Because I spent my high school years living on the border (which, coincidentally, was Aerosmith’s first choice, but edge eventually won out because, hello, catchier.), I was basically, for all drunktensive purposes, of legal drinking age by the time I reached 14.

The first time I got drunk was with my cousin. And it ended just as you’d probably suspect it would, with me humping an orange traffic cone. Also, that was the night I learned one of life’s most valuable lessons: when the bed is spinning, always put one foot on the floor.

The second time I got drunk was at a friend’s older sibling’s party. I drank approximately 1,023 itty-bitty cups of trashcan punch. This ended badly, with me passing out in their backyard, only to be awoken by his less than pleased get your drunk ass off my lawn mother. Hawaiian Punch, I raise my tiny fists to thee!

The 50th time I got drunk, I was felt-up by a guy friend, who went on to tell everyone the following day that he’d climbed, and conquered, Mount Everest. (Mount Everest was TOTALLY unimpressed with his climbing skills, by the way. Yawn.)

The 100th time I got drunk….

Well, you get the picture.

So, by the time my landmark 21st birthday rolled around, I was, like, so totally over it. Pleased with my ability to bong a beer faster than most of my guy friends, I was way too cool to be excited about legally being able to do so. I rolled my eyes and smirked, when I’d hear my non-border friends giddily talking about the big 2-1.

Harrumph! Amateurs!

And, then it happened, I got my cocky ass handed to me on a platter. I remember that night like it was yesterday. Well, the first couple of hours of it, at least.

It was December, 6, 1998, and I was living in Austin. My friends and I hit a bar on 6th street we’d frequented many times before, albeit illegally, but still. This time I was finally able to get in without using a fake ID, or having to frantically scrub big black X’s off my hands in the restroom stall (Baby Oil, FTW!).

My rite of passage night began with a round of shots for everyone. And then, 20 more rounds just for me. I vaguely recall a drag queen, with a flawless face and much perkier tits than me, handing me a drink she’d just lit on fire. Luckily, the potent taste of pure, cheap alcohol, quickly overcame the stench of burnt nose hair.

My next memory is when things start to get foggy. I sort of remember getting up and walking out into the crisp, cool night air. And slurring to myself, “Maybe I shouldn’t have had those last 16 shots…and four Long Islands.”

Annnnnnnd fade to black.

The next morning, I awoke in my pajamas in bed, but in my own bed, so, winning! I went through the standard what the hell happened last night college ritual, trying to piece the night back together.

Hmmm…

Oh.

Ohhhhhhhh.

Ohhhhhhhh NOOOOOOO.

I brushed the taste of cigarette, shame, and death off my tongue, and stumbled out of my room in search of my roommate and boyfriend.

Please let it be him who changed me and put me to bed last night, and not the pyromaniac drag queen imbiber. Or that hot guy from the bar. Wait, what am I saying, please let it be that hot guy from the bar.

As I got to the top step of our staircase, my foot splashed down onto the soaking wet carpet – squish- squirt – oozing up between my toes.

“GROSS. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” I shouted, while running downstairs.

My boyfriend and roommate were sitting on our couch, probably watching Jeopardy, because that was kind of her thing.

She was the smart roomate.

Where as I was more the…

“I’ll take Slackers for $500.

Question: Small, square, white papers commonly referred to as Zig-Zags.

Allison: What is something you use to get high?”

…roommate.

Whatever.

“YOU GUYS. WHO THE FUCK PUKED ALL OVER THE STAIRS LAST NIGHT? I just stepped in it. Gross!”

“No one puked.

Answer: A chick named Allison.

Question: Who got so shit-faced she pissed on the stairs?”

Apparently, I had gotten up to pee, walked in the opposite direction of my bathroom, pulled down my pants, and plopped my drunk ass firmly down on the top step…letting the flood gates open.

BOOM.

And THAT? Is how well I hold my liquor, you guys.

The moral of the story:  DON’T binge drink, but if you do, lay like a tarp out anywhere you think a drunk person might piss.

Or something like that.

They stared at me intensely, with a crazed look in their eyes, fixated on my every move.

Breathing loudly, they drooled, and licked their lips, attempting to coax me into submission with only their eyes.

Without saying a word, I knew exactly what they wanted from me.

But, I wasn’t ready to go there, because I knew how wrong it was. The repercussions could be disastrous. It would take an eternity to clean up the mess that giving in would make. Parts of it, I may never be able to clean up at all.

Then, without warning, one of them lunged forward, forcefully licking me. Not once, not twice, but three times. Fearful he would take what he wanted, I recoiled, placing my hands atop my secret treasure, guarding it.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, one of them let out a soft whimper. Then another, louder this time.

The air was thick with desperation and desire.

Their frantic eyes begged of me to give in.

And, they wanted all of it, no matter how dirty it was.

The room became warmer with their desperate panting, causing the windows to slowly fog up. My bed, moist with their saliva.

Against my better judgment, I could feel myself slowly giving into their insatiable desires.

Only if you don’t tell my husband, I whispered.

They conceded with their eyes, promising me anything for just one taste.

Beaten down by their wordless demands, I finally relented…

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…and handed over the chicken leg that I’d been sexily gnawing on in my bed at midnight.

The things they did to my bone were unspeakable.

It was total dog porn.

Hardcore, full lipstick frontal, puppy porn.

I should known better, and I did, but those goddamn puppy dog eyes get me every time.

And, I was correct in my assumption that this would be a near impossible mess to clean up.

Because after they had their way with it?

They shit and puked all over my house.

Lesson learned, and I’ve promised myself to be stronger next time, and not give in.

Probably.

My original intention was to write an informative piece, explaining things women do that drive men crazy, outside of the bedroom, and why they do them, so I sounded an alarm and asked my male peers to give me the inside scoop.

And as the rants came pouring in, I became defensive, something that drives my own husband crazy. Inevitably, things took a turn in a new direction.

Man Rant #1: “Why do you leave hair everywhere, the floor, the bathtub, the sink?”

Pot meet kettle. Or, rather, gross male pubic hair meet lustrous female head hair. Men shed just as much as women do, we just happen to have a lot more hair. And male shedding is way worse, because, for some reason, an absurd amount comes from their nether regions. Pubes on the bathmat, pubes in the shower, pubes on the floor…what are you guys doing in there? Wait, don’t answer that. Besides, we usually end up cleaning the bathroom, anyway. So, until men are the ones with the rubber gloves and sponge in hand, they should just keep telling us how pretty our hair is, be it on our heads, or in the drain.

Man Rant #2: “Why is her car so disorganized and dirty?”

I get this from my husband all the time, and here’s the thing. In my house, I’m the one chauffeuring around sticky, little, Cheerio-addicted humans, who have bodily explosions in their car seats. So, until his briefcase starts asking him “why” 400 times a day, while picking its nose and wiping the winner on his seat, a simple thank you will do. Or better yet, wash my car for me.

Man Rant #3: “Why can’t she pass by a pharmacy without wanting to go in?”

Good question, and one that hits home for me. If I were to tally up all I’ve spent at Walgreen’s, you’d likely find me curled up in a tight ball on my shower floor, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. So, why do I do it? Because it’s convenient. With two kids in tow, it’s a lot easier to lug them into Walgreen’s or CVS, than it is a grocery store. At the end of the day, it’s usually all I can manage. Plus, it’s like a wonderland of mascara, gloss, tampons, diapers, trashy magazines, and assorted yeast infection treatments. Sure it’s a ripoff, but the ease factor is sometimes worth the 100% markup on hotdog wiener emergencies. So, either start doing all the shopping, and buying us the right brand and absorbancy of tampons, or politely nod and pull over when we pass a pharmacy.

Man Rant #4: “Stop looking on my face for a blackhead to squeeze.”

Stop grabbing our boobs when we change in front of you.

Also, my husband has this strange mutant hair on his right eyebrow. Every few weeks, when it grows out, it’s like a third party’s in the room with us. It’s so distracting, and honestly, I just don’t trust it. When he’s in mid-sentence, I’ll quickly grab hold, and violently pluck it from his tender brow. After shrieking like a little girl, he typically yells at me. And, if I fail to remove it on the first try, he’ll usually refuse to let me have a do over. “Fine,” I’ll say, “Go to the meeting with your 12-inch eyebrow hair. I’m sure no one will focus on it, or try to braid it. Freak.”

This tactic earns me a minimum of three more attempts, to painfully rip the rebel hair from its brow.

My point is, that men are great at a lot of things, maybe even better than us in certain areas. But, hygiene, pimple maintenance, and hair removal aren’t of one of them. So, either confidently walk into that meeting, and introduce the dread lock protruding from your left nostril, or suck it up and relent to our obsessive skin-picking ways.

Man Rant #5: “Why do I have to say “I’m sorry” over and over again when I do something wrong. Isn’t once enough?”

That’s fair. Women can sometimes hold onto things for too long, and I’ve been known to hang on to grudges with a death-grip. It’s not that we don’t forgive you when you mess up, it just may take some time for our minds to tell our hearts that we’re done with it. And, even after we forgive you, maybe we’re still baffled, wondering how the hell you could have done whatever it is you did. We love hard, fight hard, and feel hard. But, at the end of the day, isn’t that one of the things you love about us? Especially when we’re in your corner.

Man Rant #6: “Women need to learn how to share the road.”

Yawn. Next question, please.

Man Rant #7: “Why do women never give a straight answer, always making us guess what’s on your mind?”

Speaking only for myself, there are a couple of reasons I’ll not so gracefully dance around an issue. Maybe I’m pissed off that he’s even had to ask something…He should know me better after all these years! And, I’ll somewhat shamefully confess, that in the beginning of our relationship I just wanted him to like me. I mean, did he really believe I was that into a football? Other times, it’s that trusty defense mechanism I tend to fall back on, that causes me to wonder if I’m overreacting, or being too sensitive.

And, sometimes, I just like to see him squirm.

Man Rant #8: “When women don’t want to have sex because they’re not comfortable with their body. Trust me, we don’t care.”

You say you don’t care, and that’s sweet. But, when you tell us the most perfect girl on the planet is Alessandra Ambrosio, while we’re leaking breast-milk and greasing up our stretch marks, it plants tiny seeds of doubt. For so many of us, our bodies have changed. They’ve carried and nursed babies, fluctuated, or experienced gravity in all the wrong places. Things that were once tight, now jiggle. And we pee when we sneeze. Honestly, I feel vulnerable enough when I’m by myself, standing naked in front of my bathroom mirror. Throw in a naked man, awkward positions, and really odd noises, and the self-doubt can rear it’s ugly head…making me feel ugly. So, just keep on telling us that we’re beautiful. One day we’ll see what you do.

Also, see here.

Man Rant #9: “Why are they always on their cell phones?”

Why are you always looking over our heads to check the score?

Finally, the one question that blew up my inbox.

Man Rant #10: “Why are women so passive aggressive?”

I’ll answer this with the words of a separate man-rant I received, wondering why women always asked rhetorical questions…

“Question from my wife:  Have you taken the trash out?

How I want to answer: You know goddamn well I haven’t taken the trash out. And no, I don’t feel like doing it now, I’ll take care of it later.

How I answer:  No, sorry…  I’m on it.”

You mean passive aggressive like that?

Passive-aggressiveness is, no doubt, a toxic way of communicating with your partner. But, come on, it’s far from being exclusive to the female population. Both sexes are mighty skillful at playing that game.

Anything I’m missing, ladies?

My neighbor, Niki, has an adorable dog named Moxie.

Moxie looks just like my dog, but on steroids.

They both have the best snaggle tooth ever.

Also, they both had a rough time in life, before they found us.

They are total soul-dogs.

Since Niki and Moxie are moving at the end of the month (SAD TEAR-STAINED FACE), we’ve been meaning to get a picture of Mox and Levi together.

Last night, they both came over to my house for wine and milk-bones.

DON’T YOU DARE JUDGE NIKI BECAUSE SHE LIKES MILK-BONES.

And, I couldn’t think of a better time than midnight, after two bottles of wine, to offer up my artistic photog skills.

So, obviously, I arranged an impromptu photo shoot with the pups.

The outcome was less than stellar, and I blame one of two things.

Either I was way too drunk to be doing anything other than drinking more, or Moxie and Levi are REAL LIFE ZOMBIE DOGS.

DUN DUN DUUUUN

“We shall wag our tails and eat your face off while you’re sleeping.”

When we hear someone’s been diagnosed with cancer, our first reaction is sympathy.

Oh, that poor woman. I cannot even imagine.

Then the sympathy momentarily shifts to fear.

What if this happens to me or someone I love?

But, the fear is usually fleeting and we carry on our way, right back to bitching about teething babies and uncommunicative husbands.

We spot donation links in our Facebook streams, or in the mail.

We fancy ourselves as generous, but, nine times out of ten, throw that mail in the trash, or scroll down further…furiously searching for something that doesn’t make us feel, and remind us of the could-happens.

It’s not that we don’t care about cancer, starving kids, or the aftermath of natural disasters.

Because we do.

But, unless it hits home, unless we have a personal connection, it simply doesn’t feel real.

Or, we wonder if our meager donation will go to the right place, and be used as it’s intended. And, even if it does and it is, we question if something so small can make a dent in something so big.

We’re desensitized, and jaded, to those issues that don’t affect us.

Until they do affect us.

Almost two years ago, some friends of mine that I adore, got that news. The news no one wants to hear, or thinks they ever will.

James was diagnosed with a Stage Four Glioblastoma.

A brain tumor.

And just like that this beautiful family, with three young sons, had their lives turned upside.

When I first heard the news, my heart broke. I went through the why-thems over and over and over again.

But, funny thing, they didn’t go through them. Instead of being scared and shutting down? James began living.

And not just for himself, but for others.

Basically, James was like, “Meh, I’m bored. So, today, I’m gonna kick cancer’s ass and raise a bajillion dollars for research on the side. Oh, and I’ll throw some tennis tournaments and travel in there so I don’t get bored AND OH LOOK LET ME SAVE THAT CAT STUCK UP IN THE TREE.”

(I added the cat part, but it’s probably true. Maybe.)

In the middle of the brain surgery-chemo-radiation-filled uncertainty, he and beautiful his wife, Jamie, began The Broach Foundation for Brain Cancer Research.

To help others.

Now, if it were me, if I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, I fear I’d just stop living; that the fear alone would break me.

And thinking outside myself during a time like this?

Unimaginable.

Normally, allergies are enough to shut me down, forcing me to cancel all my plans, and draw the curtains (or close the shutters, in my case. whatever).

But, not James and Jamie.

The grace, courage, humor, faith, and generosity they’ve shown?

Has blown me away.

Saying these two have inspired me is a such an incredible understatement. Such a cliche, it isn’t adequate.

They have changed the way I feel about life, about how I want to live it, and how I want to love.

They began their foundation to fund Brain Cancer research this past November.

The outcome, thus far, as been amazing.

Last night was their Inaugural Gala.

And, **spoiler alert** I went!

Shocking, because if you know me, you’re aware of just how much it takes to make this happen…

I mean, I put a bra on and took elastic “athletic” pants off for these guys.

Last night, before things kicked off, they’d already raised $750,000 to help fund Brain Cancer research.

The donations could not be more needed.

Because, Brain Cancer, for as many people as it affects, it’s incredibly underfunded when it comes to the research into finding a cure.

Such a shame, because the doctors here at MD Anderson are on the forefront of some amazing breakthroughs.

You can read about it here.

The night was nothing like I thought it would be. I’d anticipated heavy hearts and lots of tears.

There was none of that.

Instead, Jamie said from the get-go that the night was to be about laughter.

And James opened with a joke.

A doctor tells his patient he has bad news, and really bad news. The patient asks, “What’s the bad news?” The doctor says, “You have 24 hours to live.” “What’s the really bad news?” asks the patient.

“I was supposed to tell you yesterday.”

(Of course, I’m paraphrasing.)

(Sorry if I butchered it, James.)

Lee Majors was there to introduce his friend Kevin Nealon, who wrapped up the night with pure hilarity.

My cheeks still hurt from laughing so hard.

Oh! And, I was right about one thing.

There wasn’t one dry eye in the house.

But, from laughter, not from tears.

I could go on and on about how amazing this family is, but I’ll step aside and let you see for yourself.

James goes in for another brain surgery on the 17th. The world renowned Dr. Lang will insert a catheter into his brain and inject the delta-24 virus via the catheter.  The catheter will remain in his head for two weeks. On the 31st, Dr. Lang will perform another awake craniotomy where he’ll remove the catheter and resect the brain tissue immediately surrounding it.

What are YOU doing in the next two weeks? Slackers.

So, I ask you: for prayers, meditation, good thoughts, positive vibes, or however it is you do it, my friends…for my friends.

Also, I encourage you to think twice before you scroll passed things most of us would rather avoid, remembering that you truly can make an impact…even if it’s just a couple of bucks, or a few hours of your time.

Because, imagine how wonderful it would be if we all rooted for and supported one another, personal connection or not?

I mean, why the hell else are we here?

I have a standing appointment every three months to see my therapist.

You know, to talk about my feelings AND OMG YES I ABSOLUTELY NEED A REFILL FOR ALL MY PRESCRIPTIONS THANK YOU!

It was all going according to plan.

I’d convinced her I was over the pregnancy sad, my anxiety was under control, and I was doing really well.

Then, I was all, “Oh, you want to see pictures of the boys?”

As I dug my iPhone out of my cracker crumbs-pacifier-unwrapped tampon filled purse, she walked over and sat beside me on the couch.

I opened Photos and began scrolling through my 3,000 pictures.

Of course, my temperamental iPhone picked that exact second to freeze.

And, for the next few moments, we both sat staring in silence at this fabulous Yeti-spread.

Just like that, all my progress in therapy went to shit.

Diagnosis: Crazy Cat Lady.

My neighbor’s leaving at the end of the month.

Stupid Michigan.

Lately, I’ve gotten to know her so much better, with one of us constantly sneaking over to the others for late night rap sessions, after our boys are in bed.

Not like gangster rap rap sessions, even though I can freestyle like a motherfucker, but just like hours of talking and laughing over wine.

Our friendship reminds me of a favorite Storypeople print of mine (one of many)…

“You’re the strangest person I ever met, she said & I said you too & we decided we’d know each other a long time.”

Sigh.

Thank God, Butters is keeping us together.

I mean, it’s been like living next door to myself, you guys.

With the exception of the homemade pancake delivery, of course.

That bitch can bake.

Texts from last night…literally.

(Mine are in blue)

This morning….

There once was a little girl, carefree and as happy as could be. This little girl still hadn’t lost her baby weight, but being around seven years old, she was blissfully unaware what the numbers staring back at her from the pediatrician’s scale meant. She had no idea that she weighed a little more than she should, until the day a well-intentioned uncle pointed it out, among a swimming pool full of hotel guests.

She, in her modest neon bathing suit, got a running head start and cannon-balled herself into the fancy pool. Making her way to the surface, she did a little flip, causing her well-padded tummy to somersault; one of her favorite parts of swimming. Laughing as she reached the surface, she heard her uncle yell out to her, “That was quite a splash, Baby Orka!”

Baby whale.

And that was the exact moment she grasped what the word fat really meant. Also, the moment she began despising her body.

Ten years later, at seventeen, she’d lost a lot of her baby weight. But, still carried around several more pounds than many of her classmates, and all of the models splashed across the covers of her beauty magazines.  She wasn’t the least bit unpopular, quite the opposite really. She had lots of friends, too many boyfriends, a decent enough face, and an extra sensitive heart. Regardless, she still didn’t like herself all that much. She just couldn’t see all that good under those perceived extra pounds.

Leading up to Spring Break, a beach vacation with all of her classmates, she began bathing suit shopping. With each suit she tried on, she heard the voice in her head whisper, “Baby Orka.”

She hated herself.

Then one day a friend told her about a miracle diet. She’d be able to eat as much as she wanted, and still lose all those disgusting pounds she despised, not realizing the self-hatred was about way more than that. All she had to do was make herself vomit.

“We will just do this until Spring Break,” she pinky swore with her friend.

The first time she stuck her finger down her throat she thought it was the most disgusting thing ever. But, as time went on and the excess pounds came off, it became much more tolerable.

Therapeutic, even.

Coupled with a twenty pound weight loss, came the nods of affirmation she’d so desperately craved. As guilty as she felt when she was kneeling before the toilet, having people tell her how skinny she was made it all worth it.

The benefits of her killer diet were two-fold. In addition to the weight loss, she discovered it was a brilliant emotional coping mechanism. She not only purged her food, but her feelings as well. That amount of control was intoxicating. If she was sad she’d eat a cheeseburger, then get rid of both at once.

She continued slowly killing herself in this manner for the next eight years. Moving off to college and living alone made her secret love affair with Bulimia that much easier to conceal.

She lied to herself often, about a lot of things, but mainly by telling herself that she wasn’t really Bulimic. By not typically inhaling thousands of calories before sticking her small finger down her throat, and just ridding her body of normal meals, she was able to hold tight to the denial. Even if some days she threw up every single thing she ate, she refused to accept she had a problem.

Of course, there were definitely the occasional huge binges. They almost always capped off a night of binge drinking, the only time her body’s desperate cry for nourishment could knock out her self control.

Over the years, her purging waxed and waned. She’d have really good periods, weeks when she thought she’d won. But, like an abusive boyfriend, she kept going back.

As the years passed, she became increasingly terrified of what she was doing to her body. The internet age in full swing, she knew the damage that could be done. With each heart palpitation, each bout of gastritis, she slowly released the death grip she had on denial and sought help.

It certainly didn’t go away over night, not even over a year, but opening up to someone and admitting she had a problem at least put her on some sort of path to recovery.

Truth be told, the antidepressants she finally conceded to, helped more than anything; greatly decreasing the strong urge she had to flush her feelings down the toilet. Each time she forgot to refill them, and tried to call it quits, that abusive boyfriend came knocking with a vengeance, pushing her right back down on the cold and familiar tiles of the bathroom floor.

But, slowly, over time, she learned to love herself again. She sometimes even liked the image staring back from her full length mirror.

Those positive, foreign feelings of confidence proved much more intoxicating than Bulimia.

I sit here today, a 34 year old woman with tears streaming down my face, telling the story of the damaged young women I was for all those years.

Coming clean, finally.

And, although a decade has passed since I cut that abusive boyfriend loose, I feel I’ve just recently began to overcome it.

For so long after the behavior ceased, I continued keeping the secret of who I once was. Terrified of being judged, scared of losing friends, and not wanting to disappoint or embarrass my loved ones; I convinced myself that overcoming that dreadful disease was enough.

But, it wasn’t. And it’s not.

I was married for six years before I told my husband about my struggle with Bulimia. No matter how much I told myself I’d beat it, I knew that until I was able to openly talk about it, I wasn’t truly recovered at all.

After a night of downing glasses of liquid courage, I told my husband everything. Seven years old again and sobbing, I wrapped myself in a tight ball on the couch, terrified of his reaction. He reached over and took me in his arms, not needing to say a single word, because I knew in that moment he had never loved me more.

The few people I’ve confided in always ask me the same question, “Does it ever really go away?” And, honestly, I’m not sure. Have I had moments in the past nine years that I’ve felt the urge to purge my feelings in that way? Without a doubt.

The difference now is that I have better coping skills and a much better understanding of what led me down that road in the first place. Bulimia is much more about unresolved issues and other mental illnesses, anxiety and depression being mine, than it is weight and physical appearance.

Many find it difficult to cope with unpleasant feelings. Some abuse alcohol or drugs, others spend excessively or gamble. We each have our own way of coping. Bulimia was mine.

The thought of taking this skeleton out of the closet has always terrified me. But, not anymore. The shame has been stripped away, replaced by something amazing.

Empowerment.