….”
My friend actually emailed him after the date hoping a gentle nudge would get him to step up to the plate. Mama’s Boy essentially just answered the questions in her email but did not follow up on whether she wanted to go out on another date. What he did do, was talk to his Mom about the situation.
His mom then seemed surprised when she contacted my friend about setting up a second date with her son and was informed by my friend that she was not interested in going out on another date.
Although she had been having some problems sleeping lately. Perhaps they could set up a time to talk for him to tell her a story over the phone?
Don’t have your mom plan your dates. Don’t have your mom set up your Facebook account.
If you want to date a grown-ass woman (i.e., hips, boobs and a proclivity for sex with men), then cut the umbilical cord, find your balls and act like a grown-ass man.
Seriously. It’s not that complicated!
October 15, 2010
So, I do enjoy going to a fun gay bar on occasion. As a woman, there is absolutely no pressure because no one notices you. I like to dust off my old miniskirt, try out some new eye shadow techniques and then go shake my groove thang. It also helps that gay men like to fawn over me and tell me how beautiful I am, which is never a bad thing to hear.
A few months ago I met up with some friends in Boystown. Sure enough, I had opted to wear a rather short skirt. We claimed a table in the back near the dance floor. Before we knew it, the place started to fill up. On pure luck alone the area we choose to sit was apparently a lesbian-designated area. I caught a few wandering glances in my direction (I still got it!) and high-fived myself proudly. I had somewhat forgotten the opportunities to score with some lesbians and regretted not wearing my purple sparkly tassles as previously planned. Look and love ladies, look and love!
Again, part of the joy of being at a gay bar is the feeling of inhibition. It’s amazing! I love to dance, and it’s nice to be able to rock out knowing there is no chance of some young annoying guy trying to “tap” anything I’m shaking.
The dance floor was not too crowded, leaving ample space for me to try out my new tap dance routine (Tea…for two…and two…for tea). As I’m shuffling and shaking my head all around, I noticed a little Mexican man who seemed to be impressed by my amazing dance moves. He was probably 100 pounds soaking wet and was gyrating his pelvis in a way that can only be described as feminine. I eagerly checked in my purse for a pen to make sure I was prepared when he asked me to autograph his butt check.
Then, suddenly, this tiny man was behind me and dancing with me. And by dance I mean hump like a dog in heat. I was a little perplexed at this, as he was CLEARLY of the homosexual variety. And he was CLEARLY excited about something, which most likely was not the fact that I was the proud owner of a vagina. Unless he had a roll of quarters in his pocket, which is what I crossed my fingers, toes and eyes for.
My moves are good, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t go turning gay people straight by any sense of the word.
I turned around and giggled uncomfortably, but he did not even seem to notice and continued humping away. I then attempted to break loose from his grasp and walk away, but he held on to me tighter than I would grasp a loaf of pumpernickel bread from the Cheesecake Factory. Once I broke free and was able to walk away, he followed me, staying right on my ass and humping away.
He literally humped my ass across the entire dance floor as I tried to make a break for it. I was so confused!
I somehow released myself from his grip and got back to our table, then took a few minutes to softly knead my now bruised buttocks. My ass took a pounding! I asked my gay friend, who informed me the guy was likely “on” something and I was simply a means to an end.
Of all the people on the dance floor, why did he choose ME as his personal masturbation assistant? Seriously, this stuff just doesn’t happen to other (read: normal) people.
Moral of the Story:
Karma is a bitch. I deserved to be humped by a tiny Mexican man given all the dry humping I have done to unsuspecting people in my past.
My only problem is at least stick with your own persuasion. I was actually a bit upset at his actions. Not only was he so desperate to get his rocks off that he felt the need to hump a random stranger on the dance floor, but he also chose a woman to do this.
I at least have standards!
October 11, 2010
There were several “Leigh” stories that came from my Australia trip. I’m a moron. I do stupid stuff all the time. It seems to be heightened when vacationing, as my mind literally is in the clouds. How I have not been pick-pocketed or robbed is a modern-day miracle. I walk around with a big goofy grin on my face, looking up at the sky, practically wearing a sign that says: “I have hundreds of small, unmarked bills in my unzipped pocket right next to my camera and passport, please take them!”
During my Australia trip, my friend and I made our way to the Outback. We opted to join a tour group as a means to coordinate and make sure we saw everything we wanted to. We were at least 20 years younger than the other tourists in the group. Everyone called us “the girls.”
Part of the tour involved long treks on a bus travelling across hot deserts of nothingness. The silver lining was the “rest stops.” Australian rest stops basically consist of a diner, some caged exotic animals (kangaroos, ostrich and emu are exotic to me!), a gift shop/convenience store and bathrooms. We were on the last leg of our trip to Alice Springs when we stopped at a rest stop that the bus driver informed us was well known for its milkshakes.
Ding, ding, ding!!! Folks, we have a winner!!!
I quickly scarfed down food of some nutritional value, then eagerly waited in line for a milkshake. I ordered a HUGE Oreo-type milkshake. It was delectable. I then decided to hit the washroom real quick before we got back on the bus. I was eagerly sucking on my milkshake straw like it was my lifeline to air while trapped in a pit of quicksand. Heaven!
About 30 minutes after we left the rest stop my friend and I decided to look through the pictures on my camera. I went to grab my purse at my feet, where I had been keeping it.
Hmm, that’s odd. No purse.
I looked behind my friend’s feet. No purse.
I checked the pockets in the seats. Nothing.
Panic began to set in. I jumped up and looked in the overhead bin. No purse. I started tearing through the bin and our seats like they may have been hiding bits of cheese. My heart was pumping rapidly as I realized my purse was not there. I must have left it in the bathroom … at a rest stop … in the middle of the desert!!!!!
I was SO transfixed by that god damn milkshake that I left my PURSE hanging in the restroom stall. And in my purse was my camera (the only one of the trip because my friend had broken hers right before I arrived) and my wallet housing my IDs, passport, money and credit cards. Oh my god!
I tore up to the bus driver like my ass was on fire and he was holding a bucket of water. I’m a rather unbalanced person so on my frenzied journey I bounced and swayed into all the seats and people. I’m pretty sure I may have broken some of these geezers’ faces with my pumping elbows.
“We have a problem!” I panted to the bus driver. “I think I left my purse at the rest stop.” I wiped at the sweat dripping down my face like a tweaker coming off meth. “You think?” he asked warily. “Well, it’s not here.” I said. He informed me he would try to radio to another bus in the touring company that was several hours behind us. They could pick up the purse and I could get it in Alice Springs. Unfortunately, because we were in the middle of the f’ing DESERT, the radio was not working.
There goes that option.
I did have one thing working in my favor. I was a nubile twenty-something woman in a sea of old people. My (semi) pert breasts and taut skin were a welcome sight for this red-blooded man who had actively been flirting with my friend and me the entire trip. He offered to turn the bus around and go back to the rest stop so I could get my purse.
I almost jumped on his lap to thank him before I remembered he was driving a bus full of people. I opted to clap and smile instead.
When we got to the rest stop I hurled myself off the bus on a dead run to the bathroom. I ran through every stall.
My heart stopped as I fought back tears. How could I be so stupid? Damn you, milkshake, damn you!
My feet dragged as I left the bathroom. That’s when I saw my friend sauntering toward me holding … my purse! Someone had found it and given it to the convenience store workers. Hooray!
We ended up getting to Alice Springs about an hour late. Fortunately, everyone on the tour was very kind about the whole situation. I offered to meet everyone at the local casino to buy them a drink later that evening.
What did I do instead? We checked into our hotel and I accidentally passed out super early and did not, in fact, buy a single person a drink.
I am going to hell.
When in a foreign country, it’s probably best to not have ALL your IDs, credit cards and your passport in ONE area. Any moron knows this. Second, when opting between holding onto your MILKSHAKE and holding onto your PURSE, hold onto your purse.
Seriously. It’s not that complicated.
All I can say, though, is thank you dimples and DDs. Once again you have come through for me in a clutch.
Jiggle jiggle, giggle giggle, oh la la!
October 7, 2010
Once a month at The Burlington is a sex show. And no, it’s not what you think! This show involves gifted writers who share their comedic sex and dating stories for the entire bar to hear. In between storytelling time they have trivia and answer questions from the audience. It’s all in good fun!
After attending my last Cubs game of the season (and starting to drink at noon), I made my way over to The Burlington to attend my first Sunday Night Sex Show. My good friend was reading and I was going to support, and possibly embarrass, her with my drunken revelry.
I recognized very quickly that the evening was going to be a success when the HOT bartender with long, stringy blonde hair and soulful eyes was responsive to my ogling and began to give me drinks for free. Excessive drinking at no cost was exactly what I needed! I’m sure that’s not all he would have given me for free – I plan to come visit you again soon Sean!
The point of this story is I met a guy who was funny, intelligent and seemingly normal (a real rarity).
Oh, and this guy is NOT Sean.
Anyway, I was a bit concerned because he technically worked for the Catholic Church. My response to that? “Really? Shit. I don’t possibly see how this will ever work.” Cue lightening, deafening clap of thunder…AND SCENE!
Then I realized he was out at 11 p.m. on a school night, so how “churchy” could he be?
We made plans to go out a few days later. A few internal red flags went up after receiving some texts from him, including one asking me if I had made out with anyone after he left Sunday. I responded by telling him that was none of his business, and asked him “What kind of question was that?” Also when going back and forth via text about where to go on our date he actually wrote “Couchy or outy?”
Couchy? Seriously? What kind of girl do you think I am? Um, aren’t you like hard-core Catholic? Not to mention, who uses the word “couchy?”
I think he thought I was a wild child, which I guess is partially true. Look buddy, I may know how to have a good time, but I’m not a total slut! (Unless your name is Sean and you are a just-dirty-enough bartender who works at various drinking establishments in Logan Square/West Town, have long, greasy hair and picture-perfect facial hair, looking like you just got off the set of an Anthrax video with your tight shirt, sweaty muscles rippling – CALL ME!)
Regardless, I was quite excited at non-Sean’s suggestion to go to a divey German bar. I had gone by it a million times but had never been inside. It appeared equal parts eccentric and unassuming, which is right up my alley. I mean, I like a nice restaurant or fancy bar every once and awhile, but first dates are awkward enough – the divey place is where it’s at!
I, of course, arrived early, as I’m a sucker for punctuality. The place is PACKED. Literally packed. There are absolutely no seats to be found EXCEPT two bar stools RIGHT NEXT to the musician. Strangely, this musician looked an awful lot like my Dad … minus the lederhosen and electric accordion he had strapped to his chest. For the remainder of this story the musician will be known as Mike as homage to my Dad. (I literally swore that guy could not possibly be German. I asked him his heritage and he said he was 100% Austrian. I swear I could smell feta and olives on his breath though – LIAR!)
Not sure what else to do, I nabbed the two bar stools, ordered a large beer (Prost!) and patiently waited.
It. Was. Loud.
At one point Mike even played “The Chicken Song,” as well as my personal favorite “Roll out the Barrel.” I could not stop giggling to myself. Especially during “The Chicken Song” when he put on a hat with a chicken on it, looked at me and said “I have a rooster” as he winked mischievously. I laughed out loud, and then he said to the crowd, “I knew SHE’d like that!”
Of course, Alter Boy was FIFTEEN minutes late. Because I had arrived ten minutes early, this is almost 30 minutes of me giggling to myself at Mike and downing my stein. Getting drunk is what you get for being late!
He finally arrived and took stock of the situation. “I swear every time I’ve been here it’s been dead!” he said in shock. Well, it is the end of September. Hello Oktoberfest.
I honestly wish I could have discreetly gotten video documentation of the night. It was indescribable. We could barely hear each other talking! And I swear EVERY time Alter Boy went to ask me a question or tell me a story, Mike would start going to town on cowbells. Literally in front of Mike was a table of about twenty bells of varying sizes. Regardless of the size, they were all loud. RIGHT NEXT TO US. At one point Alter Boy said to me, “I SERIOUSLY think he’s doing this on purpose!” We couldn’t stop laughing.
The icing on the cake was when Mike brought out a ten-foot-long Riccola horn thing. So Mike and his accordion and table of cowbells were to our right. Mike had his lips to the horn, which was traveling right behind us (hitting my back, no joke), coming to a resting point on the bar to my left. So, essentially, we were trapped between a horn, a bar and a table of cowbells. We could not move even if we wanted to!
As the night progressed, two spots opened up at the main bar and we were able to claim those seats and eat some very delicious German food (I strangely chose to order a veal loaf, which came with a fried egg and the best potato salad I’ve ever had). More important, we could actually hear one another talk.
We both agreed the night was fun, but “weird.”
Cue giggling, accordion and an Austrian imposter of my Dad.
When researching a bar or restaurant to meet a first date, you may want to make sure it’s not some crazy Oktoberfest party…where the only two seats in the very small establishment are next to an accordion player whose musical range includes “The Chicken Dance.” Although I find nothing sexier than flapping my arms like a chicken and shaking my butt, it does not inspire romantic feelings in most other people.
It ends up Alter Boy is only 24. I am trying to keep an open mind. Although that’s becoming increasingly difficult for reasons that will likely become another blog post.
If I was a betting woman, I would say we’ll continue talking and I’ll likely lose interest when I become distracted by a nonchalant dirty bartender who I have almost nothing in common with and most likely isn’t “looking for a relationship.” Historically, that is way more my type.
October 4, 2010
It’s another beautiful Saturday and I can once again be found at Wrigley Field. A bunch of friends and I had bleacher tickets, and man was it a hot one that day. The only way to cool down was to chug beer!
After the game my friends and I did a bar crawl of sorts and ended up at the classy joint Sluggers. Given my stumbling and double vision I figured it was the perfect opportunity to go upstairs and show off by playing some games.
My eye-hand coordination is sub par when I’m sober, so you can only imagine what it’s like when I’m drunk.
I decided my first victim would be the skee-ball machine. As I started rolling the balls up the ramp I realized they are not going in where I’d like them to go in. Well, I knew how to remedy the situation: I proceeded to gather all the balls up in my arms, jump onto the ramp and race up it, and start violently slamming the balls in the coveted middle circle (high points!). One of the Sluggers employees ran over to me waving his arms like he was an air traffic controller, requesting that I get down.
Not only did I get down, but I proceeded to jump off the ramp as I twirled into the sky. Triple salchow!
Considering I was very close to getting kicked out, my friends suggested we hit up the batting cages. The only better addition to the alcohol+midget combination is a steel bat! I promptly put in my coins, stomped up to the plate and took my stance.
The first few pitches shot out and, to be honest, I cannot remember if I even made contact, but I do remember thinking that whatever I was doing was not grand slam material. So I choked up on the bat and inched closer and closer to the plate.
Actually, I’m pretty sure I was on the plate at this point. Then, all of a sudden, WHAM! I get hit with the ball! At this, I was furious. Who did this pitcher think s/he is???
I began cursing this evil pitcher as I waved my bat in the air and raced to the “mound” in anger. I’ll show this punk pitcher what Leigh is made of!
My friends started shouting at me, “Leigh! Leigh! It’s a machine, it’s a machine!” I realized that in man vs. robot I probably would have no chance and sulked back to the plate.
I was so drunk I thought there was an actual person pitching, that they hit me on purpose and therefore required a swift steel bat to the head.
The kicker? After this happened I disappeared for some time but then re-appeared with never-ending baskets of fries, mozzarella sticks, quesadillas, etc. My friends were quite confused about how this magic happened, as they had my purse and I disappeared with no money.
God only knows what I did to get this delicious food. Sigh.
I had to refuel, though, for the second inning!
Moral of the Story:
If you suck at baseball sober, you’re probably not going to be any better when you’re drunk.
If anyone sees me stumbling the streets of Chicago, there is probably one thing you should never, EVER put in my hands – a steel bat. I will likely show off my ninja skills and either render myself unconscious when attempting to use it as a nunchuck or likely destroy and terrorize small children and/or dogs.
I pity da’ fool!
September 30, 2010
I’m not sure if I just have horrible luck or perhaps am more in tune to noticing when strange things occur. (I can be quite observant!) Regardless, I have way more stories about massages than, I would guess, most people. Why, you may ask, do I continue to get them a few times a year? Ummmm … because they feel AWEsome. That’s why.
Also, as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized the only way to ensure human contact on my never-touched-by-strangers regions is to pay someone to touch them. Sigh.
My first massage experience was when I was 13. My best friend celebrated her birthday with me and our other two best friends at a nearby salon. Her mom let us pick any service we wanted!!! I was in quite the conundrum of what to choose. Unfortunately, I grew up in a house with one of the most unfrilly Moms around. My mom doesn’t like shopping, doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t paint her nails and up until just recently had never stepped foot in a “spa.”
My one friend and I opted for massages. I was led to a dimly lit room with soft, soothing music piping out from invisible speakers. The room smelled of lavender. I felt like such a lady!
My molester … I mean, my massage specialist informed me I could disrobe “to my comfort level” and climb under the blanketed cot. I was 13 so naturally I left my underwear on. Hell, I may have even left on my bra. At that age I was awkward and not yet comfortable with my body. Not as comfortable as, say, a 31-year-old alcoholic may be.
I believe the last time I got a massage I informed the massage therapist that she didn’t have to leave the room when I changed and told her no sheet would be necessary. Then I spread my legs apart and showed her the strange rash developing on my labia minora.
Ok, again, being dramatic, but there is quite a difference in comfort levels at 13 and 31!
As she began to rub out the non-existent stress in my yet-to-have-any-actual-responsibility back, she started to work her way down to my lower back. I am being lulled to a state of relaxation.
As I am dreamily fantasizing about being asked out by the current 8th grade stud of the moment, “Perhaps to dinner at Applebee’s…hmmm, they have such a good Oreo shake…and fries…mmm,” when suddenly I am jarred from this fantasy as I feel my underwear being ripped down.
My butt cheeks clamped together like a nutcracker on a walnut. What the hell was going on? My rapist then started kneading my clenched butt checks like a baker taking out her frustration on pizza dough.
Having no idea what a real massage entailed I was thinking this was part of it? I wasn’t very comfortable, hadn’t found my real voice yet, so I just let my ass be pummeled like any good girl should.
I was relieved when she finally lost interest in my derriere, whipped my underwear back over my tired booty and told me to flip over.
As she was working on my left arm she began to ask me about my “accident.”
“What accident?” I responded cautiously.
“Well,” my molester haughtily retorted, “it’s clear you’ve fractured or seriously dislocated this arm before. What was it? A car accident? Bike accident? What?”
“I’ve never been in a car accident before,” I stammered, scared as she started to get more aggressive with my virgin epidermis.
“No. You’ve had an accident. I can tell!” she responded.
Seriously lady. There is about to be an accident in about 5 seconds. This accident will involve me urinating all over your stupid cot in your stupid lavender-smelling room with the stupid music that sounds like I just dropped into a cave of bumblebees and Native Americans.
When I rejoined my friends apparently my face was drained of color and I refused to talk about the massage. I think it was not until about an hour later over pie slices at Bakers’ Square that I came clean about my molester/massager pulling down my underwear and massaging my butt.
“Did your lady do that to you?” I asked my friend, my eyes filled with hope.
“No way! Ew!” she responded as she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
To this day my friend’s Mom still talks about the “incident” at the salon and feels terrible about my first molestation experience being under her watch and her dime.
If you are a massage therapist working on a 13-year-old girl who leaves her underwear on, do NOT rip them off. Do not even go close to her pubescent butt.
Do. Not. Go. There.
This will freak her out for several years.
I repeat: Pulling down the underwear of a 13-year-old girl will FREAK. HER. OUT.
I did not go for another massage until about 15 years later. And, of course, trouble ensued….
To Be Continued