The 83rd Annual Academy Awards

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

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

1. Who keeps letting Gwyneth Paltrow sing? 

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

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

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

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

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

Hipsters

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

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

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

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

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

On Wasser-White House Relations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Stars And Stripes - A July 4th To Forget.

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.

Getting Back To Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Operation: Liberation Spanx = disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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