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.

Death by Wax Nazi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween: A True Horror Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why so early?"

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

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

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

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

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

Screw The Sox: For Those Who Prefer Red Pumps

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Just a little book I came up with)

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

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

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

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