Yet Another Drum Beater

Amy and I met while working together at Tia's Bar and Grill, a job I took in college to meet men as it was 'the' Boston after work place during the summer. Little did I know however, Tia's uniform consisted of flat sneakers, white shorts and a blue crewneck Tia's sweatshirt. All of this information I would have known if I had not called, but actually gone to the place to apply and put in the effort of wanting the job, any job, over Junior year summer. Basically take a Cheesecake Factory waiter, put them in even less flattering shorts... and then let them bake out in the heat. Needless to say,  I did meet men, many men, who after I showed them to their table said "wow that guy has really big boobs."  

Within a week I changed the uniform, wore wedged heeled sneakers and white skirts you had to squint to see and got a date with the guy from the Spanx story. I was ultimately pulled aside and told I "beat too much to my own drum".. I said "Thank You" and on my proud walk back to the hostess stand was told more flatly, "No,... that means your fired".  

Amy since has moved on and up. My good friend is now a new blogger, as the world clearly needed yet another self-entitled schmuck like me. 

Amy Diaz just posted an article compiling her Fortune Cookie Fortunes, and then explained them as they resonated with her at the time of her eating chinese food.  Clearly, she is a very deep girl. Like horoscopes,  or the Democratic party, cookie fortunes too are loose idea's that can resonate within almost anyone, and as such, I took her fortunes and applied them to me in hopes of gaining personal insight and sharing her blog, 'Just A Thought', with you. 

Read A Novel - and Learn More About Life:  Amy was in the process of reading the Twilight Saga when she got this one. Clearly she learned that men who glitter and won't sleep with you, are gay. 

As a Cure for Worry, Work is Better Than Whiskey: Or,..  As A Cure For Worry, White Wine is Better Than Work. 

You Are A Source Of Wisdom and Strength To Many People:  They don't call it Wasser Wisdom for nothing! So a source of Wisdom,.. ahem, this blog is living proof. A source of strength however? Mom, how many times do I have to tell you! I am not a lesbian! 

A Man Who Trims Himself to Suit Everybody Will Soon Whittle Himself Away: MEN... disregard this please... keep trimming. Lonely is the man sporting himself a lawn. [and no that line did not come out of a cookie].

You Are Never Selfish With Your Advice or Your Help: [see fortune above]

Romance Awaits You: This one is true! I have 42 messages waiting on JDate between the age brackets of 21-23 and 45-70. Some are lounging on futons. One is a midget. 

It's One Of Those Low-Key Days That You'd Rather Spend Just Chilling: This isn't a fortune so much as it is statement of the present, however, as Amy says, how often are you eating Chinese food when you're not chilling?  

Enthusiasm Can Change The Current Situation: At first reading I thought it said 'Euthanasia Can Change The Current Situation' which while accurate... you have to wonder where this bitch is eating her Chinese food.  Upon proper reading though, I feel like this one is given out only when the food is horrific. You get the check, the cookie, this message and can say "This meal was truly terrible...  but you know what can change that? My attitude."

You Were Born with a "Sixth Sense" and a Superb Insight: I have been to Boca, so I can say I've seen dead people. As for insight,  check out my friend's ramblings at her blog "Just A Thought".http://amyjdiaz.blogspot.com/

The 83rd Annual Academy Awards

Last night all eyes turned to what some call Hollywood's biggest night, and what I will call a reason to feel good about ordering in and opening wine with my mother, who has cable, and is equally as snarky as I. The 83rd Academy Awards finally gave ABC a purpose to exist as a network and paraded stars, their spouses, and wanna-be's of both down what Justin Timblerlake called "the Magenta carpet". Thanks JT! After hearing years of your overproduced 'music', its nice to see you now have a knack for truth telling & accuracy.  Speaking of which, lets dig in. 

There were some decisions made last night that I really do have to call into question: 

1. Who keeps letting Gwyneth Paltrow sing? 

2. Why was "The Kids Are Alright" an oscar nominated movie? While I love Mark Ruffalo, I don't see how a movie that would have been chocked up to a chick flick had the protagonists been hetero, is now worthy of an Academy Award. It pains me to say this after falling out of love with Anne Hathaway last night, but whoever wrote for her put it best, "it was a great year for lesbians". 

3. Whose idea was it to have Kirk Douglas, stroke victim on cane, present an award? Is he old? Is he autistic? Needless to say, it was uncomfortable. If he could, at the end of the show I think Kirk would say what Melissa Leo did upon her Best Supporting Actress acceptance, "everyone else makes this look so fucking easy".  I love Kirk Douglas, but the only thing more awkward I've ever seen at an awards show was that Golden Globes where they kept panning to Temple Grandin and that one time Halle Berry went on a crusade for colored women as they did close ups on her white-bread mom. In any case, both Kirk and Anne Hathaway should have recognized their abilities and said "Thanks for the honor, but no".  

And for my biggest gripe of all;  Anne Hathaway and James Franco? Was Charlie Sheen busy! For anyone who says anything redeeming about the pair [who will look back at this and fire their managers]; were you stoned? Because I'd put money down that James Franco was. I know a pole smoker pot smoker when I smell one, he was higher then the Academy was when they decided to validate The Social Network as a movie. I must thank James for two things though, last night I got a contact high through my television, and until James Franco I didn't know that you could introduce Oscars presenters condescendingly, so thanks for that! Maybe in his next movie they'll have him saw off his tongue.  As for Anne, while she was in way above her head, at least she came sober - nice girl, hardly entertaining - the pair produced a snoozefest. Anyone who needs proof that last nights oscar hosts were anything more than lackluster can look to the quality boost during Billy Crystal and Bob Hopes mere 5 minutes. I never thought I'd say this, but last night I missed a Baldwin brother.

Melissa Leo's award was well deserved. While the Academy may never grant her airtime again, I am truly happy when good craftmanship wins. Along those lines, cheers to Colin Firth, Christian Bale, The Kings Speech and the audio/visual/editing teams of Inception, Alice in Wonderland's costume designer and Natalie Portman. It was a great night for so many stars, but lets be honest, I don't really care so much about their achievements as I do their outfits. There were some stunning gowns. That new girl Jennifer something from Winters Bone [what I'm lovingly calling Precious for white people] looked gorgeous. Hilary Swank, Halle Berry, Sandra Bullock, Mila Kunis and my ♥ Celine brought it! Mellissa Leo looked great - I have to say, there were only a few dress disasters, Scarlett Johanson much? At this point she should be used to flops, but really?  That hair is what happens when your career falls to sexual favors for red carpet access.  

All in all, good night. Congrats to the winners. I still think Jeffrey Rush got cheated. I've come to terms that I will never win an Oscar unless I inherit a role with a speech impediment or same-sex orientation, or they make a movie based on Twitter.

Hipsters

There are very few places in life where you can go, look around to people watch and in return feel a sense of 'I'm more than OK'. These place include but are not limited toDisneyland, Targets 'non-designer' section,  Planned Parenthoods, and new to the list: The Chelsea Room, as UrbanDaddy.com describes is "a new nightclub inside the bowels of the old rock-and-roll funhouse that is the Hotel Chelsea, the place where Jimi Hendrix used to howl off the fire escape at three in the morning." While I can agree that the Chelsea Room was in the bowels of something, whether Jimi was screaming because he saw The Chelsea Room's crowd or not, they are the reason that I went home. 

Let me preface this by saying that The Hotel Chelsea, and subsequently The Chelsea Room, is conveniently next to Gotham Comedy Club. After finishing an audition set at Gotham to secure a gig as the warm up for a TV show; I needed to celebrate, commiserate, and unwind. As only one of the five friends who assured me they were coming actually showed up, I was at the mercy of my friend Isabel,  who is consistently on the prowl. This being said my first choice of the venue to the left of Gotham, Jakes Saloon, was out. Jakes is known for their chicken wings and therefore men who believe its appropriate to publicly eat them,... I think enough has been said. This leaves only the choice to Gotham's right;  the new nightclub in the bowels of the old rock-and-roll house that is the Hotel Chelsea.

Upon arriving at The Chelsea Rooms red-velvet ropes, I had a feeling this would be an absolute disaster-piece. Call it woman's intuition or the large majority of plaid shirts smoking cigarettes outside it's heavily guarded door; in places where entering requires a double-shampoo shower once home, I usually don't 'fit in'. There was no line to enter so my ego wasn't effected until we were ID'ed and asked who we were there for. Apparently the answer of 'I'm here for my friend Isabel", and her response of "I'm here for myself" was not going to cut it. After being briefed about some 'private party for fashion week', luckily there was a lovely man behind us who spoke up, and spoke for us; "I'm with Elenora's list, and there are three of us", signaling to himself, Isabel and I.  Upon entering however, the only list that belonged there was Schindlers. Everyone in the room looked either hungry, miserable or both. Isabel optimistically described the crowd as Hipsters and Models,... I will  honestly  describe the crowd as Hipsters andHipsters.  There were men the size of boys, women the shape of boys and all of whomfelt they lost out when they didn't score the cover of Prozac Nation, mainly because that gig would have been perfect for all of them.

In the bathroom, after befriending attendant Solomon, Solomon sneezed. My natural instinct said 'Bless You', to which my sink-neighbor to my left, scoffed at me while giving the evil eye and declared "you know, that is a really rude thing to say. I don't dictate you're beliefs - don't throw yours onto mine". Sir, first off, you didn't sneeze. I wasn't, nor would I, bless you; I was blessing Solomon, my new Nigerian friend. You on the other hand are wearing a wool scarf indoors,... if you think I'm going to even going to take a gander at the things you most likely believe in, I've already seen Matt Lauer and Tom Cruise go at it. Furthermore, the fact that you can stand next to another human who just sneezed and say nothing, puts you in a list of people I wouldn't spit on if they were on fire. At this point, he informs me that he is very big in the fashion world, to which I inform him "that's great, because you're probably not big anywhere else" while gesturing to his groin, at which point, it was time for me to go home.

Wasser: 1, Hipsters: 0. I may wear skinny jeans, but at least my head isn't so much larger than my waist that I think thin mustaches are cool, bathroom attendants aren't people or that an increased credit line at Urban Outfitters makes me "Big in the fashion world". Goodbye, good riddance, and goodnight. Jimi, you are now not the only one howling over the Chelsea Hotel. 

On Wasser-White House Relations

At this point when someone mentions Obama, unless I‘m a few drinks in, I stay uncharacteristically quiet. I find that those who don’t support him usually have the wrong reasons why a la “that SOB with his stupid mosque”, and those that do support him? Put best by my friend Jamie to calm me after being cut off by some schmuck in a Pontiac Vibe touting ‘yes we can’; “if they’re stupid enough to buy American and vote for a socialist, they don’t need you to confirm they’re a moron” – and so, with the option of either way arguing with an idiot, I stay silent to be thought a fool, rather than to speak and remove all doubt. When it comes to Wasser-White House relations, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to support the leader of the country, paired with the fact that I don’t believe he could lead a bedbug to a mattress; unless of course that bedbug wanted to contribute nothing to the journey in which case, I’m sure Obama could find some way to lend a helping hand and preferably a top tax bracket home who could assumedly afford the extermination spray. (And so, my elephant is out of the bag).

This past week however, my frustration went from a place that was shared with the populous, to a place that was felt by me alone. My grandma found out she needed an arterial stent, basically a small tube placed in clogged arteries to keep both her Carotid artery, and Long Island steak houses near her home, open and in working order. Peter Lugers: 1. Hedda Wasser, also a winner. This is until she went to her cardiologist and was told that her insurance that she had paid thousands of premium health care dollars into since the last ‘great depression’ will not cover so much as the Hospital’s jello or static soft-core porn because she is (un-admittedly) over 75 years of age.

While I usually try to block out statements of ignorance such as ‘Obama is trying to kill the old people’; it does seem as if geriatrics are finally about to remember what it feels like to be fucked. And so I turned to Facebook, where apparently there are people with far more time on their hands than I have. Who knew that ‘The White House’ a. has a Facebook page, b. has less fans than Kim Kardashian (about 800,000 to Kim’s 3 mil) and c. would be the cheapest form of entertainment available now that The World Weekly News is out of print. As such, I’m sharing the highlights of today's posting:

The White House: Photo of the Day: Carved pumpkins depicting President Barack Obama, Abraham Lincoln, and the White House sit on a stone wall next door to where the President was attending a dinner reception in Providence, Rhode Island, Oct. 25, 2010.

Sami B: How much of taxpayer's money did you waste for that?

Lisa B: @Sami.... don't be stupid. John Reckner carved them. Idiot.

Sami B: I'm pretty sure the money for this could have bought someone a tooth filling. Just lookin' out for  you ungrateful rednecks!

Jim W: @sami. it said nothing about who made them. how do you know an artist didn't hear Obama coming in and then carve this beauty. Great Photo

Timothy S: The pumpkins... which WERE THE POINT OF THIS POST are stunning. Y'all need to take your bickering somewhere else.

Mary M: (with the burning question on my mind): Why is Obama always putting himself beside Pres. Lincoln?

Mike A: How can anyone like this lier that has no idea what the hell he is doing and has the nerve to blame someone that had nothing to do with the economic down turn and loss of jobs AS SOON AS THE DEMACRATS TOOK MAJORITY OF CONGRESS IN JAN 2007 IS WHEN GOVERNMENT TOOK A LONG DOWNHILL SLIDE AND YOU HAVE BARRY HUSSEIN COMPLAINING ABOUT BUSH,GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT JAGOFF

Nanda: Very cool, 'cept Obama looks pissed off. Perhaps he's thinking about how he keeps getting cock blocked on the hill.

James H: good lord, after reading the comments some of yall are pathetic, whining about tax payer money on a pumpkin, n being robbed by a president, and what does this have to do with the pumpkin lol..., so ur basing ur pissed offness on assumption, which is kinda like goin to take a dump, and assuming theres toilet paper..... that bein said, it looks bad ass, and its a tribute not just to obama for those whining about him, but to abe as well and what he wanted for us over 100 yrs ago...i couldnt do that well of a carving, could you? so why whine and stress it, its not gonna make yall happy when your on your death bed reflecting back on your life. so why are u waisting your time gettin upset over a pumpkin

And last but not least, the only one with any sense;

Andrew G: some of you people need to learn how to spell


IN CASE YOU WERE WORRIED ABOUT HEDDA: Don’t be. My grandmother is lucky that she has a doctor in the family (were jews) and has saved well; but what if this wasn’t the case. As this out-patient procedure would cost tens of thousands, there are many that would be simply priced out, or would spend their livelihood in securing their health resulting in an end-of-life not worth living. While I often joke that my grandma will be killed by a black man, I always envisioned her demise resulting from a black man, her granddaughter (me), and a sex tape… there goes ‘Hope’.

Getting Back To Life

You graduate college in some god awful garb, to stand with 5,000 other burka-esque clad kids you don't know, to culminate your college career by picking up an empty folder, trot across the stage and hope not to trip. What I didn't realize that day, is that as soon as you safely make it back to your seat, post-grad life is very much like graduation - most days still revolve around the thought of not tripping; making the right decisions, furthering a path, pursuing a dream.

It takes a bit to transition to what is referred to as 'real' life'. At first, its exciting, then scary, and then the unthinkable happens; the same way you settled into the last of life's phases, the world you live in eventually becomes home - and then its time to decorate. New jobs, new friends, new experiences.  And while its daunting to know you are standing at the crux of a crossroad, the endless possibilities, in coordination with good balance, at the very least keeps your palms consistantly clammy. 

Wasser World has always been exciting, that much has not changed and instead, has only intensified. What has changed however is that every schmuck seems to have a blog. I am just as schmucky, if not more so... and therefore, the Wide World of Wasser is back, - and bigger then ever.

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.

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...

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.