Death by Wax Nazi

"We're just going to take a straight shot, bum down, I've left you a dignity towel and I'll be back in two".

Militantly she about-faced, which was similar to her tone, and left me with said 'dignity towel'. "Dignity Towel"... really? Who came up with that name? How much dignity is there really when your stark ass nude on a table paying for the modern equivalent of being tarred and feathered? Regardless of how undignified the dignity towel - this waxer was not to be fucked with. All things considered however, anyone who is in control of hot wax while you lay sitting duck - or in this case spread eagle - probably should be left well enough alone. So there I am, blinded by flickering fluorescents, clutching my dignity towel for just that - an ounce, an atom, of dignity.

The door opens, in comes Chris. Like the seconds before you get on a roller coaster - only a glimpse of time to cut and run. Running in this particular situation wasn't such an option as outside the netherworld, there is another word for 'dignity towel': washcloth; and it only reinforces how large and naked you truly are. Once you hear the click of the door meeting the door frame with the Wax Nazi on the same side of said door as you are - you're in for the ride.

"Have you ever had a wax with me before?", she asks, as if there is something different about her waxes than the countless other's I have had. To be frank - I didn't know there were personal brands of Bikini Waxing. In the moments to follow I would realize however, there was. Something that could have been brought to my attention 15 minutes ago when the receptionist was booking my appointment.

"There will be pulling and holding and breathing. With me, it's an interactive experience",... The first place my mind goes? Do they charge extra to have a brazilian done by Bill Nye? The second thought? With every other waxer on the planet, I just lie there - now I've got a to-do list: maybe they charge less.

Either way, now was not a good time to be having such deep thoughts - Chris was having a moment all her own. Catching herself in wax, she starts flailing around and pulling herself apart the way a child does in their first experience with Krazy-Glue. Going on and on about how this isn't her normal room, and how discombobulated and embarrassed she is, I am following her original order of a staying in a diamond shape, propping one knee up with one hand, pulling upwards on my abdomen with the other - a position that is yet another special gift of the Wax Nazi special. You may be spastic, but I'm a stark ass nude contortionist on a table... I can see how embarrassing this must be for you.

Then like a redneck scooping nacho cheese dip at a free Costco taste table, she digs into the wax and with one fall swoop covers 70% of the generalized region. While this may not seem catastrophic to some, spreading wax is not like spreading butter where the entire piece can be condomized and you can take a bite at a time. On the contrary, with wax, what you see is what you get. Or rather what you see is what you get left with. Anything covered by the hot green goo is as good as gone,... and it all goes at once. In one word: ouch. In two: Horse-Shit. And you ask how this presents a problem?

Well call me overbearing, or too curious, or just plain dumb but I asked just that question. "A little ambitious... no?". Based on the fact that she had an answer before I could take another deep breath, and pull - something tells me that she's gotten that one before. "I like to do it big - get it done - much faster - less tedious.". 

Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me then. I must have been mistaken because I thought that when it comes to the tedious nature of pulling hair follicles from my crotch - maybe this one could have been a group decision? What happened to our "interactive" experience? This is shaping up to be as interactive as Hitler and the Jews: yes, both participating in some sense of the word, and in both my case and Anne Frank's, it would seem as if one group didn't have much say in the planning process. So now, in exponential decline, I've gone from victim with dignity towel - to schmuck sans towel to full on fucked who just wants out, and I have no qualms about leaving the dignity behind.

Easy to say, not so easy to do however, when she's leaning over you complaining that you're not pulling your knee quite tight enough. Lady - I pull this knee in any closer it's going to be coming out of my ass hopefully only to knee her in the face. The best part of all of this? After explaining to me the "Chris" method that is sure to be more painful than being bit by a tiger shark - she lets me know that I have no say as to what's going on in my nether regions. It's her way or the hairy-way and when it comes to me and places just 15 minutes ago I thought of as private, "She likes control". So what do you do when a woman whose eyes light up at the sheer thought of crotch-control happens to be holding a cup of hot wax? You grin, grit, and literally bear it. Besides, how much longer could this go on?

Well, I found out. About another half-hour longer of "okay pul - and breath - okay - and how are we on time - and stick your head between your legs and whistle dixie."

Just when I thought this experience couldn't get anymore degrading, life, and apparently the Wax Nazi, has ways of surprising even me. Switching gears from drill sergeant to shrink, Chris decides to open up. "Everyone's coming in this time of year,.. (nodding towards my nether regions with a wink) Sharing this with a special someone?".

Whoa, okay - hold the phone. I put up with all the strange holding, and interactive pulling and the unnecessary "okay and breath and hold and time check's"' as if we were producing something far greater than the equivalent of a mowed lawn - but let's get one thing straight. A. Even if I wasn't a party of one, referring to my waist down as something you can share with someone like cheesecake,... weird. and B. not since the kindergartens reading of "Everyone Poops" have I wanted my womanhood even in the same hemisphere as a "wink". Got That? Lets keep the personal away from my p-word.

Hindsight being 20/20 that could be a fundamental flaw in my relationships but again, there are some people who you don't want to have a personality. a bikini waxer is one of them, but I didn't get that lucky. Instead once she assumed that, and I quote, "we are both going through all of this for nothing", she loosened up her grip as if she can slack off a bit because her new work wasn't about to be displayed atop the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree!

Only furthering her rambling on how her breaking a sweat while breaking my skin would be as useful as arranging deck chairs on the Titanic, she would pause her rant only for a time check. "And how are we on time,..." Every time I would think it was the last time-check, but there always seemed to be just one more. She could go on all fucking day - I however could not: Death by Wax Nazi.

I need to put an end to all of this - ASAP. Finally Chris backs herself into a corner with, "Well, anyway,... I'm sure there are plenty of guys just lying around..."
And there was my in to say something offensive to shut her up for hopefully what was to be the last check on the time.

"Yea - they're all lying there... the question is whether or not I want to get on top."

How to Lose a Guy in, say,... 10 seconds.

I have forgotten what it's like to be completely single again in the city of Boston. As it turns out, the brief stint of my 'relationship' era came to a screeching halt largely due to the fact that my choice of boyfriend happened to be able to out-stupefy a bag of bricks. Note to all: if you're going to be dumb, you better be gorgeous; otherwise you will fall into the trap of what I now lovingly call a case of the Jonathan's: too stupid not to be cute, and not cute enough to be stupid.

After this weekend however, there is increasingly more evidence that the idiot here may, in fact, be me. I thought, optimistically, that I could go out in the Bay State and actually enjoy myself. I also thought, that there maybe another human being in a 50 mile radius that I would also enjoy being with. On both counts; I was wrong.

The disaster began on Friday, as most weekends seemingly do. A friend was walking in a Harvard fashion show and although I am always hesitant to cross the river, on this particular night, I had an agenda. Last Saturday, in the real city, I stumbled upon a dress/shirt that changed my life. Short, Black, Backless, Sequins. Need I say more? Nope, didn't think so. In any case, I wore said shirt/dress in said city to garner looks, winks, smiles, drinks and everything short of marriage proposals from men, women, and inanimate objects alike. Thanks to modern technology, arguably one of the best outfits of my life would be stored on a magnificent little chip known as a digital camera that from this night on would always provide me with a small dose of self esteem.... or so I thought. Needless to say karma has struck again and both the camera and my ego are in the back corner of some NYC taxi cab rotting next to old fries and mold. So what is a girl to do? Find any excuse whatsoever to wear my backless shirt/dress of sequins in a city like Boston whose fashion sense rivals only that of Jurassic Parks. The best excuse I could come up with? The Harvard Haute Fashion Show.

Once I get to Harvard however, I remember why I hate going there - I consistently get lost, with no hope of finding anyone useful to just say "go that way" without having to hear about some bullshit tradition, or "I'd love to help but we're reenacting the Salem Witch Trials". You would think that a school with the largest endowment in the world could invest in some signage. I'm convinced the only required Harvard reading is "Where's Waldo", but on this fateful night I was playing "Where's the SOCH".... another thing I don't like about my Cambridge constituents, acronyms for sign-less buildings that couldn't possibly make sense to anyone outside of Harvard Yard. The third thing I hate about Harvard? They fail to see me as a constituent however, I had an answer for that too. In response to the "oh so you don't go here" look, "Don't worry! What I lack in smarts, I make up for in sequins... here, see! Look at my dress... want to take a picture?"

After chasing through a quad after some kid in a bow-tie (yea,.. let that one register for a second), he finally gave me directions that as a New Yorker I can understand: An arm flail, a pointed finger and "there". Katherine was wonderful, by far the best walker of the bunch, and the DJ happened to be great. What was not-so-great however was that by the shows end Katherine was already plastered, she and her impossibly cute in that "wow, perfect couple way" boyfriend had their own idea's of an after party and I still didn't get to truly wear my dress. I will be damned if I didn't eat all day for my sparkly self to only see the inside of what appeared to be a study hall with a stage. So, on the road again.

First Stop: City Bar at the Lenox Hotel. City Bar is entirely dependent on the people inside it; you either get attractive, young, cute guys... or AARP cards in suits. This night was a mix, however we only met the latter. I don't know what it is about men who don't have a shot in hell, but they always seem to have more cojones than anyone you'd actually want to talk to. None the less, like Japanese pilots on a kamikaze mission, social retard after social retard made their way over to our table. The only solution? Run, and quickly. 

From City Bar we go to Sel de la Terre, where our friend is a bartender. Seeing only a backside, blond spiky hair and a green shirt, I go up behind him and somewhat provocatively say hello. When the man in the green shirt turned around however, he was not Sean, but instead one of his co-workers. Looking around it would seem as if the green shirt is what some may call a 'uniform', making it very difficult to pick any one bartender's backside out of a crowd. Lesson learned: keep your hands to yourself unless you are absolutely certain your not finger crawling your way into a harassment suit. Alls well that ends well however; we got a few free drinks,... and he's not pressing any charges. Sel begins to die around midnight, and if that is not proof alone that Boston is like living in the stone age, where we went next only verified that we are surrounded by cavemen.

We hike across the street to Vox; trashy Boylston Street's attempt at a legitimate bar. Around every corner were men in chunky heeled shoes, thinking themselves sly when really they're just sloshed. Every girl knows that one of the worst experiences in the world is slinking through groups of drunkards who not only smell like they're first love is beer, but also have the guts to prove it. Making this the third venue of our night however, I am sober, it is now past midnight in a city that closes at two and I no longer have time to worry about my shimmering, sequins - I will just have to wear them again tomorrow. 

We head to the bar in full force only to be plagued yet again by men with way too much self-esteem for their own good. I swear everyone from Quasimodo to his uglier, estranged brother found some way to interfere in our walk to the watering hole; but then alas, we found the light. If you struggle passed the narrow entrance hallways of Vox and up the back stairs, there is open space, a decent sound system, and remarkably normal human beings.

Finally, we find our niche with five cute guys, 26 - 29,... and one really crazy girl. Assuming that Loretta Bobette must be one of their girlfriends, she and I start talking only for me to find that she is far more psychotic than what simply meets the eye. Bad bangs, caked on make-up, wearing a strapless dress that has been knocked off center taking whatever was in her chest area with it, she set her sights on one man, who just happened to be more interested in talking to me. K cera? Well, clearly "Jessica" does not heed the words of the great Doris Day. Instead, she thought it a better idea to harass me, and then try to tell me how much she "loved" me. She then would literally jump on our actually quite hot, 6-foot-three, brown hair, blue eyed friend, and forcefully pull him by his collar when he uttered syllables in any other direction but her own. It was like watching a sequel to "how to lose a guy in 10 days" but instead, "how to lose a guy in, eh, ... 10 seconds"... informative, hilarious, and non-threatening. Besides, to be honest, I had no intention of hooking up with anyone; all I wanted out of the night was a picture to replace the one I had envisioned hanging above a free-standing Home Depot fireplace... but, the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.

Never one to stand in bad judgements way, I leave Jessica and hot boy alone but every time the rest of the group would start a conversation, he would do his best to leave his baggage behind, and come and join the dark side. Once again, not my fault, but then as it turned out he happened to not only be hot, but really funny and quite smart. (Two qualities that would not define 'a case of the Jonathan's.') Although I might not like this Jessica, even drunk I wouldn't stoop that low. So what? The girl might be a train wreck, but she wasn't a bitch, or at least so I thought. Hot boy goes to the bathroom after practically ignoring her for multiple minutes. She wobbles over to me like a child in her mother's high heels to inform me that, "I'm actually his sister, and I'm sorry... but I am just very protective of him and the people that he talks to.. especially other girls when were together,... so..."

Whoa. Hold the phone... bitch please. Did she just pull the "I'm his sister, you should go away now" routine. I have done that for guy friends who were in on the joke to get unwanted people to go away... however a. in these parts of the North east, some would call your sticking you hand up and down your brothers jacket incest and b. I'm wearing fucking backless sequins. I am not the unwanted! Can someone just take a god damn photo so I can go home!?! But now it's too late. Now I can't just walk away.... when you mess with fire - this bitch is about to get burned.

Hot boy returns, and I am on the move. My life would have been much simpler if I could have just had my vodka in peace... but clearly that was not in the cards for me tonight. He comes back to talk to my friend and I only to be thwarted by his loving 'sister'. "So, I didn't know you too were related..." Just when crazy girl had the open to make me look like a psycho, as I knew she would, she took the cake. "Yea... I was telling her how I am your sister,.. and how protective I get." Oh here we go,... dinner and a show: if there was ever, anything that you should never say to a random guy in a bar, it is probably "I am protective of you".

At just that moment when most girls would walk away, I must give it to Jessica... she is persistent. Continuing her story line in the same knee-deep fashion Bush held tight to WMD's, she dug her tunnel to the funny farm deeper and deeper with each ridiculous story coming out of her mouth. It wasn't until she was literally becoming a buzz-kill that both Hot Boy and I had had enough. Cutting her off mid-strange "family" memoir, "so... what was it like on Christmas morning in your family?" ... stymied and stunned, she baffles some absurd reply outing her as full on lunatic. It is now game point, and I want to go home. "Hey Hot Boy.... want to put an end to this once and for all?..." and with that, we started making out. Two things you should know about me: 1. I'm shameless, and 2. My claws do not retract. Needless to say, set and match.

The next day I awoke as all girls do, giddy with the prospect that maybe he could actually be cute, funny, and normal. By noon, those hopes had already been shattered. After the civil, "It was great to meet you, what are you up to today texts" I get this:

"When are we going to make out again?".... "Are you going out tonight?"...

I should have never responded to the first text... but I did. When I told him that I had to finish a term paper, but hoped to be done by ten: "Then can we make out?"

Good god! Even the kid I kissed for the Make-A-Wish foundation did a better job at hiding his desperation... but then it got worse. At 10:41, the final nail in the coffin came ringing to the tune of my John Mayer 'you've-got-text' signal: "Ready to make out yet?"

Well,... another one bites the dust. My only response,... "Try me on February 30th"

Halloween: A True Horror Story

Halloween was a disaster. An absolute fucking debacle. There are holidays where you fully expect to regret being single... Christmas, New Years, Valentines Day... Halloween? Not so much.

The night started in my bedroom. Cindy McCain or sexy sailor? Once my Michelle Obama bailed on me to be a Hooters girl (go figure), it looked as if I would be sailing the high seas. Then I put said "sexy" costume on. At risk of my ego, lets just leave it at not so sexy. 

On Halloween, there is a very thin line between looking cheap and looking easy. Easy? Mission Accomplished. Cheap? Better get back to the drawing board... so I did. What I came up with completely rivals my Halloweens of lore. Sky high heels, a shiny gold barely there dress, fur stole, sunglasses, and a giant and noticeable coke smear down my right nostril (compliments of Maybelline). Best part is, my costume came with a punch line. "What are you supposed to be?" ... Oh me? I didn't dress up this year. 

Geared up and ready to go, my first stop was with my two

 very in love friends Maria and Matt. Little did I know however, Maria and Matt were with their very in love friends Ben and Sarah. There I am crashing a double date, in a packed restaurant, to have a literal 5th wheel pulled to a corner of a table for 4. Did I mention dressed like a coke-addict home-wrecker? The latter actually played to my advantage as the awkwardness of this situation was immediately made better by all the attention I was getting from fans. It was Beacon Hill so I'm pretty sure there was a toss up between people who laughed, people who were offended, and people who thought I was just in desperate need of a mirror.

The waiter, "Rehab Reject", comes to the table. Thinking himself to be funny, "Can I get you anything, maybe some coke?"... ha. No, I'll just take a vodka soda,... and an extra straw. P.S. keep them coming, you have no idea how much one needs to drink when they're the misplaced chair in the corner at a restaurant of Bunnies and Hef's, Wilma and Fred's... you get the point. Speaking of the point, I always thought of Halloween as an excuse to freeze your ass off in October because you're wearing little more than a thong and go home with some guy in a mullet wig. Upon explaining this to my coupled counterparts, they somehow take this as a reason to furiously try to set me up with the waiter.Okay, I'm sorry. Just stop it! I'm single not a leper, and this is supposed to be the only holiday where my no strings attached, fly by the seat of my pants attitude pays off. Why is it that all smug couples feel the need to then push you into a pairing? The Waiter... really? Rehab Reject? Are you fucking kidding me. It is after this event, I switched from vodka soda to shots... all of a sudden, Rehab Reject wasn't looking so bad.

After a toast of "To Ben and Sarah, my second family, Maria, the woman who makes every day worthwhile (did I mention I am sandwiched between Romeo and Juliet) and then to me... uh... good friends!" dinner is over. We head over to Max and Dylan's which can simply be described as a place where if you're with the people you want to be, is just fine. Not that I don't love my friends, but it's Halloween! I want to flirt with strangers, maybe get frisked, be taken advantage of and so on. The only one taking advantage of me here is the bartender via $8 drinks. With a costume this good, it's all about exposure and I was getting close to none of it. The whole truth is that not only did I want to be frisked, I wanted to be frisked by a very specific someone who I had planned on meeting at a party later in the night. So now, I'm looking hot, surrounded by couples who could give a rats ass, and the literal ass who's supposed to care seems to have fallen off the face of the planet.

I texted at 6pm, again at 11:30 - and as I've been on dates I wasn't invited to all night, I'll be damned before I walk into yet another place I'm not welcome. I need some sort of "hey, im here, come!" confirmation before I schlep across the city and reapply my coke smear. This being said, I am up to my eyeballs of people in love perfectly content with being nowhere as long as they're together. If another one of the other third wheels in the place comes over to say "well at least we have each other", all said person will have is a black eye. And god damn it! I'm not wearing underwear - text me back!

I would just show up at the party by none of my girlfriends wanted to go and I can't walk in alone - that surpasses even my level of crazy stalking. So instead, I do only what drunk frustrated me knows how to do: leave choice words on a voicemail. His fault for not picking up. Probably my fault for the fact that he'll never pick up again.

Embattled and defeated, I wave my white flag. I have had enough. I exit stage left and stumble down to the corner of Tremont St. to get a cab. Thinking the worst was behind me.. I was wrong - dead wrong. Usually hailing cabs in skimpy clothing is the best therapy money can buy - not tonight. I got shout outs ranging from "where you going?" to "stand there long enough people will start asking how much". Yea buddy, thats right. I'm telling all the open cabs to go past me so I can stand here listening to your 2 cent suggestion? I think not. My favorite of all the car calls however? "You're a man".

In one night, I've gone from single girl to desperate girl to now, not even a girl at all. Things just keep on getting better. Finally, my white and shining crown victoria sweeps me off my feet. No, seriously, he came so close I thought I was getting hit, which in retrospect, would have been a plus to my night as nothing else was hitting on me. I get in the cab, give him the address, only to find out that my cabbie had a few more questions than just "where to?".

"So you're going home?".. uh huh

"Why so early?"

Are you kidding me? You don't think I know it's 12:30. I don't see the crowds of cats, bumblebees and police officers? How about we back up to life before your game of 20 questions: you keep driving. I'll keep sulking. Hoping that something is happening somewhere, I send a mass text. My harvard friend replies but that means I'd have to endure an extra 20 minute ride with Inspector Clouseau the cab driver - forget it. We turn onto Harvard Ave. when my dominican driver comes up with yet another great idea:

"Lets pull over and get a drink. Im alone - You're Alone".

If there was ever a moment when you wish his car really did hit you: this was it. "Im alone... you're alone" - oh hell no. Any self esteem I had prior to walking out of the house looking like a coked up slut only to walk back in as party of one has now been completely decimated by cab #263. Scrambling to pick up the pieces of my broken self all over the backseat , "actually sir, this corners just perfect! Friend just texted, party right around the corner! (Lie #1) and... I'm not alone, I just broke up with my boyfriend! (Lie #2)... keep the change!" Luckily, I did see my building from where I 007-ed out of the taxi, so my "big stand" only equaled out to walking 2 blocks, but blisters of the foot are far easier and cheaper to fix than the blister this cab driver was developing on my ego.

Home at last and not a second later does Jamie storm in cursing the day all Halloween revelers were born. "What the hell are they screaming about out there! Its Halloween, they're not protesting Castro for christ sake! If I had the right speakers, I'm in the mind to go out there like Evita!" 

I guess I have met my match after all. We sat drinks in hand, telling of our Halloween horrors, singing Andrew Lloyd Webber until the sounds of schmucks in Santa suits couldn't be heard over "dont cry for me Argentina"

Screw The Sox: For Those Who Prefer Red Pumps

In light of the race for the pennant, I am coming out of the closet - I am not a sports fan. To simply say that I'm 'not a fan' truly does not do justice to my distaste for sports that I have been harboring as a Bostonian now for the past three years.

Okay there. I said it. Now pick your jaw up off the floor and hold in your 'gasps' and let me explain. Upon telling a friend of mine who is like most Bostonians, a sports fan[atic], he looked at me wide eyed, as if the future of our friendship was lingering on my response, and said, "well surely there is something you like about some sport.... somewhere". And well, no, there isn't.

Baseball, despite the player’s brag-worthy backsides, takes a long time and the players spit way to often. The only good thing about soccer is it has a running clock. Football? A bunch of grown men in matching spandex dog piling each other first on the 10, and wait... same thing on the 20 and so on? Check Please. Basketball makes me wish I were taller, wrestling makes me hungry, gymnasts make me anorexic... need I say more?

While some may think that living with this set of morals is just a walk in the park - anyone who believes that has never lived in Boston. Jerseys on Newbury Street, hats on the sidewalks, little B's and odd looking leprechaun's literally winking at you around ever corner. Try going to a bar? Just stay home on game night. You could walk around stark nude - unless you have a caricature of Bill Belichick tattooed between your shoulder blades or a "this is for Big Papi" on your left ass cheek - you will not get the time of day.

So why am I telling you this? Well for starters, if you're coming to Boston, are anything like me and would rather sip your vodka soda sans "that went right to him!" shouting, then your going to need this: 

"Screw the Sox: A Survival Guide for Those Who Care More About Red Pumps" 

(Just a little book I came up with)

1. Fake It. I know that sounds hypocritical coming from me, but believe me, there is no conversation more irrational or mind numbing than being brow beaten for your beliefs. The only thing that can take sports fans attention away from sports, is hearing how you too don’t pray 5 times a day to the Green Monster, and said sports fan’s rant is sure to last longer than 7 innings. You may curse the day Paul Peirce was born. Keep it to yourself.

2. Always have an answer. If you choose not to follow rule number one, be prepared to hear some of the most ridiculous reasoning for why said fan hasn’t changed their underwear in a week, or how sports brings the nation together, or other outlandish statements. When being confronted, it is necessary to fight fire with fire. 

I.E To: “Sports has always saved our country… think back to the Great Depression… without sports, where would we be?” I say: “That was then. Prozac is now”

3. Stick to your guns. At the end of the day, just like what you like and know in your heart of hearts, you can never please a sports fan. Proof? Whether they win or they lose… they riot.

What Comes Around...

Benjamin Franklin once said, "Guests are like fish. After three days, they stink." Clearly Big Ben had learned the hard way, and shared that tidbit with the world so they too don't turn their house into a hotel. Like most tidbits of advice I receive however, I ignored the words of our founding father too - and now my house has gone from hotel to hell.

This disaster-peice began innocently enough, the way most do. I wasn't listening or paying attention to anyone around me, assuming everyone always wants to hear yes to anything they say - I only smile and nod until I unknowingly just booked at 10 day stay at the Casa Wassa. As a huge fan of empty invitations, "of course, you're always more then welcome here for as long as you like"... who actually takes you up on those offers!?

Somehow, when someone emptily invites me to a dinner and I call to tell them I'm ready and in the lobby - no one's shy about letting me know I wasn't actually invited. Why is it when I put an offer out emptier than Sarah Palin's head space, instead of 10 minutes of 'how rude' silent treatment, I get 10 minutes of 10 trips back and forth schlepping someone else's shit into my bedroom, along with a guest that is far from silent.

More proof that God does have a chosen people - and I am not one of them. Luckily for me however, Jews don't believe in hell - no promises I'm getting into heaven but the Torah does guarantee me at least a trip to it's gates and believe me, when I get there, I have a whole notebook full of grievances. But back to the limbo I call life.

From the very taking up of my empty invitation, I could tell I would never speak without meaning again.

Phone Call 1: "You have a car, right?"

Yes! And so do you.... zipcar!

Phone call 2: "Yea, I totally understand you not being comfortable with me driving your car (... bitch), just leave your T pass on the desk, you know... so I can get around."

I'm sorry, hold the phone - what!? Do I look like a concierge service to you? So now you're telling me that you can't figure out how to get around in a city you lived in TWO MONTHS AGO? If you want to act like your mentally handicapped, that's all fine and well, but I'm not getting community service for this shit so check into your stay with all limbs and synapses in tact.

And finally, to my "there are pillows etc. in the hall closet"; 

Phone Call 3: "What? I'm sleeping in your bed."

Listen, you self-entitled, little prick - whether I like it of not, my bed is no-mans-land and I am sure as hell not breaking that streak with the likes of you.

So now, in my own home, I have hidden my extra car key so well that I can no longer find it, am one blanket down, and he is on top of my duvet, under said blanket. You want to sleep in the bed? Fine. But I draw a line at my linens. Did I mention all this drama occurred before the first sunrise of his stay? With the sun however, came a whole new slew of surprises for both of myself, and my friend Rob (the gu[P]est)

8am I am awoken by something that could only belong in a bomb shelter. EERGH EERGH EERGH EERGH... I see sleeping beauty to my left at peace, can't be him. And oh wait,... it is. Thinking he is getting up and going to meetings and such, which was the proposed reason for his stay, I understand the 8am duck and cover drill alarm. Instead, upon greeting his shrieking I-phone, Rob stops the siren, but continues sleeping. Now riddle me this Batman, what is the purpose of waking up the Western Hemisphere (namely me) with sirens, if upon waking me up, you fall back asleep? I ask him exactly that, and he says "because it is the only sound that gets me up". Right, now that I follow - but now you're not up... I am.

Turning my morning lemons into lemonade,  I go to 9am core fusion, 10:30 facial, buy flowers, get coffee, send a letter - do you see where I am going with this? I get back to my apartment, maybe 1 o'clock. HE IS STILL IN THE FUCKING BED. Or rather he was until I walked in explaining that he best get the hell out of it. Who does that?! When he insisted he'd be staying in the bed... who knew he meant all day? Not in big mommas house... and that's when it hit him that my house was going to be the worst hotel he ever decided to check into.

Rob got up, cleaned up, and learned these are two things we do here before 10am. Nothing to do? You don't get bored, you get boring. And your things? I don't want to see them - so figure it out! Off to lunch, bye!

He looked at me like he had been hit in the face which, ironically he would be later in the evening.

5pm the same day, Rob meets Mariel and I at our favorite spot, Z Square. Z Square was not Rob's favorite spot however, and he felt the need to share how "pedestrian" he found our hang out,... very loudly. Firstly, anyone who uses the word 'pedestrian' to refer to anything other than a J-walker has just got to go. Secondly, rule of thumb: when you're some ones guest, your host could love hanging out in spider holes or crack clinics. If they love it? So do you. However manners or graciousness hasn't struck out stories protagonist yet, why start now? How pedestrian if you ask me. Luckily for him though, the one waitress that makes my skin crawl made her way to the table, so giving into little Hitlers demands - we made out way out to the venue of his choice.

The check comes, and in desperation to leave Z Square, Rob had made it unclear if he was paying for this next venue or not. Mariel and I had been drinking since 3, and jokingly Mariel tosses the check to Rob, who is on the phone. Without even skipping a beat, he turns the phone into his cheek and in the same breath of "yea so, I'm in Boston" screams out 

"PAY FOR YOUR OWN SHIT YOU DIRTY WHORE."

Mariel and I wait to absorb what had just happened to make sure it really did when Turrets Timmy strikes again:
DID. I. STUTTER. PAY. FOR. YOUR. OWN. SHIT. YOU. CUNT.

And then, like that didn't just happen - he goes right back to his I-phone calmly talking about the weather.

Mariel storms out, paying for her big 3 drink tab, and I follow her as any friend would. Calling Rob from outside the restaurant, like an overbearing mother he gives me the option of "you can either come back inside and we can enjoy a nice dinner, or not."

Where was the nice in this dinner exactly? And I am pretty sure anything that was nice about it has been ruined by you eloquent vernacular. So, given those two options... I choose not. The one good thing he did do however, was bring 2 bottles of red wine as a gift. So I board the T, Mariel in tow, believing that their great debate had subsided. Well... I was wrong.

As luck would have it, Rob got on the same T with us, and now it was Mariel's turn to share some choice words of her own.

"Great, you're here. And by you - I mean the closeted homo who no one likes whose imposed themselves on Erika's bed" ... hmm I wonder who that could be?

Rob, still on the phone, not skipping a beat; "You are a dirty skank ass whore."

"You're still a homosexual. Everyone on the train knows it. So do you"

Is this really happening to me? Yes. And this continues for a good three stops until passengers can't help but weigh in.

Rob: "I can't believe you'd be friends with this girl. Erika, you have terrible judgement"
Mariel: "Erika has bad judgement on friends? What does that say about you then? Oh wait - worse. Your imposing yourself on someone who isn't even your friend..."
Random Train Rider: "I'm assuming your Erika? Quite frankly, I'd get rid of them both"

Our stop arrives to paying passengers relief, I invite them all over - surprisingly no one wanted to come, but now we're in my apartment. The one place where I have jurisdiction. Rob forcefully apologized to Mariel, and I saw an end to the fighting,... or so I thought.

I'm standing outside when all of a sudden Mariel comes out on the terrace notably more frantic and upset than before. She grabs her bag, apologizes to me, and leaves. Apparently, Rob may have had the last word, but he most certainly did not get the last laugh.

As Mariel storms out, I follow her inside just in time to see Rob, horrified, wiping the spit off his face.

Proof: God may pick favorites... but karma's a bitch.

The Best Laid Plans...

Being a senior in college is like being told you have 8 months more of life left to live. Everyone you meet gets wide eyed to ask, "well, have you figured out what your going to do?!", like somehow I am personally facing this epidemic that 4,000 kids before me didn't last year, the year before that - and guess what! Graduation didn't get cancelled in 2005 either - and that is just B.U.

But seriously, are the lingering questions really necessary? It's September! I haven't even decided which classes I'm dropping for the semester - better yet, I'm still on the fence regarding lunch... do I want a salad? Or maybe a burger? But I can't get to the gym today, so leafy greens and a protein would be best, and just when you think you've got yourself committed to a panini - bam - there it is: 

"so your graduating... what are your plans?".

Then the interviewer always does a pause with raised eyebrows expecting to be hit clockwise across the face with an epiphany; "well, not to brag but - Sarah Palin called and the VP thing isn't really for her, and well it's really that she misses saying "whats good" to Putin from her backyard, and I have a concentration in Political Science.. so I guess what it comes down to is that we here on the mainland have a saying... come May, there is one difference between the vice presidential candidate and me... one of us will have a relevant degree."

(disclaimer: this message has not been approved by John McCain)
(disclaimer to the disclaimer: McCain will still get my vote)

All jokes aside, the people walking around with the "I have a plan" smug look on their face has got to stop. Why prey tell? Because then when I am honest and reply, "I'm on the graduate and go path and hope I get lucky plan", you know what I get? A condescending smile and a "thats okay, not everyone needs to know what they want to do."

Excuse me sir, but I know exactly what I want to do - first, I'd like to end this conversation, then I'd really like to get back to that decision on lunch; but now that you and your game of 20 questions has entered my stratosphere, the chance of my enjoying thats been shot to hell - so how about that corkscrew?

It's really the faux-planners that are the catalyst of all this nonsense to begin with, and we all know one of them. Boat shoes at 12, comb over at 16, the only purchasers of Donald Trump's "Your Fired" which ironically foreshadows their future. It is they who are to blame - or is it the idiots who buy into their bullshit? Like today, in the School of Management study lounge, I ran into an old professor and an over-acheiver I had taken said professors class with freshman year.

Conversations on the Starbuck's line went from, "Wow - can't believe four years have gone by" to this: (I kid you not)

Boy in knock-off Brook Brothers says pompously: "yea, well, things are going pretty well for me - moving to New York after graduation - got offers from Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch and Bear Sterns...."

Well those offers all sound great - enjoy moving to New York but what the hell are you going to do there? Maybe if he would dislodge his prop piece Wall Street Journal from under his arm, he too would see my concern.

As my professor congratulated him and nodded, it hit me - I've been waiting to properly quote SpaceBalls and finally my time had come - 

"I am surrounded by assholes".

Fuck Is Not a Mantra

Ever wonder how to kick a hangover? Early morning margaritas? A hot steam? No, and definitely not. Now yoga on the other hand, now there's a good idea. When your stomach is in twists and turns, why leave out the rest of your body?

6 hours of drinking done, 3 hours of sleep in and rather then licking the hair of the dog via mimosa - I am downward facing dog.  

So there I am, in a sea of women double my age and half my waist size with one leg above my head and a flexed foot in my big "sure, lets go to yoga" mouth. Nothing says good morning more subtly then the perfect ass of a 45 year old perched at eye level while sweat that both reeks and tastes like chardonnay drips at the corners of your mouth.

If it wasn't for the fact that I was surrounded by proof that this shit actually works, after the warn up (during which I broke a sweat), when the 50+ body of a 12 year old instructor announced, "okay, were ready to flow", I would have announced, "actually, I'm ready to go."

To The Class of 2009

I was asked to write a commencement speech, which I didn't end up reading, however wanted to share my thoughts and congratulations. Had I read it,... this is what I would have said:

A funny thing happened exactly 100 days before this one. While everyone else was out enjoyable forgetting the night that marked our 100 days countdown to graduation, I, was having a panic attack. With every text message I received asking me where I was and whether or not I would be partaking in the first of our 'senior moment' celebrations, my sweaty palms, shortened breath and heightened heartbeat said it all: No, I would not be partaking. For me, it was too soon to be having senior moments, and as such, my fidgety fingers could only text back one thing.

To "100 Days! Woohoo!"

I responded with the one legitimate concern that I had: "Does That Include Weekends?"

Much to my dismay, it most certainly did. For the first time, graduation confronted me in countable reach and this overly flattering Fire Engine red cap and gown presented itself as nothing but an eviction notice, forcing me out of the place it has taken every bit of four years to finally call home. Not capable of celebrating, and too anxious to sleep - I did the next natural thing that occurred to me: I sulked. I sulked and I sat, alone in my apartment, on a Thursday night - that 100 days to graduation, and I thought about my life: past, present, and as much as I dreaded its lurking in the distance, my future.

Freshman year we all arrived, and for most of us, this served as a catalyst to our independence. Seniors looked cool, mature, accomplished. While I can't say much has changed for me in terms of cool, I now look at the freshman and swear I never looked that young. I can also assure you that our class did a far better job than the current at walking at a reasonable pace and not blocking the sidewalks like Oklahoma tourist in time square. But in truth, that is probably just not true. Not so long ago, these streets were new to us. It probably took some longer than others to realize that COM is the building with the radio tower on top, and if all else failed, there is also a fountain in the yard. But those kids, huddled around the campus maps, literally and figuratively in all the wrong places - that was us. Looking at the seniors then, they were about to be going somewhere I thought. Little did I know however, we were about to be going somewhere too.

Surely, we were all about to embark into higher education, at one of the best communication schools in the country, exposed to a faculty whose wisdom we will take with us into our future professions - but any college graduate can say most of that. At risk of stealing the bookstores tacky mug motto "Be You" spelt out B-E-Y-O-U, in my experience, this school could not have been more aptly named. While there is a nation of college graduates bonded by the fact that they have a degree, we are slightly better than that, because we are bonded here, to this experience, in a place that promotes not only a professional journey, but a personal one - and that has made all the difference.

It is at BU that I walked into a PR class. It was at BU that I began to grow into my own and walked straight out of a PR class. It was while broadening my horizons inside the classroom that the world outside of COM's walls came into focused view. It has been my experiences here, from Kenmore Square to Gardener Street, at the top of my game to the bottom of a bottle, in Mugar, at Mantra - that has shaped the graduate that stands before you, and all my fellow graduates who sit before me. BU let us find ourselves, and for whatever that's worth, we have all found something here that some people will never find and quite frankly, that is what separates us, sitting here today, from all the other kids sitting in the same places as we are right now. We have been taught how to think, and that is why that Thursday, that 100 days until graduation, what I didn't recognize was that there was no need to panic.

The same way we arrived here and were handed the tools to find the Ritz Clafflin, four years later, we have all been given the tools to be competent, confident, and assume our places in the world. What we have greater than a declared major, is a skill set that allows us to be smarter than the fear of the unknown, and once you can realize that, there is no more fear. There is one less excuse not do something. Good new is? We have that skill. The skill that tells us when want to sulk alone, that there are so many better reasons not to. Of course sometimes sulking will get the better of you, happens to the best of us but I know now that I chose to sulk, now I choose not to - and it is not sulking or not sulking that matters here, it is understanding that it is a choice. Because of our education in both Communication and in life, we are all capable of understanding fear as a choice, and once that concept can be grasped, it is just as easy to be afraid, as it is not to be. The better news in this situation? As graduates of the School of Communication, and BU on the whole, we are ready and able to not only act without fear, but with confidence that we can rest on our laurels of where we came from - and that place is here.

Today is the first of many milestones in our truly adult life. It is the point in our timelines where once again we can choose. We can choose to be evicted by life, everytime it is simply our time to progress - or we can remember the power of our roots here, and shop for penthouses. The ability to see beyond the butterflies in our stomach, to go and celebrate life even on nights when you think your life might be ending - it is that trait which bonds us, and will keep us bonded as we succeed together, just as we are succeeding here together, today. I am confident we can rest assured that we will all find our way - just as we did here, and walk with a little bit of swagger in our step knowing not necessarily what we are going to be doing, but knowing what we've done.

To the class of 2009, I hope you achieve whatever it is you have set out to do here. As we all move on together, I hope we take our next steps with both a sense of humor, and a sense of purpose, and never forget that we have the confidence and the competence to do so. Congratulations.

Kim Jong-Il Wasser

My mother always says, "you don't get bored..  you get boring." As I find myself every Wednesday night in a class from 6-9pm painstakingly bored, I have started to accept that it may just be me.

In this  "world negotiations and affairs" class, our final project is to simulate the 6 party talks. For all those including myself who have no idea what the 6-party talks are... they are negotiations between North and South Korea, Russia, China, Japan, the US, and the UN, mainly revolving around North Korea's Nuclear Program.  And while your thinking, if thats not boring I don't know what is, my professor gave us all an opportunity to stop being bored and transversely, so boring. 

We were each assigned roles, and my professor clearly seeing my star power, or the fact that I hadn't yet purchased a textbook, made me Kim Jong-Il. 

For those who don't know 'little Kim', as he stands 5 foot 3 inches, he is the actual axis of the axis of evil, dictator of North Korea, and almost every question was going to be fielded eventually to him, or well.. me. What my professor didn't realize is that I am not one to take starring roles lightly. Do you honestly think that you can make me Kim Jong-Il and have me not take full advantage? He might of thought himself tricky by testing my knowledge, however I hail from Crafty City: Population: Me.

My plan prey tell? I would make up for all I lacked in knowledge with creativity. Rather then write my paper that has been outstanding for a good two weeks (what! the email I sent didn't go through... again!?), I found myself rummaging thrift shops and costume stores searching for the perfect outfit that would just scream communist dictator. Although I should take a serious look into my time management, what I found? Gold.

As most Wednesday nights, I am supposed to be reading the subtitles of Korean movies, however find myself doing anything but, I've become excellent at the "Easy Kentucky Crosswords Online", and have become a overwhelmingly more efficient facebook creep - move over, "I Know What You Did Last Summer", I can now walk into a lecture hall, look around the room and script, "I Know What All of You In the Back Row did Last Night" This being said, the fact that I hadn't read all semester meant only one thing: I have to give this all I've got, which certainty isn't information so I will refer to another one of my mothers fond sayings; "You don't have to be the smartest person in the room - as long as you look the best".... and I did. So good in fact, I felt the need to share.

Enter Kim Jong-Il [Wasser] to the podium please:

Oh no... this is no joke. What was a joke however was the proceedings that took place AFTER I rented a zip car, found out that someone actually owned a full on, khaki jumpsuit, followed by my bringing a woman's wig to my hair guy who laughed, and then started cutting.

"Delegates" from all countries arrived in full ego and preposterous seriousness. Condi-sleez-a Rice actually snarled at me, South Korea wouldn't share their cookies and representatives from China,.. don't even get me started. The only team that had anyone normal who realized that we were in fact, not in the UN, but next to a starbucks in the School of Management study lounge was Russia. When Russia is the only straight thinking nation... what in the hell is going on. 

Simulation 1: While being Kim Jong-Il means that everyone greets you with hostility, I took matters into my own hands by replying with outlandish statements such as, "Do you know who I am? Talk to me that way again, you'll be getting your thank you note via missile" and when the US tried to say it sent good will through the NY Philharmonic's visit to North Korea as a negotiating tactic, I informed them, "I've heard the NY Philharmonic... it wasn't such a gift."

Lets just say the UN wasn't pleased.  

Simulation 2: A COUP HITS NORTH KOREA and Kim Jong-Il is out. You have got to be kidding me. Do you know how long it took me to find an authentic jacket, wig, glasses, platforms and jumpsuit!? In a moment of panic, I think... What Would Kim Jong-Il do? I know! Strike a deal with Putin to have Russia back my new regime and get me back into power and out of exile. Apparently, we were not allowed to do that. Strike 2? I think Kim Jong-Il would whine, and he would definitely not go down without a fight. Furthermore, now who I am going to say I am... some idiot who happens to have a striking resemblance to the prior dear leader? Assuring all nations of the world that my people will not be happy if I am not there to extend their work hours, spend their wages on the military, and create international unrest - somehow this was not persuasive enough and Kim Jong-Il was now deceased.

If James Lipton could see me now, this is what he would call an actors delima. I have been written out of the script, but there I am - still standing, in full costume. Taking the high road, I decide to stay in character. If I were little Kim, I'd be pissed. I wouldn't be taking this lying down! I put that snake general in power, and by george, I will take him out, and all before 9pm. Channeling the anger of Kim Jong-Il and of course none of my own for the fact that my entire day has gone to waste and my wig is starting to get itchy, I did what any manical dictator would do. Negotiations went from marginally intelligent to this: 

To the Nations present:
Are you willing to do anything to help us keep south korean special forces off our shores? 
signed from the grave,
kim jong-il

Lil' Kim:

What are you willing to give us for that? Land perhaps? A hand in the government?
Putin

Vlad - 
No land, no hand... just the urn of Kim Jong-il and good will in the future of dealing with this new bullshit regime.