Jessie Spano AKA Elizabeth Berkley is an author, in case you didn’t know. In 2011, she wrote a book called “Ask Elizabeth: Real Answers to Everything You Secretly Wanted to Ask About Love, Friends, Your Body… and Life in General.” Let me start out by saying I didn’t think these books were made anymore. Sure, there was a time when I had a pretty impressive stack of Chicken Soup hard covers but that was then. And not to bring up the bad times but…

We’ve all made mistakes. Hell, I’ve popped a few caffeine pills in my day and then some, but you don’t see me running around like I’m holier-than-thou selling self help books to little awkward ladies too young to remember the movie Showgirls.

To take a peek inside the book and a gander at the adjoining website go to


So one of my best friends (we’ll anonymously call her Hanna) and I have this running inside joke where we call each other lesbions. I want to start off first and foremost by saying I have absolutely nothing against lesbians or any member of the gay community, it is simply just because Hanna cannot spell lesbian correctly, and also doesn’t know her left from right. Anyway,  Hanna decided to delete her Facebook account. As you can imagine, HUGE DEAL. So I log onto my account the morning after to see that I had a bunch of comments made about my current status. A status that said:

“guys, im reeady now, ready to tell you that i am, in fact, a lesbion. and im real nervous about this, and might regret it in the morning so even if i try and say “just kidding” or “my fbook was hacked” dont belive me. i am a lesbion.”

I see this, think it’s pretty funny, and try and come up with a witty response to get back at her.

A few hours later I drive back to my mom’s house to drop off my dog before I go out of town. I was sort of in a hurry, and not really looking to chat. I was there for maybe 3 minutes before she goes “Listen, I don’t want to bring this up right before you leave, but we need to talk”. I sat down ready for her to tell me that I was financially cut-off, or maybe that the cat died. She says to me “Your cousin John in London called your Aunt Patty in Chicago who called me to tell me that you came out of the closet on Facebook last night.”

I looked at her in disbelief and laughed wondering if this was fucking serious. “Mom, I’m not a lesbian, that was Hanna who hacked onto my Facebook. Like, as a joke.”

She replies “Well now thanks to Hanna, your entire family from London to San Fransicso, to Baltimore, to Chicago ALL THINK YOU ARE A LESBIAN. And you know WHY your Aunt called me? To REACH OUT to me because her son, YOUR COUSIN, is gay too! She wanted to give me advice on how to deal with it.”

I was speechless. None of us even knew that my cousin was gay until this very moment.

This one moment where my Aunt confided to my mom under the pretense that they shared something, raising a homosexual child. Then my mother goes for a few minutes, saying that she just wants me to be happy, and it’s okay if I actually am gay. Again I told her that I was straight, but honestly I don’t think she believed me.


Thank you Hanna, I’m now the family lesbion who came out online. (21-year-old female from Philadelphia, PA)

It was one of the first nice days of spring this year, everyone decided to go up to this kids cabin in the Poconos. We get up there and start cooking up food while simultaneously slamming Natty Ice and PBR, and by the time nine-o-clock rolls around all the girls show up and I’m covered in ketchup.

The girls somehow tricked me into taking shots of Nikolai, and after this we’re sitting on the front deck and I realize things are looking kinda shaky. It was really hot but I was having cold sweats and salivating. I figured it would be worse to get up and run down the deck in front of everyone, so I flop my head on the front railing and projectile vomit without moving an inch. About five minutes later, my friend comes outside to get something from his car and screams.

“What the fucks all over my car and what’s all over my seat?!”

I had completely gapped about 4 feet of air onto this kids car and sunroof with the senseless fury of hotdogs, brewdogs and vodka. It was kind of funny then.

–18 y/o male from Philly, PA

So I’m almost 22 years old and I’ve only just had the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

My friend and I decided to go to this rap concert, Wale & K’naan if you’re familiar. So to prepare myself for this event I start chugging a box of Franzia before I leave my house.

After arriving at the venue and getting patted down, we head straight for the bar. After a few tequila shots and a couple of spendy beers, it was time to dance. I’m a dumb white girl and the friend I’m with is a nerdy Asian boy, so naturally we fit in. We head down into the crowds to wave our hands in the air awkwardly and shake our butts.

During a break between the two acts, I figure it’s a good time to go pee. I head to the bathroom to find a long line of ladies extending all the way into the lobby. All of a sudden it hits me like a ton of bricks, I really, really have to pee. And these bitches were taking way longer than normal. I’m doing the pee dance. My legs are all twisted inward, crossed, and I’m shifting back and forth. I start mapping out escape routes in my head. Running out the door into the city streets and urinating in a back alley was one idea.

So I’m about 3 girls away from the stall, when the fucking flood gates open. I’m standing there, in front of a ton of people, in a dress, pissing all over the floor. This wasn’t a little pee we’re talking about here, this was a “I’ve been drinking for 3 hours and haven’t broken the seal yet” kind of pee. The Queen of pees.

I was powerless, I had officially lost all control of my bladder. I don’t know what to do so I guess I started whispering, “Shit.. shit.. fuck.. oh my god… shit.”

The girl next to me in line obviously sees this happening, gets her ankles splashed and screams “EW! You been drinkin’ girl?” My response was to tell her I was the drunkest I have ever been (a lie to make it seem more acceptable… it’s still not acceptable though).

Onlookers are grossed out. The girl next to me tells me to go clean myself up. So I go in the stall and start drying my legs off, humiliated. I hear people splashing around in my urine outside the bathroom. I hear, “Gross, why’s there water all over the floor?” The girl who I thought totally had my back through this whole ordeal goes “Honey, dat ain’t water.” Fuck.

And also let me mention I went out to a bar afterward where I fell asleep, and I woke up the next morning with Connect Four game pieces stuck to my chest. 

— 21 y/o female from Philly, PA

I am a child of the 70s which means I was around before the internet, cell phones, personal computers, digital music, omnipresent coffee shops and incurable STD’s. Everyone smoked. Drinking and driving wasn’t so bad and the idea of black presidents or black quarterbacks was a myth Back then, making love was just holding hands and talking to someone. At least that is how the lyrics made it sound. There were no songs telling where to put my dick or music videos showing me. Back then it was a real milkshake that brought all the boys to the yard. To my young ears, makin’ love was just being a friend. So anyway my parents took me, an my unworldlyness, to an Al Green concert at a dinner theater (that’s right, a dinner theater) called the Latin Casino in NJ.  We ate chicken during the opening act and then he hit the stage. The show, the band, the hits and the whole production blew my young mind. I sat in a cigarette smoke haze as everyone grooved- it was so cool.  I have always been a person that never had much distance between a thought and action and as I looked over at my parents cheering, I had an idea. My thought was that everyone could use another friend. So action followed. I stood up and scampered through the darkness onto the stage, got right behind the bongo player and followed him backstage. I stayed right with him until he reached the dressing room that was full of people- mostly women -smoking funny smelling cigarettes. I stepped from behind the bongo’r who looked surprised as hell to see this Afro’d 8-year-old behind him, and said, “Mr. Green. My mother is your biggest fan and she wants to make love to you.” The room paused and Al Green looked at me with all of his 70s cool AlGreeness and said, “Well, where’s she at?” Innocently I said. “Stay right there I’ll get her” Thinking that I was going to make my mother happy because I found her a new friend, I found my parents who were worried about me and said, “I told Al Green that you want to make love to him and he’s waiting for you backstage so you better get back there” My parents looked and me and gave me the “my son is retarded” look, that I have seen so many times now, and laughed. — 44 y/o male from Philly, PA

I was crazy psyched to have gotten an interview for this travel company. They were going to offer me discounted fares, inside advice and a hefty paycheck on top of it all. Instead of the usual jitters I was more confident than I had ever been. Not because I was especially qualified for the job but because I really wanted it and felt I was destined to get hired. At this point in my life I was smoking several blunts a day which is a sure way to lose some grip on reality.

So this ignorant, unfounded confidence helped me make an ass out of myself. I walked into the interview arrogant and high as fuck feeling like the man, James Archer Sterling Bond, and was even more pumped when I met my interviewer; she looked like Mila Kunis and Megan Fox rolled into one.

Somehow, at that moment, I had convinced myself that instead of sitting through a line of questioning, the easier way to secure the job would be to seduce this supermodel-esque woman. Long story short, I introduced myself, kissed her on the hand and said something to the effect of “let’s skip this whole needless interview session and jump right to the part where I take you to dinner.”

She stared at me blankly and then told me to get out before I embarrassed myself further. 

— 22 y/o male, Philly, PA.

I quit my job at a chain steakhouse where I sat overweight families and gave them butter bread and started working as an assistant teacher at a daycare down the street from my house. My first day on the job, they stuck me in the infant room with another new teacher. She was experienced, I was not, and I was asked to feed one of the babies, who couldn’t have been more than two months old. I sat in a rocking chair and the little bundle was handed over to me. I squirted some milk all over his bib trying to get the nipple in his mouth, and when I finally did, the rest seemed like a cake walk. The kid fell asleep and I was doing great, or so I thought. 

After twenty minutes or so, the bottle was drained so I awkwardly tried to straighten out my stems and get the kid to a crib without waking him. Once he was in position one of the directors called me on the loud speaker. I thought it was weird they had a loud speaker but what came next was weirder.

I walked into the office of the two daycare directors, middle aged high school buddies who decided to open up the center with their Daddy’s money. They looked concerned and told me to have a seat. Behind them were four TV screens which gave them access into each room without having to be there. These motherfuckers ran this place matrix-style. It was then that they told me I looked “a bit uncomfortable.”

They rolled the tape. Footage of me in my argyle sweater–I thought it was appropriate baby watching fashion–showed that the my cradling skills were less than par. What I thought was comfortable rocking chair positioning was really not so. Technically, I was holding the baby, though it looked more like the little dude could’ve rolled off my lap at any second. I held my elbow high over my shoulder as the baby drank from the bottle, a position that could only be acceptable if I were feeding a fiercer animal. My other arm under his head looked like it had been crushed by a boulder. My face was contorted and so was his. It was obvious I had never done this before, although I wrote a different story on my application. They reminded me of this.

Needless to say, I was shuffled off into more familiar territory shortly after that. My next job was to work with eight and nine year old kids after school, gluing feathers to paper and breaking up fights between boys and plastic dinosaurs. The closest I got to the baby room after that was sitting in while the teacher had to “go potty.” I was instructed not to touch anything. 

— 22 y/o female from Philly, PA