When I was 16, I was caught passing notes to a boy I was swooning over in our advanced physics class. There wasn’t a lot of kids in the class (advanced physics people. Let’s just say I was the captain of the geek squad,) and I wasn’t particularly interested with the subject matter of the day.

I was more enthralled with the tall dark-haired boy who had limpid pools of green sea water for eyes. That boy rocked my 16-year-old world. At least in my imagination. In reality, he was struggling with his own sexuality and couldn’t quite decide which side of the fence he wanted to play on.

Turned out, it wasn’t my side.

But as an innocent 16-year-old who had only a handful of tongues down her throat in her day, he was all I could think of. I was obsessed with turning our blooming friendship into the romance of the century. After all, he had a car, lived near-by and didn’t have a bossy big brother to chaperone our dates and make kissy sounds when ever we held hands.

In other words, he wasn’t Boo. No. This boy was everything my recently-broken-up-with Boo wasn’t. And I was determined to make this boy mine. So I did what I could to snare him in my web since I didn’t have any boobs to push under his nose. I wrote him a soul-shattering note, detailing my love for him and how I thought he walked on water.

Only to have my physic’s teacher intercept it and force me to stand in front of the class and read it aloud. To him.

That boy? Never spoke to me again. And my cheeks flamed so hard my sweater burst into flames and I ran screaming down the school corridors, burning with embarrassment and smoke trailing from my arse.

Good times. For the rest of my time at that school I was called Shakespeare.

I seem to have a knack for finding myself in embarrassing situations like that. Like the time I was smack talking certain family members only to find out they were standing behind me as my husband desperately tried to shut me up with his pleading eyes and I prattled on and on about how evil said family members were.

They just sharpened their knives and then rightly nailed me to the wall as I blushed a thousand shades of red.

Or my all time favorite stupid move was when I was on the radio, guest dee-jaying for a sick host and I chattered about how sexy I thought the female station manager was during a commercial break. I all but composed an ode to her boobs and described in great detail how I wished I looked like she did, only to find out I pressed the wrong button and was on the air.

With the entire city, including my very Christian in-laws, my grandparents, and my HUSBAND listening to my little ‘whoopsie daisie!’

Funny. The station manager never asked me back. Yet that afternoon, they had the highest ratings they had gotten in two straight months. Heh.

My point is, I’ve gotten quite comfortable in letting it all hang out for the world to ogle. (Just ask the girls in the lobby washroom in the San Francisco Westin. They got to see more of me than meets the eye. And they didn’t even have to ask.)

Still, there are some moments in time, I absolutely cringe with regret and remorse and a sense of “holy hell, how can I be that freaking stupid?”

Like when you walk into a shiny, almost invisible glass door at store because you are too busy ogling the two hot men on motorcycles and they are totally watching you and you can’t believe men that hot would find you attractive and so you push out your chest and smile and act all flirty just to smash nose first into the glass door you had presumed (rather faultily) was open and blood pores down your face, your ego explodes and the two hot bikers almost fall off their bikes with laughter and then drive away marveling at your extreme dorkiness.

Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything. Ahem.

Last night, while on the twitter boards, I had one such moment. I was direct messaging a friend and we were discussing the loves of our lives. Our little boys. Our angel boys.

In a moment of stupidity, I sent her a direct message that wasn’t so direct and more along the lines of posted on the public twitter timeline, that while I loved my husband dearly there would always be someone else I loved equally, if not more and how I missed that person dearly.

I thought nothing of it.

Until one minute later and my email was lit up like a switch board and twitter started going nuts.

“Um, excuse me? What?” one twitter peep asked.

“Care to share, darling?” another inquired.

“I can’t believe you are cheating on Boo you two faced slut. May you rot in the fiery pits of hell you damned adultress,” was another.

Scratching my head, I couldn’t figure out what was going on. So I hopped over to the twitter board and took a look around. That’s when I saw my twitter. My very public twitter that, taken out of context, could look very bad for a happily married woman.

My cheeks lit up like a match tossed on gasoline soaked kindling and suddenly my internet came to a flaming stand still as I tried to erase the message. Murphy’s freaking law that when you need to erase something on the twitter boards you get the damn fail whale while everyone else reads your dumbass remark and starts composing storylines and soap operas around it.

Needless to say, the message got erased and I spent the better part of the hour explaining to people that I am happily married and have no desire, no prospects even, to leave my husband. (And that facker better think twice about leaving me or I’ll hunt him down to the ends of Earth and force feed him his nuts. Heh.)

Still, there are no words to explain just how relieved I was my husband was at work and doesn’t know what twitteritus is all about.

At least he didn’t until he phoned a few minutes into the drama and innocently inquired what I was up to as trying to untweet my twit.

“Um, I just told the world I’m in love with someone more than you.”

Pause.

“Well, is he at least better looking than me? Cuz that would totally burn if you decided to trade me in for an uglier, used model. I do have some pride you know.”

“Sorry, sweetie, but this dude is younger and cuter. I was talking about our son.”

“Ah. Well, don’t worry about it. I totally love him more than you. I can’t blame you. That kid rocked. Looked just like his daddy. Who happens to be sexy man candy,” Boo teased.

Ha ha. Man candy. Keep thinking that dude. I’m still not sucking on your lollipop when you get home, I teased him right back.

“You know Tanis, maybe if you focused more on sucking my sugar stick of love, you’d have less time to publicly embarrass yourself. And your thighs wouldn’t be sporting second degree burns from an overheated laptop,” he explained.

I thought about it for a second. Or less.

He had a point. But I think I’ll just buy myself a muzzle and avoid direct messaging on twitter from now on.

No lock-jaw and less drool this way.

And maybe I’ll stick to instant messaging from now on. It’s far less painful to embarrass myself one person at a time rather than a cyber room of twitterati.

Oy.