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.