Never have I ever

When I was younger, I hated playing the game, Never Have I Ever. For those of you who don’t know how the game is played, this covers a brief rundown (before people start adding house rules):

  • One person says, “Never have I ever ___________ (insert something they’ve never done)”
  • Everyone in the group who has done that thing does something to indicate that they have (typically taking a drink from an alcoholic beverage).
  • Those who haven’t done the thing sit quietly while the others in the group explain or don’t (it really depends on the group), but there’s often a lot of oohing and OMGing.
  • The game continues until everyone is wasted or someone gets bored enough to start dancing on tables or running around the block naked. (This may indicate that the game has moved onto Truth or Dare).

I hated playing the game in my early years of college because I NEVER GOT TO DRINK ANYTHING. Because everyone liked to throw down the dirtiest things people did, and I was a shy prude. Here are a few nuggets that would have given me ample drinking opportunity prior to attending Bradley University:

Never have I ever…

And until my junior year of college, the only thing that really changed was my alcohol consumption. So I hated playing the game. Because I wanted to do more things, and the few things that I had done felt embarrassing to me.

But now, as an adult, I’m proud as fuck of the things that I’ve done. I love playing never have I ever because almost everything I’ve done has been an adventure, even if it was stupid/crazy/insane/ridiculous/horrifying.

Just for reference, a few of my favorites that would cause me to drink:

Never have I ever…

  • Seen Stephen King speak (20 feet away from me)
  • Gone on vacation by myself
  • Gotten married
  • Been fired from a job (one I hated)
  • Ordered a pizza for delivery while finishing a plate of nachos in a taco joint
  • Seen Hamilton performed live in Chicago
  • Made out with the same guy as three of my girlfriends
  • Gone home with someone on the first date
  • Punched a hole in my apartment window because I was mad at my boyfriend
  • Smoked my first cigarette after smoking was banned in bars
  • Stayed up partying for an entire weekend without sleeping more than 2 hours ( with no drugs involved)
  • Gotten lost in France
  • Dated a drug addict (or two)
  • Threatened to punch a bouncer at my bachelorette party
  • Gotten lucky on a golf course

My bucket(list) hath runneth over. And I can’t wait for the next notch on my wall.

we took wedding photos at a playground, and had so much fun on the purple dinosaur.

What’s on your completed bucket list?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Drove Drunk and Got Pulled Over by a Cop

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. Don’t let that be confused with regrets. I regret nothing. Everything that I’ve done has brought me to the place that I am today. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Without further adieu, some of my more idiotic moves…

Cutting a bald spot on the crown of my head during the formative years.

Spending a long New Year’s weekend in Indiana with 5 stoner couples with 6 movies constantly looping and the smell of weed permeating the cabin.

Smoking my very first cigarette…at the age of 23.

Going on a date with (and continuing to date) a guy (who turned out to be a drug addict) whom I met on Craigslist.

Spraining my ankle doing a drunken happy dance.

Quitting my job because my boss asked for my letter of resignation instead of waiting for her to fire me.

Dating the same guy over and over and over again, for three years expecting different results.

And the number one stupidest thing that I’ve ever done: Driving after drinking. Never. Ever. Ever. Do this. A few years ago, I was really really stupid. Really stupid. After several libations on my own one slow Friday evening at Flaherty’s, I decided that I wanted to go sing some karaoke at another bar.

I got drunk, drove to another bar, and got pulled over by a police officer

I tipped my bartender, who didn’t seem to mind that I was a little intoxicated as I was leaving. In her defense, I looked and behaved just fine. But a small part of me knew that I probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. But I was bored playing my 207th game of Mah Jong that night, the bar was dead, and I had friends drinking at another bar.

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I decided to take the main road, instead of the familiar back roads. Driving from one town, through another, to a third town, I noticed a police officer driving behind me. I did a quick check of my surroundings: speed limit (check), seat belt (check), breath (gum? no, but shit, there’s not much I can do about that). There’s no reason that this police officer should need to pull me over. Phew!

I mentally pumped myself up, Just a few more blocks and I would be safely into the next town, out of this cop’s police jurisdiction. The bar was just on the other side of the city line. Come on, just a few more blocks. Don’t fuck up.

The next thing I knew, the all-too-familiar red and blue lights flashed at me from behind. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So I re-checked my surroundings. Do not panic. Do. Not. Panic. I looked for my insurance card, which I was infamous for not being able to find. Found one! From last year. Hopefully, it will do.

The police officer walks up to my window and I roll it down.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, officer, I’m sorry, but I really don’t.” I genuinely had no clue. To my knowledge, I had done nothing wrong. Well, sort of. Nothing that warranted pulling me over. Plus we all know I’m a terrible liar. PLUS it’s a proven fact that cops can see right through my bullshit when I try to lie.

“Did you know that your license plates expired last month?”

Oh my God, really? “Oh my God, really?” I knew that my shock was evident by the sympathetic look on the officer’s face. I kept babbling, “My dad and I were just talking about this. He had asked me when I needed to renew my plates, but I thought that they weren’t up until April. That’s when I got the plates. I got the car in November of 2006. I haven’t gotten anything in the mail that says I need to renew them. I’m so sorry.”

The police officer looked at me and asked for my license and insurance. I passed him my driver’s license and was holding onto my expired insurance card–waiting to pass it to him. He scanned my license quickly, and never once even took a second look at the insurance card. He handed my license back to me and told me to go get my plates taken care of the next day. He told me it may be a hefty fine for being late, but he would not write me a ticket. He proceeded to wish me a good evening, and to drive safely before he walked away.

This mistake could have cost me everything. Click To Tweet

Not once did he ask me where I had been.

Not once did he ask me where I was going.

Not once did he ask if I had been drinking.

I took that as a sign from God that I should never. Ever. Ever. Drive drunk again. My one free pass, I called it. I was a mere two blocks from the bar that I was heading towards. I panicked and called my best friend, Mark, who was at the airport on his way to some other country. He told me that I was stupid, and I shouldn’t be driving. He told me to calm down and leave my car at the bar that night. So I got to the bar, and called my flavor of the week. He met me at the bar and took me to his place when it closed. The next morning, he got me to my car, and all was well. But holy shit was I freaked out.

I’d like to tell you I never drove drunk again, but that would be a lie. And there would be fewer stories to share with you. For the record, I don’t condone drunk driving nor do I do it anymore. Ever. At all.

Have you ever done something incredibly stupid and gotten caught? Any run-ins with the law that you escaped by the skin of your teeth? Drunk driving stories? Tell me your tales!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Got So Drunk, I Swallowed Live Goldfish

When you’re in college, you’ll do anything to be one of the bad asses who can drink like a fish. I think I got that confused with swallowing live fish. They sound really similar, right?

When you're in college, you'll do anything to be one of the bad asses who can drink like a fish. I think I got that confused with swallowing fish.

My first semester of Sophomore year at Bradley University was my most alcoholic semester. It was also my highest GPA semester. Go figure.

Bradley frat parties always trumped ISU frat parties. Where ISU frat parties were selective with their entry, Bradley frat parties welcomed anyone and everyone. Where ISU frat parties were mostly frat guys and select chicks, Bradley frat parties had lots of dudes (not all frat guys) and lots of chicks. Where ISU frat parties were BYOB, Bradley frat parties provided libations to those of age (with wristband proof). And if you knew a guy in the frat, wristbands weren’t hard to come by.

I suppose that’s why Peoria police started cracking down on frat parties at BU pretty hard core as of my Junior year. Lucky for me, I had a fake ID (well, a “real” ID that had someone else’s name on it) by then and was drinking at bars, not parties.

But this was Sophomore year…and Bradley parties were in their prime.

Our little group of friends planned to head over to the SAE party known as Rubber Ducky. Now, SAE at Bradley had a pretty bad rep, but they were loads of fun. I always had a great time when Katie and I would trek over there. Gin and Tonic night is the precise reason why I don’t drink tonic. Ever. Gin and I are still friends, but mix that bitch with tonic and memories of weekday morning hangovers are plentiful. Plus tonic tastes like shit.

So Rubber Ducky. A party in which the frat boys celebrated safety. And ridiculous amusement. A giant bowl of colorfully packaged condoms adorned the front table like a bowl of candy on Halloween. A brother in a duck suit wandered around greeting guests. And a huge baby pool filled with water and goldfish dominated the back yard.

The thing about those goldfish–people swallowed them. Live.

So before we went out, I made Katie, Sheila, and Mark promise promise promise that they would not let me eat a goldfish. They promised. Several lemon drops later, we were on our way to the party.

As soon as we arrived, I ran into Porno Steve, a man who was the single biggest reason for my lush-like freshman year of dare drinking.

Porno Steve yelled to me, “Hey! I’m at a frat party!”  He didn’t do frat parties. Ever. He was the pre-game captain, but never made it to the main event.

“Awesome! What’s goin’ on?”

“You should eat a goldfish!”

“Yes! I should!” I responded immediately. Where was Mark? Where was Katie? Where was Sheila? I didn’t even think. We walked over to the kiddie pool where I squatted down, cupped my hands, reached in, and caught a tiny little fishie. I brought the squirmy fish to my mouth and I downed my first goldfish in one full swoop.

Yes, I said first.

I looked at Porno Steve with drunken, glazed over eyes, searching for admiration, but all he said was, “I didn’t see it! Do it again.”

So I did.

Again, searching for his approval, I looked at him and said, “I did it!”

“I didn’t see it! Do it again!” I was about to reach down into the kiddie pool again, when Mark pulled me up.

“Hey Chrissy, you’ve already done two. He’s full of shit and messing with you. I think you’ve had enough.” Mark reminded me that I didn’t want to do one in the first place. But it was so easy…and I was so drunk.

Then while I was sitting on a bench, Jack, one of the frat brothers that I knew came over, dangling a little goldfish above my face. He held it by its tail fins and I didn’t think. I looked up, opened my mouth, and swallowed the squirmy fish that fell into my throat.

That was the last thing I remember about Rubber Ducky.

The next morning, I was so hung over that I couldn’t even eat potato triangles. And I loved potato triangles.

All I could say to Cletus and Robbie the entire day was, “Poor little fishies.”

What is the craziest thing you’ve done while under the influence? Have you ever swallowed live fish?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

How to Make Your Boyfriend Hate You

If you’re new around here, you may want to start The Grown Up Story from the beginning. But you may not, and that’s okay too. This story stands alone.

The Grown Up and I had been dating for approximately a month when I decided to bring him along to a birthday party for a friend of mine, Brad. He was several years my senior-we were celebrating his 30th birthday, and it was kind of a big deal.

My girlfriends and I had spent the previous year hanging out with Brad and his group of friends, drinking, flirting, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. It was a group of hot messes all dealing with their own version of relationship anxiety (each of us were battling our own volatile demons from relationships past), and in order to forget about them, we drank. A lot.

Recipe for disaster - new boyfriend plus bar.

By the time The Grown Up came around, we were all starting to drift to our own spaces and rebuild the worlds that crumbled to bring us together. So I hadn’t actually hung out with this group in a few months. But was anticipating a shit show of a party-one we’d been talking about for a year, and so of course, I RSVPed yes for both The Grown Up and myself.

We arrived for dinner at an upscale bar in the suburbs, where we sat near one of my most lovely, cheerful friends who was SO giddy with excitement to meet The Grown Up. She squee’d and oohed and awwed because he really was smart and wonderful as I had described to her. She told me, as good girlfriends tend to do, I deserved someone this amazing,  and I believed her.

Unfortunately, she would not be joining us for the second half of the evening. And none of my other girlfriends had decided to join us for the epic birthday party to end all birthday parties. So I had a grand total of two actual friends (the birthday boy and his bestie) and several acquaintances to hang out with me and my new boyfriend on a party bus downtown to a bar in Wrigleyville.

Why was I the only one who couldn’t see this was a recipe for disaster?

So we hopped on a party bus, and the Grown Up made quasi friends with some of the guys in the group. If you recall, on our first date he revealed he wasn’t good with people, but it felt like he was doing a pretty damn good job with them from where I was sitting.

When we got to the bar, though, all hell broke loose. There was drinking on the party bus, and then we had a table just off the dance floor reserved for bottle service. For those of you who may not know, bottle service is when they have full bottles of liquor at your table for your group’s consumption. Needless to say, I got pretty fucking drunk. The Grown Up wasn’t a big hard alcohol drinker, so he had a couple of beers, but nothing crazy.

I dragged the poor man on the dance floor and rubbed up on him like a horny college student. We danced with my friends, and some of the girls in the group became my dance floor besties, grinding on each other in a fight to be the sexiest group of girls under the colorful LED lights. We weren’t. The music seemed to get louder, the smoke thickened around us, and the room started spinning. I was there, but I wasn’t.

Eventually, The Grown Up returned to our table. I followed, realizing that I wasn’t being the generous, sweet girlfriend that I wanted to be. He seemed, frustrated, but I didn’t know how to respond. So, I apologized. For what, I don’t even know. Was I apologizing for being drunk? For him not having a good time? For not knowing everyone in our group? For my friends who weren’t entertaining enough for him? I just knew I felt awful. And drunk. And feeling awful and drunk is never a good combination. So  I drank more. I sat down on an elevated booth bench that extended out past the booth and The Grown Up stood in front of me, trying to make conversation over the music. It didn’t work out well.

Somehow, whilst sitting (SITTING) on the booth bench, I managed to fall over. I wish I could tell you how. I really really do. But I couldn’t. And I fell. Off the bench. Onto the floor. Like a complete asshole. I wasn’t even showing off that time. I fell down, and The Grown Up helped me up as I apologized. Again and again. We collected my purse, and the items that had fallen out of it. The Grown Up was growing increasingly frustrated, and we couldn’t just…leave because we had taken a party bus to get there. We were slaves to the party schedule.

We left the dance floor area, and proceeded to sit at a table downstairs, where I continued to apologize profusely for my errors. The Grown Up tried to chat with me, but I could tell that I was irritating him. I thought I was going to start crying right then and there. But I didn’t. I braved through the awkward last 45 minutes with my boyfriend of less than a month and got on the bus. I continued to apologize until the moment I passed out in The Grown Up’s arms on the bus, about 2 minutes into the drive home.

On the drive home, The Grown Up was almost puked on. Someone DID puke, just not on him. Someone almost spilled beer on him. He ended up helping clean the bus a little bit. He gave extra money to the person who organized the party to tip the driver extra. And I slept. Like an asshole. And kept apologizing when I woke up.

We left the bus and The Grown Up drove me home. I was supposed to sleep at his place, but he took me home instead. I panicked. And apologized even MORE.

I was a hot mess. I felt sick to my stomach. I had really fucked things up, this time, I was sure of it. What was I thinking?

The Grown Up told me to go inside and sleep it off, that we’d talk the next day. But I couldn’t understand in my idiot drunken stupor what was going on. Was he breaking up with me? I didn’t know. But I was terrified.

Eventually, I went inside. And cried myself to sleep.

I really hoped he would call the next day.

How do you handle problems when you’re drunk? Have you ever freaked out about your relationship because of something you did or said? What’s the stupidest thing you’ve done while drinking?

Click the image for the final story in the tale of The Grown Up.

I waited a long time for this. And now it's the End of an era

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Was Born on Memorial Day

I wanted to tell you the story of my birth, but even my near idydic memory isn’t that good. So I enlisted the help of someone who would know better than anyone else.

Blog Friends, meet Mom. Mom, meet the Blogosphere. (I’ve taken the liberty of adding my own two cents in pink).

Chrissy and Mom

This is my mom and I at the White Sox game a few weeks ago.

Well, I was awakened by my daughter this morning at 9:11am to write a blog post…which she’s wanted to do for a while. Oh, if only 30 years ago today it had been so easy. You see, she was born on Memorial Day. Although, it was actually May 30th, it was Monday, Memorial Day, 1983.

None of our friends had children. For the past 5 months or so, I had been their slave. I was the designated driver everywhere (hmm that still has not changed). I was very sick of the drunk people, especially my sister and my husband! So the Sunday night before Memorial Day was party time. At our apartment. Larry (Chrissy’s dad), Susan (my sister) and her then-husband, Jay, had me making drinks all night…until 1 AM! I kept complaining my back hurt and they called me a baby.

After falling asleep for a couple of hours, I awoke to a leaking water (and some other stuff that Chrissy edited out). I was thrilled!!! She’s coming! Christine Regina! The enjoyment of waking up my husband was twofold. Number one I wanted to get to the hospital and see her as quickly as possible. Number two, I knew he was still drunk! Hello payback!

I was calm and collected for the next few hours. My father-in-law arrived to witness, or at least be there for her joyous moment into this world. Yeah, well…that didn’t happen.

Hours went by, and still, no Chrissy. After 8hrs I was still only dilated to 1. At 12 PM, they decided it was time for Pitocin to move the LABOR along. After several hours of this nonsense, and much screaming involved, a nice shot of Demerol may help. GO FOR IT!! A few hours later, still no success and no doctor. You see he had a feeling I was going to need a C-Section, and went home to sleep for a few hours. I was positive that I was dying. My father-in-law went home. My parents and family were told we would call them.

The doctor came back and ordered an X-ray of my pelvis. NOW??? It was 10pm!! And I had been on Pitocin for 10 hours!!! Now an X-ray?

Showing that it would be very doubtful Chrissy would be able to come through my tiny body. (I would kill to be as TINY now, 9 mos and 3 days pregnant I was still 60lbs less than today). At this point, I had been screaming for hours. Loud, piercing screams. NO offense to Chrissy, but I was yelling things like…”Get this fucking thing out of me!!!” That’s not very nice, Mom. The doctor was furious with me. I was scaring all of the other mothers..the ones who had not been in labor for 20 and 1/2 hours and on Pitocin for nearly 12 hours.

Ay 11pm I was prepped for the c-section and as soon as that needle went into my spine, I was like “THANK YOU!” Numbness was good…no pain. Ahhh…where’s my baby!!! I was awake for her birth, but could not see. Larry could not watch it. he had been drunk and happy when it all began. He was now tired beyond measure (poor baby), hungover, and had stood by my side for nearly the entire 20 1/2 hours of labor. Good things take time. He had to wait to see her. She was perfect! Of course, I was.

Aside from the very pointed head, Hey! Who you calling pointy? because she had tried nonstop to come out, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Happy almost birthday, darling…I love you.

P.S. 10 months and 2 days later, her brother Brian was born. The doctor looked at me after his birth and said…Are you going to listen to me now? I did. Ew.

You guys, I love this story, because my dad was all hammered and had to suck it up and deal with it. And then I took my sweet, sweet time. So I knew I had to share it with you.

Blog Friends, I know a lot of you are moms. Were your kids as much of a pain in the ass as me?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

5 Things I Learned From Yelp

In honor of my third year as Yelp Elite, I’d like to take a few moments to recognize Yelp for its utter awesomeness…And share with you a little poem I wrote.

After a conversation with Heather from The B(itch)log, I felt the need to share with you some really bad poetry. And by bad, I mean truly and most inspiredly awesome. (Yes, I made up inspiredly. Just think of me like the next Shakespeare. Trust me…it will make sense in about 5 paragraphs or so–depending on how long I ramble this morning.)

Heather believes that there is no such thing as bad poetry. I informed her that I once wrote a sonnet about Chicklets (yes, the gum) and asked if she wanted to take her comment back. She said no, which made me hunt for my sonnet about Chicklets…and I couldn’t find it in my vault of bad writing. One day…I promise. One day. But I did write another sonnet in my life. One to the people of Yelp. But first…

5 Things I Learned from Rockin’ with Yelp Across the Country

  1. You see, Yelp is not just a website. It’s a way of life. Whenever we’re looking for somewhere to eat, something to do, somewhere to go…we ask Yelp. We make friends around the country and they help us by writing honest reviews. Yelp is a community of good folks working together to make the positives and negatives known. Yelp is what you make of it.
  2. Not all reviews are created equally. You need to learn to read what’s not being said. That very very very sickly positive review? Might just have been written by the owner or an employee. That very very very angry review? Give everyone a break and read other reviews of that business as well as other reviews from the person writing. You’ll get a feel for whether you trust their judgement or not. I know that I never trust someone who wrote a positive review about the local dive club where everyone shares STDs and drugs. Ew.
  3. You can make new friends just about anywhere. When Brian and I arrived in Orlando for our trip to Disney World, I received a “Welcome to Orlando” compliment from one of the wonderful Yelpers in Orlando. How freakin’ cool is that?!
  4. Business owners who don’t like your review can be ass hats or rock stars. After I reviewed a certain cheese “mecca” poorly, I got a NASTY message from the manager. It was spiteful. And mean. And written with really bad grammar. And then I did some research, and discovered that he had written his very own review of his business. And I called him on it. And was nice. Because that’s how I roll. I’ve had other owners contact me and invite me back for a second chance. I almost always go. Because that’s how Yelpers roll.
  5. It’s OKAY to act like a kid. When Yelp gave me a giant bouncy ball with the Yelp symbol, I knew that I had found my place in this world. S’mores bars and dance floors and so much more…Yelp is fun!
S'mores bar

S’mores Bar-and you thought I was joking.

Things I learned from Yelp drinks

This was a “Jack Frost Martini,” but it was deadly and tasted like college (fruity with the taste of potent alcohol).

A Sonnet to the Big Wigs at Yelp

In order to maintain my elite status for the year 2013, I was asked to write to the big guys with an application and a good reason why I should be elite. I figured the best way to secure my status would be to write a poem. But not just any poem. I wanted it to be a motherfuckin’ Shakespearean poem. And so…I wrote a sonnet.

Quirky Chrissy: Sonnet 2

And now, a sonnet:

To the dear higher ups at the great Yelp,
The holidays and time to choose are here
My Yelp status is floating like a kelp
To be elite Twenty-Thirteen, it’s clear

My application for this honor, bright
with Yelp reviews, comments and stats so fair
includes a poem for your heart’s delight
to show you just how much I really care

And if I am worthy of this status
You can count on me to keep reviewing
Unless I get a sweet pet platypus
Because then I would be busy playing

Do not fret, dear Yelp elite deciders
I love Yelp, please keep me with insiders

Yelp Photo Shoots (Photos Taken by Andres D. and Swiped from Facebook)

Yelp Elite Event

Gettin’ my locks conditioned at the Yelp Fab Femme Fete

Excellent organic conditioning courtesy of Eko Salon and Spa in Orland Park, IL

Excellent organic conditioning courtesy of Eko Salon and Spa in Orland Park, IL

Yelp SWAG panties

Yelp SWAG! Panties anyone? Too bad they were a size small. Too tiny for my bootie!

Yelp Hair Salon Pictures

Just a funny picture of my faux ginger flying high

Yelp events

A Yelp Event at the Wilder Mansion with my pal, Cletus (remind me to tell you the story of this event sometime)

Yelp events with elite yelpers

The Rick Moranis look with the Yelp Crew at Glen Prairie

Thing I Learned from Yelp Elite Events

Making new friends at the Ylep Elite Events

Yelp Egg Nog Rumchata Martini

Sipping on a Rumchata Egg Nog Martini at the Glen Prairie

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Break the Hearts of Drug Addicts

Note: In this post, I am clearly showing off the stupidity of my younger days. The way I see it, these tales are over and done with…and they gave a story to tell. That is all. In no way do I ever condone the use of drugs.

When I was at the Bears game a few weeks ago, I was excited to see that I would get to watch my all-time favorite half time show. Kids vs. The Mascots. I couldn’t find a video of this year’s show, which included Staley the Bear and Benny the Bull dancing to Gangam Style, but I did find this gem:

There is nothing funnier than watching little kids get tackled by goofy team mascots.

Of course, watching the mascots got me thinking about one of my exes. Well, several of my exes, actually. (Pathetic right?) But I’m only going to talk about two, today.

Staley the Bear

This was the day that Staley the Bear gave me his phone number: 867-5309

The first, we shall call Staley. Everytime I see Staley the Bear dancing at Bear games, I think fondly of “Staley…” sort of. The way Staley moves completely and utterly reminds me of this guy, who I met on Halloween many years ago. I was dressed as Wonder Woman and he wasn’t dressed up at all. But he thought I was spectacular.

Halloween Wonder Woman Costume

With some of my pals–no, “Staley” is not in this picture.

I was going through a phase at this time in my life… I had finally and officially finished with The Ethiopian/Johnny Cash and I was out having lots and lots of fun. I had recently been left in the dust by this really beautiful and charming guy, who we called 6’6″ because of his height. One day he just stopped calling, and I found myself drawn to this guy who kept calling me Pretty Lady and Wonder Woman.

Little did I know that Staley had recently been dumped pretty hardcore, and was also a recovering heroin addict, who smoked a whole lot of not-cigarettes. So he had his fair share of baggage.

We had a relatively long “relationship” that consisted of me heading over to his house after the bars closed to watch movies and hang out. This was a time that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep. I would leave there at like 5 AM and go home, shower, and go straight to work. I’m not proud of the drinking I did back in those days, but I’ve very much outgrown that stage in my life. In addition to his drinking and smoking, he would occasionally feel the need to find some additional extra-curriculars. I remember going with him to Galway’s (The late night bar for a big portion of DuPage county barhoppers) while he was in search of…stuff. I wasn’t a fan.

To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t Staley’s biggest fan, but we had a fun thing going for a while there. Until he started to fall in love with me. I remember him whispering in my ear when he thought that I was asleep about how he wanted to be That man, the one deserving of me… I remember he repeated himself over and over, saying that he just wasn’t there yet, but he would work really hard to be that man for me. The next day, I decided that was the end of that. But he still called. And pushed. And tried really hard to see me. And I was busy. I had shit going on. And I was over it.

Several years later, right after The Bartender broke up with me, I was feeling a little down. And I started doing the internet dating thing again. Katie and I called this: Experimental Year. I’m not proud to admit that I found this guy on Craigslist, but so be it. I did. He seemed awesome. He was smart. Funny. His picture was attractive. We talked on instant messenger for far too long though. I liked him before I even met him.

And then I met him. And his teeth were all messed up (likely from the drugs). He smoked a lot. Of everything. He put whatever he could find up his nose. But I didn’t know all of that yet. He reminded me of Staley, but he seemed smarter. Funnier. And like, you can get teeth fixed. The Drug Addict was a special breed. He lived with his grandma. He owned his own business doing computer-y things. He seemed like a responsible human being. Until one night I went on an adventure with him.

He was supposed to take me out on a proper date. Instead, he took me to a bar about 45 minutes away where he was to be meeting a “friend.” I told him that I had to work really early the next day (I was serving at a breakfast restaurant, so 5:30 start time), and I wanted to be home by 10. “Oh sure! No problem!” I think he may have even called me Pretty Lady. Seriously.

So it got to be 7:30/8 and I still haven’t been taken to dinner. I get crabby when I’m hungry and I started getting angry. So The Drug Addict bought me bar dinner. And we continued to wait. Finally, he got what he needs or whatever. But then wanted to go to someone’s house. I told him that I want to go home, but somehow I got talked into hanging out. I started texting my brother to see if he would come pick me up. No one was available to rescue me. I tried everything I could think of, but somehow still couldn’t manage to get The Drug Addict to leave.

Finally it was about midnight, and I finally got the dude to go. After I threatened to take his car without him in it. That apparently worked. I will never forget the ride home, though. I obviously had to drive…and the idiot was doing lines in the passenger seat. I was so over that dumbass.

So the next morning, when he sobered up, I told him that was the end of whatever that was. And he cried. A lot. And I had never broken up with someone. And I felt really bad. And he promised to quit doing the really bad stuff. And I was a fucking moron.

So I dated him for a little while. I never let him call me his girlfriend. I never let him get too close. He replaced his original unhealthy addiction with a different unhealthy addiction: me. I got bored. And annoyed. And officially ended it with him. And then he cried more. And was mean. And I was actually a little worried for a while there that he might do something crazy. But I never heard from him again after that. And I was thankful.

Those are the only two hearts that I’ve ever broken. Crazy, right?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Confession Friday: In Which I Talk About Black Wednesday

Confession Friday: I went out on Black Wednesday. In sweat pants. And drank water. At a bar.

I’ll bet you thought I was going to talk about Black Friday, didn’t you? Admit it.

So, every year since turning 21, I’ve joined in on the “everyone’s home for the holiday, no one has to work tomorrow, let’s go out and get shmammered like we’re still in college” holiday. The busiest bar night of the year, I spent many a Thanksgivings praying over my grandmother’s toilet, unable to consume so much as a piece of cheese throughout the day. (To be fair, this had also happened on Christmas and Easter…I was a bit of a lush back in my younger days.)

Some years, (back in the owning-of-the-bar years), I would be working–though I often turned down the shift in order to participate in the debauchery of drinking with my peers, my brother, and my dad.

Last year, Brian and I went out to a fancy-pants dinner with some friends, where we ate, drank, and were merry…instead of doing the bar scene. But there was that air of “we don’t have to work tomorrow” excitement.

This year, one of my best girlfriends is leaving me. Lily is packing up all her stuff tomorrow and moving to freakin’ Iowa. (I know what you’re thinking…who the hell moves from Chicago to Iowa?) I’ve been thinking that since the day she told me. But she’s moving.

And since her going-away-party was not really a chance to actually hang out with her…because she has a lot of friends and I couldn’t really get some legit Lily time out of it, I made her go out last night for karaoke at our local tavern of choice. Where we both drank water. And sang some karaoke. And I argued with some young early 20-something dude about almost everything.

Singing Karaoke

This was not Wednesday night. But I like this picture. Because I was skinnier then. And I was singing karaoke at Sal’s. Which is what I was doing on Wednesday night.

So I had fun doing the things we used to do before we got old. Except for drinking. Because we were both tired. And I don’t like to drive on amateur nights with any alcohol in my system. Because people are stupid. And my insurance is high enough.

Enjoy the long weekend, kids!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Kissed a Girl

OK, so we all know that a pretty decent percentage of college girls eventually kiss someone of their own gender for one of three reasons.

1. They’re truly experimenting with the girl on girl thing.

2. They’re drunk.

3. They’re drunk AND looking for attention from dudes.

There may be other reasons, but those were the important ones.

So at some point during junior year, Claire and I decided that we hated men…after the Lumberjack and the Ethiopian respectively broke our hearts. Who needs ’em?! Right? We swore off men and decided to become lesbians. Except since neither of us is really into girls…and we still secretly wanted boyfriends, we became lesbian boyfriends (in name only.)

Do not discount the “in name only” part. We had a serious bond that could withstand the test of time. And marriage. And babies. (Yes, Claire still considers me her “lesbian boyfriend” despite her fancy house and husband and child and 3 dogs…although I still think one of those dogs should be mine…you know for balance. She could still have visitation rights…)

Rightfully so, this is mostly a giant joke. But on Penny’s 21st birthday (in which I was defo still under age, but using Mama Missy’s state ID for access to bars), The Lumberjack and the Ethiopian were both kinda hanging around…along with a lot of other handsome fellows.

Claire, Penny, Sheila, and I got shmammered that night. Penny kept shouting to the world in an adorable sing-song voice, “Who’s the birthday giiiiiiiiirl?! Penny’s the birthday girl!”

Near the end of the evening, Claire and I were explaining to our ex boyfriends the lesbian boyfriend relationship. They didn’t get it. “Wait, you don’t kiss? You should kiss.” And there in the back room of Gorman’s in front of a huge audience of drunks, Claire and I shared a ridiculously un-passionate kiss. It was then that I knew I would never. Ever. Be a lesbian. When you’re into dudes, kissing a girl is like kissing your hand (if your hand were to kiss back.) This is not to say that she wasn’t a good kisser–she was. Just you know…there was nothing there.

Of course the Ethiopian and the Lumberjack were significantly more impressed, as were a large portion of the male audience. Case in point: Girls kiss girls to rile up the boys.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

You’re Not a Badass Unless…

You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka chased with a saltine chaser.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka without the saltine.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do a shot of vodka and six more immediately following.
 
You’re not a badass unless…
You can do seven shots of vodka followed by a shot of Ten High Whiskey.
 

Freshman year of college, I was determined to be the baddest of all asses when it came to boozin’. I realize now that this was not the smartest goal that one should go into their college years with, but I was 18 and looking to prove something to anyone.

Cue Porno Steve and all I was looking for in drunken encouragement. He repeatedly tested my drunken daring, by provoking me into doing really stupid shit like swallowing a live goldfish. Mostly with drinking a whole lot of vodka. He also tried to get me to show him my boobs, but that never did happen.

At Bradley, Calling Out Weekend, which was held in the first month of school, was the time when all of the frats and sororities chose their people. This meant very little to our group of friends, other than the fact that it was like opening day for the party season. The Greeks would all get wasted and throw some killer parties. My very first frat party! I was stoked. In fact, one of my best friends from high school was visiting from ISU. Elizabeth, Katie, Sheila, and I spent hours getting ready to go, but were still able to start pre-gaming by 8. We made our way over to Geisert 8 to meet up with Mama Missy and the gang.

It was on Geisert 8 that I introduced Elizabeth to Porno Steve. The dares got higher.

You’re not a badass unless…
You can chug Aristocrat (Aristocrap) Vodka from the handle.
 

Oh Sure, what the hell!? It was at this point that I introduced Elizabeth to vodka. As it turns out, vodka became her drink of choice as well.

Chug Chug Chug!

So after pre-gaming like rockstars, we made our way to the frat scene. There was a brief drunken cry (OK, maybe a little more than brief) that Katie still teases me about, when Elizabeth revealed some secrets she had kept from me. This is what vodka does. It lulls you into a sense of false, yet warm and fuzzy, security; then it whacks you down with truth telling and overly emotional behavior.

No worries, though, because just as fast as vodka pulls you down, another swig can lift you up. After some parties, we stopped over at our dorm to grab another beverage, and were greeted by the Bradley police, The Residence Halls Association, and a few other choice “grown ups.”

Ruh Roh Raggy.

It appeared to be a sobriety testing facility that we had walked in on…and we were defo not sober. The Director of our hall came over and explained the situation.

“We are doing sobriety tests for freshman. This is just for a study we’re doing. You can choose to participate or not participate. No one will get in any trouble. Would you be interested in joining?”

“HELL YES!” Maybe I was a little overly excited.

I touched my nose, I followed the light, I sang the alphabet, I walked the line, and I blew into a breathalizer.

I wish I could tell you how drunk I was, but the number has since left my brain. I know that I was over the “legal limit,” but hey…I wasn’t driving.

Proudly Blowing Since 2001

They posted the results on a big poster in the hall, that everyone could see. Of course, I think it had an opposite effect to what they were hoping. I’ll never forget seeing the girl with the highest level of intoxication and her pride, showing off to others and pointing to her name. I’m not going to lie… I was jealous.

What dares would you take on after a few cocktails? Did you ever breathalize when you were underage? What was your freshman year of college like?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!