Guest Post – Erin Go Bra-Less

During my vacation I’m publishing posts from some of my favorite bloggers. Today is from a real quirky bitch –  Chrissy Woj of  Quirky Chrissy. Enjoy.

—

If there was a poster child for embarrassing tales, I should be it. I give new meaning to the phrase embarrassing moments…Whether I’m clumsily falling on my ass, behaving like a star-struck teenager in front of a bit player on the Chicago Bears, or screaming, “Keanu Reeves is hot!” in a movie theater that has suddenly gone from loud action scene to dead silence, I’m your girl.

So I’m going to tell you a little story. With St. Patrick’s Day right around the corner, I figured that it’s time you learn about the other holiday. The holiday that falls the day BEFORE St. Patrick’s Day. The day my friends like to call, “Erin Go Bra-less,”   which dates back all the way to 2006.

For most of my life, my parents owned an Irish bar in the Chicago suburbs. We all worked there, especially on St. Patrick’s Day. So I made plans to party like a rock star the night before at the home bar.

The following is an excerpt from my  MySpace Blog  journal, the morning of St. Patrick’s Day 2006.

“Early this morning I woke up, home, in my bed, and naked. This may not seem strange at first, until we question how the hell I got there. Because at 6 am this morning, I had no fucking clue. So I looked out my window for my car. Thank God, it wasn’t there. So I didn’t drive.  But how did I get home?  I woke my brother up. Mark, my best friend, drove me home, I guess. SO I called him. And asked what the hell had happened. Apparently there was a great deal of shots pouring. I fell outside of the bar as my friends were carrying me out. They brought me home. Put me to bed, clothed. I suppose I have a tendency to nakify myself when I’m drunk, as my old roommates would probably remind me.    

All I know is I haven’t blacked out since my 21st. Someone needs to remind me that I’m not in college anymore. And I DEFINITELY can no longer hold my liquor the way I used to.   So now, it’s St. Patrick’s Day.  I’m  supposed to be waiting tables right now and sneaking pieces of corned beef. But instead I’m laying around in my pajamas hoping to God that I’ll be  OK  enough to eat that corned beef in 5 hours or at least work. I believe I’ve died and gone to hell. NEVER AGAIN.“

I felt like death warmed over. It was the hangover of a lifetime, and I really wanted to die.

When I went to find my favorite bra that evening, on my way into work, it was nowhere to be found. What my friend, Mark, failed to mention that morning was that I would not be able to locate my bra. Apparently, the night before the other ladies and I decided that it was Erin Go Bra-less, and we would all be removing our bras. I’m a bit on the busty side, and the shirt that I was wearing that night made it quite evident that I was, in fact bra-less…and not in a good way.

I proceeded to get stupid drunk(er), and finish the night without my memory. All because I had to work on St. Patrick’s Day, and I convinced my friends to party with me the night before.  Luckily, one of the other waitresses saw me getting shit-faced, pulled me aside, gave me her number, and said, “Call me tomorrow morning when you can’t work.” (Oh yes, I called her…and yet I still had to go in to work later that night.)

Early in the evening on St. Patrick’s Day, with a less-than-awesome bra, I finally made my way to the bar. As I arrived, I was greeted by an army of smirks and questions of, “How ya feeling today, Drunkles?” The other waitresses were all snickering at me as I walked back to the kitchen.

I walked in and my father was standing there, next to my black lacy bra, waiting for me. “Christine?” The only time my dad calls me by my full name is when he’s disappointed or angry. “Does this belong to you?” as he pointed at the bra.  I took in the image of my bra and my dad, and I hung my head.

“Yes…”

“I’m not going to ask how it got here. The ladies (waitresses) were going to hang it above the bar, Christine.” He shook his head at me in embarrassment.  “Your brother told me it was yours, and so I stopped them.” He just looked at me with those Dad eyes…and I looked back at him feeling every ounce of embarrassed. “Don’t. Let. It. Happen. Again.”

And I didn’t. At least not that he knows of.