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!

When in Doubt, Ask for Help and DON’T Back Out of the Parking Garage

So, you may have noticed that I’ve been slacking on the awesome recently. I mean…I shared an e-mail from my boyfriend, a ridiculous picture of myself, and a ranty rant about dress codes last week.  I was beginning to think that I was losing my touch.

But then…Like magic…All of a sudden out of nowhere I have 15 new stories to tell you. But today I will only tell you one. Because I have to save some of this goodness for a rainy day. Or a brain block day. Or a writer’s block day. Or my memoirs. One of those.

So today I’m going to tell you about last night’s adventure.

I met up with a girlfriend of mine for dinner after work. We had a general location in mind, but not an actual restaurant. We were off to Rosemont (a mere blocks away from O’Hare, where I briefly daydreamed of jumping on a plane to New Orleans.) I arrived with the intentions of finding a place for us to dine, and then I would tell her where to meet me. Really, guys, this SEEMED like a logical plan. Considering I didn’t know the area all that well and everything in the area on Yelp seemed super pricy.

Finally, I made my way to an area I used to sort of know a little bit. There was a movie theater and a parking garage the last time I was there, but now it’s full of restaurants and such. Fab! I thought. We’ll eat at one of these places. So I pulled into the parking garage without a second thought.

Until I got to the second level. $13? That’s fucking crazy. But there were 3 lanes. One didn’t have a ticket dispenser. So I followed that one to the third level. Where I was met with a ticket dispenser. $13? Fuck that shit. Fuck that a lot.™

Except that there was a sign that read, “No refunds.”

So what’s a girl to do when she’s on the 3rd level of a very coned off area of a parking garage?

Back the fuck up.

Literally. I backed up. All the way down around the corner to the second level. Then I inched my way toward the original ramp…the one lane, steep-as-shit, one way ramp.

And some cars starting to come up, so I pulled forward a bit to let them through.

When it looked all clear, I thought…OK. Let’s do this thing. And I started backing down slowly on the ramp. Until a car starting pulling up. SHIT! I put the car back into drive and maneuvered my way back up to the second level. I pulled far enough out of the way to let the guy through, but he must have seen my distressed look, so he rolled down his window to get my attention.

And I looked over and this teenage boy, who couldn’t have been more than 19 looks at me with pity and asks if I need help. I told him my dilemma (not that I had backed down from the 3rd level though. That shit was embarrassing) and he said that I just needed to take a ticket and pull through to the exit. What the what? Really? Why didn’t I think of that? And then he told me to double check with the guy in charge by pushing the…wait for it…HELP button.

After following both sets of instructions and confirming that I wouldn’t get charged by the annoyed parking garage guy who answered my call for help…I made my way safely out of the parking lot and into a free parking space.

And for the record, guys, my pal had equally as much difficulty getting to the restaurant…As she past the correct exit, got off the interstate too far north, and kept driving north until I asked her whether the sun was on her left or right and then insisted she turn around immediately.

But we had a delightful meal and a really cool Irish pub. And then I almost accidentally went back into the parking garage. I swear I’m not a complete flake. Usually.

 

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!