July 29, 2010

I have quite the affinity for rum, as you already may have gathered.

And beer.

And wine.

And vodka.

Hell, if it’s alcohol I probably really like it. But one beverage in particular I especially love is champagne. The problem, though, is that champagne does not love me back. If I drink too much champagne, the likelihood of me crying is 98%. The likelihood of me then yelling at you is 90%.

Odds of me being embarrassed by my behavior the next day? 100%

Now, New Year’s Eve is not exactly my favorite holiday. I hate the hype, the costs, the pressure there is to find someone to hump at midnight.

Did I say hump? I meant kiss. But one reason I do love New Year’s Eve? Free-flowing champagne!

Three years ago I REALLY enjoyed the champagne and ended up being snarky to my best friend, falling down stairs and crying. Trifecta! As a result of this embarrassment I decided it was time to start acting like a responsible adult. I declared January to be The Month of No Alcohol. Banuary, you might say. Many thought I couldn’t do it, but I survived and sadly lost seven pounds by changing nothing else but my alcohol consumption. On a midget, seven pounds is a lot of weight!


The first weekend in February rolled around and I was itching for a bit of the hooch. My friends got wind that I was back and we proceeded to hit it. Hard. The night was full of shots, dancing and more shots.

The next day I woke up feeling horrible and kicking myself for so quickly jumping back into the Land of Bad Decisions. As I began to get my bearings, making sure I had all of my belongings I realized one key item was missing: my pants.

I searched EVERYWHERE. I could not find my pants! I quickly began to worry that perhaps I had taken my pants off at the bar? I called my friends who quickly assured me that my ass was very much covered the last time they saw me. It was winter in Chicago, for Pete’s sake! My friend then informed me of a friend of hers who had once drunkenly removed her clothes BEFORE she even entered her building. Once again, it’s winter in Chicago…I would never do that…right?

I slowly opened the door to my condo and peeked in the hallway…


With a pit in my stomach I traveled down the hallway and turned the corner…


I peered down the stairwell and…

…my jeans are lying in a heap in the middle of the stairwell landing between the third and second floors.

At this point it is 2:00 p.m. and I can only imagine how many of my neighbors have seen my jeans. Oh, what must they have thought!

Banuary should have lasted a little longer.

Moral of the Story:

Keep your pants on. Seriously.

Or at least wait until you enter your home. Then feel free to have a pants off, dance off party as often as you would like.

As my neighbors likely know, this is done frequently at my house.



July 25, 2010

Apparently, not only do I have horrible luck and/or taste in men, but my friends do as well.

A friend of mine was under hot pursuit by a local bartender at her favorite late night hang. He was young, flirtatious and even with his faux mullet was pretty handsome. She agreed to meet him out for a date.

They went out for dinner and were both having a grand old time discussing their common interests, including hair metal bands and jorts (aka, jean shorts). Things were looking good!

After dinner they went to a local bar that my friend frequents a lot. She is friendly with a lot of the other bartenders and patrons. Can you blame the girl? I’ve promised my first born for drink deals.

After a few cocktails, the date excused himself to go to the bathroom. As one Poison song after another played, my friend became a bit concerned, as it had been 10 minutes and he still had not emerged from the bathroom. They had the most romantic seat in the house with a bird’s eye view of the john, so she nervously kept her eyes peeled.

After about 15 minutes she decided to knock on the door to make sure he was ok. When there was no answer after minutes of repeated knocking, she opened the door and lo and behold no one was in there! What she did notice was the very small window was open. She could only surmise he had pulled a Houdini.

How had this 6’2” guy stuffed himself through a window the size of a Gremlin (the 80s monster, not the car)? She sniffed her armpits and checked her face in the brown-stained mirror to ensure everything was in place. Things seemed to be going so well, what happened? She cursed his name, kicked a few of the discarded prophylactics on the floor and proceeded to partake in several rounds of shots. She went home confused but drunk.

The next day she received a call from Houdini who casually asked, “Hey, how are ya?” as if nothing had happened. In a state of shock she responded, “I’m fine, but what the hell happened to you last night? You escaped our date out of the window?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I felt really intimidated and uncomfortable around your guy friends so I just had to leave. I had a lot of fun though! So, wanna grab dinner sometime this week?”

She then pulled a disappearing act of her own by hanging up on him and refusing to answer any of his subsequent calls.

Dating Rule:

If you need to exit a date, regardless of the reasons, use the door. If you have a family emergency and have to go home to shave your grandma’s legs, use the door. If you somehow contract rabies from a squirrel and are foaming at the mouth and need immediate medical attention, use the door. If you are having withdrawl symptoms from your excessive heroin use and need a fix, USE THE DOOR.

Seriously, it’s not that complicated!


July 23, 2010

I pretty much have a love hate relationships with cab drivers. When I’m drunk I love them (most of the time) and manage to get answers to all the relevant questions in life. “What is your favorite cereal?” “If you were a porn star, what would your stage name be?”

On the other hand, I have gotten kicked out of my fair share of cabs for being “unruly.” I’m sorry, but I don’t see a sign that says scissor holds, half Nelsons or any other sweet wrestling move is not allowed.

Or vomiting, for that matter.

So it’s a Thursday night and I had gone to see a concert at the Double Door with some friends. I had the next day off work, so proceeded to polish off my fair share of beer, capping the night off with a few shots of Jameson.

As an FYI, I don’t do shots of Jameson. Or any other sort of whiskey. We are not friends.

The concert ends, I flag down a cab and am off on the way to home sweet home. As we begin our journey I have the irresistible urge for a cigarette. In my opinion, the best addition to any drunken night is a cigarette.

Or a burrito.

Or 80s music.

Or a donkey.

Or a midget.

(Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.)

I decided to ask Mr. Cab Driver if he has any cigarettes for me. He replies that is no problem at all, but would prefer if I sat in the front seat while I smoke. I’m drunk and don’t really think anything of this request. I was just excited that I was getting two steps closer to lung cancer. It will be a great addition to my impending cirrhosis! He pulls over and I climb into the front seat. The fast movements did require some lung capacity, so I was breathing pretty heavily at this point…and sweating.

I happily lit my mooched cigarette and we continued on our way. Strangely, this is the point of the night that gets a little hazy. I blame the Jameson. I’m going to assume there was some leering on his part. But what I do recall is his attempt to get my phone number. I should also tell you Mr. Cab Driver is probably in his late 50s and from another country (although I was too drunk to remember which one).

Fast forward to the next day. I was going to a Cubs game with my brother. He arrived while I was getting ready and I heard him shout to me, “Who is Ed Ferrrrrrdvis?”

I, of course, have no idea and ask him why. He responded, “Cause his phone number is sitting on your table.” I quickly rewind the details of the night and remember the creepy cab ride, and I tell him it must be the cab driver’s number. My brother found it hilarious that I got my cab driver’s phone number and teased me relentlessly for the rest of the day. Knowing how non-confrontational I can be, I’m not surprised that instead of telling my 50+ foreign cab driver I wasn’t interested, I just took his number. Sigh of relief I was not stupid enough to give him mine!

Fast forward to Sunday. I get a call from a strange number. Normally I screen but I had recently broken my cell phone and had lost a lot of numbers. So I answer assuming it is someone I know. “Hello, this is Ed Ferdvis. Do you remember me from Thursday night?”

I am in a state of shock and quickly stammered, “My cab driver???”

“Yes!” he happily responded. “I was calling because I wanted to see if you were available to go out to dinner with me sometime?”

I quickly told him that was not going to happen and hung up the phone. I proceeded to call my brother right away to see if this was a joke of some sort? He was pretty upset he hadn’t thought about pulling this prank on me in the first place.

I was drunk and gave my number to a cab driver I had no interest in AND he knows where I live.

Smart Leigh, real smart.

Moral of the Story:

Do not give your phone number to 50+ year old foreign cab drivers unless you are, in fact, interested in going on a date with them. The morals of these stories will seem pretty simple, but you have to remember you are dealing with a drunken degenerate here. A drunken degenerate with a flair for prose, I should add!

The worst part of the story is that I don’t remember the last time a guy CALLED first to ask me out versus texting me. And it had to be Mr. Ferrrrrrdvis.


July 19, 2010

I’m usually pretty open to setups. Especially when it’s your manager setting you up. My manager is not really aware of my drinking habits, so I would assume she would set me up with someone mature, intelligent and somewhat responsible.

Wrong. She apparently knows me better than I thought.

I agree to a setup and my email and phone number are forwarded. We share a few brief emails while I await a phone call. A few days later, on a Friday night at 7 PM (does he not know about happy hour?), I get a text from him: “So tell me about yourself.”

Really? Over a text?

My mind fast forwards to a likely visit with a hand specialist for trigger thumb. I do not see this conversation going very far. I mean, where do I begin? I’m a brunette midget with a bad rum habit. Oh, and I also like traveling, animals and mustaches.

So, of course, I choose not to respond at all. He texts me back about 20 minutes later: “Oh so I take you’re not a big texter?”

No, moron. I just choose not to get to know a complete stranger OVER TEXT MESSAGE. So I diplomatically respond, stating I didn’t feel texting was a good way to get to know someone. His response was that if I felt that way I could “call him later.”

I wouldn’t hold your breath, buddy.

Throughout the next few weeks he continued to pepper me with emails and text messages without once picking up the phone. Nor did he ask me anything in these texts or emails other than about my day or weekend. I did not respond to any of his messages.

All the while I noticed a strange flurry of unknown numbers calling my phone at all different hours of the day/night and not leaving messages. I assumed my new addiction for adding love notes in seedy bathrooms stalls, “Call this number for a good time,” was finally paying off!

Then I received a voicemail from a woman stating she was setup’s fiancée and wanted me to call her back to see how I knew him. Not one for drama, I ignored this message, choosing to not get involved. She continued to call and send texts pleading with me to call her back and that I could “have him if we were truly in love.”

In the meantime, my manager said she got a strange call asking why I was calling setup’s ex-girlfriend? Apparently the ex told him I was calling HER. WHAT? I then showed her all of the messages and played the voicemails for her.

His ex-girlfriend is very obviously psycho. Check please.

Dating Rule:
First of all, I get the whole text message phenomena. It’s easy, fast and requires no commitment – I’m on board! But to attempt to get to know an absolute stranger over text? Strike 1.

To attempt this during my beloved happy hour? Strike 2.

The fact that you are clearly still in contact with your psycho ex-girlfriend, giving her ample opportunity to look at your text messages while you’re in the shitter and steal my number? Strike 10.

If you’re looking for a hot mess who will drunkenly give you a lap dance on a busy El train, look no further – I’m your gal. If you’re looking for a dramatic psycho bitch who will go through your phone and likely hack into your email, keep on moving, buddy. I’m too drunk to really care that much.


July 17, 2010

Brief background to this story: Everyone should know I love dressing up. Anything with a theme, I’m in. The weirder, the better! If it involves a wig, glasses, cape or chest hair – CALL ME. Halloween is my day of the year not because I can dress like a slut, but because I can look like an ass, and this is the one day of the year it is actually acceptable to look like one. I also can choose characters that like to wrestle, dance or engage in physical violence. It’s a win-win for everyone. Well, except for the person’s face I’m pummeling with my bare hands. “Whatcha’ gonna do brothaaaaaa?!”

Awhile ago I found myself at a late night dive bar. Mind you, this is not at all surprising. If fun is to be had, I want to be the one having it. As I’ve gotten older I’ve been less and less inclined to stay out super late. I can still manage it, but will pay the price for days after.

Ok, late night dive bar. I’ve probably consumed a fair share of rum and was feeling no pain at this point. Most of the night was spent giggling, dancing and drinking. Then suddenly I spotted what I have been dreaming about for months – a helmet! It was hiding in a corner of the bar, but my eagle eyes found it. I raced over to Mr. Helmet, put it on and begin parading it around the bar.

As I’m posed for a picture in the helmet (Profile pic! Tag me!), I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to face a bearded man who I noticed was wearing a jean jacket covered in all sorts of different pins. He was wearing some type of makeshift fedora as well and, if memory serves, a plaid shirt. “You like my helmet?” he asked flirtatiously.

Now, I definitely do not have a “type” when it comes to men. But if I did, it would not involve a jean jacket covered in funky pins from the 80s, 90s and today. Considering I’m drunk and he seems “interesting,” this doesn’t really phase me in the least. We begin talking, I’m sure he bought me a drink or two, then he asked me if I’d like to take a ride on his bike.

When I was little, my uncle used to own a motorcycle and I recall taking rides on it and having a blast. Fast forward 20 years when I’m drunk at a bar at 4 AM, I’m not sure this would be quite the same experience. Considering I was wearing heels, a short dress and he was a virtual stranger, of course I said yes. He even let me wear the helmet!

As we were tooling around the city for what feels like an eternity, I start coming to and realize this was probably not the smartest idea in the world. I squeeze him, he pulled over and I asked him if he could take me home. He respectfully obliged and off we went.

As he pulled up near my place and shut off his “hog,” I realized I was in a bit of a predicament given my outfit. The state of affairs was that my dress was basically up around my waist and if he got off the bike first he would see my jiggles and bits. I guess my chest was mostly covered, but he would definitely see my bits! Instead of waiting for him to dismount, I proceeded to spring off the seat as gracious as a hippopotamus. In the process, I feel intense heat against my calf and heard a loud sizzle. At first I’m hopeful he had somehow found a way to cook me some bacon on this magical bike, but then I realized that was not the case at all.

That’s when I felt the pain that is commonly associated with seering off your skin on a tailpipe. I’m still a bit numb at this point and, not wanting to seem like a wuss, I try to brush off his concern. I raced up the stairs to my place and gave him a wave (but no number), which I’m sure was no great disappointment, as at least he can peel my burnt skin off his bike as a keepsake.

Although I never went to the doctor, it was a pretty bad burn. Like, really bad. I don’t want anyone to lose their appetites, but there was some major blistering and leakage going on for weeks. Not very pretty.

But the worst part about the night? I didn’t even think to rip off one of his sweet pins as a memento.

Moral of the Story:

If you’re going to ride off into the sunset (or sunrise, in my case) on some stranger’s motorcycle when drunk at 4 AM, it is probably a good idea to at least wear pants. Or, at the very least, don’t wear a short, flowy dress that flies up the entire time you are riding. The only thing hotter than having to see my bare ass straddling a big, hot piece of metal is then having to smell my burnt skin residing on your tailpipe. (I’m a Greek – it smells like lemon & oregano!) I will assault every single one of your senses!


July 14, 2010

I like to have a good time. Not a shock to you faithful blog followers. Some might even say I’m wild. Not wild in the “sexy getting naked and riding a mechanical bull” type way … more in the hot mess way of “drinking mass amounts of shots, falling on my face and passing out sans pants while using my own blood as a pizza dipping sauce.”

Hey, we’ve all been there…right?

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with a “not worth detailing his demographics” date. Long story short, I didn’t go out with him again, so who gives a hoot about what his face was like and how unexciting his personality was.

So anyway, we walked back to his car after the date, and as I’m settling into the passenger seat, I detected the undeniable scent of marijuana. I dreamily drifted back to the days of my youth spent waxing poetic about the injustices of war while softly bobbing my head to the sounds of Grateful Dead.

OK, really I thought back to the god-awful time in high school I smoked a heap of the cheapest weed known to man out of an apple (in between shots of straight vodka), vomited profusely, then passed out in the back of some stranger’s car after babbling incoherently for an hour. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely am not anti-weed. But unfortunately when I partake, a large majority of the time I will end up falling asleep after eating, in one sitting, three days’ worth of calories in Thai food or cheesy cardboard. I don’t discriminate.

“You smell that?” he asked me excitedly. “Um, yeah” I responded. I think people in the car next to us who have no sense of smell could smell the marijuana, guy! He then dives under his seat and surfaced with a sandwich baggie housing a very packed bowl. “I thought we could have an after-dinner smoke,” he said.

Now, this is not the first time a guy has brought pot on a first date. This will be the first time I will turn it down, though.

This is growth people.

Dating Rule:

Unless I have dreadlocks, smell of patchouli and/or you meet me at a Phish concert, do not assume I smoke pot. I may have fallen for that shit years ago and let you cop a feel in between hits, but I’m 31 now. I’m tired and I’m hungry enough already.

After the date, I actually somewhat regretted turning him down. If the stuff was good, it would have been the only positive part of the evening!


July 8, 2010

A few years ago, I was hanging out at one of my favorite late night drinking dives, Carol’s Pub. I always have fun here and have yet to contract Leprosy or Hepatitis C. As much as I frequent this joint, really I’m rather lucky! I love it so much I would consider applying for a job, except I’m pretty sure having a lazy eye and/or a nasty meth habit is required.

Wah wah.

So I’m outside of said establishment at 5 a.m. trying to decide which burrito house to hit with some friends. I should mention in this group of individuals I am one of two women.

Hanging around the area is an older gentleman with a dilapidated Schwinn bicycle, who although is quite obviously tipsy, is also pretty friendly and seems harmless.


He goes up to my friend and said: “Lucky girl, you get the pick of the litter!” As she looks around at the sausage fest around her, she explained, “Well, not really, my friend over there is some competition.”

He squinted at me warily and then told my friend, “That’s not a woman – that’s a man!” My friend then shouted over to me, “Hey Leigh, this guy thinks you’re a man!” Drunky then stumbled over in my direction, pointing and repeatedly saying: “That’s a man, that’s a man!”

I’m in quite a state of shock at this point, as I’ve been called a lot of colorful things before, but being mistaken for a man is not among them. Was it my manly hips that gave it away? Or perhaps it’s my 62 inches of pure muscle? No, I know – it must have been my bountiful bosom, which was highlighted in my wrap dress?

“Show me your penis!” he shouted into my face with his fist pumping into the air. My friends started chanting with him. Considering they had removed all signs of my shaft at birth, I’m in quite the conundrum. I decided to just giggle and chant along with them, hoping they would lose interest, which they did.

I did decide to forego the aforementioned burrito, though, to go home and trim my ‘stache.

Moral of the Story:

If you are too drunk to distinguish between whether someone is a man or a woman … seriously dude, what are you drinking and where can I get some???

This really is less of a moral, and more just a plea to help a lady out. If you are reading this, Drunky, I want some of the good stuff. Me and my big ‘ol balls will meet you at Carol’s Saturday night.