9 times out of ten, I’d swear I acted intelligently. Then, a turn of events takes place as if to say, ‘Wasser – be honest with yourself… you know that number is probably closer to somewhere around three’. As stubborn as I am delusional, I’m convinced it is not me with the problem, but in fact, everybody else. For example, why would an established company like the Long Island Rail Road, a branch of New York City’s MBTA, offer the easy option of WebTickets, if once purchased, said e-ticket will be hard mailed to your house for use in 3-5 business days. The Long Island Railroad is a two and a half hour schlep, with not an inkling of glamour or glitz attached, and bathrooms the homeless wouldn’t use. Who in their right mind plans 3 to 5 days in advance for something they don’t want to do. You don’t plan for last resorts, you suck it up and e-ticket them 30 minutes before port of call; which is exactly what I did. And like most true hellish debacles, that is where this story begins – rock bottom, on the LIRR.
Weeks prior, over chardonnay and cigarettes, my mom came up with a truly wonderful idea. Fourth of July weekend, invite Jamie to the Hamptons. Jamie, my best friend and ex-roommate from college, is one of the only people in the world who truly ‘gets me’. We get each other frankly and when you’re looking at a 6 foot tall, 100 pound gay man in women’s jeans, and an Hermes belt, with a contagious cackle and a 25th birthday plan of ’25 and alive’: pecks, lips, & lipo – you think to yourself, this is one of my souls mates? There’s a small 10% piece of you that just knows you’re screwed; the other overwhelming 90% majority knows however how blessed and lucky you are to have found such a friend.
Invite Jamie to a funeral or Bar Mitzvah in New York, there’s a 50% chance he won’t be coming. Invite Jamie to a Hampton’s weekend, and the hottest weekend at that, before I heard back ‘yes’ or ‘no’, I simply received an email, “my flight gets in at six.” A six pm arrival time leaves us boarding the hell train at either 7:30 or 8:45. 7:30 comes and goes, with 8:45 being our last, and final option. Getting somewhere, and punctually, is not my strong suit and at 8:07, it was decided that no, I wouldn’t have time to masturbate, I have to make peace with whatever I’ve thrown into my bag and also the truth that someone could get to Penn Station faster from Florida (Jamie), than I could from down the block.
Getting into any moving vehicle, and saying “Hi sir, Penn station please – as fast as humanly possible” is the closest thing to a death wish you can do in NYC but after two near life ending experiences, and one small tap fender bender, I find myself hustling into Penn with the grace of pig whose just found out they’ve been hogtied. With all my hands full, and the trains departure closing in on ten minutes, my phone rings;
“Wass, where are you? I’m in Penn Station, but I don’t see Long Island.”
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t see long island’. Jamie there are signs everywhere… follow one”
“I did! I’m telling you this Long Island Railroad is no where to be found”
“Jamie, it takes up half of Penn station”, and then I though of a sign for him to follow that you didn’t need to be literate for, “J, just look for girls with thongs hanging out of the backs of their jeans. That will get you to Long Island every time.”
Proof that the last tip actually worked, from behind a pack of gelled hair, bathroom Blonde, Mandee’s patrons came Jamie, sauntering down the escalator with a Vuitton duffle in tow. That, and the “American Tourister”; a hard suitcase circa 1970 that stopped being cool as soon as people were able to see it for what it was while not tripping on acid.
With 5 minutes to train-time, hellos would have to be postponed. Speedily, we start dodging through the overly crowded waiting area trying to find our track. While the clock is ticking, one of the reasons Jamie and I get on so well is that we always have our priorities in order. Making the train was one thing, making the train enjoyable was another; and as Oprah or any other self help god will tell you – you can always find time for what’s important; 8 mini bottles of Sutter Home chardonnay. Sweat from rushing may be dripping from our brow, but time stops for wine. All necessities in tow, we high tail it to Track 9, to find nothing but standing room and snobbery – at least we knew we were on the right train.
The doors close behind us; both of us here? check. Booze? check. Tickets?... shit. Well, so what – we didn’t sort out this e-issue at the help desk. Thanks to Steve Jobs, I have my emailed receipt clearly on my cell phone and assuming this 3-5 day mailing thing MUST be a mistake, as it really does defeat the purpose of the e-ticket, I’ll explain to the conductor, who must get this all the time. After meeting the conductor, he doesn’t. He also wasn’t interested in letting this slide for a mini-bottle of Chardonnay. What he wanted was the one thing we didn’t have; cash, and $46 dollars of it. Nothing is more embarrassing then creating a scene on the long island rail road, surround by people who think they’re too good to be there, next to the American Tourister, pulling crumpled singles out of your purse that between two people equal seven dollars.
“You’re going to the Hamptons,… with seven dollars?” Joe (we were now on first name terms) asked, in a condescending tone as if he was trying to get his facts straight. Neither of us willing to admit yes, Jamie flings open his wallet to check the nothing in it once again. In the fling, he exposes a photo he carries of his sister, which he, Joe and I discussed and agreed she looks great. Then either because he liked us, or there were 7 other full cars on the train, Joe asks for our ID, has us fill out IOU’s, tells us to bring them to a station, where we can eventually pay. Not only are we on the unfortunate Long Island Rail Road, we were now in debt to them. Handing the forms to Jamie, who hands them to me – “what happened to chivalry” I ask. “I’m gay… we’re exempt” Now Joe chimes in, “ehh a mans still the man, sorry” “Nobody has the gay mans side”, Jamie shrieks – “Someone has your backside though”, I retort – and with that, we’ve now won Joe over. He lets us in on the secret that nothing actually happens if we don’t pay these, which I think he might have only said because after he liked us, he still wasn’t sure if we had more than seven dollars to our name.
We transfer trains to one with more seating, bribe a man in a 2seat row with comedy club tickets to move to another open single seat so we can sit together, and just when we think all is well, the train starts moving, but in the seats we’ve coveted; we’re moving backwards – which in retrospect was foreshadowing what would become the rest of Stars and Stripes weekend… to be continued.
Thursday
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.
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.
Friday
12 Steps to Amtrak Victory (with help from an open bar)
An Old Throwback Brought to the Front by Request...
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.
Wednesday
Operation: Liberation Spanx = disaster.
Like most things, last nights disasterpeice started with good intentions. Getting ready for a date with a guy I legitimately like (which is something of a rarity) I have the genius idea to take my look to the next level: spanx. Girls - you know what I'm talking about, they just make your silhouette better - I swear! Not only that, but this was one of our first dates, and to be honest, I wasn't really planning on him getting up close and personal with control top panty hose.
This is until 10pm rolls around, along with another bottle of wine.
Spanx may be gods gift to women.... until you wear them under a dress, and said person whom you probably wore the spanx for, can now feel the fact you are wearing the modern day equivalent to a girdle. Secondly, while spanx are intended to help the general public, last night all they presented me with were challenges: 1. how to get them off without anyone realizing I had them on, and 2. now that there's nothing under my dress, how not to look like an s-l-u-t. Check please.
We were planning on leaving the bar and going to a club with friends but as we came with 2 cars, now tipsy, we were going to leave with 2 cars to our next spot. This gives me approximately 10 minutes of alone time to drive drunk while simultaneously ditching the spanx. If you think its difficult to drive after 5 glasses of wine, try trying to drive after 5 glasses of wine, while following another tipsy driver, while sliding tights off your body while keeping your foot on the brake. Im telling you, my accomplishments never seem to be less impressive.
Operation: Liberation Spanx, while sounding like a fool proof plan had one petite problem. The spanx were my undergarment if you catch my drift and my dress wasn't exactly floor length. Once again, life presents a cross roads: which is worse? 1. Having a hand run down your side to meet the seams of spanx or 2. Having a hand run down your side to meet nothing.
If I go with option one, I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye. If I go with option two, lets just say, nothing says sure thing more clearly then a short dress and no underwear.
Now some may argue I made the wrong decision here, but I'll be damned if I go to spin classes three times a week to have people think I need spanx.
The choice has been made, I am now slithering and sliding in the drivers seat waiting for the next red light to seal the deal. I am almost there, the right side is almost by my ankles, the left half way down my knee. Oh shit, no - okay why is he pulling up next to me... this is not good. The only thing worse then him feeling body shaping tights under a dress is pulling up next to me in a car to see said tights around my ankles. Furthermore, he was in an SUV, giving him the leverage to see everything.
In a moment of sheer panic I slam my left foot on the brake, release my right foot, switch my left foot with my right foot and then start to wiggle my left foot around hoping to at least get them low enough where one couldn't see them through the window. Just as the car pulls up, victory is attained resulting in crumpled up tights to the left of the brake - phew.
If only life were really that easy. Me, thinking myself sly after I just had James Bond's next installment take place in my drivers seat, roll down the window to hear whatever he had to say but rather then look me in the eyes, he's looking down, into my car - almost with a look of excited disbelief. There is no way he can see a small rolled up tight under my foot, and even if he did, that is not enough to produce this face.
It is time to investigate. Slowly but surely I begin to look down too... only to see that now the fact that I am underwear-less is no surprise - to anyone. In pulling down the tights, I had pulled up the skirt, and well... the skirt never came back down. Now if looks as if I saw him pulling up next to me, where I then decided to flash him.
This is until 10pm rolls around, along with another bottle of wine.
Spanx may be gods gift to women.... until you wear them under a dress, and said person whom you probably wore the spanx for, can now feel the fact you are wearing the modern day equivalent to a girdle. Secondly, while spanx are intended to help the general public, last night all they presented me with were challenges: 1. how to get them off without anyone realizing I had them on, and 2. now that there's nothing under my dress, how not to look like an s-l-u-t. Check please.
We were planning on leaving the bar and going to a club with friends but as we came with 2 cars, now tipsy, we were going to leave with 2 cars to our next spot. This gives me approximately 10 minutes of alone time to drive drunk while simultaneously ditching the spanx. If you think its difficult to drive after 5 glasses of wine, try trying to drive after 5 glasses of wine, while following another tipsy driver, while sliding tights off your body while keeping your foot on the brake. Im telling you, my accomplishments never seem to be less impressive.
Operation: Liberation Spanx, while sounding like a fool proof plan had one petite problem. The spanx were my undergarment if you catch my drift and my dress wasn't exactly floor length. Once again, life presents a cross roads: which is worse? 1. Having a hand run down your side to meet the seams of spanx or 2. Having a hand run down your side to meet nothing.
If I go with option one, I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye. If I go with option two, lets just say, nothing says sure thing more clearly then a short dress and no underwear.
Now some may argue I made the wrong decision here, but I'll be damned if I go to spin classes three times a week to have people think I need spanx.
The choice has been made, I am now slithering and sliding in the drivers seat waiting for the next red light to seal the deal. I am almost there, the right side is almost by my ankles, the left half way down my knee. Oh shit, no - okay why is he pulling up next to me... this is not good. The only thing worse then him feeling body shaping tights under a dress is pulling up next to me in a car to see said tights around my ankles. Furthermore, he was in an SUV, giving him the leverage to see everything.
In a moment of sheer panic I slam my left foot on the brake, release my right foot, switch my left foot with my right foot and then start to wiggle my left foot around hoping to at least get them low enough where one couldn't see them through the window. Just as the car pulls up, victory is attained resulting in crumpled up tights to the left of the brake - phew.
If only life were really that easy. Me, thinking myself sly after I just had James Bond's next installment take place in my drivers seat, roll down the window to hear whatever he had to say but rather then look me in the eyes, he's looking down, into my car - almost with a look of excited disbelief. There is no way he can see a small rolled up tight under my foot, and even if he did, that is not enough to produce this face.
It is time to investigate. Slowly but surely I begin to look down too... only to see that now the fact that I am underwear-less is no surprise - to anyone. In pulling down the tights, I had pulled up the skirt, and well... the skirt never came back down. Now if looks as if I saw him pulling up next to me, where I then decided to flash him.
You have got to be kidding me. There is no way this is my life. I blink tightly, look down, and whoop there it is - again - fucking fantastic.
Getting out of the car, I now feel the need to backtrack and explain the whole story. So in the end, I was outed as a spanx patron, flashed him as to show they're not needed, and had I stayed with option 1 of keeping the spanx on and sticking to my original choices, the result would have been the same, minus a lot of embarrassment: I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye.
Lesson Learned: It is not possible for Erika Wasser to go on a date without having havoc and mortifying embarrassment ensue. It is time for me to put down payments on "I love Cats" tote bags and lean cuisine frozen dinners... who said cat ladies were so bad anyway?
Getting out of the car, I now feel the need to backtrack and explain the whole story. So in the end, I was outed as a spanx patron, flashed him as to show they're not needed, and had I stayed with option 1 of keeping the spanx on and sticking to my original choices, the result would have been the same, minus a lot of embarrassment: I can kiss the rest of my night goodbye.
Lesson Learned: It is not possible for Erika Wasser to go on a date without having havoc and mortifying embarrassment ensue. It is time for me to put down payments on "I love Cats" tote bags and lean cuisine frozen dinners... who said cat ladies were so bad anyway?
Friday
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...
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...
Tuesday
So close to Barbara Walters.. and then I flashed the interviewer.
There are interviews you nail, and well, interviews you fail. I just failed an interview. My small voice of reason and self-help book knowledge tells me to stay positive, visualize the job, visualize the "congratulations" phone call. But I knew, and for the first time am praying someone proves me wrong.
For any fruit-fly, Celine Dion loving, Janice Dickinson adoring human being, namely myself, this was the internship of a lifetime. I was being interviewed by "The View". Imagining someone asking, "Well, who are you dressing to impress" so that I could respond, "Well, Babs, Whoppi and Joy of course!" would have let me die a happy woman. (I leave out the no-name and Survivor cast away)
I have a feeling I'll still die happy, but Babs, Whoppi and Joy may be out of that equation. Frankly, I blame this whole debacle on my grandmother's sheer black tights.
Those fucking tights that I am wearing as I write this, they should not be called tights - BECAUSE THEY'RE LOOSE. With every step I take, I feel the cheap polyester slide from lower back, to the top of my ass, to the middle, and then WHOOP - there it is. I feel myself start to waddle as they slide deeper and deeper down my ass.
Now you're probably asking yourself, "didn't you know this when you put them on?". And no, I did not. Anyone who has met my overly generous (in this case) grandmother might then ask, "You do realize that you're borrowing tights from a woman three times your size." And yes, I did know that, but she assured me that they were not her tights and in fact, she buys all different tights because they were cheap, and on sale. Seeming like something she would do, I believe her.
It might not be logical to some to spend $100.00 on 10 pairs of tights when only one fits. But to my grandma, to spend the same $100.00 on a good pair that does, is simply a frivolous waste of money. Why spend $100.00 on one thing, when you can have 10 - and an added bonus is that you can outfit everyone from Twiggy to Big Foot.
When every five seconds you have to worry about exposing yourself to the interviewer of "The View", lets just say your A game slides down as quickly as sasquatches tights on Twiggy's body, which in this case, is just what I've become.
Thursday
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.
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?
"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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
