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"