What I Deserve

We've all heard that line, whether it be from a friend, a person your dating, or even a family member: "You deserve better." I hate those three words. In all of my years, I've always prescribed to the idea that we get what we deserve, or in better terms, we're given what we can handle. But in the past few months, I have found myself more and more astonished with the pile of shit that keeps building up on my plate. For example, did I really deserve that horrifying experience on the day of the marathon? Some would argue that no one deserves that, but I would rebut that it happened to me for a reason.

The entire next two weeks, where my ears were ringing and work was closed gave me a lot of time to think. And here's what I came up with: We often become so preoccupied with ourselves that we forget to put things in perspective. Even the most miniscule first world problems seem to piss us off. But then, we take it to the next level. We get wrapped up in making bad decisions, whether it be about our health, our finances, or our dating lives. To some extent, I feel that we become masochistic just to give us an excuse to think more, talk more, and focus more on ourselves. After all, we are selfish beings to the core. So, with this realization soon after the marathon, I gave myself time to be truly selfish. Yep, instead of becoming Mother Teresa, like you may have expected, I just gave a giant middle finger to my karma and said 'screw you'.

Oh yes, I did.

It was a rare opportunity to be so self-centered that I literally got sick of myself. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but close! I did whatever I wanted, and broke more than a few 'rules' along the way. I've never been known to go by the book, but these past few months, I crossed a lot of lines I normally wouldn't have. This wasn't some YOLO B.S., either. In fact, I think my realization just presented an opportunity to live life to the fullest, and strut with a little more swag than I typically do. And trust me, my normal swag is already obnoxious. Everything was literally over the top. Figawi for Memorial Day weekend? Screw that, I'm going to Vegas. Instead of having one back up for my date, I would have four. When I went in for one drink at the bar, I convinced the guy next to me to buy me three. Just me being aggressive at it's finest. Would I say that I have gotten it all out of my system? Absolutely not. But, this binge of selfishness is just what I needed to be able to finally take a step back and throw things in to perspective and help me realize what I can handle, or better, what I deserve.

A glaring example is my current dating life, or what semblance of it still exists. Have I gotten what I deserve? 100%, yes. And the funny thing is, every time I break it off with a guy because he's acting like a total twat, they tell me, "I'm so sorry I couldn't give you what you deserve," blah blah blah. Seriously? You think I'm buying that?  I just want to reply, 'Look champ, I chose to hang out with you, so I deserve whatever douchebaggery you threw at me, and up until this very moment where I am now telling you that whatever we have going on can't continue, I brought this whirlwind of bullshit on to myself.' God, there are so many guys who I wish were reading this right now!!! But generally speaking, I'm addressing the entire male population. If a chick is staying with you when you're acting like the horrible human being that you probably are, she deserves it, and hopefully she can handle it. If not, you'll figure it out pretty quickly and move on before the craziness unwantedly seeps into your life.

And the most hilarious part of it all, the guys who actually treat us right, are the ones we have the least interest in. If I were looking to settle down, I would be concerned by this harsh reality. But the fact is, the sex is so much better with the disposable douchebags, and I know I can handle every last one of them with one arm tied behind my back.

Damn, it's nice to be back. 'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Recyclers Do It Twice

Spring is fast approaching here in Boston, and you know what that means: Figawi, copious amounts of sangria, and roof deck action (sexual and otherwise), which means less time to be on the hunt for new hookup prospects, and more time to enjoy the fruits of your labor. After what I would like to consider a banner year so far in the bone zone, I am finally looking to stop adding notches on my belt. No, I'm not settling down, but instead, recycling. Going green isn't just about plastic and paper, people. It's about your dignity, keeping your number down, and hooking up with a guy who already knows what you like, so you don't have to go through that awkward stage where you tell him you like your hair pulled and you get a confused look in return. What? So I like it when you're rough! Sue me. 

Not much beats a recycled romp. You already know the best morning after routes to avoid any walk of shame mishaps. He knows how to get you off. (And dear God, if he doesn't, why on Earth are you going back for more?) And, most importantly, it's an ego boost. If a guy is asking for Round 2, or in my case Round 5, you must be doing something right. Now, do I think any of these recycled goods have boyfriend potential? Sure I do, but I'm not necessarily going to act on it. Why ruin a good rotation? There's something so empowering about being in control of your sex life. If you want to get laid with the 6'6 basketball player who makes you feel like a rag doll, do it. The guy with the tongue that runs on Energizer batteries just texted you; send him a reply. Feel like cuddling? Hell yeah, I'm going to hit up my little black book; I have a snuggler in there some where!

I don't understand why more women don't take control of their sack session schedules. 9 times out of 10, if you aren't getting laid, you are no fun to be around. Your estrogen levels are too high for your own good, and you're overly emotional ass is pounding Ben & Jerry's as opposed to Hottie McScottie from two months ago. So he didn't text you back that one time. Build a bridge and get over it! Or as my man, Tupac, puts it: "Just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on." Twenty bucks says he's still willing to ride you like The Cyclone at Coney Island a few more times. Men aren't the only ones with carnal needs that have to be satisfied, which makes it important to master your inner recycling powers so you can get in, get off, and get the hell out of there.

Even Ryan Gosling knows recycling is good for you.

To be clear, if you haven't caught on already, this is not relationship advice. This is purely for your sanity. I know too many good girls who have been ruined by a dry spell. Take this as a public service announcement and don't let that be you! There has got to be a stud in your arsenal that you can work into your 'green-routine". So, support recylcing, and wear the same clothes as you did last night. What? I never said it was going to be pretty...

'Til next time,
A Babe In Boston

The Math of Getting a Second Date

First dates are hard. The date starts and ends with questions. Where should we go? What should we do? Should I drink? What if I hate the guy half way through? Should I then drink heavily? If I end up liking him, what are the expectations at the end of the night? In the past few weeks, I've asked these questions way too many times. And once I'm on the date, I feel like I'm reciting Ben Affleck's Oscar acceptance speech, just trying to get in all the information about me in a couple of short hours to convince the guy that I'm hot shit. As awesome as I know I am, there's still some groundwork that has to be laid down in order to get to that all important second date. With that said, I have come up with what I think is a pretty simple formula to help take you to the next level:

(Conversation + Chemistry + Humor)

                  ---------------------------------- =   A Second Date

(Drinks)^3

For those that are not mathematically inclined, it bascially means: If conversation paired with chemistry and a little humor (primarily in the form of sarcasm) exists,  over three or so drinks (most likely sauvignon blanc), there is going to be a second date. Why? Because I said so. After 10 first dates in the past three weeks, this has worked every time. Just trust me on this one. There are also other mitigating factors, for example, how physical you are with a guy. Which leads me to the second most important equation:

First date + Sex = No Second Date

As much as you want to tell yourself that he really likes you, and just wanted to express how he was feeling, you're wrong. The guy just wanted to get into your pants. Sleeping with a guy on the first date is second date suicide. You might as well have not gone through the whole conversation asking about his family, hopes, and dreams. What a waste of time!!! If you just want to get laid, go to a bar with your girlfriends and hit on anything with a penis. Trust me, 9 times out of 10, you'll hit a home run. If you're looking for something more than that, keep your legs closed. Simple as that. Think you can generate a relationship out of a one night stand? Keep dreaming sister; the faster a relationship starts, the quicker it ends. That guy will be running out of there the next morning faster than you can ask him "So what are you doing later?"

Should have kept your legs closed...

So, you made it through the date and back home without putting out? Congratulations. But, you're only half way there. Now, the key is to keep him interested. And unfortunately, there's no equation to make you any more awesome, so rock what you've got. 

After reading this, some of you might be asking... "So wait, you're actually trying to keep a guy's attention longer than it takes to make you to orgasm a few times?" Damn right I am! After about 8 months of the single life, the charade gets old. I can only go to so many events with my engaged/married friends before I start rethinking my decision to acquire yet another FWB. Am I regretting the sex? Absolutely not. But am I slightly regretting the fact that I blew off another potential Mr. Right for a guaranteed hookup? Yup. There comes a point where a woman has to stop thinking with her g-spot, and for me, the time is now. 

40 Days and 40 Nights

I decided to take the plunge and give up something for Lent. No, I'm not Catholic, but the concept of giving something up for a period of time seems reasonable, and relatively healthy. These past 7 months have been all about excess in almost every way possible; from sex, shopping, and drinking, etc., so I figured if I am going to give up something, now is the time to do it. But, what to choose?

I don't think that I can pull a Josh Hartnett in 40 Days and 40 Nights and not have sex. It's already been a week without sex and I am in struggle city. While I think flicking the bean on a pretty routine basis is practically maintenance, doing that for an extended period of time without the option of sex just sounds absolutely miserable. I can only close my eyes and come up with so many scenarios.. if you catch my drift. I'm pretty sure after 40 plus days I would not be someone pleasant to be around. And then, what would happen after those six weeks? I would be an animal; like one of those little dogs that literally humps everything that moves. Not a good look babes, not a good look.

Then I consider my Starbucks addiction. I think I have consumed so many chai lattes that it is practically a part of me. My blood type is probably AB- plus a three pump, non-fat, extra hot, venti chai. I should probably mention that when I sign up as an organ donor...I digress. If I do the math and I give up my crack, I mean chai latte, habit, I could save $142.80 at the end of all of this!! BOOM, that's a bar tab. Psh, let's be real, I don't pay bar tabs. But you get what I mean. I'm just trying to think about the person I would be without my daily pick me up. I still want to be a reasonable person to be around. And not having Starbucks for 40 days would be like PMSing for six weeks straight. No one wants to be around that bitch.

I've also been considering unplugging for a while. You know, texting less and taking a break from social media. The past few days I have been without a cell phone, which has been massively liberating. I never thought I would be thankful for Verizon's awful customer service, but having to communicate via email and personal interaction has been relatively refreshing, and believe it or not, it has been doing wonders for my dating life. I swear, being technologically unavailable makes you 10x more desirable to men. If guys are genuinely interested, they won't mind a challenge. It's definitely brought a few knights in shining armor out of the woodwork.

Lastly, I could embrace the fact that I want my body to look like that of a Victoria's Secret model and give up sweets, or carbs, or alcohol. Scratch that, giving up alcohol is a horrible idea; a girl needs her gin and tonics. But seriously, what girl doesn't use Lent as an excuse to "cleanse"? Imagine, you're at a restaurant, and you're friends are trying to get you to eat the bread out of the bread basket, or the dessert that has a bagazillion calories, or god forbid, fat girl sushi... Oh sorry, I'm giving up any food makes my ass bigger for lent. They can't argue with that! Hello, this isn't just a superficial and shallow decision not to eat, it's religious, so don't cross me.

It looks like I have found my winner. Any foods that can be labeled as mASSive are officially off limits for 40 days... in moderation. What? A babe has gotta have her Ducali fix every once and a while.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Best Out Of Three

In a seven day period I will have had three first dates. It's an interesting phenomenon, considering I've been out of the "dating game" for a while. (Hooking up doesn't constitute as dating, in my opinion, and we all know I've done plenty of that.) My friends have been pulling guys out of the woodwork, who are "interested" in me, based on a few pictures, stats, and probably a couple of anecdotes. In some ways, I'm flattered. But in other ways, I think, why are my friends pushing all of these dates on me? Do I have a placard on my forehead saying "set me up!"? Do they think I'm taking the single thing too far? And if they do... would they be wrong? Don't answer that. You know what, though, at the end of the day, I'm not complaining! So here's where we're at so far:

Date 1:
The guy is an entrepreneurial lacrosse player who works with non-profits, and has a killer smile paired with a head of hair that Fabio would be jealous of. We connected over our love of mac 'n' cheese and Basil Hayden's at Lincoln in South Boston. I think we broke every first date rule I have ever been told. Don't drink too much, don't talk about past relationships, don't talk about sex, etc. Oh well! I don't think he minded either. Halfway through me telling a story when we were sitting at the bar, he leaned over and kissed me. Do I need to tell you how long it has been since a guy made the first move? I blame the fact that I'm pretty aggressive, but STILL, it was so refreshing. The only problem: he's my height. Yes, I'm tall. Yes, it's superficial. But with three guys on my plate, I'm allowed to nit pick, right? Regardless, he's still fun to be around, a good kisser, and has great taste in women (see what I did there?), therefore he is still on my radar.

Date 2:
The flavor of the evening? A tall, dark, and handsome guy with bowling skills only slightly better than mine. The Latin heat in him gave him some suave dance moves and charm for days. We ended up at Kings where we got our bowl on, which made for a pretty fun first date. The surprise of the evening, my high school crush ended up in the lane next to us. There's nothing better than when you see someone who you went to high school that looks a gazilion times worse than when they did 8 years ago. Even better, I look like Erin Heatherton compared to what I was all those years ago, and I was with a hot guy to boot. At some point on the date we ended up slow dancing in our lane and all of that faded away. Then, there was that moment. Yet another first kiss, another set of butterflies, and another successful first date. As Schmidt would say, so nectar.

Date 3:
It has yet to come, but to be honest, this is the one I am most excited for. One of my guy friends set it up, and he's pretty confident we are going to hit it off.

Even though the third date hasn't happened, it's pretty safe to say that I'm going to be stuck in a "Best Out of Three" situation. Yes, I am that confident that it is going to go well. If nothing else, I am the First Date Queen. I'm such a champion when it comes to first dates that Charlie Sheen stole #winning from me. This isn't a bad place to be, but it's hard when you have three great guys. Hopefully, they will help make the decision for me because I don't do so well putting all of my eggs in one basket.

On a different note, try to enjoy the snow day tomorrow, babes. Make a snow angel, throw a snow ball, or get out of dodge early and hit the slopes. I know I'm going to use it as an excuse to make my famous Amaretto hot chocolate and stay in and watch chick flicks all day. And if at some point I manage to trek my way over to Chay's house for a little afternoon delight, I wouldn't be mad about that either.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Here's to the Freakin' Weekend

This weekend I am getting my drink on. Yo-hoe-lo! We're talking gin and tonics, champagne, champagne, and more champagne, some kamikazes, scotch, and probably some more champagne. There's something so cathartic about going out with your girlfriends and getting hammered. The only problem is, all of the other bitches at the bar. Let's face it, if they were your friends they would be the coolest chicks in there, but the sheer fact that they aren't hanging out with you, makes them the most horrible people in the world. Is she wearing the same shoes as you? Poser. Is she macking on the guy you want to take home? Slore. Is she channeling her inner Lohan and having a little too much fun? Hot mess express. The list goes on.

Bitches be throwing shade all over the damn place! I mean, I'm gettin' it at 8am on the T, 3:30pm at Whole Foods, 6pm while hanging out in child's pose at yoga, and once it hits 11pm you better have your phasers on stun because these girls are ruthless! For the love of Jimmy Choo's, what is this world coming to? Can't a babe just enjoy the mating ritual - that is Boston nightlife - without mixing hatorade in her vodka soda? I don't like being a mean girl anymore than the next, but unfortunately a few sour grapes make it a necessity.

So, here is my plea to you, babes of Boston. Before you go out tonight, sit back, relax, and pop a fucking klonopin... just kidding (sort of). But, for real, pop a figurative chill pill and just focus on yourself tonight. Some of you are probably thinking, how the hell do I do that? Well, that's where I come in - here are a few tips to get you on the right track:

1. Get glammed up. You can't hate on anyone else when you're the hottest chick in the room, right?
2. Be a wingwoman. Besides the fact that your girlfriends will be eternally grateful, you'll feel victorious that you have just hooked her up with one of the few guys who is an 8 or higher at the bar.
3. Add salt and a lime. Tequila is an upper, so use it to your advantage. You dig?

And if all else fails, go out with a bunch of hot, straight dudes. If you don't know why that is a good idea.. we can't be friends.


Cheers to not biting each other's heads off this weeeknd!

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Two roads diverged in the woods, and I took neither...

In the past few days, I have had the best of both worlds when it comes to men. On one end of the spectrum, I hung out with a drop dead gorgeous professional hockey player for virtually three days straight. On the opposite end, I had a whirlwind 24 hours with one of the most thought provoking and powerful men I have ever met. So who do I choose?

I had a ton of fun with the NHL player. He was a total goofball, really nice, and liked to have fun. The night we met, he actually sat at the bar and waited at my restaurant for 5 hours before I ended up giving him my number. He was a genuine, good looking guy who wasn't shy about his intentions, and he had a body to boot. The downside to mister-hockey-cutie-pie was that it was pretty evident he had been hit in the head with a hockey puck one too may times. So, as much as there was this physical chemistry between us, I knew it could never go anywhere... except to the bedroom. I know, I know. You are probably wondering why I didn't just suck it up. I'll tell you why... I can deal with a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. To put it in perspective, he bought a Star of David necklace from David Yurman because he thought it looked cool, yet, he's Catholic... 

Are you smelling what I'm stepping in?

And then there's the other guy, Mr. Wall Street. Now, I am a magnet for older men, and have been for quite some time. Constantly, from them, I hear: "you're genuine", "you're real", or "you cut through the bullshit". Yeah we all get it, I'm freaking awesome. While I have heard that from gents my age, I have a feeling the older ones probably value it a little bit more, you know, because they have been around the block a few more times. The man that I have spent the last 24 hours with was no different. He was intriguing, successful, and heartfelt, but he's 20 years my senior and sadly doesn't look like Brad Pitt. I thought Fred Astaire was too old for Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, and the same goes for Mr. Wall Street and me. Besides, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be picking up this guy's Viagra prescription in 10 years, and wiping his ass in 20. Thanks, but no thanks. 

So, here I am confronted with two polar opposites. One, I want to sleep with and can't stand the idea of trying to have a conversation with, and the other, I could hang out with all day, but the idea of kissing him makes me feel borderline uncomfortable. Both have asked to see me again. And while it pains me, I just don't think I can do it. Looks like I'm just going to have to chalk it up to a free meal and a good time with both of these guys. Back to the drawing board.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

P.S. If you haven't checked out this video with Kid President yet, do it. It will make you want to dance.

Blast From the Past

In the past week, I have seen three guys who are a part of my distant dating past. We're talking back to high school and early college days here, people. What are the odds of seeing all three of these guys in such a short time frame? Slim, I tell you, slim. Not sure what the dating cosmos are trying to tell me... but I'm taking notice.

In chronological dating order, or officially known as CDO (yes, I just made that shit up), there is Quantum, Trek, and The Ex.

I had a gigantic crush on Quantum all throughout high school. We met through Track & Field (come to think of it, that's how I met Trek too...) and talked throughout high school and even when he went to college. When I was still in high school, and he was in college in Cambridge (studying quantum physics, hence the nickname), we went to a Guster concert down at the Omni Theatre. If I recall correctly, we had seats in the nosebleeds and ended up working our way down to some pretty awesome spots. I never kissed him, but boy did I want to. He had the body of some Greek sculpture and dimples that you could practically swim in. Drool. I digress... Inevitably, once I came down to Boston, we ran into each other a few times, but whenever we saw each other, one or both of us was in a relationship. Now, all of this time later, we're both single. After some crazy Facebook phenomena where we realized we had some interesting mutual friends, we reconnected and ended up grabbing sushi for lunch earlier this week. Needless to say, Quantum has not lost his swagger. I was kicking myself in the ass for suggesting lunch (in my defense I didn't know if he was still in a relationship up until then). But still, what was I thinking? Even if there was chemistry, I couldn't do anything about it over lunch! Boo. Luckily, S advised me to suggest drinks sometime next week, which he obliged to gladly. That'll be the real test.

And then there's Trek.  I'm actually en route to his place as I write this very post. He recently moved into his own place, so I anticipate us christening a few surfaces in his apartment, or maybe not. Who knows? Regardless, he will always have a special place in my little black book. When Trek and I first met, he was officiating a track meet that I was competing in. I ended up winning my events (because I'm a champ, obviously) and we hit it off from there. We never actually had sex while we were dating. It was one of those "pussy on a pedestal" situations where we were too nervous to screw something up, but once we split, that's when the gloves came off. I still have a pair of ripped jeans to prove it. Some of the best sex I have had 'til this day, and he knows it. There's something about a guy who knows how to push your buttons after years of being apart. As one of my co-workers puts it, he has no problem taking me to the mountain.

Last but not least, we have The Ex, aka my most recent serious relationship. We have crossed the threshold of the friend zone and have been spending more time together. I have yet to decide whether this is a good idea because I don't want it to seem like I am giving him false hope. He wouldn't hesitate to jump back into a relationship with me, but I am so far from being on the same page that I don't even think we're even in the same book. The friend zone is where he will remain.

So what is a girl to do with all of these ghosts of dating past? Looks like I'll have to keep you posted.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Body of Work

Lacing up your sneaks and throwing on your Lululemon yoga pants at the end of the work day is a must. I know that if I want to keep going out with guys who are up to my standards, I have to stay up to theirs, so I work out. And on top of keeping my ass in tip top shape, going to the gym is an awesome place to check out guys in their purest form: sweaty and dripping testosterone everywhere. Just how I like them. But, you can't go to just any gym. Equinox or SportsClub LA is the way to go. Think about it this way: If you are hot and young, going to the gym is as much a mating ritual as it is a workout, and who wants to be philandering with a sweaty gym rat at Gold's Gym in Southie? Not I. 

Thanks Southie, but no thanks.

While I encourage you to go to the gym, I'm not saying to go crazy here. 4 days a week is plenty. No one wants to be friends with someone who's more concerned with their 6am yoga sesh on Sunday morning than spraying bottles of champagne all over the less fortunate people who aren't dancing on couches at the club on Saturday night. Because hauling your ass to the gym on the weekends is nearly impossible considering your extra curricular activities, it's imperative you find time during the week. The end of the work day is when most of the eligible bachelors are hitting the weights, so between 6-8pm is your best bet if you're on the hunt. Are you more concerned about getting that one cardio machine you always use? Would you rather just hit the gym without the distractions? Then go early in the morning, or late night. But let's face it, at that point you're going to the gym for all the wrong reasons! Just kidding. Sort of. 

If you're a seasoned veteran in the gymming world, like myself, picking up bros is easy. Squatting a little more than you usually do? Get a spot from the hot guy at the station next to you. Notice a cutie walking to the water fountain? Beat him to it and bend over right in front of him. What? You were really thirsty... (and your ass looks amazeballs in your new Lulu's.) And if all else fails, ask to work on the same station as him. This is especially effective when it is a busy day at the gym, and most of the machines are being used. He won't think anything of it, that is, until he can't resist your hotness any longer and has to ask you out on a date. It happens more than you would think. 

Regardless of what your guy friends might tell you, you better look damn good at the gym. I'm not saying to pull a Mimi Bobeck and plaster a face full of makeup on before you traipse your tuckus to Soul Cycle, but girl, if you have bags under your eyes, throw on some under eye concealer and a little mascara. Is your hair a hot mess? Don't plop it into a rat's nest on the top of your head. Thinking about wearing your ex-boyfriend's oversized t-shirt and shorts to the gym? Reconsider! You are going out in public after all. I'm not trying to say guys are superficial ass holes... but they are. 

So set down that "fat girl sushi" you're still picking at from lunch, and get your ass in gear. The gym is calling.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Halftime Hangover

Last night was brutal. I'm pretty sure at the end of the AFC Championship game, all of New England let out a collective sigh. Is this what we get for giving Billy Cundiff such a hard time last year? Is Gisele to blame? Would we have won if Gronkowski, Fletcher, and Edelman were in the mix? Too late to question now because Joe Flacco, Dennis Pitta, Anquan Boldin and the entire Ravens defense brought their A-game last night. Not saying I'm happy about it, but what can you do? I hopped off the 'Bitch & Moan' train about five minutes after the game was over. And believe it or not, I'm still looking forward to watching the Superbowl in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, us Bostonians still have the Celtics and the Bruins to entertain ourselves.

The combination of the Patriots loss and the discovery of Tinder have left me wildly unproductive on my Monday off. I'm still trying to decide whether Tinder is genius or creepy, but I can say with absolute certainty it's definitely entertaining. Tinder is allowing us to do things on our phones that we would have done in public anyway: make snap judgements about people based on their appearances. Now the other people just know about it. (If you like them that is). I've noticed a couple of trends after the past hour of Tindering. First, the guys with the shirtless pics are usually the ones with the best bodies. Like. Wish that could be said for their personalities, but we can only hope. Names ending in 'ie' or "y', usually end up producing a guido candidate, i.e. Bobbie, Ricky, Jimmy, Benny. Skip. Group pictures are the worst. Some of the guys are hot, some aren't. And then as you click on their other pictures, you're sitting their crossing your fingers that the hot guy all the way on the right is "Matt, 26". Most of the time it isn't though. Of course.

I have seen more of my guy friends on Tinder than I thought I would have. These are quality guys, who have some serious game that I have seen first hand. So what the hell are they doing on Tinder? Is it the curiosity factor? Or, maybe we're all bored with our circles of friends and are looking to branch out? Regardless, I skip over my guy friends. No need to creep in your inner circles. Then, I wonder, how many of my girlfriends are on here? What are some of the trends guys are noticing? It's like the straight male side of Tinder is a total mystery! I want to know how these guys make quick decisions whether to like or skip. Give me some insight gentlemen!

Hair, smile, age, location? Shed some light...

Tinder is like that kid who played the middle man in elementary school running back and forth between you and the person you thought was cute. "See that girl over there? Do you think she's cute?" Then the kid would come running back to you and ask if you thought he was cute. If you said yes, you were automatically dating. Oh, if only life were as simple as it was in grade school. Looks like Tinder is making it pretty damn close.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Seat Four

Boredom struck again this week at my restaurant job. While working a slow lunch, you can pass the time one of a few ways: eating, talking with your co-workers, actually waiting on your tables, OR, if you are lucky enough, flirting with a hot guy who manages to make his way to your restaurant for lunch. Given how slow it was the other day, I thought the last option would be out, and I would be stuck in back regretting the loaf of bread that I single-handedly would eat by myself. Low and behold, table 40 gets sat, and Seat Four was doing just the trick. After a few minutes, I had already made up my mind that Seat Four was going to know by the end of his lunch that I was interested, and that it would be in his best interest to either take my number, or leave his.

Considering he wasn't sitting at one of my tables, I had to coerce one of the other servers to pass along the message. Taking into account the fact that all of us weren't amused by the lack of guests coming through the door, this wasn't a difficult task to achieve.  Meanwhile, one of the bartenders and I were making inappropriate jokes and comparing penis sizes to a Pellegrino bottle to pass the time. Finally, the server dropped the bomb and told Seat Four that one of the servers was interested to know if he was single. Seat Four asked, "Which one?" Two seconds later, 7 pairs of eyes were on me. After channeling my inner giddy school girl and running out back to hide in the kitchen, my buddy came back to deliver the verdict. He was taken... Womp wompppp. You win some you lose some.

An hour later, after table 40 had come and gone, their server walked up to me and handed me a credit card slip. "I think this is for you," he said. Seat Four had left his number. Well well well, look who decided to show up and play ball anyway. Not like I was all that surprised. Let's face it, I'm hot shit. Now, before the home wrecker comments start flowing, bear in mind, I didn't ask for this. Like loads of guys, he decided to stick his neck out there; most likely because he isn't entirely happy with the situation that he's in. No judgement here. Did that mean I was going to call him? Nope. The minute I heard he was taken, I had written him off.

Later that night, Chay texted me. "So, this dude I play basketball with said he was at your restaurant today and the waiter said that one waitress thought he was cute and that he left his number." Jesus tap dancing Christ, can this city get any smaller? Am I being Punk'd? Where's Ashton? Does every hot guy in the city play basketball at Sports Club LA? Thankfully, Chay is one of the chillest hookups on the planet and had no intention of blowing up my spot. Not like it really mattered. If this guy wanted to judge me based on my past hookups, while trying to hang out with me rocking a ball and chain, he's probably not a dude I would want to be spending my time with. "Do you want me to hook it up?" he asked. After about .2 seconds of debate.. "Sure, why not?"

Then I thought, what is my dating life coming to, that I need to grab drinks with a guy who is emotionally unavailable? After comparing notes with my long-time friend, H, we came up with a theory that the men in Boston have driven us to doing this. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? We're young, viable, and ready to get our date on. So, what is stopping us?! Is it because we have been seeing a lot of the same when it comes to the selection of men in this city? (To be fair, I don't think the majority of the women in Boston offer a whole lot of differentiation, either. See what I did there guys? I'm sympathizing with you, too.) Maybe I'm just too awesome to date? Is it my intelligence, beauty and undeniably charming wit that are my demise? It has to be every guy's fault in this city that I'm not dating a perfect 10 by now, right? Mmm, probably not. I know that minute I start blaming other people for my dating failures, I will then have to credit them with my successes down the road. And that's not happening. Looks like I'll just have to keep fishing. I'll try a few different lures and get back to you.

In the meantime, I'll be eating, drinking, and working around the city, while trying to find the answers to life's persistent questions.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Stride of Pride

Walking downtown this morning wearing last night’s outfit made me feel more victorious than shameful. Just an hour before, I was having morning sex and topping it off with a ham, egg, and cheese sandwich and some daytime television with my newest distraction, Chay. He is one of those guys that just makes casual sex so simple. Friends with benefits can get complicated, and the last thing you want to do is get mixed up in a physical situation where only one person starts developing feelings for the other. I haven’t known Chay long enough to say that he definitely won’t start liking me (because let’s face it, I’m so darn charming), but I have a feeling this has been his MO in the past, so I’m not worried.

There are a few rules that comes with generating a friends with benefits relationships, though:

Rule #1: Keep yourself clean.
Ladies, the minute you stop shaving your box, brushing your teeth before morning sex, and all of the other maintenance that is associated with looking like the hot piece of ass I know you are, he will loose interest and stop booty calling you, which defeats the purpose of a “sex only” relationship! On that note: Guys, if she takes the time to shower right before she comes over to your place, channel your inner vagenius and thank her... with your mouth. Other than that, just keep it together down there. “Manscaping” isn’t just a word they use in Cosmo and we don’t want to have to dig through the Amazon to get to your goodies.

Rule #2: Try new things.
A FWB relationship is not the time to be shy in bed. You want to know what it’s like to get choked, have a finger stuck where it hasn’t been before, or bring guacamole into the bedroom? Well, now is the time to grab the bull by the horns, and get a little weird. You might be thinking “Double you tee eff, why would I do all this crazy stuff with someone I don’t even know?” Just remember, one of the best parts of having a f-buddy is that the bedroom is a judgement free zone. So do yourself a favor and invest in some lube, edible underwear, and maybe a whip or two. Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it, right?

Rule #3: Leave your emotions at the door.
For most of you reading this, I know this goes without saying. But for the few crazies out there who actively try to generate relationships from sexual encounters, listen up. It doesn’t work! This mostly pertains to women because let’s face it, Crazy Bitch wasn’t written about a 25-year-old, male, financial advisor. So ladies, if you can’t take the heat, throw your skinny jeans back on and high tail it out of the bedroom because you are ruining it for the rest of us who can successfully maintain a casual sexual relationship. And gentlemen, the minute you ask me out for dinner, to cuddle, or if I am seeing anyone else, it’s over. I have no qualms about kicking your emotional ass to the curb.

With that said, wish me luck on my latest endeavor. I’m taking an emotional hiatus from Triathlete for a little while, so I’m going to need all the sex I can get in the meantime. Keep your fingers crossed that Chay turns out to be the f-buddy I know he can, and when I tell him to make me climax 5 times in one night, he says “challenge accepted”.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Justin Timberlake: Soundtrack To My Life

In honor of JT coming out with some new music, I can't help but let his songs be the soundtrack to my weekend. Totally Justified, right? (See what I did there?)

"What Goes Around Comes Around"
Thursday night, it was off to Liberty for a few drinks. After staying over Triathlete's all week, I thought it was about time that I had a girls night with S and C. What started out as an innocent evening, slowly turned into the parade of the ghosts of hookups past. Yikes. Harvard and Iceland both ended up being at Alibi, and between them, my girlfriends, and their guy friends, I was being pulled in about a thousand directions. Isn't it funny, the minute you start liking someone and become less and less available, the dating universe throws you a curve ball, or in my case, two. Iceland was easy to blow off, but Harvard was looking gooooood. I mean, REAL good. As my friends recall, I disappeared for about 30 minutes to go talk to Harvard in the lobby. Our hips were glued together the entire time, and I was having a tough time keeping myself vertical (and not because of the three shots I had had just prior). After literally dry humping while standing up, I snapped myself out of his sexy Jedi mind trick and walked my ass back into the bar. Crisis averted. Even though Triathlete and I weren't dating officially, subconsciously I knew I would have felt bad if I went home with Harvard. Damn, listen to me, when the hell did I get a conscience?

C and I at Alibi

"Love, Sex, Magic"
After another few hours of flirting with a hot medical device professional from Maine, I still couldn't get my mind off of Triathlete. "Well, he lives right down the street, why don't I just go there?" I thought. After a pep talk from one of my guy friends telling me to just call him and tell him I was coming over, I called him, at 1:56am.. classy. Next thing I knew, the sun was up, and I was getting ready to head to work. In the rush of things, I paused, kneeled on his bed, and took a deep breath. "I'm just going to throw this out there... you don't have to throw it back, or reciprocate, but I want to tell you something. I like you." Why the hell am I telling him at the ass crack of dawn that I like him? Is he even fully awake? Maybe this was my way of telling him with the hope that it might not register and I can just run out of there and go to work... While I'm thinking all of this and still babbling like brook, he responded, "Well, I like you too." Phew, now I won't vomit all over my shoes the minute I step outside of his apartment. 

"Ayotechnology"
After a crazy morning and a day full of errands, I hadn't heard from Triathlete all day. Shit. It was 9pm and we had plans to pop open the bottle of champagne I had bought for him for his birthday earlier that week, yet I hadn't heard from him. So, I called S and we went out for a friend's birthday instead. I might like him, but I will not be caught dead calling a guy first on the night that we have plans. He has a cell phone, thumbs, and the capacity to spell "what's up", so ball was in his court. Still nothing. What the hell? Guys are so freaking weird. As much as I know how to manipulate them to take me out to dinner, buy me a drink, or into bed with me, I don't get them! After a few more bars, I chalked it up to a misunderstanding, kept my mouth shut, and went home.

"Seniorita"
By the time I got home, I was not a happy camper. How on Earth did I end up going home alone? This is not how a Friday night is supposed to work, ever. I'm horny, pissed off, and sitting on my bed without someones hand up my shirt. Looks like it's time to break out the proverbial little black book. I was mad, so I went for the heavy hitter, the sure thing, the guy I know who would cuddle with me and not have sex with me, my ex. I know what you're thinking, BAD MOVE.. I know, I know. Desperate times call for desperate measures. No more than two minutes later, I was in a cab on my way to Allston. After a big hug, that felt so familiar, some string cheese, and chit chat, we were snuggled up in bed, and while I wasn't feeling 100% better, it was pretty damn close. Sometimes, even stone cold bitches need to be held, too. Okay?

"Sexy Back"
I spent the whole next day with the ex watching football and eating wings; our typical playoff season ritual. Once 8 o'clock rolled around, I knew it was time to high tail my ass out of there. After a full day of his friends throwing me sideways glances (because I had broken up with him), he knew it was time for me to go, too. Once I got home, I rallied and put on one of the sexiest dresses I have. Long sleeve leather, backless, and short (my crotch wasn't hanging out, but I was one misstep from pulling a Britney). If this doesn't get me laid tonight, I don't know what will! It was S's birthday party at a bar in Back Bay, and I was about to put on my game face, strut my stuff, and hopefully sweep the cobwebs out of my vajayjay. Yes, two days without sex is a long time...

"Cry Me a River"
But who decides to text me??? Low and behold, Triathlete's phone does work! "What are you up to?" That's it? That's all you have to say for yourself? UGH. Bartender, Patron please... leave the bottle.

"I'm out," I responded. If you have a problem with that response, cry me a freaking river. I don't care. I ended up staying out until 4am with S, and after a couple of opportunities to get laid, I still went home alone.

Crap, I really do like this guy.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

A Healthy Serving of Awkward

January is notoriously slow in the service industry, so often times we are forced to make our own fun to pass the time. This typically means that aggressive sexual jokes amongst the staff are made, you flirt with your tables even if they are two 40-something suits, or you find yourself parading an 8lb lobsters around the restaurant.

My pet lobster, Shelly

At this kind of job, you have to have some pretty thick skin. More shifts than not, I am typically surrounded by almost all male servers, who enjoy nothing more than the idea of making me uncomfortable. If you haven't learned already, it's pretty difficult to make me squirm, so it's usually just them asking me to make out, slapping my ass, and using food in every sexual way possible. Just guess how many clam references I heard the other day... Yesterday's conversation topics ranged from anal sex, to gangbangs, to the size of our manager's ass and whether that constitutes as the perfect bum. Typical.

When it comes to actually waiting on tables (which is the thing that happens in between our conversations, sexual harassment, and plain old goofing off), we're all experienced enough that we have it down to a science. It's not often that you will find any of us getting flustered by a table. If a few guests are being difficult, we typically laugh about it and send a manager to the table to smooth things over. There are a few situations, though, that even a manager doesn't have control over.

Campers: At the end of the night, it's that group of buddies, or those two guys in a business meeting at 10PM, who refuse to leave. The strategy to get them to haul ass out of there without sacrificing your tip? Clear everything off of their table, stop filling their water glasses, try to grab the unpaid check off of the table, and if all else fails, stare at them. They usually get the idea. And for future reference, if you are one of those people, move to the bar. The bartender have to stay until close, and you're usually keeping your server from going home, even after you have paid your check. This isn't a coffee shop or a conference room, so don't treat it that way.

Next, The Bitch: Every once and a while you get that one table where you can't do anything right according to "the bitch". Even if you send a manager over, forget it, most of the time you're getting a 10% tip. I've had tables that have talked down to me telling me that "their purse is worth more than I'll make in a month", or "how could I possibly know what a $200 bottle of wine tastes like?" Look, asshole, just because I'm not sitting at the table next to you, doesn't mean I'm any less of a person. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've got moral fiber for days compared to you, purely because you said something that superficial. So, instead of buttering up that table, I usually just go back to the kitchen and convince one of the line cooks to make me something yummy because unlike my screwed up guests, I actually get to eat like this everyday.

The person who is allergic to everything: Why bother going out to eat? Oh, you're allergic to gluten, nuts, coconut oil, and shellfish? Who on god's green earth told you it was a good idea to go to a seafood restaurant? Not only is it a pain in the ass for the kitchen, you're holding your entire table's food up because you couldn't brown paper bag it and save everyone the trouble. The worst part is, it's usually the people with these allergies who feel the most entitled to expedient service. You know how many more steps we have to go through in order to cover our asses in case you have an allergic reaction? A LOT. If you have a major special request, sorry amigo, it's going to take a little more time.

Today... was a little more interesting than usual.

"Mangria", one of the locals, was perched up at his usual spot on the bar. We got to talking and he mentioned how I probably don't like to date black guys. (He couldn't be more wrong.) Just as I was mentioning how I used to date a guy of the chocolate persuasion... he walked by. No joke. We'll call him George (Foreman). George and I had a brief stint back at the beginning of Fall. We had a bit of a falling out when I found out he was seeing someone else. I have no problem dating more than one person at a time, obviously, but it ended up being someone that I knew, so I elected to opt out of that sticky situation. Low and behold, Mangria knew George and invited him in. Usually, I love to let awkward situations just wash over me, but this is one I would have preferred to avoid.

Without any hesitation, I sauntered over to George and gave him a big hug. "Wow, hey, forgot you worked here blah blah blah," he said. "You look great blah blah blah, how have you been blah blah blah, we should grab lunch blah blah blah..." Yeah, whatever George, you had your chance. While I'd love to stay and chat, I have better things to do, like pick up a bottle of Veuve for Triathlete's birthday today, and then get laid. Have a nice life bro. Second chances are a luxury I rarely pass out.

That's just another reminder of how small this city really is.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

The Lengths We Go To...

Let's be honest, most women in Boston go into "hibernating mode" once the temperature hits below 40 degrees. They don't shave their legs, they replace heels with Uggs, curl up on the couch instead of go to the gym, and they skip a few steps getting ready in the morning. Like a true babe, I take advantage of this phenomenon and put in the extra effort to look top notch. Think about it, while everyone else is cutting corners, I'm strapping on my high-heeled boots, blowing out my hair, taking extra time on my makeup, and hitting the gym more days than not. Why compete in the Summer, when I am guaranteed a shutout in the Winter? I know, I'm a genius.

Some of you might consider this shallow. You might say, "So, now you're just attracting more guys who only care about looks..." (For the record, that's more guys than you're attracting sitting on your couch at home watching RHOBH) In a way, yes, it is shallow. BUT, at least I am giving myself a fighting chance with the opposite sex at all! They see right through your chapstick, flat boots, and pulled back hair, all the way to me in my heels, well-dressed physique, and expertly glossed lips. Sorry ladies, that's just how the world works. First impressions matter, regardless of what the weather is like outside. You don't like the rules of the game? Enjoy the single life. Quoting a legend here: "Love is a battlefield" and your moral compass isn't changing the way society thinks about dating anytime soon.

My friend E, who is a dating/image consulting professional, took me under her wing today to help me take my look to the next level. The game plan: hair extensions. Up until today, I had never considered wearing hair extensions, let alone buying them. We walked into a sketchy beauty supply store on the corner of Mass Ave. and Washington, complete with wigs that would make a drag queen blush. E maneuvered me through the sea of hair to the back counter, exchanged a few words with the clerk, and no more than two minutes later, she was back with hair extensions that matched my hair color.

What was I getting myself into? Am I seriously about to clip someone elses hair into my head? When did this become the new norm? And what if I want to have a sleepover with a shallow suitor? When do I take the extensions out? Do I have to start doing other crazy beauty stuff now, too? I seriously am in no mood to think about bedazzling my vagina, wearing chicken cutlets in my bra, or bleaching my you know what!

Once my mini panic attack subsided, I sucked it up and bought the extensions. And damn, they look good. Ladies, I highly recommend giving it a try if you haven't yet. My best advice: have someone show you how to put them in and style them. I would have looked like that orange girl on The Bachelor if it wasn't for E, and I am forever grateful!

On a quick side note: One of my roommates has jury duty and won't be at the apartment all week. I started my happy dance before she was even out the door! Now, I just have to find out how to successfully have the other roommate kidnapped and I will be able to keep my sanity for 5 whole days! I have a crisp Benjamin and a big ol' kiss for whoever is willing...

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

How Did I Manage to Piss of the Roommate Gods This Bad?

Sundays are supposed to be relaxing and full of awesome things like brunch, maybe some gym time, football, and just lounging around the apartment with no obligation to look good for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, the awful roommate saga continues, and I am not as lucky as most of you. The roommate gods are pissed at me for sexiling my freshman roommate all of those years ago, and they just now have decided to take revenge in the form of two 24 year old nightmares.

One Sunday, I woke up and stepped on a vodka gummy bear that was stuck to the floor right outside my bedroom door. When I turned the corner they were plastered all over the walls, on the couch, and down the stairs to our front door. Was there some sort of vodka gummy bear dodgeball tournament I wasn't aware of? My favorite socks have never been the same. On another, I was woken up by the sound of my hungover roommate vomming in the bathroom. Apparently, she's allergic to alcohol (or something), and always gets really awful hangovers. But, she says getting blacked out the night before is totally worth it. Can we say, priority clusterfuck? And on the most recent, I was bombarded by text messages at 3AM from the people who live downstairs saying that it was too loud the night before. Lucky for me, I'm never there, and I can reply with a "Sorry to hear that, here's their numbers so you can call them next time..." Because, let's be very clear, I am no one's babysitter.

In an effort to confront them about it, they simply replied, "And what do you want us to do about it?" I'm sorry, are you twelve? Be an adult and go make peace before they have us all evicted!

Even during the week, tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum manage to push my buttons. Just the other day I was doing their dishes (because they had been in the sink for four days), and I put something away on the middle shelf. No less than an hour later, roomzilla is bitching and moaning that the bowl is too high for her to reach, and I should really think about her next time I'm putting the (read:their) dishes away. COME ON! Really? You can't think of anything better to complain about? You mean the smell of my hairspray isn't bothering you today? Are you sure the time I decide to watch TV isn't too inconvenient for you? Is the fact that I don't want any of your friends using my nice wine glasses still too stuck up for you? (Even after you have broken 4 of them?) [Insert a string of offensive expletives here]

Evidence

The worst part is, they don't even compensate their horrible attitude with making an effort to look good. Yet, they still get laid! As much as I love to see Tad, the chubby regular from Stadium or Stats taking a piss in the bathroom at 10AM, I'd prefer if you kick these winners out of bed before nature hits me up in the morning. What do these guys (mind you, they aren't that great) see in these girls? They have the same dress from H&M in ten colors and it doesn't even look good on them. Their idea of putting make up on would make a prostitute from Roxbury chuckle. Their topics of conversation range from the subtle differences between Bud Light and Keystone to what emoji should they be using in the group text with so-and-so. I know, heavy stuff. On top of all of that, their voices are so annoying, I think Fran Drescher would want to slap them.

Seriously, what is the world coming too where this is acceptable, let alone screwable?

Alright roommate gods, I get it! Lesson learned. I will never again agree to live with roommates who I met on Craigslist. I really am sorry for those sexiling incidents in college. Can't you just forgive me already and show me how to get out of my lease? Or at least send me a subletter. Please? (On that note, is anyone looking for a room to rent in Southie?... Just kidding.)

Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

P.S. Pardon my bitch fest.

Lord of the Ring Cutters

The weather was so balmy yesterday I nearly considered going on my roof deck and sunbathing... not really, but you get my point. Instead, I slept in (at Triathlete's place) and managed to drag myself over to G2O Spa and Salon for a nice massage and facial. I popped over to Madewell for a new shirt, and I was ready to go for my date with Triathlete later that night. He asked me what kind of Thai food I wanted, and after consulting with S and C, the obvious choice was pad thai. Apparently, duck pad thai wasn't on the menu, but he managed to get them to make it anyway. Such a gent!

Triathlete and I met randomly from a guy friend of mine a few weeks ago. Once we started hanging out, it was obvious that we meshed really well together. There were about four days where we didn't spend a whole lot of time apart, or out of bed for that matter. Getting pad thai last night was the first time where we had successfully managed to eat together, aside from BBQ chicken pizza after hours from down the street, or when he made me breakfast in bed the first time I slept over. After dinner, we skipped down to the local liquor store, grabbed a bottle of Pinotage and rounded out the evening how we typically do, if you catch my drift.

The real adventure started the next morning.

I woke up and my left hand was throbbing. Low and behold, the ring that I had shoved onto my middle finger last night just before heading over to Triathlete's place was jammed and my finger was a deep purple. I glanced over at the clock and it was only 7:00AM. Quickly, I ducked into the bathroom and tried the old soap and water trick. No luck. Next, I tried some Windex. No bueno. Well, I thought, maybe if I ice it and keep it elevated for half an hour, that'll put the swelling down.

As I'm lying on the couch praying for my finger to become half the size that it was (and stop looking like one of Barney's private parts), Triathlete's roommate comes waltzing in. We'll call his roommate MJ. MJ is a San Diego transplant who has an affinity for sneakers, pants that are just a little too tight, perfectly coiffed hair, and getting stoned (hence the nickname). One of my more recent memories with him was one night when Triathlete and I were going at it, and at some point he left the room only to realize MJ was Skyping the whole encounter with one of their good friends in China, obviously stoned. We both found the whole thing hilarious, and even asked him how the "show" was the next morning. While MJ is pretty easygoing, I can't help feel bad for the guy. Triathlete and I have been monopolizing the apartment at all hours of the day because we can't seem to keep our hands off of each other. So seeing me on the couch at 7:45 in the morning with frozen brussel sprouts wrapped around my finger, probably wasn't what he was hoping for.

8:15 rolled around and I was making little to no progress on the situation. I crawled back into bed, snuggled up to Triathlete and then broke the news, "Hey, so, I think I might need to call the fire department to get this ring off of my finger..." (Having worked in Public Service for sometime, I know that EMS and BFD have ring cutters with them, so no need to make a trip to MGH.) "What?" he mumbled. How silly of me to expect he would be coherent enough to grasp the concept of some guy in a firefighter uniform sawing a hunk of metal (very stylish, might I add), off of my hand. After clarifying and a few visual aids, he got the idea.

EMS showed up about 10 minutes later, prepared to cut the ring off. Only, my finger was too swollen. Perfect. An hour and a half later, I had three supervising doctors at MGH using three different ring cutters to get the damn thing off. Luckily, one of the doctors was cool enough to slip me some pain medication, which made the situation a little more bearable. Once it was off and the discharge papers were signed, I was in Triathlete's bed within 15 minutes. Now that I was back in commission, and MJ was at the gym, we were back to our normal string of events. Sleep, morning sex, breakfast. Not a bad routine, if I do say so myself.

Ring Carnage

Moral of the story: You actually can get a lot done before noon on a Saturday morning. Who knew? Just look at me, I acknowledged an injury, heard about MJ's romp with Tyler Seguin's ex-girlfriend, met two EMS employees, had a casual trip down to MGH, fooled around, and managed to house a plate of huevos rancheros from Paramount all before the clock switched to PM. Can't promise I will productive like this every Saturday morning, but I can't help bragging just a little.

The Rise and Fall (and Rise Again) of the Harvard Empire

I finagled myself out of work and into a girls night with K last night. K, is one of those girlfriends that I instantly knew was a soul mate. We met about a year ago and after several girl talk sessions in her hot tub (and more than a few bottles of wine) we became fast friends. She helped me through my breakup, and I've been listening as she gushes about the love of her life (we'll call him Mr. Big), who she hasn't managed to tell that she likes. Even though, let's be honest, they both know it! Luckily, Mr. Big hasn't been around the Bean lately, which has been doing wonders for her sex life. I'm a little envious of the fact that she has three dates in the next four days. Needless to say, I've been meaning to give her a swift slap on the ass and a big ol' "atta girl".

Aside from that, she's an event planner, and we've been to god knows how many events together this past year. The most recent was Sumeria, which is where I happened to meet Harvard. So, before the entire first season of Sex and the City, our massive amounts of Haribo candy, and what seemed like a very spiritual reading of Cosmo, I had to tell her about my Harvard escapade.

Girl's Night Essentials

Note: This is not my first experience with a Harvard man. Apparently, somewhere inside me (my ass presumably) there is a magnet for Harvard grads. While the idea of dating a Crimson was always appealing to me in the early years of college (on those nights where I would go to the best final club of the moment in hopes of landing my next victim), I hadn't really thought about it since I broke up with my ex. Funny enough, the very first guy who I hooked up with after my breakup ended up being a South African, Harvard alumni, who was on the rowing team, and was now an engineer for a company in Cambridge. Yes ladies, he is as good as he sounds. Unfortunately, you can't get your paws on him, he's taken now.

So back to Sumeria. K and I arrived in style with a group of our girlfriends (S and C were there as well), and it's safe to say, we started out the night with a few drinks. More like 8. But that's neither here nor there. At some point in the night, K used her event planning ways to get us up to the DJ booth. From there I spotted a tall blond with a smile that could melt Antarctica, who I made my mission for the evening. I waved to K, and told her that was who I would be hanging out with for the rest of the night. She pointed out the slightly anorexic looking girl he was dancing with, and told me it looked like he came with a date. And I was supposed to care about this because...? 

So while K was up in the booth flirting with one of the other event planners, I shimmied my way down the steps and through the crowd. Before I knew it, I was directly behind Harvard. I grabbed his hand, made eye contact and walked away. So casual. Five minutes later he was knocking down my dance space, and I figured then was as good a time as any to introduce myself. Well, the introduction soon led to making out, which led to making a very swift decision to not end the night there. In the Uber ride back to his place, he told me a little about his background (including that he went to Harvard, which I didn't care to believe at the time). I'm pretty sure I responded with, "Oh yeah, and I'm Kate Middleton." Lucky for me, sarcasm was also his first language and we got along swimmingly for the rest of the ride.

As soon as we were through the front door at his place, it was all over. We had the kitchen counter christened within the first five minutes, and I hadn't even taken my shoes off yet. His California king, tempurpedic bed served as the playground for the rest of the evening, where we managed three rounds and about an hour of decent conversation. 3:00AM struck and I knew it was about time to head out of there and back home. Harvard didn't like this idea and convinced me to stay until at least 7:00. So I did, with one stipulation: "You cuddle with me, I'm out of here." He laughed and obliged.

7:00AM rolled around and I scurried to find my clothes and get out of there. I went into the bedroom, kissed him on the forehead and thanked him for a fun night. As I was almost out of dodge, I heard him say "Wait, you don't even want to know my last name or my phone number?"

"Not really," I replied. Seriously, can't a girl just leave her emotions at the door every once and a while? Knowing that I had hurt Harvard's ego, I followed up with, "Is this your convoluted way of asking me for my number?"

"Yes," he said. So, with that, I grabbed his phone, plugged in my digits, and hightailed it out of there. And now, the rest is history.


Laughing at the balls I apparently grew that fateful morning, K slipped me a high five and a handful of chocolate covered gummy bears. Yes... this was going to be a good girl's night.

Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

Please Dear God, No More Mister "Nice Guy"

I have a problem. I am too nice and I have expensive taste. What do those two things have in common, you ask? Well, they both make my dating life a little more difficult.

I have been seeing "Nice Guy" for only a couple weeks. He actually asked me out while I was working as a server. There may have been a whipped cream incident, and I might have made fun of the fact that he has no taste in beer, but for some reason he still felt compelled to ask me out. So, of course, I pull a typical babe move and say, why the hell not? The worst that could happen is that he turns out to be a weirdo and I get a free meal out of it.

We had a whirlwind first three dates, which included pizza, beer and watching the game, learning how to trapeze, and getting drunk at the Oak Room and climbing on statues on Comm Ave. (that's legal, right?). Nice Guy is super intelligent, has a good head on his shoulders, a great job, and doesn't mind being a little spontaneous with me. The problem: I'm pretty sure I can bench press more than this guy, and attractive isn't really the word I would use to describe him... For the love of sweet baby Jesus, can't there just be a hot hunk of lovin' who is exactly like this guy? As far as I'm concerned, this breed of man is harder to find than a pair of Isabel Marant sneakers.

So, last night we were hanging out in his apartment. After a bottle of Trimbach Gewurztraminer and an entire box of Mallomars, we got to kissing. And in between smooches he was trying to convince me to spend the night. (All I have done is kiss this guy, primarily because I can't get myself over the fact that I just don't find him good looking in the least.) After subtly telling him that I should probably go home, he pulled back and dropped a one-liner on me that I was not prepared for: "Do you find me physically attractive?". Oh shit, now what? This is when the "too nice" and "expensive taste" problems kick in...

If I tell Nice Guy I don't think he is attractive, I'm going to crush the guy and what little ego he has. And, on top of that, I don't remember the last time I casually drank a great bottle of wine with a cheese assortment from Formaggio Kitchen on a Tuesday night. 

"Of course I think you are," I say. But, inside my head all I can hear is "This guy just got really obnoxiously needy. Who asks if you are phsyically attracted to them? Doesn't he like me enough not to annoy me with these awful questions? Hashtag, single girl problems!"



Luckily, that one little sentence put all of his doubts at bay and he reluctantly drove me home. As I walked through the front door and up the stairs to my Southie apartment, all I could do was kick myself. This is the epitome of a dating "pickle". I have yet to find an Emily Post appropriate way to get out of a situation like this, and usually the way I end up dealing with it results in a lot of unanswered text messages and phone calls. Do I feel bad? Yes. But should I subject myself to some unwanted smooches for a good meal once a week? Absolutely not. This is where I decide to draw the line between dating and whoring myself out.

And on the positive side, this leaves a little more time for Triathlete and Harvard to prove that they aren't just good looking, but have a killer attitude to boot.

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston

2013: Year of the Babe

I am sitting in my bed, curled up in my down coat and fur hat (because my awful roommates refuse to turn the heat on), trying to find the words to describe this past year. With my chapstick woefully out of reach, I can't help but laugh at all of the first world problems that I have managed to bitch and moan about in 2012. "I have to move (twice), I broke up with my boyfriend, dating sucks, I can't manage to loose those last five pounds..." yadda yadda yadda. Seriously, if I wasn't so fun to hang out with, I would hate me.

With that in mind, I have decided that 2013 is going to be the "year of the babe". Yep, that's right, it's all about me. Sorry, I'm not sorry.

Some of my friends have called me "the most interesting woman in the world", and I intend to keep it that way. So with that said, you might need a little background on me before the year gets started. About six months ago I went through a tough, yet amicable, breakup. Since then, I have been on a spree of spontaneous acts that have brought me on crazy dates, to obscene parties, and even back down to earth for a reality check, or two. I have found myself living in Southie with some pretty terrible roommates, who I met on Craigslist (what was I thinking?). It's taken me a little while, but I have found a group of girlfriends who are a lot of fun (and thankfully have good heads on their shoulders). We'll call them E, K, S, C, and H. I have dated guys who have run the gamete of nicknames including (but not limited to): Pants, George Foreman, Iceland, Triathlete, Nice Guy, Gobble Gobble, and Harvard. Triathlete, Nice Guy, and Harvard have managed to stick around somehow, but Triathlete lives up to his nickname and has been slowly pulling ahead for a few weeks now.

When I'm not blogging/tweeting, shopping, eating, drinking, working out, or studying, I have been working in the service industry to do things like pay rent, buy champagne, and keep my closet full of things that I will only wear once or twice. While it is not the most glamorous job, I truly feel like I have a "work family". I've worked a gazillion jobs and the workplace camaraderie is the best I have seen in a very long time. (For those of you who are wondering, I'm a server/bartender at a restaurant in the Back Bay area.)

Somehow, I always manage to get myself wrapped up in the craziest adventures. Whether it be trips to Lake George this past summer, relatively spontaneous one-day escapades to Vegas (coming up this weekend), hosting backstage at Boston Fashion Week, or even just being silly and climbing on all of the statues on Comm Ave (not an easy feat mind you), I always manage to have a good time. There may have even been an incident where I attempted to swan dive into the infinity pool outside of the Christian Science Center... we won't go there just yet.

So, what can you expect to see in this blog? Everything from fashion, sex, wine, friendship, and adventure. Sound like something you're interested in? Super, keep coming back for more...

'Til next time,

A Babe In Boston