On top of being an alcoholic, I am a female. I am also human. I like to be touched. I especially like massages.

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.

Sober Contemplations:

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

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CHEESE HATER

September 26, 2010

Yes, these people truly exist and are not fictional characters in a sci-fi novel or something.

By now you’ve probably figured out that I like to eat.

A lot.

Especially anything that involves cheese.

Fast forward to another date with a guy who was actually quite normal. We had a lot of similar interests and he was very much a gentleman. He picked out a tapas restaurant, so I was quite excited. I could barely sleep the night before as visions of bacon-wrapped dates danced in my head.

As we perused the menu discussing what to order, he casually said, “By the way, I don’t like cheese.”

Doesn’t LIKE cheese? Clearly I must have heard him wrong.

“Oh, so you’re lactose intolerant?” I clarified.

“No,” he responded with a shrug. “I just don’t like it.”

Now I’ve heard a lot of crazy things in my day, but not LIKING cheese? I began to list all of the various kinds of cheese. There are many, although none of which does anything for his obviously dull taste buds? I peppered him with questions about not eating certain foods involving cheese: pizza, nachos, grilled cheese, macaroni and cheese – the list goes on and on!

Without cheese in my life, I’d be a lost soul. Cheese has gotten me through a lot of rough times, including a particularly bad horseback riding incident involving an unnamed member of the female anatomy, as well as several other debilitating diseases, Bubonic plague included.

Ok, maybe I’m being dramatic, but seriously, it’s cheese! It makes everything delicious!

I spent the remainder of our date grilling him about his dairy disdain. I could not seem to comprehend it, and he could not seem to end the date quick enough.

Dating Rule:

I seriously went out with someone who called themselves the Gas Man on a first date. At this point, do I have room to be picky?

I would not dismiss someone based on his food aversions alone. This experience actually caused me to reflect on myself a bit. I mean, I responded worse to him not liking cheese than I would have if he told me he used to torture and kill kittens as a child.

But seriously, not LIKING cheese? I just don’t get it!

DIRTY THIRTY

September 24, 2010

I turned the big 3-0 last year. I’m one of those obnoxious people who likes to celebrate her birthday. Honestly, it’s not all about me, me, me. I just like having an excuse to celebrate something. Whether it’s my birthday, your birthday, Jesus’ birthday – I want to drink and dance and take part in some sort of revelry!

I decided to do a joint celebration with a friend whose birthday is a few weeks before mine. We chose a nearby bar in Wrigleyville and rented out the top floor for an “all you can drink” three-hour party. Unfortunately, there was a crazy snowstorm that night, so we didn’t have as many guests as we had originally anticipated.

We had a good group of people, though, and the drinks were obviously flowing. Prior to the bar party I had dinner with my family, so had started the night off with my lips attached to a bottle of Pinot Noir. Thankfully my parents left before things got too rowdy. Once the dry humping began, that was their cue to leave!

Like many a birthday celebration before, memory started to fade. From what I was told I was just chock full of love at being in a room with my closest friends and family. Lots of hugging and kissing, quite possibly a few tears.

Someone even brought a pirate’s patch for the occasion, which I stole and highly doubt ever returned to the rightful owner.

Right around midnight the bar people closed up the room and requested we all go downstairs to the main bar area. The bar was not at all crowded due to the inclement weather, but the DJ was still pumping out tunes and the drinks were still flowing.

I’m not sure how or why I chose to do what I will describe to you now. After three hours of unlimited drinking, I have a sneaking suspicion it was the Captain making the decisions, not me.

I crept up behind the seated DJ, lifted up my dress like a Can-Can dancer and brought it down right over his head and torso. Apparently he stiffened like a board (no pun intended), not sure what was going on.

Attack of the drunken whore!!!

My friend ran over to help disentangle him from my dress as I laughed hysterically and ran away.

The DJ apparently was none too pleased.

Um, DJ? Yeah, hi. This is Leigh’s vagina here. Leigh just willingly put your face very close to me. Willingly. Remember that. It’s not every day that your face can get this close to greatness without at least buying Leigh a drink or ten first. Happy birthday to YOU, sir.

In my drunken state, I recognized this was a real party trick and opted to pull this same stunt on several unsuspecting victims throughout the remainder of the night. At least the other few victims were my friends.

So, in summary, I celebrated my 30th birthday by lifting my dress over and onto people’s unsuspecting heads/bodies.

Wow. I really have matured in my old age, haven’t I?

Moral of the Story:

If I’m wearing a dress and I’m holding a drink and you don’t want to see my crotch, then you should probably leave the party.

Sidenote: I almost ALWAYS wear dresses and skirts (my bits need to breathe!)…and I rarely turn down a drink.

Leigh: “Vagina, have you met the back of this unsuspecting stranger’s head?”

Vagina: “Why no, Leigh, I have not. Please introduce me!”

You’re welcome.

TABLET OF MORONS

September 20, 2010

Based on my stories to date, you might not believe me when I tell you that I was a pretty good student. School always came easy for me, to be honest. I went to class, did the required reading and managed to not log many hours studying at the library. I was lucky, as this afforded me way more time to black out and take up chain smoking.

I even managed to graduate from the University of Illinois with the highest honors possible. I was a Bronze Tablet recipient, meaning my name (along with the names of 199 others) will forever be on a tablet on the library’s wall. You will see after this story why this was clearly some sort of mistake. An administrative snafu, one might say.

Graduation gown pickup day arrived, so I went with one of my roommates to get our garb. Back at the apartment we giddily paraded around in our gowns. When my friend put on her honors tassles, I ripped open my bag to get mine.

That’s when I noticed something odd: My tassles were all knotted up. Just my luck! I thought I had gotten a bum tassle and I showed my roommate, who agreed. I suggested she help me “fix” the situation, so we began the task of unbraiding the tassle. We noticed there were even pins in this knot. How weird! We were almost completely done with the task when my other roommate came home.

“What are you guys doing?” she asked innocently.

“Oh, of course I got a bum tassle so we’re fixing it.” My other roommate looked at me quizzically as she grabbed the plastic bag the tassles had come in.

“Leigh, um, we have a problem,” she said while studying a piece of paper.

“What?” I asked irritated. “I’m almost done with this unbraiding business!”

“Um, it was supposed to be braided. Look at this,” she said as she handed me the piece of paper.

Yeah, it was supposed to be braided and apparently would then be pinned to my shoulder. My stomach dropped to my feet. I started shaking and sweating! What had I done?!?

I desperately started flinging the tassles into some sort of makeshift braid. I can put this back together, right? Right?? Right???

My roommates tried to help me put it back together, but after about 20 minutes we realized this was not going to happen. I mean, I wasn’t an Eagle Scout. The only knot I’m able to successfully tie is for a noose, which I willingly use on … no one. (What have you heard?!) I burst into tears, how was I such an idiot???

I called my mom crying, telling her what had happened and that I was NOT going to the ceremony. I refuse! My mom informed me that this was not an option, and suggested I go back to the gown passer-outers and explain to them what happened.

Begrudgingly, I went back with my frayed tassles and attempted to explain the situation.

“Um, yeah, hi, so yeah. I didn’t read the instructions? And I kinda unbraided my Bronze Tablet thingy? See? Yeah. So, can I like, get another one?”

The woman looked at me like I had just asked her if she would like to swim in a shark tank while covered in blood.

Her response? “I have no idea what to do. I’ve been doing this for 20 years and this has never happened. Let me talk to my manager.”

She then went over to a man, who I presumed to be her manager, and in hushed tones they discussed my “situation.” He came over and again asked me to explain in detail what happened. Do I have to relive this again???

I managed to get another Bronze Tablet honors thingy. But not before being told NUMEROUS times how this had never happened in the history of their employment at “Cap and Gown” company. And how lucky I was that they happened to have an extra one.

Seriously, I already felt like a big enough idiot, don’t rub it in!

My parents did get to see me graduate, thankfully.

After much unnecessary drama, I might add.

Sober Contemplations:

I graduated in the top 3% of the entire graduating class at a Big Ten university. How is it possible to earn straight A’s yet not READ DIRECTIONS? I mean, at no time during my Tazmanian Devil unbraiding and cutting of pins did I stop to think, “Hmmm, maybe it’s SUPPOSED to look like this.”

Honestly, not only should they have taken back my graduating honors, but they should have taken back my degree! Clearly I’m not fit for … living.

How I can walk, talk and breathe all at the same time is a question I ask myself often.

LUCKY CHARMS

September 16, 2010

I recently met a charming Irish fellow at 4 a.m. at Carol’s. Taking a bit of my own advice, I actually did opt to have a phone conversation and confirmed he had a brogue and that my drunken ears had not betrayed me. He was rather sweet and funny and, for once, I found myself looking forward to our date.

We had a great time! He was a gentleman but had an air of mischief about him, which I happen to find irresistible. Though I was a little upset he did not show up with a pot of gold and some green knickers, I still managed to have fun.

After dinner we decided to go for another drink at a nearby bar. When discussing our birthdays, we discovered we both had been born in March. I tried to guess his and opted for March 16. “Actually, I was born on the 17th,” he stated.

My very intelligent response? “Oh! Too bad you weren’t born on St. Patrick’s Day.”

His forehead wrinkled in confusion as he warily responded, “I was born on St. Patrick’s Day.”

Hmm. My memory is not what is used to be, obviously. I’m usually pretty good at remembering the dates of holidays that celebrate drinking. You know, like Easter, Arbor Day, Columbus Day, that kind of thing.

Trying to redeem myself, I then said with a smile (hoping my dimples distracted from my stupidity), “Being born on St. Patrick’s Day, I’m surprised your parents didn’t name you Patrick.”

At this, his eyes bugged out like a cartoon character as he shook his head incredulously and said, “They did! My name IS Patrick!”

My jaw dropped to the floor in disbelief. I didn’t how to respond and instead hoped the sounds of the crickets chirping would somehow morph themselves into some sort of jig so I could entertain him with my dance skills. “What in the hell did you think my name was?” he asked.

Mayday! Mayday! We’re going down! Tell my family I love them!

All along I thought his name was Paul. In my defense, it is close to Patrick. But Paul is not Patrick.

Sigh.

He had a good sense of humor about the situation, but I was so embarrassed I could barely get through the remainder of the evening.

Dating Rule:

STOP meeting men at 4 a.m. in bars and thinking it will go anywhere other than a hot tub, breakfast the next day and likely a STD clinic the following week. It just doesn’t happen. Especially when you can’t even remember your charming date’s name! You look like a drunken idiot, which is not in any way enticing. Unless you are a slutty, drunken idiot, in which case, there’s still a chance!

Have I told you about my Strip Tease dance classes? ……..

THE VEGAS

September 13, 2010

I’ve been to Vegas on a multitude of occasions, but actually haven’t been back in many years, as I’m honestly still recovering from the last few trips. I’m the type of person who never wants to go home if there is fun to be had. Las Vegas is a deadly place because day or night, rain or shine, someplace is always open and serving booze.

Not good.

Several years ago my good friend and I wanted to do a weekend getaway and decided on Vegas. She had never been and was recently single and itching for some trouble. (Itching in the non-pubic lice fashion.)

Our first night there we went hog wild. We were like escaped convicts on ecstasy. Major trouble. Because I’m trying to keep this blog relatively PC/PG (I need to keep my day job!), the details of this night are not that important. I was dating someone at the time and, although I was faithful, he gave me the silent treatment for a week based on some of the night’s activities.

Anyway, we rolled back into our hotel room around 8:30 a.m. A LARGE part of the night is very blurry, including this next incident. I remember putting on my pajamas and then discussing mutual hunger pains with my friend. We decided to go down to the casino to get something to eat.

In our pajamas.

My only hope was that at least I had kept my bra on. Otherwise, those bad boys were probably tucked into my drawstring pants.

As we made our way to the elevator banks, it was very clear to my friend that I probably should not be out walking (i.e., stumbling) around. It was not a pretty sight and normal (read: non-drunk) people were already out and about. Why we didn’t go back to the room to safely deposit me, we do not know. We had just gotten off a 12-hour drinking binge mixed with nudity of the female variety and brain synapses obviously were not properly firing.

She decided to sit me in a chair in the corner of the elevator banks and told me to stay put while she ran down to grab our breakfast bagel sandwiches. She was gone about 10 minutes. She rode the elevators back up, heard the ding of our floor and came face to face with a very unusual sight as the doors slowly opened.

I was passed out, face first, in front of the elevator. Like right in front of the elevator. She had to step over me to exit the elevator. FOR REAL.

Apparently I got tired and literally face planted myself into the floor. Arms and legs outstretched, mouth likely wide open and drooling.

She laughed, woke me up and we made our way back to the room. I managed to eat my bagel sandwich, made a few garbled phone calls to my boyfriend and then passed out until 3 p.m.

So much for pool time.

Moral of the Story:

When scouting a good location to pass out, I would steer clear of any public hotel areas.

ESPECIALLY WHEN IT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF AN ELEVATOR.

I often think to myself, how many people encountered me lying there while my friend was gone? What must they have thought? It’s amazing to me that I remember what pajamas I was wearing and how delicious that bagel sandwich tasted, yet I have no recollection of falling asleep in a chair and dropping my face like it’s hot to the floor.

MARIO ANDRETTI

September 10, 2010

I was 16 years old and officially driving the summer before my junior year of high school. My best friend’s birthday is in July. For every birthday her parents bought her a Sara Lee cake. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had this cake, but it’s seriously one of the more delectable things I’ve ever put in my mouth. I’m not sure what they put in that frosting, but I’m guessing ecstasy is a main ingredient because it just makes you feel full of love!

So my friend called me up and announced, “The cake has arrived!” I didn’t even bother to answer as I hung up the phone and announced to my parents, “I’m going to get cake!”

My parent’s house has a little one-lane driveway and on it that day were several cars. Unfortunately, my car (a pretty sweet 78 YELLOW Oldsmobile Cutlass that resembled a tank more than a car) was one of the first ones in the row. Last in line was the beat-up conversion van my dad was driving at the time.

Sidenote: This van went on many a road trip. We later discovered there were two GIANT holes in the floorboard. It was well on its way to being a Flintstone car! It’s amazing no one fell through these holes, to be honest.

Anyway, the conversion van was last in line so I asked my Dad if I could borrow it, which was no problem at all. I raced to the van and hopped in, taking a second to wipe off the drool that was pooling in my lower lip.

Cakeville, here I come!!!

I put the car in reverse and hit the accelerator, practically racing time to get out of the driveway. We’re talkin’ wheels spinnin’ and smoke billowin’! I did not even bother to check the rearview mirror. I’m so short and the van was so big that I couldn’t see out of it anyways!

Suddenly I heard BOOM! CRASH!

I quickly realized I had just reversed the van into our neighbor’s car…and I was going full speed. I was that excited to get cake. I freaked out as I realized that I have crushed the neighbor’s car. I pulled the van up a little and put it in park in the middle of the street.

My dad came running out of the house yelling about how proud he was of me. “You bleeping idiot! What the bleep were you looking at?! What the bleep are you doing? What are you a bleeping moron? Are you bleeping blind???”

I instantly started crying as the neighbors and the guests from their DINNER PARTY came running out from the backyard to check out the source of the loud crash and yelling.

Yep, that was me. Reversing out of a driveway going about 80 mph in order to inch a bit closer to morbid obesity and diabetes.

Of course, this little fender bender did not stop me from going over to my friend’s house for cake. I managed to convince another friend to pick me up. I was so embarrassed and did not want the neighbors to see me, so I hopped the fence in our backyard and snaked through neighbor’s yards in order to be picked up at the golf course about a block away.

Sigh.

I was that hard up for Sara Lee cake.

Sober Contemplations:

The only reason you should be going 80 mph in reverse in a conversion van is if you are being chased by a serial rapist/killer on PCP.

But seriously, have you ever had Sara Lee cake? It is SO good. I would hop any fence, anywhere, to get my mitts on a piece of that sugary goodness.

And then when I’m done have the strange desire to dance with glow sticks and scratch my own arms for hours on end.