12 Steps to Amtrak Victory (with help from an open bar)

An Old Throwback Brought to the Front by Request... 

Spring break started this year three days before my trip - Wednesday March 5. I am told by my friend whose family invited me down to St. Barth's that after our Tortola debacle (the last of the S family vacations that I crashed where my luggage didn't arrive for 4 days) that it would be best for me to carry on. Makes logical sense. I then realize that means i can not simply put the entire contents of my closet in a body bag sized duffel and hope for the best. Que cera.

I call on my best gay who seems to have a true knack for all things domestic and am simply told, "you could go down with a zip lock freezer bag because you own absolutely nothing that I would even allow you to bring to St. Barth's."

Of course this can not be true... I look, and oh wait - it is. I guess a shirt that reads, "Cocaine Blows" with an equally obscene drawing doesn't exactly scream 'rose'. Shopping in Boston is like trying to find a diamond in a septic tank, but I suffice - spend money that doesn't belong to me - fill 2 carry ons, and set off after making sure that I have all the things you may actually need, like your flight information and a passport. Finding both of these things neatly scattered on my desk, I take them from the desk and put then in the front zipper pocket of my carry on. I have to note this here because this knowledge will come in handy later.

I get in my car. Something does not feel right. When something does not feel right, it is not the time to take a 250 mile trip from Boston to New York. Thinking this must be something quick, hopefully free and inane, I drive to the dealership down the corner where I am told not only would I have made it only as far as the next corner, my problem is not quick, not inane, and most certainly not free - story of my life.

Plan B - Amtrak or Jetblue? Amtrak is a 4 hour hike. Jetblue means my grandma will pick me up, I will be forced to spend the next 48 hours in long island and to sum it up, if I owned real estate in both Long Island and hell, I would live in Hell and rent out Long Island. Amtrak it is.

I will get on the 4:30 accela, I will be in New York by 7. I get to the train station, 2 carry ons, and a third bag of all the things I couldn't fit in the carry on at my apartment but somehow believe will fit later. I don't know, space compression theory? The bag will compress after sitting for 4 hours of Amtrak misery and then create enough air pockets for me to stuff in the things I clearly need to wear which after being stuffed in an air pocket will come out wrinkled and unwearable. I hear my train being called, and a nice guy comes over and asks if I want help with my bag. Not bad looking, I have nothing to do for the next 4 hours, might as well have at least the option of someone to talk to ,so I oblige. The train comes, the doors open in front of me, the scrolling text does not say New York - instead it reads "Providence, Rhode Island".

Now you tell me that you would get on a train intending to go to New York that reads Rhode Island. No, you wouldn't. And well, neither did I. In fact, I pulled my "someone to talk to friend" off of the train convinced that it was not ours, the Providence train door closes and zooms past my face. I immediately regret this decision as apparently Providence is the first stop on the way to New York explaining Amtraks typo.

I will get on the 5:30 acela, I will be in New York by 9.

I've done many walks of shame, nothing is as shameful as being outed an idiot by a complete stranger as we drag my 2 carry on's and other useless bag up the escalator to the Amtrak ticket agent who simply laughed in my face and charged me another $66 dollars. All they had left on the 5:30 train were first class seats. So from the perspective of this poor guy, solely for being nice to me, he gets pulled off of his respective train, and is then handed a personal bill of sixty bucks to sit in first class with probably the last person on the planet he wants to see - me.

Only knowing one way to fix this, I ask "red or white". Taken aback by the fact that I am clearly either crazy, alcoholic or both, he reminds me we are in a train station. I remind him that I know exactly where we are - surrounded by bums who don't accessorize with brown paper bags for no good reason, I'm pretty sure this is nothing the Amtrak agent hasn't seen before - "Touche."

I leave my luggage with him (which later as my mom pointed out, mistake number one. Why we pick out a certain stranger decide they look safe and go "oh can you watch this for a second" perplexes her, and after hearing her logic, I agree). Luckily Back Bay station is 2 blocks away from Boyleston street. I haul ass to the liquor store where the only red they have is "Smoking Loon". Appropriate. I buy 2 bottles, ask for 2 of those skinny brown bags, and remember I need a corkscrew. The cashier asks, "do you want an expensive screw and inexpensive screw..." Not wanting to be ID'ed I make no comment to this and tell him that I just need it to open these two bottles. He drops in the bag a contraption that doesn't appear to be able to open up a can of cheese whiz forget about 2 bottles of cheap red where the cork is almost certain to be wax, but I let it go and jog back to the station.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, what happened next can only be done justice by the photo below:


The 5:30 train arrives. Again it says "Providence" but I've lived and I've learned and promptly park myself with my new still sober friend (his name is Drew) at the 4 person tables that say "reserved for the handicapped, or families." Assuring him that I'm already going to hell, I take my seat, he takes his and then comes Neil. As if I couldn't get any worse for Drew, it immediately does.

Neil introduces himself not by saying hello, but rather by opening up a notebook, writing quietly and then breaking out into giant sobs at pitches only a gay man whose used to opening up his vocal chords can make. I laugh, Drew looks like he too is about to cry. Thinking something must be seriously wrong, the stewardess literally breaks a sweat running over to us, realizes that no, this man is just crazy, and in a strange turn of events manages to turn this very bad situation into a relatively good one: She takes our drink orders. Amtraks first class cabin has an open bar... I now know why I was meant to miss that 4:30 train, and being I only paid $66 for this luxury, at 8 dollars a glass on a four hour trip, Amtrak's about to lose money. I start drinking, Neil keeps sobbing, and Drew from a Jersey suburb is both overwhelmed and probably apologizing to god for the one time he didn't call a girl back or rub his grandmothers feet which in turn landed him the misfortune of both myself and Neil.

Around the cocktail waitresses 6th time around, I need to know what crazy mans crying about. So in the most tactful way drunk me knows how, I intend to find out.

"Alright fine, Ill bite. No one cries like this in public unless they want everyone to know what in god's name they're crying about. So dish"

Struck in awe, he actually stops. Sobbing for a good 45 minutes, my comment put him out of his misery, but now he wanted to talk. I much preferred the sobbing.

I find out that he is in the 12 step program. He tells me about each step, their meaning, that step 9 is the hardest, as you have to make direct contact with those you've harmed and then tells me he's on step 4. "taking moral inventory". He opens up his notebook to a page with 4 columns, all the people he's ever been angry at, or held resentment toward, what exactly happened, why you were angry and then the fourth column, what part did you personally have in the situation. I scan the page... I AM AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS MANS MORAL INVENTORY. Right down the list from his mother to his partner who left him after ten years is me. Apparently, he is a recovering almost everything addict and the mere fact that I'm finishing wine as quickly as this woman can stumble through the ilses to bring me another angered him. The columns went something like this:

Who: Pretty Girl on Train / What Happened: She is a drunk / Why Are You Angry: I can not partake / My Part: None

My first thought is that anyone who gets angry so easily clearly needs to have a drink. I have no qualms with the first three columns, but the fourth, the NONE where he has to take responsibility for his actions in the situation... none is a bit of a stretch. I have a problem with this. If it weren't for his screeching, I wouldn't need a liver transplant next week, and I tell him so. I then follow that gem up by offering more Wasser Wisdom.

"hey, on the 12 step program aren't you supposed to make amends with those you offend?".
"Yes"
"Well I would say I'm offended... (then in my joking tone which only transfers 60% of the time) I know what you can do.. buy me a drink"

Drew has gone from watery eyed to a full on shudder of shear amazement, I try to save myself by laughing at my own joke and luckily Neil is actually a great guy, and catches on;

"Fine, but only because they're free"
"Neil, you better not piss me off or well have to meet again in Step 9"

I just made a recovering alcoholic, coke-head, self-claimed woodstocker on the 12-step program offer to order me a beer. I am definitely going to hell. We all have a great time until he starts pulling out his years of therapy on me asking "well, why do you drink", "what are you shamed of". This is where all conversation must stop and its time for me to see if those air pockets are big enough to stuff my clothing in.

Operation: Liberation Spanx = disaster.

Like most things, last nights disasterpeice started with good intentions. Getting ready for a date with a guy I legitimately like (which is something of a rarity) I have the genius idea to take my look to the next level: spanx. Girls - you know what I'm talking about, they just make your silhouette better - I swear! Not only that, but this was one of our first dates, and to be honest, I wasn't really planning on him getting up close and personal with control top panty hose.

This is until 10pm rolls around, along with another bottle of wine.

Spanx may be gods gift to women.... until you wear them under a dress, and said person whom you probably wore the spanx for, can now feel the fact you are wearing the modern day equivalent to a girdle. Secondly, while spanx are intended to help the general public, last night all they presented me with were challenges: 1. how to get them off without anyone realizing I had them on, and 2. now that there's nothing under my dress, how not to look like an s-l-u-t. Check please.

We were planning on leaving the bar and going to a club with friends but as we came with 2 cars, now tipsy, we were going to leave with 2 cars to our next spot. This gives me approximately 10 minutes of alone time to drive drunk while simultaneously ditching the spanx. If you think its difficult to drive after 5 glasses of wine, try trying to drive after 5 glasses of wine, while following another tipsy driver, while sliding tights off your body while keeping your foot on the brake. Im telling you, my accomplishments never seem to be less impressive.

Operation: Liberation Spanx, while sounding like a fool proof plan had one petite problem. The spanx were my undergarment if you catch my drift and my dress wasn't exactly floor length. Once again, life presents a cross roads: which is worse? 1. Having a hand run down your side to meet the seams of spanx or 2. Having a hand run down your side to meet nothing.

If I go with option one, I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye. If I go with option two, lets just say, nothing says sure thing more clearly then a short dress and no underwear.

Now some may argue I made the wrong decision here, but I'll be damned if I go to spin classes three times a week to have people think I need spanx.

The choice has been made, I am now slithering and sliding in the drivers seat waiting for the next red light to seal the deal. I am almost there, the right side is almost by my ankles, the left half way down my knee. Oh shit, no - okay why is he pulling up next to me... this is not good. The only thing worse then him feeling body shaping tights under a dress is pulling up next to me in a car to see said tights around my ankles. Furthermore, he was in an SUV, giving him the leverage to see everything.

In a moment of sheer panic I slam my left foot on the brake, release my right foot, switch my left foot with my right foot and then start to wiggle my left foot around hoping to at least get them low enough where one couldn't see them through the window. Just as the car pulls up, victory is attained resulting in crumpled up tights to the left of the brake - phew.
If only life were really that easy. Me, thinking myself sly after I just had James Bond's next installment take place in my drivers seat, roll down the window to hear whatever he had to say but rather then look me in the eyes, he's looking down, into my car - almost with a look of excited disbelief. There is no way he can see a small rolled up tight under my foot, and even if he did, that is not enough to produce this face.

It is time to investigate. Slowly but surely I begin to look down too... only to see that now the fact that I am underwear-less is no surprise - to anyone. In pulling down the tights, I had pulled up the skirt, and well... the skirt never came back down. Now if looks as if I saw him pulling up next to me, where I then decided to flash him. 

You have got to be kidding me. There is no way this is my life. I blink tightly, look down, and whoop there it is - again - fucking fantastic.

Getting out of the car, I now feel the need to backtrack and explain the whole story. So in the end, I was outed as a spanx patron, flashed him as to show they're not needed, and had I stayed with option 1 of keeping the spanx on and sticking to my original choices, the result would have been the same, minus a lot of embarrassment: I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye.

Lesson Learned: It is not possible for Erika Wasser to go on a date without having havoc and mortifying embarrassment ensue. It is time for me to put down payments on "I love Cats" tote bags and lean cuisine frozen dinners... who said cat ladies were so bad anyway?

Shout Out to Boylston St.

If you have ever been on a date where you were prompted to say, "excuse me sir, you may not know this - but you are a homosexual" - there is a usually a good reason why. You met him at some club or trendy lounge where his limp wrist's and overly effeminate mannerisms blended in with the scenery of actually out of the closet gay men and strobe lighting.

As the above mentioned places are my friends and my usual haunts, we often find ourselves also asking, "where is just a cute, straight man that has no apparent bi-curious tendencies?" Well ladies, I have found them and they exist at the Boylston Street bars.

48 hours ago, to someone suggesting "lets go to Boylston Street tonight", I would have defended all responses from "I'd rather choke on my own vomit" to "I thought euthanasia was illegal in Massachusetts". Today, I am a changed woman. Not only are these bars filled with unquestionably straight men, they are also filled with questionably straight woman. No, Boston is no fashion hub, but it appeared as if every 'female' in the room spent too much money on their field hockey or rugby equipment and therefore had to live without electricity or a full-length mirror. In short, I was in hog heaven.

Living at the bottom of a bottle since 9pm, I arrive at our first stop with a caravan of drunkards in tow. Seeing a group of men in Yankee hats, I feel this is a personal invitation for me to harass them. Rather then the usual, "new york sucks", I actually applauded their taste. Unaware of my sincerity, they become offended and I go inside. Within seconds of walking into Bar A, I am ready for plan B. No artistic liberties need to be taken to describe this place - picture hordes of sloppy Bostonian's, in both dress and behavior, searching for their next Pabst blue ribbon or Arbor Mist - If tacky could walk...

The good news is that I came with enough people to ignore all others in the room... this is until I found myself alone. Mike was flirting in the corner, Taylor was making his attempts to seal the deal with the girl he had brought along, the other Mike and friend were on a mission to get some and as both my roommate Jen and I confirmed we would not be participating in said event, they didn't even pretend to stick around. So there we were, our grouping dwindled to a pair, and a drink-less pairing at that. After losing to a game of "odds or evens" to see who will push their way through the wall of Axe-body spray, I head to the bar order 2 vodka red-bulls as planned and decide to get the night going with 2 soco-lime shots - I mean business. The bartender, although cute, not much between the ears. To my request for 2 soco-lime shots accompanied by my gesticulating the number two with my fingers, he became confused and made four. When god sends a gift your way - you take it… and I did.


I bundle myself up, line up the shots against my forearm with the red-bull vodka's in hand and return to where I last saw my roommate. Quel suprise, she too has disappeared into the abyss. So there I am, standing with 6 drink's in total, crammed into every crevice of my upper body I could appropriately find,... alone. Alone wouldn't be so bad if I didn't look like a squirrel collecting acorns, which in this case happen to be shot glasses, deer in headlights look as I realize I entered with a third of the bars capacity, and now see no one who even looks like someone I know. I need to get rid of these drinks. To my left… lets not even got there - but to my right, I find my disgruntled Yankees. Convincing them that I too am a fan, and truly was not being mocking, I share my good fortune of extra shots. I may have lost all the friends I came with, but luckily I just made new ones. Rather then do another unsuccessful loop of friend finding, I decide to stay in one place hoping eventually my friends find me. They do, and we had fun getting stink-eye from girls, and fish-eye from the guys but this particular bar closed at one, so it was soon time to make our next appearance.

Getting ready to leave, I look around - and you have got to be kidding me - I'm by myself. Again. This time it is worse. When I was tout seul at 11pm, people are slightly buzzed, just going out with friends. 1am rolls around, people are sloppy slurred cretins who clearly didn't take heed when the big dog said, "if you go out, looking like you've rolled out of bed - prepare to roll back into bed, ... alone", so keep walking, stop talking, and quit trying. Because I happen to be standing by myself, in a crowded bar, also slightly intoxicated at 1 in the morning does not mean I am waiting for you to come change this fact. That is when once again I look to my right, and low and behold, the no longer disgruntled Yankees.

Yankee: "Where are your friends?"
E: Good question.
Yankee: ... There seems to be a pattern with you.
E: You're telling me.

This time they really did leave me, but none of them realized this until they were half way down the block, already inside another packed place that I once again will have to circle alone, no, not looking for you sir, I am actually legitimately looking for my friends. As a side note, either girls use that line way too often, or the entire human race has as shitty of friends as I do. Every time I would squeeze through the sea of sports paraphernalia and bad dye jobs and say "I'm just looking for my friends, excuse me", that prompted people to continue talking as if it was some sort of code for "in truth, my friends are all over at that table in the corner and I'm voluntarily walking through a mosh pit so I could scope out the crowd and end up next to you," No and no.

As I trek through the crowd I think I see a glimpse of my friends when someone pulls my arm causing me to be almost flung into the bar at a speed that could have resulted in whiplash. I look up to see my attacker, and instead of someone who could be fittingly named 'Thor', he is probably the best looking guy I've seen all night. Tan driving loafers, cool jeans, white sweater, navy blazer and a Yankee hat - my first thought is what is he doing here? I look directly next to him; see a girl so ugly she couldn't be found in a sale bin at Old Navy. My next thought is what is he doing here with her? No sooner did I find out.

"See!! I told you my girlfriend was coming!!" - he shouts excitedly, claiming his girlfriend to be me. Not getting it, I look once more at him and then at her... click. After a few, "sorry, I'm late loves" and "where's my drink?", show-time was over and the only award I received was a stink eye so sinister that it even beat out that of my mothers when she found out that not only had I been expelled from boarding school, her gym was once again my bedroom.

"Not you're type?" I ask. It was his response that let me know my friends leaving me may have been fate, "Yea? Female gym teachers. Not so much” Assuring me he had me pegged, rather then order a drink, he said he knew what I'd be ordering before I even spoke. If there's one thing you should know about me, it is that I am not so easily pegged, or surprised for that matter (so if you were to know two things really) but what happened next even I couldn't write. Rather then come back with 2 drinks, he came back with a tray. Once he got to the bar, he started to doubt his pegging abilities, so rather then be wrong, he came up with the following formula:

2 kamikaze shots: "because all girls like Kamikaze shots"
2 soco lim shots: "just incase you thought I was gay based on the kamikaze's - yet still just girly enough"
A vodka red-bull: "wishful thinking..."
A vodka cranberry: "In case you became offended thinking I was trying to get your drunk with the Vodka Red-Bull"
Last but not least, a jack and coke for him.

I liked him before. I really like him now. Mind you, this was our last stop of the evening and as Boston closes at 2, we had one hour to consume an ungodly amount of alcohol. All of a sudden, after a night of being virtually a party of one, my friends seemed to crawl out of the woodworks as soon as a buffet of beverages shows up... coincidence? I think not. Either way, I was happy to prove that I, in fact, was looking for friends, that I even had friends, and was not, as it appeared, some crazy desperate degenerate who went to busy bars on Saturday nights alone.

A day or two later he texts me and just when you thought that this was money in the bank... I single handedly in one fall swoop realize why I am still single:
(As we bonded at the bar over being harassed Yankee fan's in Boston) Hat Boy: I just saw a midget wearing a Yankee hat walking down the street. Do you think people spare him the harassment because he is a little person?
(I, finding this hysterical, respond) E: Haha, I hope so however if someone were to harass him, I don't think they're first thought would be the hat....
Fearing that I now look like a littler person hater, which I am not, Wasser damage control makes it worse by sending: "FYI I am in full support of all little people rights"

No response. Big shocker as to why...

So close to Barbara Walters.. and then I flashed the interviewer.

There are interviews you nail, and well, interviews you fail. I just failed an interview. My small voice of reason and self-help book knowledge tells me to stay positive, visualize the job, visualize the "congratulations" phone call. But I knew, and for the first time am praying someone proves me wrong.

For any fruit-fly, Celine Dion loving, Janice Dickinson adoring human being, namely myself, this was the internship of a lifetime. I was being interviewed by "The View". Imagining someone asking, "Well, who are you dressing to impress" so that I could respond, "Well, Babs, Whoppi and Joy of course!" would have let me die a happy woman. (I leave out the no-name and Survivor cast away)

I have a feeling I'll still die happy, but Babs, Whoppi and Joy may be out of that equation. Frankly, I blame this whole debacle on my grandmother's sheer black tights. 

Those fucking tights that I am wearing as I write this, they should not be called tights - BECAUSE THEY'RE LOOSE. With every step I take, I feel the cheap polyester slide from lower back, to the top of my ass, to the middle, and then WHOOP - there it is.  I feel myself start to waddle as they slide deeper and deeper down my ass. 

Now you're probably asking yourself, "didn't you know this when you put them on?". And no, I did not.  Anyone who has met my overly generous (in this case) grandmother might then ask, "You do realize that you're borrowing tights from a woman three times your size." And yes, I did know that, but she assured me that they were not her tights and in fact, she buys all different tights because they were cheap, and on sale. Seeming like something she would do, I believe her.

It might not be logical to some to spend $100.00 on 10 pairs of tights when only one fits. But to my grandma, to spend the same $100.00 on a good pair that does, is simply a frivolous waste of money. Why spend $100.00 on one thing, when you can have 10 - and an added bonus is that you can outfit everyone from Twiggy to Big Foot. 

When every five seconds you have to worry about exposing yourself to the interviewer of "The View", lets just say your A game slides down as quickly as sasquatches tights on Twiggy's body, which in this case, is just what I've become.

What I Did for Wine

I have a job. I am making money that is mine to spend, which of course I will have to spend on bills for money I've spent that was not mine to spend. Regardless, Erika Wasser has a job - and for the first time it is not one I mumble under my breath when one asks "Well, what do you do"

If your wondering what those previous mumbled responses were, I have run the gamete from day school camp counselor in the Hampton's where Christie Brinkley's kids and the like made my life a living hell of ass wiping and around pick up time, ass kissing - all the way to receptionist at a five star gym where while working I also belonged - riddle me that? My logic: great! I love the gym, its a great place, and I always say I'm not there enough (to work out) so why not make sure I'm there, in khakis, for seven hours straight. Check please.

The true story is that the sports club and I "separated". It was summer, they wanted me there at 9am, and apparently Hangover doesn't go with Khaki (take THAT prepsters who say it goes with everything!) Embarrassed by the getup, mascara down to my ankles, hair straight of "How the West was Hung" - I stood there, swiping membership cards of people who thought they were better then me, solely for the 100 bucks of gym bills a month. Little did they know, that I too was a member and they had in fact met me before, as many claimed they did, as I was probably the one who in fact did flip them off during that yoga class where I learned that fuck was not a mantra - but that was before my "how can i help you" days.

One day in my usual uniform of red bull, Marlboro lights and cheap champagne stench, I looked up to swipe the card not of a pretentious member, but of the boy I lost my virginity to. Parker was a member, and I just swiped his membership card looking like a cast member of Planet of the Apes.
This was not me. And as such, I quit,.. and apparently in the nick of time as I was told that we had all had our fair share of seeing me in ill fitting khakis.

As an employee they were supposed to pick up my gym tab - which they did not - which in Wasser words meant that I could return to my elliptical where I sweat out the night before in true Wasser fashion - spandex - all black.

At my new job I am required to dress well, and in black - could life be better? I am now working as a hostess at a trendy, brand new ultra chic restaurant and lounge located in the South End. For those who know nothing about Boston, if Cher were a neighborhood - she would be the South End, but all things cool start with the gays, then the girls and then everyone else will follow. The gays we have down pat, were still waiting for some of those girls - however I love my job.

As I write this, there is a 50% chance that I should be saying I lov-ed my job... and all because I am an idiot. Like most things I love, I found a way to put stress on the situation, and my lack of brain power may leave me only with a lack of buying power.

Standing at the hostess stand, watching amazing looking food be created, and then enjoyed by someone other then me - that's a lot to handle. And as such, one Tuesday night I decided it was time to stop looking at the food, staring peoples tables down like a hawk (which actually works if you need them to leave), partake in the Banq experience and like all experiences worthwhile in my life, this one too required wine.

I shuffle in at 9pm for dinner with my girlfriends. 6 of us in total, 2 of which are 21, 4 of which, including myself, are close, but no cigar. We order, I'm excited to try all the things I've seen and smelt and just by second nature I order a drink.

Now this is where some of you might be saying, "wow, she really is a moron. does she not remember how many times she had to write her birthday down and that's before they had a copy of your passport and license"

And well, while I agree with you in retrospect, I have been drinking in restaurants since I was 16 years old, obviously never worked in one, and since I've been able to confidently think I deserved my Chardonnay, I've been able to confidently drink my Chardonnay.

This was until last night. My drink comes, shortly followed by my manager.

"Can I speak to you for a second"

I'm pretty sure all the food I just ate is now in the back of my throat. There goes $100.00 but if I was in fact fired and am not able to thank Michael the manger later - you did help me out, in my crazy head the calories from dinner were not absorbed.

"Sure" - oh shit. He had the tone your mother has when she comes back from parent-teacher conferences to find that you did a show and tell on her lover.
"Are you drinking wine?"

Okay I've been caught. In yes or no questions it is very hard not to seem like a snaky liar without answering either one.

"Yes"
"Are you 21?"

Again with the yes or no questions! He's good.

"No"
"You do realize that you put the entire restaurant in jeopardy, you jeopardized Mario's job, as well as your own"

Plaintiff: I really am just stupid sometimes (and yes I am aware if sometimes is often, sometimes becomes - "you are just stupid") And if its any consolation, I didn't even drink the wine.

Defendant: Right now I wouldn't mind watching you, Erika, drown in wine, or any liquid substance suitable for drowning and as such may just fire you.

Verdict: There is no wine in the world worth being told your a fuck up by an over bearing gay man who has mastered Jewish guilt by telling you how your sip of wine has burnt the place down with everyone inside of it turning to ash. However, if I am getting the boot out - can I have that full glass to go?

God of Travel

Most people go to St Barth's, come back with a tan, a tunic and a string of HPV only found in France. I go to St Barth's, remain the whitest white person in the Caribbean, need an emergency passport made and find faith. Faith that there is a travel god - and clearly I've done something to piss him off.

I awake hungover at 5 am for my 8am flight to St. Barth's. I'm on my way to the airport, have a very talky cab driver, and need sleep, an alka-seltzer and a quieter cab. We arrive in Newark Airport, excited by the prospect of St. Barth's, and my friend Mariel's family who are just really cool, I perk up and head to the check in desk. Flight information - check. Passport - .. Passport -... MERDE!!!! I frantically search compartments I didn't know existed. I am in utter and complete disbelief and the only image I can see is me, sliding my passport into the front zipper pocket. This can not be happening. I immediately think to blame Neil (see above), because losing a passport is far beyond even my level of incompetence, and think ill give him a piece of my mind when step 9 comes back around to bite his drunk ass.

The only thing worse then not getting on a plane for spring break to St. Barth's because you cant find the passport you had last night, is going back to home to my family after not getting on a plane for spring break to St. Barth's because you can't find the passport your mother, grandmother, grandmothers friend, and your mothers friends sister will remind you "you carelessly lost because you never listen". How those 2 are related, in this situation I did not have the leverage to find out.

Apparently emergency passports are only made on weekends in life or death situations. I tried to argue it was a matter of life, but could not produce any sort of death certificate, so Monday it was. Tuesday morning, once again I manage a hangover, and an 8am flight. We arrive in Newark Airport, excited by the prospect of St. Barth's and my friend Mariel's family who are just really cool, I perk up and head to the check in desk.

Flight information - check. Passport - check. From here, it is smooth sailing.

I arrive in St. Barth's to Mariel, 6 foot tall, 100 pounds nothing, beer in hand. Is this my life? Yes. St. Barth's is everything those who go say it is, and solidifies the jealousy of all those who've never been. Island time is told by Cartier, the french are painfully chic, and Chablis flows like water. You can also smoke everywhere, inside - outside. Although an airline ticket down to the island should come with a surgeons general warning, I find this to be the most novel thing and as such, become a chimney.

Like all good things, St. Barth's too comes to an end, and it is time to face my arch nemesis, god of travel. Whoever this 'god' is treats me like a guy you accidentally give a genital rash to. Worse, he treats me like a guy who sends you flowers while your sleeping with his best friend who gives you a genital rash which you then unknowingly give to him who then finds out the two have the same rash, and one thing in common.
(note: I have never done any of the above, but through travel have felt the fury of a man scorned - or so I assume)

WinAir, which is more like Lose-Air at this point, is one hour late. I get on the chopper plane that should probably have been out of commission years ago, apologize to god for all my drinking, promise to stop smoking once I can only smoke outside, and then ask for one favor: please let me make my next flight. Low and behold, someone up there must have known I was a wee bit disingenuous when I apologized for the drinking, and they decided to call me on it.

I get to the continental gate for my flight back to New Jersey, one hour ahead. They have closed the gate. The New Yorker in me becomes enraged, because to me closing the gate an hour before the flight is St. Marteen speak for Shaniqua wanted to go have lunch. It is now, me, a woman I actually know from the gym, Kate, a family of Canadians, and a slew of other angry people. Seeing that their yelling tactics do not appear to transfer well, I finally did decide to listen to my mother when she said; "there are three people you never fuck with, the people who handle your money, the people who handle your food, and the people who handle your travel."

Me, being the most calm immediately attracts the attention of the ticketing agent - for once I am happy to have listened to my mother. It also attracts the other 5 normal people in this mosh pit of fanny backs to Hermes Birkin Bags. My motley Marteen crew becomes myself, Kate (who swears we've met), Kenneth and Davis, two very cute, very gay, interior designers. Both impeccably dressed with vintage Vuitton luggage in tow. The last two crew mates are an older man and a younger Russian trophy wife with a caravan of Hermes luggage being carted wherever they blinked. Quel surprise, we all came from St. Barth's. The rest of the crowd - did not. How two islands with 10 minutes between them can be so different... then again there is New York and Long Island. (just kidding)

Kate and I are the first to secede to the next days flight and the "distress rate" at the local 'Hotel Maho'. Making sure that we were staying somewhere decent we must have asked at least 10 people. To the words, "maho", everyone praised the place, no one gave us the 'so you;re paying the distress rate' look and we figured it would be fine. As she and I are the least posh of our crew, when Davis and Kenneth agree to join - how bad could it be? As for Mrs. Hermes Gold-Digger, they had their three grand returned to them for their first class seats and put that towards 1/36th of their chartered jet.

As we were all a tad bit jealous of the jet and getting out of the Caribbean equivalent of Disney World, Kenneth had but one thing to say: "She must give great head"

With that, we made friends.

The Hotel Maho was the kind of place you walk into and every insecurity you've ever had physically disappears. Your body is flawless. Your life is perfect.

It took Kenneth and Davis some pain killers and three room changes until they ended up in the penthouse overlooking the beached whale reserve aka the pool. As for Kate and I, somehow the room managed to smell worse with the 'balcony' door open. How prey tell? Because with the distress rate comes the highly coveted septic tank/sewer system view. We were literally in a shit hole.

Realizing that we have both just gone from St. Barth's villa's overlooking Gustavia to the Hotel Cucaracha where the distress rate should have been payed to us - as we were arguably in more distress AT the Hotel Moho then we were stranded at the airport - we decide to drink. By we, I mean me. I start with 2 margarita's so that I can at least fall asleep. I wake up and have the immediate urge to duck and cover. Hotel Maho shares its "beach" with the St. Marteen airports landing strip - somehow some people find this an exciting amenity. Inundated by danger signs are drunk idiots who wave to planes as they're taking off and landing. I sincerely hope tomorrow when I leave they can see my middle finger.

Between the idiots chanting, the planes in transit, and the distinct smell of fuel - I down 2 more beers and go back to sleep. Kate, who is equally hung over, somehow sleeps through all of this.

We are definitely not in St. Barth's anymore - but in St. Marteen, people smoke everywhere too. When the french do it, its super chic. When fat Americans in bathing suits with attached skirts do it while straddling an extra-wide lounge chair - someone better leave an address for me to send my lung cancer and chemo bill. Kate wakes up, asks me to pinch her for confirmation of reality and I suggest we get another drink. Declining my beer offer, Kate goes to the room. If I am returning to that sewage hole, I best be drunk enough not to notice.

Alone, I walk over to the exact tiki/swim up pool bar that inspired Kate and my shallow burst of superiority earlier and sit between a chain smoking Texan couple to my left (who when I asked about Texas informed me, and I quote, "everything is bigger and better"), and a Delta pilot, and a boat repairman to my right. I order a Carib (Caribbean bear), and am told the bar is closed. The boat repairman offers me one of the three he has lined up.

"You have just proven there is a god - and he doesn't hate me."

Immediately getting laughs from everyone, I feel pretty, anorexic-ally thin and spotlighted. Sadly, this is all I need to be happy.

The bartender appreciates my jokes so much, he hands me a strawberry daiquiri - 12,000 calories but I'm in no position to argue. The Texas chain smoking massacre to my left, who apparently are regulars, finagle Ramon, the bartender, into giving us all another beer. I now like these people. I like them more when I find out they're on the island on their anniversary and the chain-smoking man, in a thick Texas accent, only says, "Heck, after 31 years of marriage, they told me it's too late for an annulment."

Three drinks into the Wasser Comedy Hour, even I have had enough. No sooner does Kate come down to find me with a look of disgust only comparable to the face one might make if they found out they drank water that came from a hot tub filled with obese men and fried chicken.

"you do realize that you just recreated the same scene in which hours ago we said, "god, do people actually behave this way?."
"fuck you, this is a calypso wrap.... oh my god, your right - I'm going to puke"

And I did - But as any AA member will tell you, 'progress, not perfection'.

An AA member I am not, so sickness wasn't going to get in my way of a good time. Even if I am in a shit-hole, yes actually a literal shit-hole, by George i will have fun.

6pm: Kate picks me up from what I lovingly now call the 'Tiki Torture Shack'
7:30 pm: I'm ready to go back out.

We go to the lobby bar, have a glass or 2 of wine (at this point I've stopped counting) and smartly leave the hotel for dinner. Joined later by Kenneth and David, we order a second bottle and with every punch line coming out of Kenneth's mouth, I can taste strawberry daiquiri coming out of mine. Because I am a crazy person, I am still not satisfied with my evening and want to go out.

No one wants to come.

Kate finally agrees to go to the lobby as anything is better then the room, Davis is "famished" and Kenneth "couldn't keep his eyes open for Cher herself." I don't think I have ever been that tired, and as such will turn my lemons into a larger jug of lemonade with Kate. This is until Kate completely bails on me and goes back to the room. I secretly wish a septic back up on her given the rooms location and remember I too will end up there. Instead I make friends with six cute young guys. Two med students from Boston, four med students from the island of Sibel. This immediately makes me question every doctor I have ever been to. If a person's life can rest in the hands of a Dr. with a degree earned on an island of population:6, I am going to start paying more attention to the plaques on the walls.

I have another drink and then we decide we've made friends enough to go out. I find myself in a van, on my way to a club with 6 people that by no stretch of the imagination do I know and did I mention they're all young, doctor-wanna bes and they're drunk? Although your thinking that I give girls everywhere a bad rap, I can handle myself, and watch enough law and order SVU to know these guys are not the type. Little did these boys know however, they were about to make one of my lifetime goals come true. On my bucket list, and I kid you not, is to get kicked out of a bar for having too much fun.

We arrive at Mansion, St. Marteen's attempt at a posh nightspot. The flaming drinks and sparklers sticking out of Grey Goose bottles take the place from Brie to cheese whiz, but there was no cover, lots of people and no locals. As the only girl in the group, I love the attention, and being the female wing man. In attempts to declare myself strictly platonic and uninterested, I decide to contribute to the drink buying with soco lime shots.

Now here's logic for you:
My goal - to make friends and set myself up for nothing more.
What do I do? - Get them drunk-er.

One of the six, well call him Green Shirt, is probably the most insane human being I've ever encountered. He hits the dance floor with Donkey Kicks, encourages random people to slap his ass, and now he and his sidekick (both going to Med school on the island of Dr. Morreau) are going shot for shot. Cute tufts student who sees this leans in, "get ready for one of the funniest nights of your life."

I didn't believe him then, mainly because I wasn't 100% certain I wasn't turning up a rape victim, and then the show started. Tufts boy, Radou (the only name I remember) and I are behind where green shirt is leaning against a couch to keep from falling over. With every female that walked by, green shirt would say something obscene loud enough for the girl to react. As the club got more crowded, green shirt became increasingly drunk and in turn more intense.

G.S. to girl 1: "Nice Tits"
Girl 1: "What!"
G.S.: "Don't stand there like you didn't hear me. Either come over, or keep walking"

You know, he has a point but remember that face I describe Kate making when she found me at the tiki bar? I saw that same face multiple times that evening.

G.S. to girl 5 (he is now getting worse): "How much for 5 minutes in the handicapped bathroom"
Girl 5: makes the face
G.S.: "What! That's all I'm gonna last!!"

Girl 5 doesn't know weather to laugh or cry and instead makes the worst possible decision on her part and tries to spar Green Shirt's wit. After about five minutes of back and forth and her comebacks ranging from "you're a jerk" to "you are the rudest human being I've ever met", Green Shirt has but one thing to say:

"Then why in hell are you standing here? Oh I'll answer that one for 500 Trebek - because you are an insecure, little..."

Once Green Shirt played that card, this girl better save her beer money for therapy. I can no longer watch this and try to save her. I quiet Green Shirt, tell her he really is a good guy, a med student! (of course I leave out Sabel island) and blame his behavior on the fact that he is very drunk and I'm sorry. She accepts this, sees her open to leave, and instead proceeds to stay!! This girl clearly has not two brain cells to rub together and as such, I can no longer help her - but the cocktail waitress things she can.

Cocktail: "You can not talk to people like that"
G.S.: "Did you come over to tell me that before or after you put on your fishnet pants?"
Cocktail: "Excuse me! I like my job!"
G.S.: "I never asked if you liked your job, which clearly your insecure about as your justifying yourself to the likes of me"

G.S. : 1. Cocktail : 0. She and Girl 5 make 'the face' in unison. I, not knowing him, am thoroughly impressed with G.S.'s drunken wit.

Cocktail: "If you keep this up, you and your friends will have to leave... I can do THAT with my job."

Uh oh. I may not know green shirt, but I do know enough to know he is not the man to start throwing your cocktail waitress authoritative 'weight' around to.

G.S.: "The only job you can do I am interested in is a blow job - and I'll even let you wear your (he takes out quotation fingers) "uniform".

And that's when it happened. We were asked to leave. All in agreement that we would not listen to a woman who wears fishnet and defends such actions, we get another round and continue our obnoxious behavior of blowing away peoples smoke, and wait for the King Kong understudy bouncers to kick us out more properly - which happens in about 45 seconds. Was it something we said?

Recounting this whole thing in the cab - I am officially a group member, not a rape victim, am very drunk and very happy.

We head to Bliss, an actually nice club, packed, and fun. Great music but this is spring break - so by packed I mean to say there are copious amounts of 18 year old girls trying too hard to not be 18 and trying equally as hard to get laid (hey, we've all been there) while 20 - 24 year old guys fall over themselves drunk to comfort them. By 3 am, Green Shirt has offended almost everyone, his sidekicks passed out on a lounger, Radou and myself find a table of Italians who feed me champagne and tolerate him, the other Sabel M.D. is confused as to why girls don't see him for the George Clooney he knows he is and... there's someone missing.. and there he is - defending green shirt and a now awake and jumping sidekick in what looks to be le petite problem. I wish I could recount the happenings of our second expulsion, but just knowing we were being thrown out again was enough for me. Radou and I say "ciao" to the Italians, gather rico suave and Sabel M.D., and go to the scene of the crime just in time to hear; "you and your friends are going to have to go".

No cab wanted us, we couldn't stop laughing, and in the end, the cute tufts guy was right. By and Large one of the funniest nights of my life. How I woke up in the Hotel Maho the next morning and made my flight I still don't know but even the god of travel takes one day of rest, and luckily I was finally flying back on it.

A Time To Remember, and Some Things to Forget

For every generation, it is said that each has a defining moment. For some generations there are many. For our generation, January 20th, 2009 is the first of many historic moments yet to come. Whether you are a die-hard Republican in Boca cursing the "Arab-liberal", or an impassioned student wearing your pins and "Yes We Can" t-shirts - not to beat the dead [and somewhat non-sensical] Kennedy linked to Obama horse, but where we stood on Obama's historic inauguration will be etched in our minds as a moment none of us will be able to forget. For one, you didn't really have much choice but to watch; even Law and Order wasn't airing during Obama's homecoming, but secondly, the Obama administration marks a shift in our country, our culture and our society for what I believe to be the better. And not because he's a black man either, but because he is a man that will mold the next era of what is to become of American Nationalism.

So where was I when Obama boyishly fumbled over his oath? Huddled over my carmel macchiato on the steps of the ballroom in the GSU. My friend Mariel and I walked into what seemed to be some sort of preacher, and actually thought we were in the wrong place, at what could even be the wrong time, until we saw Diane Sawyer's blond bob appear on the big screens. Not finding any seats, we arrange ourselves on the back steps and until people started piling in - clearly they knew when Al Sharpton's gig was over - there was no one but she and I, free to share wisecrack commentary as loud as we like. Spoiled by our original sense of isolation, as people started piling in, we still shared wisecrack commentary as loud as we liked. But comon! Were we really supposed to let Dick roll by in a wheelchair unscathed? The line of the moment became, "Well he screwed America up the ass for 8 years.... I guess Barack returned the favor,... you know what you say about black men,.. once you go black, you're going to need a wheelchair." That turned into our new catchphrase for 2009: I'm going to Barack Obama yo' ass. 

But on a more serious note, in yesterdays inauguration, three things became clear; 1. in the words of the great Celine Dion, a new day has come, 2. When it comes to creating memories one cannot forget, people get awfully sensitive to their surroundings, and some may have preferred that my friend and I weren't in theirs, and 3. it is clearly impossible for the United States government to do anything without producing comedy.  

On the first observation, I am going to be honest here, I was a late-blooming Obama fan. I believed that it was important to our nation that he win, but in my mind at the time, not necessarily because he was the better candidate. I believed that the cost of Obama's loss on our society, our youth and our electoral system would just be too great. McCain, to me, was a noteworthy candidate who lost his candor to greed for the win. Obama an orator of whom I questioned his integrity. So with lack of faith in either candidate, along with lack of organization leaving me without an absentee ballot, I chose not to participate on November 4th. I did however exit-poll all morning, and help New England Cable News cover the election until California and Colorado were called that night. From a Dorchester church I sat next to a man who once upon a time sat next to Martin Luther King. Now in his 80's, he remembered organizing the March on Roxbury from his church where King spoke alongside him. He remembered the March on Washington, where he stood alongside King. While he can remember each second of moments from the past, what he couldn't truly sink his teeth into was what he was witnessing in the present. Yesterday, from the GSU, no where near that church in Dorchester; students, administrators, faculty and guests alike shared in one experience that has a different meaning for each and every individual in the room. I was proud of our nation for not making it about Bush's departure, but rather joyously, about the dawn of what's to come - I think that alone speaks to the mood of what Obama has been able to acheive. 

White, Black, Asian, International, American - it was a moment for all that could only be ruined by myself and Mariel.  "Mar - are you crying?",... "No.. these steps are just making my butt hurt... HA! I Barack Obama-ed my own ass!",.. on the second observation, need I say more? In hindsight, we could have been more sensitive, but we weren't being loud and the gig is up - were watching on the steps of the GSU. If you want hand holding, and kum-ba-ya spring the 100 dollars and hop a bus to Washington,... where ironically enough, the real comedy was taking place.

For starters, sorry to bring it back up again, but Dick in a wheelchair was just too good. The reason for his departure on wheels? He pulled his back moving boxes. Really Dick? One word: Vicodin. Another word: Codeine. I could locate both of those, and have them delivered - you're telling me that you couldn't muster the strength to WALK out of the White House? A man who has no qualms about sending troops to war has an ironically low pain tolerance. 

But in lighter fare, their was only one person who was completely appropriate yesterday; J. Biden... and no I am not talking about Joe. Wife Jill Biden simply glowed in elegant attire, a properly bleached smile, and rootless blond hair. As for the rest of them,... the gavel is coming down. It never ceases to amaze me how people can take hugely important days and not bother to look in a full length mirror. Exhibit A: Aretha Franklin, and her hat. For a woman who is all about R.E.S.P.E.C.T., she clearly doesn't have any for the fashion industry, along with Michelle Obama. While I commend her for bringing Laura Bush a gift, Michelle didn't then have to reciprocate by taking the gold draperies Laura Bush surely gave her and turn it into a coat. When I go out on a Friday night and know someone's around with a digital camera I go home and put on spanx for the fear of things showing up on facebook. Does the cover of the New York Time's just not phase her? 

But in the spirit of the Obama Administration I have hope: hope that along with the basketball court Barack hopes to build, he also adds to the White House a stylist. Finally, to cap off my list of things I could have done without while welcoming in a promising and progressive president, the ending poem. Anticlimactic doesn't even do it justice. That poem simply sucked. No way to glam that one up. Making the disasterpiece that much worse, right before E. Alexander read the poem stolen from a fourth grader, the announcer makes sure everyone at home watching knows, "needless to say, she worked very hard on this,..." My friend said it best, "if Obama picks his cabinet the way he does his inaugural poems, we're f&^ked". Luckily, we can rest assured that his policy makers outshine his poets.

Here is to a brighter future, a more innovative tomorrow, a better nation and to a time in our history where we cannot forget two things; our sense of humor, and our sense of purpose.