Science class was always difficult for me.

Throughout my schooling I struggled to earn a decent grade in science. As an adult looking back I realized that most of my education consisted of being taught facts that I attempted to memorize and then retrieve. My memory is poorer than my intelligence would suggest. I’m not a dumb guy, but I have a dumb memory. Not a great combination – smart and forgetful. Thank God the internet came to be in my lifetime. I no longer have to remember much of anything. I have immediate access to facts and am not penalized on my inability to recall items from my swiss cheese brain.

Once in seventh grade I stayed up until 11pm to memorize every fact for a science test. I landed a 97%, the highest grade in the class. After a short-lived exuberance, a mild depression washed over me. I realized that there was no way I would have the energy to do that amount of work for future exams. It was way too much time to devote to a silly test. In the next exam a month later, I barely passed. The teacher pulled me into a private meeting because I guess it’s not common for a student to fall from grace that quickly. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I only studied thirty minutes because I wasn’t going to miss the back-to-back Wings episodes on USA during prime time. The other reason I wasn’t going to kill myself for each test was that the teacher had announced who earned the highest grade. When I had scored the near-perfect it wasn’t like my peers threw a ticker tape parade in my honor. Nobody applauded and, if anything, I sensed hostility from the class. And, if there’s one thing I know about school is that the acceptance of your peers is pretty goddamn important. Over time I learned how to earn Bs without sacrificing my exposure to pop culture. Since I took honors classes, each B turned into an A on the report card. Don’t ask me to explain why that happened, but thank God it did.

This month at InThePowderRoom I wrote a review for a microscope for girls. Don’t ask me to summarize the content because, as explained earlier, I have no memory of it. But I do remember thinking it came out darned good. You should go read it right now.

first photo credit: Science Class at UIS via (license)
second photo credit: Hold My Purse Productions LLC

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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.

This time last year I attended a party thrown by my friend for his girlfriend Kelly. She’s an actress and was heading off to NYC to try to do the professional acting thing. Her plan was to give it a year. I wrote about anger yesterday  and it reminded me that at that party I felt a low-level anger toward Kelly.

I wish I wasn’t typing this because she’s the nicest person in the world. I’m excited to know her and this in no way reflects anything negative about her. Okay, let’s get back to me being pissed off. I felt that what she was doing was irresponsible – who goes to NYC to make it as an actress? The odds are against her! I just found the whole thing silly and a waste of time.

I’m not proud of these judgments – but at the time that’s what was happening.

Later that night I ran into an  acquaintance. She’s a lawyer at a prestigious firm, and at this moment I can’t recall her name. So, we’ll go with Flo. She’s obviously not Flo, but that name is funny. Flo had just made partner to which I heaped praise and congratulations.

I asked Flo if she had always wanted to be an attorney, if it was her childhood dream. I assumed it was.

She laughed and told me she never had any interest in law at all. Not even though undergrad. I think Flo was an English major and didn’t know what to do after graduation. So she took the LSAT and went to law school. I told her she wasn’t giving me the whole story, and that you don’t just go to law school without having a strong interest in the field. But she kept insisting she was not really into law. Even now, it was just “okay” to her. She wasn’t complaining – she said they paid her extremely well and she was good at it.

I asked her if law wasn’t her passion, what was? All of a sudden her eyes lit up. She talked about Italian  archaeology and said that was her one true love. Now, she’s not Italian and I didn’t even know that was an actual subject. Flo started talking  excitedly  about how she’s going to go back to school, get her masters and then Ph. D. and then split her time between dig sites in Italy and teaching college students. Her plan was to quit law in ten years which would give her and her husband enough savings to allow her to pursue this dream.

Now I found myself angry with both Kelly and Flo. Here she was, an accomplished lawyer  talking about throwing her career away and pursuing this other love.

Within the next hour it dawned on me. Here were two women chasing their dreams. I was not chasing my dream. This was about me.

I live only about five blocks from the party. Though it was midnight I walked with powerful and heavy steps home. I was mad. Something had snapped, and at 35 years old, I knew I could no longer go another day without giving this writing this a real shot.

While I have never fancied myself a writer, I do know that I’m funny. Very funny. It’s my gift and I’ve studied it most of my life. I just never knew what to do with it. I had this blog, but I never updated it.

As I walked home I decided the only way to see what was there was to put my head down and do it. So, I committed to writing. A lot. Over the past year I’ve realized that being funny is only a little part of what people connect to here. I’ve added other parts of my life such as sadness, fear, vulnerability. While I’m a funny dude and social, I am also quite serious and dark.

Many time I’ve been afraid about sharing the deeper and shadowed sides of me. Thank God you guys appreciate more than just a great fart joke.

I don’t believe I’m a good writer or that my blog is important. I do think I’m funny, honest and vulnerable. It’s nice to know that there are people who relate to those qualities. I’m grateful this technology exists and that I have enough  discipline to keep going.

I thank you for your patience through this experiment. It’s odd putting your daily life out in the public domain, and I’m glad that you have shared some of your lives, too, through the comments, social media, and email.

I don’t know how to end this one so I’ll just say keep reading. Or I’ll hate you forever. And that’s a long time to be on someone’s shit-list.

Four minutes later she put her hand up.  â€Okay, that’s enough.”

I grew up being told I was special, smart, and talented.  That’s a well-intentioned message, but also created the expectation within myself that I had to be perfect.  Since I’m not, I was always disappointed with imperfection.  A “B” could have been an “A” should I have studied harder, as I’m obviously smart enough to get those grades.  That is still with me today.

One thing I have always done a good job of is paying the bills.  I don’t have much money left over, mind you.  But the bills get paid.  Thank God.  Obviously that could change in a heartbeat, but for today, I’m good.

I was in my doctor’s office (two in one day!) this evening who I see every six months.  We just go over some stuff and I’m in and out in fifteen minutes.

Since I pay for my own health insurance, my benefits suck old-man nutsack.  My doctor isn’t on the Aetna plan, so I have to pay that out-of-network whatever which is not fun.  Not fun at all, I tells ya! (hopefully you inserted an old-timey 1920s voice there.  If not, go back and read it again.)

Before we get started he says, “Oh, Rocio (his assistant) says you have a balance of $447 with us.  Can you take care of that with her?”

Let’s back up a step.  Six months ago I got a bill from them, as usual.  It was for $300 or so.  And I was thinking, “Oh my God, one appointment is $300?  I can’t afford to keep seeing him!  I’m going to have to break up and return the half a locket necklace!”  In fact, I was going to tell him tonight it was just too expensive.

After he said the balance, I said:

Oh my gosh.  I totally thought I paid that.  That was for last meeting, yes?

No, these sessions are only $88.  This has got to be a few years old.

I haven’t paid you in a few years?  I am so embarrassed.  I am sorry.  I had no idea.

No problem, just work it out with her.

—

I wanted to slink down into the chair and disappear.  Because deadbeats who don’t pay their bills react the same way.  Except they feign shock, whereas mine was real.  I found myself thinking, “I hope he buys that I’m sincere!”

So, while I always applauded myself for not being a deadbeat, at least to his office manager, I am one.  Tomorrow I won’t be and they’ll clear the balance.  But after I initially shamed myself, I sort of just went, “Oh, who cares?  It’s a mistake.  You’re human.”  I’m learning how to be kinder to myself.

Oh, and if the hair salon I go to reads this post (some of them do), then I’d like to formally apologize for sealing the tip envelopes without any money in them.  That was, ah, a mistake.  Or it wasn’t.  You’ll never know!  (insert ghoulish laugh)

photo credit:  xJason.Rogersx  via  photo pin  cc

Well, that’s not entirely true.   I was aware of The Bloggess and I once went back and forth via email with dooce.   By the way, at BlogWorld someone purported that Heather Armstrong (dooce) has more influence, because she has a bigger total audience, than Oprah.   Even if that’s not true, it’s cool to hear.

Now that my site is being read by more than just my parents, I have a TON of bloggers who seem to enjoy my crap.   And a lot of them are some of the sweetest and most fun people I’ve met.   You know, for nerds.

Tonight, I’m staying at a fan-turned-friend’s home.   She will be launching a blog in December.   We’ll be friends forever, I’m pretty sure.   I already had the lockets made.

Last night at the end of BlogWorld celebration, however, I met the most boring broad at BlogWorld.   (That alliteration was unintentional, but after reading it back, I’m leaving it in.   Don’t judge me.)

Her name is Megan and she introduced herself on the dance floor.   Meaning she grinded on me.   Hard.

No, we just happened to be on the dance floor and I went up and talked to her and her friend Angie.   Because they looked really fun.

Within thirty seconds I realized that that once again, I can tell who a fun person is just by examining their outsides.

We’re way too hard on ourselves about superficial judgment.   It works pretty well most of   the time.

You have to understand that at BlogWorld, everyone here is insanely passionate about something.   In a session yesterday, a man named Dave turned to me and started talking.   He works for Boeing, and when I asked him if he was an airplane blogger, he said, “Oh no, I just went through a bone cancer thing this summer.”

Just to be a dick I replied with a disappointed, “So you DON’T write about airplanes?”   Then I turned away.

Okay, that was a joke.   I’m not a total sociopath.   But how amazing is that?   It was sort of a bummer to reply with, “Um, I once wrote two stories about my dad’s dork.”   I felt like a total asshole.

So, when I asked Megan what she blogged, I expected her to write about something awesome like fashion.   Or being a woman.   Or rainbows and unicorns.   You know, girl things.

She replied really enthusiastically, “I work for a credit union, and do all their social media!”

I just stared at her blankly.   Then, literally, I turned to her friend Angie.   Thank God she did NOT work for a credit union.

Megan screamed, “Why does everyone keep doing that?!”

Because nobody knows exactly what a credit union is, and more importantly, nobody gives a shit.   I mean, honestly.   That’s a more ridiculously stupid idea that the chick I met who blogs with the title, “Hot Chicks With HPV.”   Okay, don’t Google that.   I made it up.

So, Megan had an uphill climb with me.   Her job sucks.

But not to her.   She was so pumped about what she did, and not in a hey-let-me-overcompensate-for-my-lame-job way.   She was passionate and genuine.

I still dubbed her The Most Boring Person at Blogworld.   I mean, somebody had to win.   Then I spilled my Sprite on her shoe.   But she didn’t notice.   Solid.

And then we talked for several hours.   I couldn’t stay away.   She was great.

Oh, this is funny.   Because she happens to be really hot, a TON of guys kept coming over to us and hitting on her.   One guy from the Middle East came over, said his name and then kissed her on both cheeks.   By the way, I’m pretty sure they don’t do that in the Middle East.   Then he just stared at her and stood next to me.   It was awesome.

The night before at another party some lowlife blogger slapped her ass.   She, of course, is married and wears a ring.   That, too, is awesome.   Guys are funny.

I guess this weekend taught me more about “finding my tribe.”   We all need community.   For support, mostly.   To share passion and to follow each other into the future.   I suspect Megan and I will be buddies.

And, quite honestly, The Most Boring Person at Blogworld was still one of the most fun and sweet people I’ve met all year.   I’m glad I was here.

I think most of us can agree that this is not a masculine look.   I’m not saying it’s a terrible look.   I don’t like it, personally.   But guys dress for women and men wouldn’t be wearing jeans like this if girls didn’t respond.   It’s strikingly effeminate in my opinion, and my experience with women is that they respond more to masculinity.   But what the hell do I know?   I’m old, married, and off the grid.

When it comes to clothes, I lean to the conservative.   I grew up in the Midwest, and have been wearing pretty socially-normal clothing for most of my life.   I still do.   I shop at places like Banana Republic for shirts, Lucky Brand for jeans, and Aldo for shoes.   Nothing too fancy, nothing too crazy.   Simple and clean.   It’s boring, but it looks good on me.

However, I do have one indulgence.   Or, to be more accurate, I HAD one indulgence.   Tight pants.

Now, not the same pants I just referenced earlier funneling out of a Death Cab for Cutie concert.   I’m talking about tight in the crotch.   Unfortunately, I am not joking.

How did this start?   By total accident, actually.   I was living in a studio apartment in Chicago, and single.   It was 2002.   I wanted to own just one fashionable, expensive pair of jeans.   The problem was I didn’t have any money.   I couldn’t afford to blow $150 on a pair of Diesel’s.

The interesting thing is that Levi’s had just come out that year with a premium line of jeans.   They were nearly $200, however. Way out of my price range.   However, I found a guy selling a new pair on Ebay for around $50.   The reason was that these were labeled incorrectly in size.   They were really a 34×34 (my size at the time), but listed on the jean tag as 33×34, so they couldn’t be sold at a retail outlet.

I ordered them, and was thrilled to have a nice pair of jeans coming my way.     When they arrived, they were not 34×34 as stated in the product description.   They were, in fact, 32×34.   Now, I could maybe squeeze into a 33, but not a 32.   What could I do?   No refunds allowed.

Then I noticed they were boot-cut, which turned out to be an asset even though I hadn’t ever worn a pair of boots in my life.   I tried them on, and while amazingly tight, they widened at the bottom near the feet.   In my rationale this evened out the look.   Tight on top, super loose on the bottom.   I couldn’t use my diaphragm to breathe, but who cares?   These were cool.

By the way, can we stop for a moment and discuss this word “diaphragm”?   Why is it a muscle you use as part of respiration, and also a means by which you can avoid parenthood?   I never understood that.   Change one of the names, I say.   Okay, back to story.

So, the jeans worked okay, in my opinion.   They looked fine in the mirror.   Except for one thing – you could totally make out my dong.

I must have tried to position my privates in at least seven different locations, but it was no use.   You could see everything.

However, maybe this wasn’t so bad.   Not that I wanted people being able to see my magic, but maybe nobody would even notice.   I’ve never known women to look at a guy’s crotch.   I mean, I dated a lot, and no girl ever said, “Check out the d on that fellow!”   I’ve heard women talk about a guy’s butt, but never about front-junk.   So, I said, “Screw it.”   I put my loose fitting jeans (and dignity) in the closet where they gathered dust.

I wore the tight jeans for a year or two.   To be honest, I really have no idea if I became a walking joke, or if nobody ever noticed.   I seemed to get dates, and not one woman ever said anything about how the whole bar knew that I was a “lefty.”

Fast forward a few years, and I had finally come to my senses.   I realized this was not a look I wanted to cultivate, even if nobody noticed.   My income had expanded, and I now had the ability to purchase clothes that flattered my appearance.   Also, that fit correctly.   I put the tight jeans in the closet indefinitely where they hugged a coat hanger, instead of my balls.

After I turned 28, I started dating a woman who lived in a different state.   I made plans to go visit her, and took a flight to spend the weekend.   I had told her the tight jeans story, and she had me promise to bring them down and show her what they looked like.   Essentially, she wanted to make fun of me.   But, I’m a sport so I packed them.

When I got to her condo, I threw my suitcase in her closet, and dug around to change clothes.   Before I changed, she insisted that I model the tight jeans for her.   I hadn’t put them on in years, but, quite honestly, was kind of excited, because of how funny this was going to look.   I’ll sacrifice a little “cool” for a good joke.

I grabbed the jeans from the bottom of the closet and wrestled my way into them.   It really was an effort, but I got them on.   I didn’t remember them being THIS tight, but whatever.   I thought for sure I would bust the seam, just trying to get the button fly together.   I was like, “Man, either I’ve gotten fatter, or these jeans were way more unforgiving than I remember!”

I hadn’t gotten fatter.   I had put on her jeans by mistake.

Now, let’s go back a few steps.   I have to explain something because this probably sounds worse than it was.   This woman was six feet tall.   Also thin and fit.   I’m 6′ 2″ and pretty thin myself.

But still, I had put on her jeans.   And they had fit.   Tightly and uncomfortably, but they fit.

She quietly and softly said, “Um – those are my jeans.”   I had no idea.

I laughed.   I’m not a woman.   It had never crossed my mind that she might feel embarrassed that her boyfriend could fit into her pants.   I mean, I already knew this woman was beautiful and thin.   So, what’s the big deal?

Well, I’ve told this story to a bunch of women over the years, and they all have the same response.   It’s a big deal.   So, let’s just say that it’s safe to assume her self-esteem didn’t grow leaps and bounds after this event.   I don’t know if she starting cutting or anything, but it wasn’t a good start to the weekend.   She was a real trooper though, and laughed it off.   Our relationship ended soon after that.   Not because of this, I don’t think.

A few days ago I was telling my wife that I was going to write this story, and she pulled a potentially dangerous trick on me.   She made me try on her jeans.   Now, my wife is thin, but she’s also 5’8″.   That’s not too far from 6’2″.   Plus, I happen to currently be at my thinnest in years.   I tried to weasel out of it, but she essentially forced me to put on her jeans.

See, this really isn’t a fair thing, as women are built differently then men, often with wider hips.   So, jeans for a woman tend to accommodate for this.   Plus, they use different size measurements.   For men it’s in inches.   For women, it’s a size from 0-whatever.   I don’t know the conversion.   If my wife is a size 3 (no idea what size she really is), how many inches is that?   Heck if I know.   I tried doing the math, but couldn’t figure it out.

So, I just went for it.   I was absolutely relieved to find out that I came nowhere near fitting into her jeans.   I mean, I have to share a bed with this woman.   It’s in my best interest to not fit into her jeans.   Thankfully, I didn’t.   However, I did make her take this picture.   Enjoy.