It was without a doubt one of my most embarrassing moments that did not involve me falling naked out of a bathroom window of my mom’s house as two nuns walked by.

I was invited to what I thought was a summer gathering of work acquaintances and their spouses.

After arriving and exchanging greetings, I was ushered out to the patio where a woman I had never met before was sitting on a chaise lounge wearing a stunning solid blue summer dress.

Before I could say a thing, my best friend Jack started introducing us.

This might surprise more than a few people — including those that will double over laughing hysterically when they read this — but I’m kind of shy at times.

When I didn’t engage Jennifer in a conversation besides just a basic greeting, Jack decided to put his matchmaking skills to work.

Jack, as they say, played me like a violin.

“Why don’t you tell Jennifer about your experience with the IRS?” Jack asked in his most innocent looking face.

I should step away from what was about to unfold on a warm August night in 1988 and explain my IRS experience.

It would fill up the page and then more but I’ll just give you the Cliff’s Notes version.

I had received a letter that started with the word “greetings” seven months prior stating that I owed the IRS $1,367.46 in back taxes, interest, and penalties for a previous tax year.

Greetings was the same way the letter I got from the Selective Service started when I turned 18 — I was beside myself given it was the first time I had ever received a letter from the government telling me I had to pay up or prove otherwise or face federal prosecution.

As luck would have it, The Press-Tribune business manager when I asked for her assistance so I could try to piece what was going on together, had the tabulation for business expense reimbursement for the year 1985 attached to paperwork in my file.

I had been reimbursed $6,567 that year, the same amount the IRS said I failed to pay taxes on. The Press-Tribune has erroneously reported it as advertising commission.

I had been sent that year for two weeks to Mexico to cover a Roseville sister city trip, to BYU, Colorado Springs, and a number of other places for stories involving people from our circulation area who were mostly athletes. I paid for the tickets, hotels, food, rental cars and such and got reimbursed.

I dutifully photocopied everything on file, put it in a manila envelope and went to the Roseville post office to mail it. There a clerk trainee who was being assisted by her supervisor, weighed it, and I paid her $2.58 to mail it to Ogden, Utah.

I figured it would get to Ogden within a few days to spare before a substantial secondary penalty that was threatened in the letter would be imposed.

Two days later, I went for a week-long trip to Death Valley to bicycle.

When I returned I glanced at my mail. It didn’t register at first, but in it was what I had sent the IRS. I was marked refused by recipient for insufficient postage.

In a second, my relaxed state from a week-long vacation had been blown to smithereens by what I was later to find out was a one cent shortage on the postage.

I ended up getting the Roseville postmaster to write a letter verifying a trainee was working the day of the postmark. He shared how it wasn’t unusual for trainees to make mistakes with postal meters.

I then sent everything again to Ogden paying the full postage for a second time.

What ended up happening next was a full scale audit of three years. I found out later it was triggered because the business expense reimbursement I received was out of line with a model the IRS had established for income for newspaper reporters.

Four months of unadulterated fun ensued including an in-person audit at the IRS office in the Sacramento Main Post Office building.

They finally relented by insisting I owed $41.56. By then one of the owners of the paper who had an accounting firm but wasn’t a tax accountant, helped me redo my taxes for the years in question deducting items I bought out of my own pocket for work including two Nikon F cameras. He concluded the IRS owed me $200.67. When he found out they had made a “settlement”, he advised me to cut my losses and go for it.

Now back to the patio.

Jennifer sat there with her legs crossed smiling as I stood there going through the long version while being egged on by Jack. I think I did my outraged impassioned IRS monologue for five minutes or so.

Then Jack turned on the charm.

JACK: “Jennifer, what did you say you did for a living?”

JENNIFER: “I’m an IRS auditor.”

JACK: “And what did you say you were up for a promotion to do?”

JENNIFER: “To be an IRS agent.”

I could feel my face burning. I honestly do not recall what I said as I mumbled an apology. It was like I blacked out.

The next thing I remember was being in the kitchen and asking Jack what I should do. I couldn’t believe how I had embarrassed myself.

Without missing a beat, he suggested I re-enforce my apology by taking her to the Music Circus that Monday where “Hello Dolly” was playing as Jennifer was a big fan of musicals.

I was too shell-shocked at the time to realize he had found a way for me to ask out a cousin of a fellow newsroom reporter knowing full well I wouldn’t do it on my own. Who needs dating apps when you have friends?

Jennifer accepted my apology and the invite for a date.

If you’re thinking that was the embarrassing moment, you don’t know me.

My severe case of foot-in-mouth at poolside doesn’t even make the Top 100 list of my all-time embarrassing moments.

Fast forward two days later: Jennifer and I are at the Music Circus. It’s intermission. I’m having a great time. Jennifer is smart, well-versed, witty, and had what I would call an aura of Stephanie Powers class.

We’re making our way through the crowd when out of the corner of my eye I see Aloha Schafer and her daughter. I had not seen Aloha for nine months. She was a 55-year-old reporter that worked for a competing paper.

I tried to turn away, hoping she didn’t see me.

And then it happened.

In a booming voice laced with astonishment and concern she blurted out from 15 feet away, “My God, Dennis, what happened to you! You look like you lost a hundred pounds!”

She was close. It was more like 130.

As her words rang across the patio the people around Jennifer and me started moving away in such a manner that I could feel what a disciple must have felt like following Moses into the Red Sea.

Jennifer stood there with her mouth open.

A little background: This was back when AIDS was a major health issue. And it happened that very day the Sacramento Bee and every TV station in town faithfully reported the medical finding that rapid and extreme weight loss was a sign of AIDS.

I now had the first date dilemma from hell. I had to either tell Jennifer just nine months previously I weighed 320 pounds or let her think I had AIDS.

As astonishing as it may sound, I got a second date. We actually dated for six months before she moved to San Francisco after she got her job promotion.

I have other first date disasters that can actually top it.

As for falling buck naked out of a window after getting locked in a bathroom at my mom’s house as two nuns were walking by I’ve run out of space.