The most embarrassing moment of my life had to be about 10 years ago when I was at the Louvre in Paris. I was trying to get a funny picture of me in the fountain outside and ended up falling on my butt in the fountain and getting completely soaked. If that wasn't bad enough, just as everyone in the area was laughing at me, a security guard came over and started yelling at me in French (which I don't speak). Turns out the security guard thought I was trying to steal all the pennies
that had been thrown in the fountain.

Okay, so I wasn’t fully prepared etiquette-wise for this embarrassing situation, but I think I did a pretty good job of covering. I was the first of my friends to marry, so I had a bit of a clue, but not much.
Living in Tennessee and having moved 5 times in the past five years, my address was somewhat elusive to my friends, and so I never received a wedding invitation to my friend Andrea’s wedding. About the time that they’re trying to count plates, I received a phone call asking why I hadn’t responded. I spoke with the groom, whom I’d never met, at length about how we’d love to come. I called him Scott.
Hanging up the phone, I had a horrific thought: His name is Stuart. Why, why did I call him Scott? And about thirty times. And why didn’t he correct me? I was mortified. Embarrassed about the whole situation, I proceeded to write my RSVP—without the benefit of a written invitation to pull from.
Mr. & Mrs. Jay W. NAME1 accept with please the kind invitation of Dr. and Mrs. NAME2 to the wedding of their daughter Andrea to Stuart. (Humm…. What’s his LAST name??) Open the address book. Look up NAME2, oh joy! Right there in parenthesis is his last name: Sampson! …to Stuart Sampson. Okay. Done. Mail it, we’re all good to go.
The phone rings a few days later. S., we’re so glad you’re coming to the wedding, but who the heck is Stuart Sampson?????
Well it seems the groom’s name WAS Scott, and I had been right initially, and Sampson? Well, Sampson was their dog that they had had the misfortune of backing over with their car just a few weeks prior. I quickly wrote another note, indicating that I had consulted with my mother and Emily Post and that they both agreed that I should declare myself insane and come to the wedding anyway. Naturally, being a talker, and coming from a long line of talkers, I was relating my horror story at the wedding—and it was all caught on tape. Poor Scott NAME3 has been Stewart Sampson ever since!

I'm originally from the gulf coast, and moved to south Florida in 2003
for work. I ended up in a long distance relationship with my
boyfriend, a lawyer in New Orleans, for three years. Yep, THREE. In
May 2006, I flew up to visit him in New Orleans for Jazz Fest - I was
really excited, because I hadn't seen him since my birthday.
Understandably, I was a little distracted. He worked long hours, so a
friend of mine who lived in the city and I went out in the French
Quarter to a concert. He was still working after the concert, so we
walked up to Bourbon St., where we found a bar called - and I kid you
not - The Frat House. We thought it was so hilarious that we started
posing for pictures outside of the bar, tossing the camera our best
frat boy looks and even throwing up the shocker. Classy, no? The
owner saw us and invited us in for some beer, on the house. Never one
to turn down free bar, I dragged my friend inside. Less than 5 minutes
later, I was knocked down from behind by an assailant who took off
running with my purse.
Initially, I was confused. Did that guy seriously just run off with my
purse, my iPod, my cell phone, my camera AND my wallet? (We had come
downtown straight from the airport.) Instead of freaking out, I
behaved like an idiot and chased after the guy as fast as my stilettos
would allow me. As I ran down Bienville St., three tourists paying for
dinner at a hot dog stand asked me what was wrong. Panting, I said,
"That guy stole my purse!" They dropped their hot dogs and joined the
pursuit. Finally, we cornered the guy in a parking garage and a
security guard named Ray-Ray (hey, it's Louisiana) came to my defense.
Here's the thing - I was mugged by an illegal alien named Fernando, and
like a moron, I chased after the guy, with no concern for my own
safety. I'm clearly an idiot. That said, ABBA's "Fernando" is now my
karaoke song of choice.
And yes, there are pictures of this auspicious event - the tourists
posted them on their website. To top it off, the next day, I called my
boyfriend's office to see why the hell I hadn't seen him since my
arrival, and his coworker mistook me for another woman. Turns out he
was secretly engaged to be married the next month.

My most embarassing situation happened my junior year of college. I was taking a Psych and Law class. One of our assignments was to go to a courthouse and observe trials for a few hours. I had just gotten back from a visit home, and threw all of my home stuff out of my backpack and put in my books. When I got to the courthouse, I had to go through security and put my backpack through the xray machine. The
officer stopped me and asked what was in my backpack. I told him my books, some change, and some earrings. Then I remembered that I forgot to take my vibrator out of one of the pockets. I had to tell him I had a "personal item" in one of the pockets. I unzipped it, and showed him the goods. He said, "It's a free country," and just let me go about my business. He gave me a nice smile and wave when I left the courthouse.

B, C and I are laying on B's bed passing around a
bottle of Stoli. It goes: me, B, C, me, Brooke, Corrine, me. I'm so bored I
drink the entire bottle. Whatever those two are yapping about it can't possibly be as interesting as what B's mom is doing in the living room. Did I mention where all in high school and it's a Tuesday night...Eventually it's time to hit the clubs and C and B drag me away. B walks us to the elevator which is like 3 feet since IT'S INSIDE THE APARTMENT! Didn't see that coming, did ya. B's loaded! We're on the elevator: C and I. One of us is really drunk and has to go to the bathroom. I fling myself from side to side hoping it'll stop but I HAVE TO PEE! C begs me to wait until she presses the up button but it's way to late for the up button and I pee a bottle of Stoli's worth in my good friend's private elevator.
Now I'm done, ready to hit Studio 54 and order another drink so off we
head into the night. B never said anything. No one ever did but I think I violated a
code because after that no one with a private elevator ever invited me over. B never asked me over again. We drank together just never when I was in a position to be above her or inside of any clothing she owned.
And I know why.

I watched Brokeback Mountain while sitting on the same bed as my father.

A few years ago, I had a huge crush on a guy in my group of friends. We all got drunk at his house and in order to gain the confidence to make a move, I downed 9 shots of Beefeater...and I never drink liquor. A half hour later, I had knocked over a table covered with beer pitchers and shot glasses, given a lapdance to his brother, and fallen down the steps six times. I decided to wait in his bed for him (because clearly he found me irresistibly sexy at this point) and ended up puking all
over his comforter. In fact, there was a trail of vomit from his bedroom to the bathroom, then down the stairs (yes, I fell again) to the first floor bathroom. Needless to say, he refused to be alone with me after that point.

This story is still fresh. Two weeks ago there was this big party at my school. The theme of the party is guys wear a dress girls wear less, no one goes sober. I went there with several friends after a lengthy pre-party in their dorm. After about 30 minutes of serious dancing, I noticed a very cute guy in the corner (well he was cute after several beers and a couple shots), and I walked over to ask him to dance. Well, everyone else was doing some serious dancing as well, and I tripped over someone's leg. Well, the cute guy happened to be wearing a skirt and on my way down I desperately grabbed something to help me stay up, well, that thing was his skirt that happened to come down along with me. I basically just crawled out of the party and hoped he didn't see my face on the way down.