October 15, 2010

As I’ve mentioned before, I raise my rainbow flag high. Queens definitely know how to party, and I like to party. Peas in a pod, people!

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 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 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.


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.


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.


September 2, 2010

It was last Labor Day weekend, and I had a friend in town visiting. She was at a BBQ during the day in the suburbs, so I decided to take the opportunity to go to a bar with some other friends and start drinking martinis at 4 p.m.

I’m sure you already can recognize that this did not end well.

By the time my friend came back into the city I was well on my way to Happy Land.

Well, overall I’m pretty happy all of the time, I suppose. Yes, I realize that is SO annoying to say. But I guess I’m one of those annoying people who is smiling and laughing 98% of the time. Although what I’m smiling about could very well be me thinking how stupid and annoying you are. And I’m laughing at the various ways I can dispose of your body.

Back to the story: So by the time my friend made it back into the city I was well on my way to not remembering even seeing her. The last thing I recalled was deciding to go to Hangge Uppes and then … waking up in my bed.

First things first, I checked out the photos on my camera. Yep, there I was doing self photos with my friends, martini in hand. Yep, there I was with my out-of-town friend looking barely alive … and showing skin in strange places. DELETE.

Oh, there was more! There I was …wait a second. There were several pictures of me dancing with some strange lady who looked like Princess Jasmine and was wearing a VERY strange green getup. I questioned my friends who had spent the night, “Who am I dancing with in this picture?”

“Oh her?” they respond while laughing. “Yeah, that’s your girlfriend. You asked her to dance. She said yes.”

Seriously? Mind you, we were not grinding. We were just standing opposite each other dancing.


After that, my friends left and I decided to order a pizza. I’m pretty sure I probably ordered appetizers, too. And while placing my order on the phone, I probably PRETENDED to ask the non-existent person in the room what dipping sauce she wanted with her chicken tenders (I knew it was ranch and honey mustard). I often do this so the mystery pizza worker thinks the food I’m ordering is for more than one person.

I seriously do this. And can’t believe I’m writing about it. Sigh.

My buzzer was broken at the time, so I was waiting for my food with an iron-clad death grip on my phone, willing it to ring with my pizza arrival. Then it rang!

I happily picked up as the salivation began. “Is this Leigh?” A strange voice asked me. “Yes.” I responded. “Hi, this is Mike from last night.” Hmmm, yeah. Don’t recall meeting any Mike last night. “Oh, why yes, hello” I responded, being too embarrassed to admit I didn’t remember him.

I then proceeded to have a 20-minute phone conversation with this guy PRETENDING the whole time I knew who the F I was talking to. FINALLY the pizza guy called and I was able to exit the conversation after promising that yes, we would meet for dinner sometime that week.

First of all, the pizza was delicious, of course. Second of all, I called my friend to see if she remembered me talking to some guy named Mike. She did not. Although she did mention that after I finished with my dancing duet with Jasmine that I did disappear for about 30 minutes. Leaving me ample time to befriend and give my number out.

Given my state of consciousness, I was not trusting my own judgment. Three martinis on an empty stomach? Check. A six pack of beer? Check. Several rounds of shots? Check. Beer goggles safely secured on my head? Check, check, double check.

I never did go out with Mike although I got pretty close several times, as he attempted to woo me with free tickets to a Bears game. I figured it would be unforgiveable to turn down free tickets! Then I got to thinking, if I was supposed to meet this guy, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what he looked like!

Moral of the Story:

I’m a screener, I admit it. The ONLY reason I picked up the strange number was because I thought it was the pizza guy. I’m not sure what is sadder: That I gave my number to a random guy who I have absolutely no recollection meeting, or the sheer force of disappointment that hit me when I realized he was not, in fact, the pizza delivery man?

In my fantasy, Mike was Patrick Dempsey in the 1989 movie Loverboy. You can feed me AND seduce me?

Extra anchovies PLEASE!


August 22, 2010

My freshman year in college I lived with two of my best friends from high school in the “six pack” at the University of Illinois. We were incredibly lucky to be given a room the size of a study lounge. We were coined “the triple.” Not to say we were famous or anything, but we definitely had a problem with paparazzi. People were always wanting us to sign autographs as well. It was a mess.


The only people wanting to take my picture were at the police station and I believe it’s called a mug shot. And autographs consisted of signing off on “confessions.” Since when is it illegal to commission prostitutes for a “good time?” And then beat them with a pipe to show them who is boss?

The dorms we picked were a pretty popular place to live. Which was good and bad. Bad because sometimes my one roommate and I would give fake names to guys we met for unknown reasons. This backfired when we would run into them in the cafeteria. I was always a tad taken aback when some frantic guy came running over yelling, “Kat!!! Ivy!!!” Being too embarrassed to admit we lied, we would have to go along with it. I’m not sure why I always chose Katarina as my fake name. I am clearly not Russian (I always said my parents were Russian immigrants), nor do I enjoy playing with balls of yarn or licking myself clean (though if I could reach…).

This really has nothing to do with anything. I digress.

So we were out partying and returned to the dorms to hang out in our friend’s room. The dorm we lived in had an L-shaped hallway for girls, then the other L-shaped hallway was for guys. I’m not sure who thought of this idea, but it made it very easy for pirates like me to rape and pillage.

On this particular night I guess I informed everyone I was going to “go for a walk.” Apparently what I meant when I said “walk” was try EVERY one of the doors on the boys’ side to see if they were open.

Some were open.

My friend later found me in some stranger’s room. The person was sleeping, but I had crawled up into his bunk bed and in a very evil voice was saying I loved him and then giggling and licking his face. My friend was pretty sure he was fake sleeping.

And was very scared.

We made our way back to our room, went to sleep and that was that.

However, I must have woken up in the night and decided I had not yet had my fill of raping and pillaging. For when we awoke the next day our room was filled with all sorts of treasures, including a music stand, a Bob Marley poster, and some various jerseys/clothes.

I was mortified! I had no idea what rooms I had taken these items from or how I would ever return them! We chose to do a covert mission. We checked to make sure the boys’ hallway was clear and left the items sitting in the middle of the hall so the owners could claim them.

That’s what you get for leaving your door unlocked when you know there is a pirate residing in “the triple.” Did the peg leg and parrot not give it away?!


Moral of the Story:

For those who design dorm room layouts: It may not be the best idea to intermix 18-year-old drunk guys and girls in the same living space. As I’m sure all of us who have lived in a dorm know, lots of strange stuff happens.

For anyone designing living space for the likes of me, locks on the OUTSIDE of the doors are most likely necessary. If you don’t, you are at risk of me stealing your belongings, then your soul.


August 13, 2010

Last summer I played on a softball team on Friday nights. Leave it to me to find a team more focused on drinking than playing. As team MVP (aka, catcher or right fielder), I played a key role not only during the game, but also at the after party.

Before one game mid-season, I told myself to “keep it together,” as I was leaving the next day for a family reunion and had to be at my family’s house in the suburbs pretty early. I tried, I really did! But the combination of not eating dinner and downing multiple vodka sodas dictated otherwise.

I woke up the next day, looked at the clock and freaked out when I realized it was the time I was supposed to be at my parent’s house! There went helping them pack up the coolers and car, let alone packing my own bag.

As I quickly scampered out of bed, I noticed that I was not alone. I spent the night with my smooth, sweet, chocolate lover….

Yes, you guessed it. A cup of pudding. From what I could gather from the crime scene, I opened up said pudding and promptly passed out. It. Was. Everywhere. On me, on my sheets, on my teddy bear…um, what? I mean, not my teddy bear. I’m not a 31-year-old grown woman with a teddy bear! Please!

I quickly (while still drunk, I might add) started throwing clothes in a bag. I called my Mom, who asked: “Are you close to the house?”

“I will be there real soon!”

I made an educated (read: drunk) decision to wipe down my arms and face vs. take a shower to “save time,” threw my sheets in the hamper and started making my way to the suburbs.

When I arrived I was greeted with some pretty angry campers, who I very sweetly ignored and instead demanded breakfast. Mom then squinted at me and gasped, “What is on your arm?!?”

I looked down and saw some crusted chocolate love, saving itself for later. I leaned down to lick it off and professed, “It’s pudding!!!!”

My family quickly figured out the reason for my lateness and drew straws to determine whose car I would ride in. My brother drew the short straw.


Moral of the Story:

Of the many things I like to do while drunk, passing out while eating is not one of them. I’m either going to pass out or I’m going to eat. The combination does not end well, apparently.

This was the only time I have done this. It was obviously slim pickin’s at my house. Who eats sugar-free pudding after a night at the bars?

From here on out, feel free to call me Bill Cosby. (Because of the pudding, not the “alleged” sexual abuse. If anyone asks, I thought he was 18.)