How I came to be shameless (and other things I blame on my parents)

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Evan and I come from a long history of people who don’t simply march to the beat of their own drummer, it’s more like they seize to the sound of ill-timed Jazz. For example, a normal Saturday family night growing up usually began with turning on Prairie Home Companion and ended with my parents placing a cassette recorder in the middle of the room, pressing record, and leaning back on the couch like Idol judges.  What followed was my brother and I performing a unrehearsed variety show with undertones of anxious desperation and the sole purpose of making our parents laugh, or the two-man show I have endearingly come to call, “Oh, THAT explains it.”

THAT explains my social awkwardness that comes when my jokes don’t land and I decide to ignite a fart – at work. THAT explains why there are few pictures of me smiling, only doing the crazy ‘stop talking to me’ face. THAT explains why I can’t stop fantasizing about the many ways that getting an ironic Thug Life tattoo across my stomach could enrich my life. THAT explains everything you see here:

I’m not hungry anymore.

Museums are instigators for the shameless.

When someone says “80’s themed work party”, what I hear is “how will I pull off the camel-toe-in-sweatsuit look this time?”

Evan also has inherited this gene.

This face on any man is a reminder to  re-check my pockets for my rape whistle.

Christmas morning outfit. No joke.

And finally – proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

I would say no Dad, you can NOT still fit into your old leisure suit.

Mom worked 3rd shift and was our homeroom mother in afternoons. Here she is dressed as what I can only imagine is her take on Zoro. I want to think Adam (my brother) is mortified, but he’s also wearing a t-shirt with a chili bean in sunglasses, so it’s difficult to gauge.

*Sigh* I suppose I should say thank you to the folks for letting us be kids and damaging the parts of our brains that inhibit recognition of appropriate behavior. I appreciate the brain damage and, as Mom always says, it’s nothing $10,000 in therapy won’t fix.

Perms and museums bring out the best in everyone.

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2 comments on “How I came to be shameless (and other things I blame on my parents)

  1. […] a little bit of how we came to be shameless – your bad mom and […]

  2. […] I have this, lets call it ‘genetic’ defect in my personality that I will go to any level of humiliating myself or Evan if I think it will evoke even the tiniest amount of actual or awkward laughter.  Before you judge, let me just say that 1. I already admitted it’s a defect and I am working on it 2. I don’t believe in pranks – I’m okay with people thinking I’m an asshole but not doing something juvenile and dickish and probably leaves a emotional and actual mess and 3. It’s how I love. Thanks a lot mom and dad.  […]

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