The morning after…

Yesterday I told you the story of my falling off a boat in front of a bunch of people this past fourth of July, which, re-reading now, wasn’t written very well (so sleepy). It really is a pretty funny story but maybe you also have to know my friends to see the light in it.

Perhaps the best part of the story is here however, in the aftermath. july 4

<– That’s aftermath.

What I didn’t mention yesterday was that after falling off the boat in front of 300+ people and having been wrapped up and sat down by two people I don’t doubt take care of me to the absolute best of their ability, I didn’t really do a one-check over to be sure I was still in one piece.

I didn’t stand up again until the boat had docked back at the house and it wasn’t until then that I felt a rip run across my the bottom of my knee and something cold run down the front of my leg.

Sidenote: I hate blood. Like, absolutely cannot handle it. I don’t even eat ketchup because it looks a little like blood to me – and it tastes gross – but anyways. I’ve passed out 3 different times in the last 15 years over this topic. Well 6 now but. Ugh. Blood. Even typing the word kind of gives me the shivers. (Baha, though, all of a sudden this flash back video just popped into my head.)

As I started to tilt my head down to look at the cause of the creepy feeling, Steven lifted my chin right back up, “Hey, so, it’s all good. Don’t look down though, cool? It’s fine. Come on.” and dragged me towards the bathroom inside. Within seconds, with Corbin dad-like standing in the doorway and Steven pushing my face away from the scene, I had been doused in hydrogen peroxide (which actually burned like the fiery pits of hell), bandaged, wrapped, and sent back outside to play.

And the night went on without a hitch.

I woke up early the next morning, determined to get back to Richmond in time to make it to church.

When I got back to my apartment, I decided I should probably check out what had been the cause of such sweet-friend-parenting the night prior and started unwinding the bandage that had been done over top of something I never even saw.

To my LITERAL horror, the gash in my leg was still open and still bleeding. Pretty profusely. And as I started thinking, “ohhhh shiiiii….”  everything around me faded to black.

I woke up on my kitchen floor, surely not too long after that but I never once looked at the clock so I’m not even sure of the timeline of these events, and started crying. Haha, fainting sucks but fainting home alone while almost all of your friends and family are still out of town and your leg is still bleeding, REALLY sucks. I managed to pull myself together and decide that a shower would be a good idea-it would clean my leg off and calm me down, and I was still, at this point, thinking I was going to make it to church.

As it turns out, the shower isn’t smart when you have an open wound and being in a “confined” space isn’t smart when you’re hyperventilating. I remember reaching for the soap trying to act all showery-normal, peptalking myself “everything’s fiiiine, it’s just a little cut, you’re fine, it’s fine, haha, only you, it’s okay self, it’s okay” before glancing down at my knee to check on my shower-will-make-it-better-theory… and the world faded to black again.

At this point, even in my delirium, I started to recognize that one day this was going to make for a great story, and I literally crawled out of my shower in a 50/50 – laugh/cry.

Because my shower idea had failed, I figured I had better get to a doctor to stop the bleeding and I started texting my always there, always supportive friend Lindsay for a lift (because you know, you shouldn’t drive when you’ve fainted twice in an hour and possibly smacked your head on both your kitchen and your shower floor). I’m sure my Lindsay got to me pretty quickly, but it could be that fainting again while I waited for her helped to pass the time.

If you live in Richmond and you ever need a Patient First, I recommend the one over there in Cary Town. They quickly took me (and Lindsay because I begged her to stay by my side. thanks Linds!) into the back and a large grumpy woman hooked me up for all my vitals (seen above). Grumpy nurse actually yelled at Lindsay as she took that photo, but how worth it was it?! Haha, I laugh out loud every time I look at it. Sidenote: I have no idea how my hair looked that normal after the morning I had had. It doesn’t even look that normal on most normal days!

When the doctor came in to my little room (I wasn’t laughing and swinging my legs this time because you know… fainting, head injuries, delirium, blood) he questioned my waiting to come in, telling me that I should have gotten stitches 8 hours prior. When I told him that I had been at the lake and blah-blah-blah-fell off a boat, he rolled his eyes and laughed – surely thinking I had been tanked (which, for the record, I was not.) He bandaged me up with those steri-strip thingys, left the room, and came back with both a tetanus shot and an antibiotic prescription because apparently lake water is yucky.

As soon as he threw back the curtain and we went to leave, I was “the girl who fell off the boat on the fourth of July” and no one believed that I could be so ridiculous as to do so sober.

But I was (for the most part). And I am. And I’m sure it won’t be the last time I fall off of something or get accused of doing something drunk that I actually did sober or have a doctor laugh at me…. because this is my life. And these are the things I constantly do.

My other scar (which happened since then and didn’t require a tetanus shot because I knew TO THE DAY when my last one was thanks to this series of events) healed up a lot better than this one has but I don’t mind so much because this one is a constant reminder of how amazing my friends are… how’s that for “the bright side”?


Fireworks go boom.

Oh my gosh, the struggle is REAL today. How long has it been rainy? What does the sun even look like? Do stars really exist? Have my eyelids always been this heavy?

Anyways. I’ve been a slacker this past week and I owe a good story. So how about the time I fell off a boat in front of 300+ people, yes?11140025_10155709909135697_5486652291014298511_n

This past fourth of July, I drove down to Lake Gaston to meet my besties for a day of shenanigans and a night of fireworks (& more shenanigans). I desperately needed the getaway and I’m always happy to soak up time with good friends – these being a handful of my best friends. You know, like the TV show “Friends” – pretty literally our lives.

We soaked up the sun, road around on the boat, grilled out, played a few games, visited a few other friends’ lake houses, and then about 15 of us packed up a cooler and a trash bag full of snacks, piled onto a boat, and headed out to the middle of the lake with 50ish other boats where a veteran lights off (rumor has it) $20,000+ worth of Fireworks for everyone in the area.

11659238_10155709910630697_5811274490269758689_nTo understand the next part of this story, meet Steven and Corbin; two of my favorite men, two of the world’s greatest men, and by far two of my very bests. Some people think it’s weird that two of the people I spend the most time with and go to with most of the things on my heart are guys. They don’t understand it or trust it or “believe” in it. And that’s really too bad. I value these two for who they are in the world, who they are to me, who they help me to understand other people to be, and who they’ve helped me become …They also know me with a creepy sixth sense type of knowledge/understanding that this story supports entirely…11695010_10155712588735697_8311344767353737375_n (1)

I was on cloud nine that night, in the middle of the lake surrounded by amazing friends, looking out over 50+ boats of happy people, and excited to watch the sky light up (I love fireworks!). Before the sun set, a rainbow even showed itself across the sky. I was so happy and so at peace, and I know I prayed a prayer of thanks in the moments before the fireworks started.

If you know me, it goes without saying, and if you don’t, let me tell you that I’ve always been freakishly clumsy which you may have come to grasp in one of my last stories about burning myself. I can trip over air, I swear it.

I was standing at the back of the boat when the Fireworks started. I’m not sure where Corbin and Steven were at the time but they weren’t near me.

Everyone knows that fireworks are loud, it’s like 50% of what they are: loud and bright. Well, starry-eyed-at-peace-jean shorts-and-a-sweatshirt-me forgot that fact and was startled to hear a loud boom accompany them, jumping backwards, straight down the back of the boat, and into pitch-black water. I floundered around for a few seconds trying to determine which way was up and which way was down before I reached the surface and opened my eyes to Steven and Corbin, casual and unsurprised. They fished me out, wrapped me up, sat me down, gave me a few comforting “it’s okay girl, it happens” lines, patted my head, and we re-joined the party. They’ve hardly mentioned it since, except maybe in conversation with my parents.

While Corbin mysteriously appeared out of nowhere that night, I was later told that Steven was at the front of the boat in mid-conversation when everyone heard my splash and without turning his head or missing a beat, he said, “that was Leanne,” stood up and headed for the back of the boat. Sixth sense, I’m telling you.

I had actually injured myself pretty good that night – but I’ll save that portion of the story for another day (because actually, I’m at work right now, hehe).

For weeks though, everywhere I went, people I didn’t even know were at the lake that weekend stopped me, “Omg girl! I saw you fall off the boat last weekend, are you alright?!” and “Leanne! Did I hear that it was you that we saw fall off a boat at Lake Gaston 4th of July?!” and “Damn girl, you sure know how to command attention, bahaha.” and “Poor thing. Saw you crash at the lake. You okay?”

I was okay until the next day… I’ll tell you that part tomorrow…

Quick thoughts

Monday love

The other day (before my pee story) I couldn’t think of what to write about and I texted my (amazing, too-good-to-be-true) family, “Hey, writer’s block… any stories come to mind for me to write about?” And the list started… “Falling off the boat?” – “Face-planting in the grocery store in front of those guys?” – “Your car accident?” – “Your other car accident?” – “Chasing that guy at the gas station?” – “Tracking the homeless dude?” -“Crying through movies at the gym?” – “Being an airline threat on the way home from Rome?” – “Barfing in front of the judge?” …haha, and that just barely even scratches the surface! I intend to tell all of these stories. Haha, I almost forgot how many I have. But today I’m feeling overwhelmingly like I owe a little love back to the world; having been to an oddly fitting church service yesterday and having spent a randomly awesome weekend with different groups of amazing people who (some even unknowingly) poured into me right when I needed a little filling up.

I have no authority to dish out “words of wisdom” as I spend most of my days hanging on for dear life (literally) but these little pieces of other people’s thoughts and lives have struck me over the last couple of weeks and I figured I’d just share them.

Happy Monday!


I was 18 when I last peed myself…

I love Fall! I know it’s not technically here yet but the mornings definitely prove it’s on its way! I’ve been crazy-busy lately and nothing too provoking has come to mind for me to write about… but this morning an e-newsletter popped into my inbox from Ashland Berry Farm.

So, because apparently I’m supposed to tell it, here’s another embarrassing story of my life…

I was the awesome age of 18 and had a relatively new boyfriend who in my mind, was maybe a little too cool for me at the time. It was a beautiful fall afternoon and we decided to rally a group to go to the Haunted Forest at Ashland Berry Farm. Hard as I tried, all of my girlfriends used my signature line of “oh hayl no” and so I ended up with the boys for the night – which has always been fine with me.

This was my first haunted forest experience. If you’ve never been – every Fall Ashland Berry Farm builds different themed rooms in the middle of the woods; tight maze-like rooms that you have to squeeze into, one person behind the other, holding on to each other’s waists and shuffling along. There were three different buildings to get through and thankfully BF wanted to go first which made me second. The other four boys (the shortest being maybe 5’11- just for imagery sake) latched on behind me and we entered the first building.

I was terrified – I do not do scary things well. I buried my face in BF’s back, and fought back terror-induced-dizziness as we worked through the maze in which zombies and, I don’t know, freaky people, scream at you and throw chains around. I remember seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and hearing the guys start laughing again (though their laughs did sound a little forced…)

As we stepped outside into the cold and relaxed a little, something terrible happened. As soon as the relief came, a chainsaw started up in the darkness and quickly started working it’s way closer to us. I felt BF jump and pull away from me… cool as I thought he was (and you are, if you ever happen to find this story. I’m sorry for portraying you as a wimp… wimp! Haha.) I knew he was about to run… and run he did, like a bat out of hell. I reached for his hand, his jacket, his hood, scrambling to grab onto anything that might result in me being taken with him instead of left paralyzed with the chainsaw dude, but he was fast as a baseball-playin’-bitch (pardon my language) and my desperate reaches sent me face-planting into the ground instead.

I was second in our line of six. Which meant that as I looked up and and caught a glimpse of the tiny speck that was the boy who called himself my boyfriend at the time, disappearing into the woods, the other four boys crashed down on top me; a five-person pile up. I could still hear the chainsaw and even though I was literally eating mud at the bottom of the stack, it was a comfort to know that they’d get chopped up before me (sorry!). But… boys in high school are athletic… and selfish, and as fast as they were down, they were up and running again- four more tiny zig-zagging specks disappearing into the darkness without any concern for the girl they had left to die.

I was covered in mud. Broken. And alone. With the scary chainsaw guy. I managed to roll over onto my back to get one last glimpse of the stars and beg God to take me, as he stepped over my body (like dude, inappropriate…) He raised the chainsaw above his head and paused there before going in for the kill (seriously though, do those guys get background checks?!) when it happened.

I’ve heard of people “peeing a little” when they laugh too hard or get startled; mostly old folks or little kids. I was 18. But to my credit, I was about to die. I didn’t pee a little though. I peed a lot. Like a lot, a lot. Like. To my knees. And through my sobbing, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “OKAY! I PEEEEED!” He dropped the chainsaw, laughed, and raised his mask to wink at me before disappearing back into the woods…


Only one boy had returned to save me and witnessed the happenings of that night. To this day, he is still one of my very best friends. His face was stone-cold-serious when he picked me up off the ground and attempted to hug me so that I’d calm down. I doubled-over laughing and waved him off so he didn’t touch me. I literally could not stop hyperventilating-style-laughing trying to communicate to him that someone needed to take me home. Slowly the other boys started to reappear and after a good three minutes of their blank stares, I managed to get out a “I peed, I peed!”

The thing about boys that I, to this day, love: These sweet boys (now all wonderful men) didn’t laugh at me until I said it was okay to laugh- they might have laughed a little too hard and a little too long after that but to their credit, they did wait for approval. Another thing I love about boys; no one else except my family knew that story until I finally decided to tell it four years later as a senior in college (during a night class and after happy hour).

And now I tell it for everyone. And here. Haha, because now that I’m 26, much worse, more embarrassing things have happened to me. Stay tuned…

Quick thoughts

Good morning Spider.

So it’s Friday. It’s been a long week, even though technically a short week. Yesterday I slept through my alarm and had to use dry-shampoo for the second *cough*third*cough* day in a row to make it to work on time.

This morning, I woke up from a sleep so hard that the pillow had left creases on my face and my makeup wouldn’t lay quite right. I threw my head back in a, “God, please help me get through this day” prayer when I saw it. A red and black spider about the size of a nickle…

So, basically… I just killed a spider (#missindependent) that was crawling around on my bathroom ceiling and it almost fell into my (kind of screaming) mouth. Some might consider this a bad start to the day but the typical story-of-my-life would have been if it HAD fallen into my mouth… so really, I started the day with a win! I hope that the same is true for you, maybe minus the spider.

**Disclaimer for all of my beautiful hippie friends- I used to let these spiders live… I don’t know if it was out of some all-things-are-created-equal-compassion or because I was too terrified of them to get close enough to kill them. But then I read that article about how we swallow, what, like, 13 spiders in our sleep every year and I was like “oh hayyyyll no” about letting them roam free in my apartment to one day crawl down my throat. Sowwy.


Don’t cook naked. Trust me…

You know how when you go to the doctor for a “problem” visit, they don’t really ask you the details of your illness/injury/situation until you’re sitting on your little bench in a back room with a loud ticking clocking, swinging your feet laughing? …or maybe I’m the only one who (often) sits on that bench, swinging my feet laughing…

Doctors and I are buddies. We laugh together and we cry (as a result of laughing) together. I visit them often and as a result have (a) No fear and (b) No shame. I am not a sickling, I don’t have a family history of poor health, and I am not a hypochondriac.

Instead, I have the rare and beautiful ability to injury myself in any and all places and situations and in the presence of people who usually think it’s a lot less funny than I do… which makes it all the more funny to me. I do have a couple of friends and supportive family who understand me to the core and who, I’d say, have a sixth sense when it comes to my injury-adventures. But that’s for another story.

Another running theme here will have to be these self-inflicted injuries, accidents, falls, burns, and etc. because as many funny dating stories as I have, I could match them with an embarrassing scar or doctor’s visit story. The following one, in a way, mixes the one with the daydream of the other…

Recently I visited my PCP (for the 4th time this year). I made a 10am appointment at 8am on the same day. After checking in, where I told the receptionist that I was there as a result of a burn, a nice older lady called my name, measured my weight and height and sent me off to my little room where I sat, swinging my feet off the bench giggling to myself at the ridiculousness of my life and excited to see the dumbfounded look on her face when I told her my story.

Here’s the scoop. I just recently moved into my own teeny-tiny wonderful one-bedroom apartment. I love living alone and take advantage of all of it’s perks. Like, you know, nakedness. I’m an article reader and have read multiple seemingly valid articles about how it’s mentally and emotionally healthy to allow yourself to spend time in the nude (you know, like confidence and stuff)…  and like I said, I LIVE ALONE, and I do what I want. Hmph.

One late Friday night after only a couple glasses of wine (yes, only a couple), I decided that I would roast all of my vegetables for the week and that I would do so in my home-alone-state-of-undress. Well, I live downtown, across the street from a motorcycle-owner, behind a bar, right off of a main street, and within earshot of the fire station on the hill. So, needless to say, when I was removing the baking sheet of veggies, in said home-alone-state-of-undress, one of these noises startled me and I stumbled backwards slamming the baking sheet into my body at which point the world went a little fuzzy and I sat on the kitchen floor trying not to pass out…

So… I’m sitting on my little bench in the doctors’ office, waiting for the sweet older lady to return for my burn story, literally laughing out loud, when the door opens and God sends a little “building character” wink as a green-eyed, olive-skinned, tall, dark, and handsome medical student enters.

“Good morning, I’m R and I’m shadowing Dr. A today. *firm handshake*  So let me get the rundown before she comes in and we can get you in and out of here this morning.”

*awkwardly staring at green-eyes as crickets chirp – no more leg swinging*

“Soooo, your records say you’re in for a burn this morning. *looking at all of my limbs confused* …What happened?”

*awkwardly staring at green-eyes as crickets chirp – no more leg swinging*

And then I just… said it… “I burnt my boob.” ….silence…. “With a baking sheet.” …silence… “I was cooking.” ….silence…. “Alone, alone, alone, alone!!!”

Medical Student R was having a hard time responding to me and I knew he wanted to laugh. Charming and professional as he seemed to be, he looked like this before he swiveled his chair around and faced away from me…

Because I’m relatively immune to these situation (aside from the initial shock of him walking in), I died laughing and said, “It’s hilarious, I know. Please, you can laugh. Seriously. Laugh. This is the story of my life. I laugh. Really. Laugh” And so we did. We laughed and laughed…

…Then the doc came in, determined my burn to be pretty infected, prescribed me an antibiotic ointment and antibiotic pill, and had Medical Student R assist in properly bandaging my… injury. Because, of course.

We’re healing up just fine, since I’m sure you’re wondering…. Pride and all.


yeah, I’ve dabbled in online dating…

I’m hesitant to write about my dating life because I’m still dating (don’t get confused, I’m currently quite single but you know, “dating” *eye roll*) and I would hate to end up meeting someone who already knew too much about my history or who’d worry that he’d end up in a story online. But some of the funniest, craziest “stories of my life” involve dating and what’s the point of misery and embarrassment if not for other people laugh at it? So, to protect the “innocent,” I promise to only share old dating stories and nothing too recent.

For now. Mwaha.

I am a happy and glorious 26 years old but also one of the last girls standing in my friend group – which is fine with me, truly. But when your friends all start getting “husband-ed/wifed up,” the likelihood, as it turns out, of meeting people through them or out-and-about with them, goes down. Like way down. And so the flickering screen of the online-dating-world beckons…

This will have to be a continuing theme in posts to come because I have a boo-coo of hilarious attempted dating stories, both online and off, but to kick it off…  a relatively-tame quick awkward too-close-for-comfort meet-up that happened (not so) recently…

I think chances are, everyone lies on their online dating profile. I’ll admit to having my “Body type” listed as “About Average” which… I don’t know… I might teeter on the “A little more to love” line sometimes? Maybe? Nah. Eh? Yesssss. Dangit.

But that’s a thin line! (Ha.) And that’s not so bad, is it?! I met a guy whose online profile claimed 6’2… which really is kind of the “dream” height, not that I’m really deterred by any number but there’s a tiny little extra pep in your step on the way to meet 6’2. I’m too old and I’ve been out with one too many 6’2-ish losers to really care about height, but… I would have worn a shirt with a higher neckline…

After website-talking, then text message-talking, then phone-call-talking (gah, so exhausting), 6’2 and I met up at Cafe Caturra for a drink. He said he’d wait by the fireplace and he’d have a book, which was just… adorable… in theory. When I walked in, I saw lots of men with books, and one by the fireplace.

I’m 5’7. I recognize that maybe this is a little tall for a woman (Confirmed: Wiki says 5’4 is the average height for women in the US. *scoffs*), but it’s not that tall… unless you’re expecting Mr. 6’2 when Mr. 5’2 approaches…

Do you know what the difference is between 6’2 and 5’7 and 5’2 and 5’7? Well, for a woman, it’s the difference between a hug involving your head “on” his chest and his head “in” your chest. You know what I’m sayin’? … an innocent hug versus second base.

In my natural way, I tripped on my way to meet him halfway between the fireplace and the door (always happens) and in a laughing-fit-first-hug, Mr. 5’2, wanna be 6’2, kind of, I don’t know how to put this, bit …-ish my…Don’t make me say it.

We had a glass of wine in uncomfortable hysterics and then never spoke again.

…that is until I started seeing someone else… and accompanied him to party at his friend’s house… and what do you know, the house was owned by the guy who accidentally, publicly, within 2-minutes of meeting, bit(ish) my….

Don’t make me say it.

This is nothing compared to my book of dating stories. Please do stay tuned.