What would Cinderella do?

Does a crawl of shame count? I once wore these, what I believe the kids call f***k me boots on a date. After a few shots, they felt like comfy slippers and I was feeling HOT! The next morning I woke up (in the boots because that is more fun) and apparently while I slept in bliss, my pleather boots mixed with my sweaty thighs and caused a serious rash. I had to take the boots off and crawl out of the apartment before my prey awoke!

Yes, yes! 1,000 times yes. Crawl of shame, while rare, most definitely counts. Good luck with the rash. (DOH rule #1: just say no to pleather.)

I once spent New Years eve with Jessie – an acquaintance with benefits who was incredibly hot as long as he didn’t speak. After too many cocktails I slept over at his house and awoke with a tremendous hangover but without makeup or a change of clothing. So I staggered into the kitchen with raccoon eyes and wearing my slinky hot pink and black tiger-striped sequined dress (hey, it was the 80s). And there I met and was slowly eyed up and down by Jessie’s mother, who had popped in to make breakfast for her darling boy. Needless to say I didn’t stick around me for toast.

Oh boy which one to choose…….
Decided to get all cutie pied up and head up to the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, UT, just stroll along walk down main street of course its winter, its cold, and so I decided on my favorite pair of high clog shoes. Oprah network was passing out bags with goodies in it so my friends and I all got an Oprah bag. We decided to park it at one of the local bars where they were playing live music. There we met a guy who decided we should be put on his tab for the night, who says no to that right? I had all intention of not getting beligerently toasted, but free booze and I don’t mix so well. Whiskey shots and beer my choice for the evening. Time to go but my feet had had it with these shoes for the moment, so I decide to take them off and put them in my goodie bag, walk barefoot in the snow/slush mix middle of winter, down the sidewalk (I’m pretty sure I was walking but ask someone else it would be more like a stumbler) So no shoes, a tad tipsy, and have to catch the free shuttle bus to the car (of course I wasn’t driving don’t do that) get on the shuttle bus, grateful to sit down get off the bus, don’t realize I left my fantabulous goodie bag, w/my shoes in it until I managed to get myself stuck in the front seat of my car and the dash, thinking I would not have been able to do that if the bag had been there. I hearted those shoes
Fun Times

Oh ladies, from getting toasted to skipping toast, these are magnificent– keep ‘em coming Disasters!

oh man…

so many stories, so little space.

One of my all time favorites belongs not directly to me but to my favorite Cousin. Let’s call him Cuz.

So one evening over the holidays during college, I drunkenly left my cousin at a cocktail party to go home because I was getting “officially” invited to be a debutante at 9AM the next morning (mistake #1). Our house was under construction, so we were going to be meeting for this invitation party at his house (Cuz’s house). So as I left the party, I kept saying, “hey Cuz, you need to go home, too, because the Debutanteurs are gonna be at your house at 9AM.” However, as we are all wont to do when we’ve been drinking, he didn’t really listen so well. (mistake #2)

So 9AM rolls around, and I’m wobbling my way around his house in my heels, wondering where Cuz is but not too worried – I figured he was asleep. Auntie, Cuz’s mom, was missing, too. But in my hangover, I didn’t really notice. It was not until after the parade of penguins had left and I was noshing on Auntie’s leftovers that Cuz and Auntie walked in looking slightly disgruntled but not enough for me to notice. Cuz even looked nice – he had on a sports coat and trousers (I’d forgotten in that moment that that was what he had had on the night before).

“Hey Cuz!” I said, because I’m always glad to see him, even when hungover. “Where ya been? Church?” (Mistake #3)

“Yeah, church,” he grunted as he stumbled away down the hall.

“More like Central Lockup,” Auntie grumbled.

Yes, that’s right. Cuz had walked his way to Prison, only to have his walk of shame further extended by having to have his mom pick him up and bail him out. Turns out Cuz had relieved himself on the street sometime between 3 and 6AM. And his good friends, the PoPo, had given him a walk of shame to remember. And for his cousins to rib him about to this day.

My best walk of shame stories come from a time when I didn’t even know what walk of shames were. When I first went to college, my friend was dating a guy at the biggest party school in town. All of us girls would go over, hook up with all of his roommates, and naturally spend the night. The next morning we didn’t think twice as we kept our boxers & t-shirts on, smeared a little make-up off our face and put our 4″ heels back on. When we’d arrive at the best, and most crowded, brunch place on the beach, we couldn’t figure out why people were giving us dirty looks. I don’t even know how many times we did this until we figured out that we should take a pair of shorts and flip-flops in our purses. Ah, the lessons we learn in college.

After several years as a student the walk of shame became second nature. After a few years my flatmates and I decided we should rally together and make the agreement to always drive and pick each other up from our shameful locations whenever a flatmate and a car was available to do so and the shamed flatmate was actually aware of where said location was.

However, on one particular morning after a night out I woke up on the other side of town and realised I had lost my phone and keys somewhere in the club, meaning I couldn’t ring my flatmates to pick me up or even meet me to lend me their keys or let me in. My only option was to walk through town to the phone shop to try and arrange a temporary replacement.
I teetered to the shop, cursing the timing of the heatwave and waited in line with the shorts and t-shirt clad customers to be served. By the time I was at the front of the queue my hangover was hitting me hard and I was regretting not buying a lucozade to fuel my quest. I got a few minutes in to explaining my situation (minus all unrequired details, obviously) when the shop assistant asked me if I was feeling alright because I looked “kind of grey”. I admitted I was feeling a bit faint and he offered to show me to the staff bathroom in the back of the shop if I thought I was going to be sick. Embarrassed, I followed, but as I made my way I felt more and more dizzy and was having to hold onto things for support. As he opened the door to the toilet I felt my legs go and the next thing I knew I had landed half on, half off the toilet seat. I’d never fainted before but clearly this is what it felt like. The poor guy ran to get me a glass of water and kept asking if I was alright but after a few minutes he told me he had to get back to work and couldn’t leave me in the back of the shop on my own in case I stole some stock (did I look in an appropriate state for burglary?!).

So I spent the next half hour sitting in my clubbing outfit on a seat in the corner of the shop slumped over my plastic glass of water and my new temporary replacement phone. Small children in shorts and t-shirts stared at me and my dress and heels and questionable make-up before looking confusedly up at their parents for answers.

It felt like an age before I had enough confidence in my legs and stomach to set up the phone, shuffle out of the shop and call for back-up.
Worst walk of shame and worst hangover I’ve ever experienced.

After my friends and I played 6 rounds of beer pong against a guy I was “casually” dating in college (and losing)… I decided to institute a 3 a.m. game of “tag” throughout his frat house. I was it…and my quick get- away was to slide down the front banister of his fraternity house. Enter black out…

You could probably predict this but the banister and my drunken haze didn’t get along. I fell down two stories onto a cement floor and broke my hand. The guy I was hooking up with brought me back to his room and the next morning I walked back to my dorm with a hand the size of a small bowling ball. Unfortunately, my ego was not the only thing bruised on that walk of shame…

There is no better feeling than the freedom you feel getting dropped off at college and knowing that you free to be a stay-out as often as you like because you are curfew-less with your parents a few hours away. I went to a women’s college in Boston and enjoyed the far more freedom in terms of overnight guests than my friends at neighboring co-ed colleges. So my boyfriend (you I latched onto in the first week of school), a student at one of those colleges, stayed over quite a bit. Each morning I would have to walk him off our gated campus, because while we had a liberal guest policy they needed to be escorted off the grounds late at night and early in the morning. So I would walk him, shamelessly off the premises and to the intersection in my pajamas (because it’s college and ok to wear pajamas in public) and would stand there “saying good-bye” if ya know what I mean. A couple months into this morning ritual I heard a car honking at me and it pulled over. In the car was a good friend of the family who handed me a bag, filled with goodies that looked strangely familiar. Banana bread, cookies…from my mother. He says to me, “I told your mother that I see you out here on my commute to work in the morning so she sent this stuff for you.”

Received this via email from a guy—let’s call him “VegasBabyVegas”— it was so good I had to share:

In September of 2006 I went to Vegas for what a real bachelor party should be. You see when your wife leaves you for another man you are given a second chance at life. Hence, the 2006 “Re-Bachelor” party that my brother and friends threw on the fly.

Fast forward from Friday night to Sunday morning….say….I don’t know, 6am. Debauchery had lead me back to Mandalay Bay. I was coming in hot, hotter than a french whore house on nickel night. I could not see a god damn thing, but just knew that I had about 45 minutes to grab my shit and get to the airport to catch my flight back to SF. Flew through the hotel room door, everyone was all over the place and so was my shit. i grabbed one of everything, which turns out that I grabbed one of everyone else’s. Minor details.

Yelled bye, hopped a cab, drunker than cooty brown still. Got to the airport and the security line was ridiculously long. The TSA agents at McCarren Airport in Vegas must see it all because after I talked my way in to the front of the security line….I was asked to remove my blazer. What I failed to remember is that some hot mom and her daughter from LA ripped off my clothes at Drais sometime around 430/ 5am. My pants, blazer and vans were all I could reclaim.

So, there I am, that guy, butting in front of the line walking through the Xray with nothing on other than a pair of black volcom skinny jeans, no shoes or shirt.

Applause ensued from the gaggle of young 20 somethings in the security line. The TSA agents didn’t bat an eye, neither than I.

NEXT!

I managed to come home with my ex-boyfriend’s younger brother (about 8 years younger than me) one saturday night (it was mostly his idea). The next morning I didn’t know how to remove him from the place without my housemates seeing him as it would have been a bit scandalous. We heard them come home from what we assumed was breakfast, so stayed trapped in my room for a long time. Then we heard the front door go again, so I crept out and found they had just come home, not just gone out, and he could have left a lot sooner. I decided to distract them while he snuck down the stairs and out of the door, only to have my housemate look out of the first floor window and ask “why is there a young guy running down the road?”.

I’m pretty sure they knew anyway, but we never spoke about it again.

At the college ball I came home with a friend’s brother (this is a bad habit of mine). The next day I had to take him back to his brother’s place in his tux. The walk of shame was so obvious that I’d made him try on some of my jeans to make it look a bit more discrete. So I ended up walking through the town centre with a man wearing my slouch jeans and half a tux and we ended up stopped in at McDonalds on the way too. Classy.

As a finishing touch, this morning I walked home past a girl jogging to the gym while i was en route to McDonalds carrying 3 beers and a decanted bottle of vodka in a plastic bag at 10am wearing sunglasses on a less than sunny morning.