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.