Wicked Good Fun

There’s a reason Eve bit that apple. Giving in to temptation feels good—whether it’s a taste of forbidden fruit, a shriek of “Yankees suck!” or the pop of a lid of indecently priced skin cream. Indulging our inner bad boy (or girl) doesn’t just sate our appetites. There’s the added spice of knowing that Mom might not approve.

That’s why life’s biggest thrills are sometimes the guiltiest. Bite into a giant greasy burger, slip into an $850 bathrobe, or just spend the day watching other people work. We won’t tell. Here’s how to commit the Seven Deadly Sins around our town—and how to love every wicked step on the road to damnation.


5-pound hamburger At Eagle’s Deli, 5 pounds of meat, 20 slices of cheese, and 20 strips of bacon make for one whopping burger, called the Chillerama. No wonder the Travel Channel named this Boston College institution in Cleveland Circle one of the world’s best places to pig out. ($50, 1918 Beacon St., Brighton, 617-731-3232)

20-scoop ice cream sundae The Ben & Jerry’s VerMonster consists of 20 scoops of ice cream, four bananas, three chocolate-chip cookies, one fudge brownie, four ladles of hot fudge, 18 scoops of toppings, and lots of whipped cream. And it all has to be consumed in one sitting, since the feeding trough it comes in won’t fit into your freezer. ($32, 174 Newbury St., Boston, 617-536-5456, and other locations; www.benandjerrys.com)

48-ounce steak If you can finish a 72-ounce steak, a tossed salad, a shrimp cocktail, a buttered roll, and a baked potato in an hour at the Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo, Texas, your meal is free. Morton’s has no such offer for its 48-ounce porterhouse, which is really just as well: It’s meant to be savored at your leisure. ($84, 699 Boylston St., Boston, 617-266-5858)

2½ pounds of barbecued meat Redbones’s BBQ Belt, a.k.a. the “Wall of Meat,” is an overflowing plate of Memphis pork ribs, Arkansas pork ribs, and Texas beef ribs, plus beef brisket, beans, coleslaw, and hearty cornbread. ($16.99, 55 Chester St., Somerville, 617-628-2200)

11-inch slice of pizza New York Pizza’s 22-inch pies are cut into just six slices, making each as big as three slices from the typical pizzeria. And at $2.25 a pop, they’re the best gut-busting deal in town. (224 Tremont St., Boston, 617-482-3459)

Mile-High Nachos Coolidge Corner Clubhouse’s Mile-High Nachos could feed half the residents of Denver. It’s a plate of corn tortilla chips layered with a pound and a half of cheddar and Monterey jack cheese, topped with guacamole, jalapeños, sour cream, chili, and salsa. Olé! ($11.95, 307 Harvard St., Brookline, 617-566-4948)

48-ounce beer You’ve got to love a beer glass so big it comes with a stand. Sunset Grill & Tap’s yard of brew can be any of the 112 beers on tap. ($17.95 and up, 130 Brighton Ave., Allston, 617-254-1331)

890-calorie lobster casserole Loaded with chunks of meat, the lobster casserole at Legal Sea Foods is a hefty heap buried under a handful of buttery crumbs with your choice of cream cheese or sherry cream sauce. Even with a side of steamed broccoli, it’s not exactly health food. ($32.95, 26 Park Place, Boston, 617-426-4444)

704-calorie white-chocolate challah bread pudding Each batch of this decadent dessert at Figs contains seven egg yolks, 3 cups of cream, and 10 ounces of white chocolate. Dense challah bread is soaked in the batter, baked, and then dusted with powdered sugar. ($6.95, 67 Main St., Charlestown, 617-742-3447; 92 Central St., Wellesley, 781-237-5788)

476-calorie frisée aux lardoons Eastern Standard tops a tart, bitter base of frisée greens with a poached egg. Fried sweetbreads, bacon lardoons, and oil-sheened hazelnuts make each bite rich, salty, and utterly, delectably unsalad-like. ($11, 528 Commonwealth Ave., Boston, 617-532-9100)

2,300-calorie stuffed double-baked potato The twice-baked potato at Fleming’s is filled with 1½ ounces of pancetta and 2 ounces of smoked cheddar cheese—not to mention mashed potatoes, cream, and butter. ($7.50, 217 Stuart St., Boston, 617-292-0808)

810-calorie Train Wreck Fries Imagine a plate of French fries instead of nachos, smothered in Monterey jack cheese, chunks of bacon, sliced jalapeños, and globs of sour cream. The handcut skinny fries are barely wide enough to hold the toppings, but somehow the plate always comes up clean. ($7, Ashmont Grill, 555 Talbot Ave., Dorchester, 617-825-4300)

$120 Egg McMuffin The Metropolitan Club has reinvented the classic American breakfast fix by topping a homemade English muffin with two perfectly poached eggs, melted Manchego cheese, Serrano ham, and a generous spoonful of hollandaise ($10 so far). Add aromatic truffles ($20) and/or a half ounce of osetra caviar (market price about $90) and you have a true breakfast of kings. (1210 Boylston St. [Rte. 9], Chestnut Hill, 617-731-0600)

$110 surf ’n’ turf Oak Room chef Jeremy Langemann pairs the tail of a 2-pound lobster with a 10-ounce Kobe beef steak from Idaho’s revered Snake River Farms. A cross between the Japanese Wagyu breed and the American Black Angus, Kobe beef is both intensely flavored and supremely tender. (Fairmont Copley Hotel, 138 St. James Ave., Boston, 617-267-5300)

$35–$45 appetizer (market price) Piballes, or baby glass eels, arrive live in an oxygenated bag. Then they’re sautéed in Spanish olive oil, sliced garlic, and a pinch of Espelette pepper, and tossed with red surf clams, lemon juice, and chives. The result: an exotic dish that tastes remarkably like ultrafresh linguini with clam sauce. (Clio at the Eliot Hotel, 370 Commonwealth Ave., Boston, 617-536-7200)

$645 glass of scotch This vintage bottling is one of only 348 ever produced. Matured in oak and later in sherry wood, Macallan 1951 scotch has the aroma of green apple and lemon with a hint of peat, and goes down like velvet. (The Federalist, 15 Beacon St., Boston, 617-670-2515)


Dainty types who need to vent can take a whack or two at a punching bag in the Sports Club/LA’s kickboxing class, but to truly blow off steam, Thai boxing is your most reliable release. Grittier than kung fu yet more elegant than whacking someone with a 2-by-4, it’s one of the styles ultimate fighters learn. Practice sessions at the Boston Muay Thai Academy start with a vigorous warmup (stretching, jumping rope, pushups), followed by punch-and-kick techniques, shadowboxing, punching-bag work, and, eventually, sparring. Sparring with real, punchable human beings. This gym is not for the weak-kneed: Fighters range from hopeful beginners to hardened competitive pros. Some students call it addictive; we call it therapy. (The Sports Club/LA, 4 Avery St., Boston, 617-375-8200, www.thesportsclubla.com; Boston Muay Thai Academy, 527 Columbia Rd., Dorchester, 617-288-3988, www.bostonmuaythai.com)

Driving in Boston is many things—a cliché, a source of civic shame, an act of Darwinian selection. Largely, though, it’s a shortcut to red, finger-flipping anger. Most of us do our best to avoid road rage, but sometimes it can be downright therapeutic to wallow in our dark side—to cut somebody off or sneak ahead of other cars at the last second in true Masshole style. Yield at on-ramps? Stop at a red light? Use a turn signal? Screw it—there’s no fun in being a wuss.

If you want to really piss off your fellow motorists, there are a few prime spots in which to execute your classic bad-Boston-driver moves. The intersection of Arlington and Stuart streets and Columbus Avenue at the Park Plaza during morning rush hour is the perfect storm of hotel, school, and commuter traffic. Both mornings and evenings are hell at Kosciuszko Circle in South Boston, where too many people are trying to merge onto the Southeast Expressway and Morrissey Boulevard (remember, yielding at rotaries is optional). On Southampton Street off the Mass. Ave. Connector, cited by acting Transportation Commissioner Tom Tinlin as one of the worst stretches of pavement in the city, take a shortcut through the parking lot of the South Bay Center, then push your way back into the line of cars waiting to merge onto the expressway a quarter of a mile ahead. Or there’s always the pièce de résistance: double-parking during rush hour.

Wanna get your blood boil-ing? The local tabloid’s got your fix. Mitt Romney bashing Massachusetts to cornfed conservatives in Iowa. Manny Ramirez whining again about wanting to be dealt out of town. Judges setting perverts free. Heroin addicts shooting up in parks. Then there are the unsolved murders, fourth-quarter interceptions, crooked politicians, inept cronies, leaky tunnels, bad trades, botched investigations, and sweetheart deals. Page after page . . . of . . . temple-pounding . . . anger. And we haven’t even mentioned Howie Carr. (800-882-1211, www.bostonherald.com)


A luxury hotel is full of extravagances, some of them surprisingly racy. At Nine Zero, handy “intimacy kits” include Pjur Eros (a German lubricating gel), antiseptic towelettes, and “vibra-ribbed” lubricated latex condoms. These come standard in every room, so an awkward phone call to the concierge won’t disturb the heat of the moment.

The Langham Hotel’s “Ultimate Aphrodisiac Kit” is more oriented to creating the moment than consummating it. It contains champagne, bubble bath, chocolate, and strawberries (or the sexy foodstuff of your preference—strangely, burgers are among the most popular choices). Imagination really is the limit. Forget to pack the whipped cream and girlie mags? The Langham offers a 24-hour concierge service that will bring you and your playmate(s) whatever you require to complete a night’s diversions. (Nine Zero Hotel, 90 Tremont St., Boston, 617-772-5800, www.ninezero.com; Langham Hotel Boston, 250 Franklin St., Boston, 617-451-1900, www.langhamhotels.com)

From a man’s perspective, it’s a genuine pleasure to look at lingerie. But shopping for it can be unnerving. The suspicious stares, the blank looks of the sales assistants—it gets to the point where a sensuous fantasy in lace feels more like a mark of perversion. Women, it seems, don’t like strange gentlemen handling their panties.

That’s why unaccompanied males ought not risk it. So bring your significant other when visiting Newbury Street’s Lingerie Studio. The walls of this long, narrow shop are hung with frilly unmentionables, and there’s nowhere for even a discreet male presence to hide itself. An open floor plan, too, confronts the brave souls who risk entering La Perla without a feminine escort. It’s all a guy can do to avert his eyes from the tasteful yet scantily clad mannequins. Fortunately, both stores have sites on the Web, where most men may be more used to looking at naughty images anyway. (Lingerie Studio, 264 Newbury St., Boston, 617-437-0700, www.lingeriestudio.com; La Perla, 250 Boylston St., Boston, 617-423-5709, www.laperla.com)

Long ago, Middle Eastern belly dancing was used in goddess-worship ceremonies; the sinuous movements, it was believed, helped prepare women’s bodies for childbirth. The skimpy outfits and public performances were a later bastardization, a dose of modern tawdriness. And a good thing, too, we say. Today’s belly dancers inflame their audiences with seductive patterns such as hip lifts, drops, and thrusts; delicate step-and-hop combinations; flowing arm movements; and the ever popular high-speed shimmy. The moves are designed around the natural actions of a woman’s body—which means even the most uncoordinated movers and shakers need only a few lessons before they’re ready to give a private performance. (Call to preregister for belly dancing lessons at the Dance Complex, 536 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge, 617-547-9363, www.dancecomplex.org.)

If ever there was an honest name for a bar, it's the Rack. The Faneuil Hall pool hall/club/pickup joint employs the most attractive female waitstaff this side of a $20 cover charge. Wearing their sex appeal on their sculpted midriffs, they're friendlier than the colder beauties of, say, Mistral, and less tacky than the good ladies of Hooters. They've even got a live webcam pointed at the bar, so you can ogle without ever having to order a specialty martini. (The Rack, 24 Clinton St., Boston, 617-725-1051, www.therackboston.com)


$165,000 pen: Heaven forbid you take a Bic to your high-society stationery. Instead, employ the most opulent writing instrument around, the Montblanc Bohème Royal, a white gold-platinum fountain pen inlaid with 1,430 small sparkling diamonds. (Montblanc, Copley Place, Boston, 617-267-8700)

$425 wallet: Got a wad of cash? You can't very well jam it into an overstuffed Kate Spade knockoff. Marc Jacobs's quilted leather version is large enough to hold all your bills and plastic, and comes in timeless colors such as deep blue, cream, and black. The polished gold buckle clasp is the icing on the patent leather cake. (Marc Jacobs, 81 Newbury St., Boston, 617-425-0707)

$1,980 sunglasses: You deserve something better than shades off the rack at Walgreens. Morgenthal Frederics's Gold & Wood glasses boast white gold frames and diamond-embossed buffalo-horn temples. Beauty and UV protection in one stunning package. (Louis Boston, 234 Berkeley St., Boston, 617-262-6100)

$44,000 cell phone: The mobile phone has become so ubiquitous, it's hard to walk down your own driveway without hearing people yapping away. Separate yourself from the flip-phone crowd with an exclusive Vertu, the cellular staple of megamoguls and A-listers everywhere. The company's Signature cell is a masterpiece of sapphire crystal, platinum, and ceramic. Made with NASA-like technology, it's unrivaled and (virtually) unbreakable. (Bang & Olufsen, 30 Newbury St., Boston, 617-262-4949)

$1,200 face cream: Crème de la Mer may look like Granny's night cream, but at nearly $75 an ounce, this is the beauty biz's premier wrinkle-fighting potion. No wonder: Its überthick, ultraintense formula smooths rough skin faster than you can say “Botox.” (16-ounce jar available at Saks Fifth Avenue, Prudential Center, Boston, 617-262-8500)

$4,610 sheet set: We might never know the reasoning behind L. Dennis Kozlowski's $6,000 shower curtain, but Pratesi's softer-than-silk Donna Fugata linen-and-lace king sheets we totally understand. So get greedy and splurge on something you can slip into each night—no explanations (or recriminations) necessary. (Pratesi, 110 Newbury St., Boston, 617-262-5998)

$850 bathrobe: Speaking of slipping into something: La Perla's hedonistic silk numbers reek of sexy sophistication and (surprise!) don't sacrifice comfort for style. Muted hues such as cream, peach, and lavender and small details like embroidered lace make the coverups worth the cost. (La Perla, 250 Boylston St., Boston, 617-423-5709)

$225 umbrella: Junk that $10 plastic number and embrace some posh wet-weather gear. Start at Burberry, the arbiter of all things subtly chic, and pick up the brand's classic plaid canvas-and-leather umbrella. Sure, it's pricey, but stain-free tops and frizz-free hair are priceless. (Burberry, 2 Newbury St., Boston, 617-236-1000)

$300 blow dryer: All women know it's impossible to replicate a perfect salon blow-out at home. All women, that is, except those who own a T3 Evolution. Though it may be unhealthy for your wallet, the T3—built with tourmaline crystals that give off negative ions and infrared heat that seal in moisture and protect cuticles—is heaven for your hair. (Sephora, Prudential Center, Boston, 617-262-4200)

$3,199 coffeemaker: When Dunkin' Donuts coffee doesn't cut it, plug in the Jura-Capresso Impressa Z5 and prepare yourself for a high-octane experience. With the press of a button, you can create a frothy cappuccino, rich latte, or steamed milk. Just looking for a great cup of joe? The Z5 is programmed to make five different strengths of coffee—at three different temperatures. (Williams-Sonoma, Atrium Mall, Chestnut Hill, 617-928-0158, and other locations)

$1,180 sandals: This spring pamper your feet (and impress your friends) with Louis Vuitton's Luxueuse slides. The shoes come in black or ecru satin, with 10-centimeter steel-cage heels bejeweled with sparkling turquoise, amber, and yellow stones. Talk about diamonds on the soles of your . . . sandals. (Louis Vuitton, Copley Place, Boston, 617-437-6519)

$40,350 man's watch: The Rolex Oyster Perpetual Day Date is an all-platinum, water-resistant Rolls Royce of a timepiece that comes with a diamond-studded dial and recharges itself while you go about your day. The only thing more dizzyingly fab may be the $112,000 version, which is completely covered in diamonds and so exclusive that only a few men in the world wear one. (Shreve, Crump & Low, 440 Boylston St., Boston, 617-267-9100)

$125,000 ring: Wear Kattan's emerald-cut 7.22-carat stunner—complete with diamond baguettes—as an engagement bauble that says your man really loves you.

Better yet, make Hubby spring for it as an anniversary present and wear it as a right-hand ring that screams “disposable income.” (Alpha Omega, 1380 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge, 617-864-1227)


We love the Red Sox too much. No other sports team—not even our excellent Patriots—can bring Bostonians to the same rabid, shuddering heights of passion. No matter how proud we may be of our culture, our history, and our new Jimmy Choo store, none of that's worth a wad of Trot Nixon's chaw. We have seen the graven image, and it looks like a World Series trophy.

To score prized Fenway tickets, otherwise strait-laced citizens will go to shameless lengths, dropping both legal qualms and little Johnny's college fund (it'll be worth it if he catches a foul ball!) to buy scalped tickets from the fat guys milling around Kenmore Station on game days. It's telling that the only crimes every Bostonian is happy to countenance are speeding and scalping.

Those wanting to flaunt both Sox pride and disposable income gravitate toward field boxes catered to by personal servers. With unobstructed views, these are usually considered to be the finest seats in the park. But nuts to that. Ever since they put seats on top of the Green Monster, we can't think of a better place from which to watch a game. Face-value tickets range from $25 for standing room up to $130 for a seat in the front row. Plus (and this is our favorite part), grandstand sections 32 and 33, located down the left-field line next to the Monster, are alcohol free. So we can get all lubed up and not only boo opposing outfielders, but also (literally) talk down to the sober people in the cheap seats. Nothing makes us feel as self-important as talking down to someone. (Official channels: 617-482-4769 or redsox.com. Unofficial: Try www.aceticket.com, www.stubhub.com, www.ticketsnow.com, or www.ebay.com.)

They call it dropping the H-Bomb: the awkward answer to the unassuming question “So, where do you go to school?” Many Harvard students, trying to sound blasé about it, will simply mumble “in Cambridge.” But the rest of us can see through this. “Harvard” is the password to a club most of us can never join, and, even more so than Crimson students and alums, the parents of Harvard undergrads bask in it, wearing their pride like, well, a hooded Harvard sweatshirt.

Since boastfulness this fierce does not come easy—nine out of 10 kids who apply get that heartbreakingly skinny envelope with the rejection letter—status-seeking moms and dads will gladly chuck their egalitarian pretenses to give their spawn an edge. They obtain the services of private admissions counselors like Keith Berman, president of Cambridge's Options for College. “Fifty percent of admission is based on what your child has been doing for the past 17 years,” he says. The other half? we ask with bated breath, a few Benjamins at the ready. “It's how he presents himself on the application.” So it's never too early to start on the squash and sitar lessons, though we recommend the tykes be out of diapers first. (617-372-5313, www.optionsforcollege.com)

Not all postal routing numbers are created equal. A ZIP code is shorthand for a person's income, sensibilities, and choice of neighbors—and residents of these locales take particular pride in flashing their return address:

02138 (Harvard Square) carries a clubby whiff of postgraduate degrees, liberal credentials, and money.

02130 (Jamaica Plain) is out and proud about its multiculturalism, ecofriendliness, and lefty rep.

02446 (Brookline) implies good public schools, good public transportation, and lots of private money.

02467 (Chestnut Hill) is all that plus The Country Club. It's likely where your doctor lives.

02481 (Wellesley) boasts clean streets, ample square footage, and a “W,” just like its neighbor Weston (02493). Oh, and money.

02127 (South Boston) trumpets working-class credibility, vibrant Gaelicism, and many newly renovated condos.

02554 (Nantucket) suggests a salty, Brahmin flavor, one that's pro-nature, but anti-alternative-energy-projects. Also, lots of money. The summer address of choice.

02108 (Beacon Hill) says cobbled streets, famous neighbors, and impossible prestige. And money, money, money.


The media went nuts when Manny Ramirez put his penthouse condo at the Ritz on the market in November—and not because we wanted to know whether the star slugger was about to split town. What we were dying to see was what $6.9 million buys at one of Boston's most rarified addresses. The answer: 4,421 square feet with four bedrooms, six bathrooms, a wraparound balcony overlooking Boston Common, a gourmet chef's kitchen, two fireplaces, three garage parking spots, herringbone wood floors, and a landscaped roof terrace. Thirty-seven floors up, it's heaven for the privileged.

The Ritz is just one of a handful of new luxury condo developments changing our skyline. Join us as we gaze upward, our jaws slack, at three of the most envy-inspiring addresses.

Ritz Carlton Towers: According to the folks at the Ritz, one of the best reasons to buy a condo there is not famous neighbors like Ramirez but rather the “prestige of living at the Ritz-Carlton.” For us, the pleasures would be the floor-to-ceiling windows, the polished cherry floors, Viking and Subzero appliances, and Poggenpohl kitchen décor. Then there's the concierge button that allows you to connect with housekeeping at the touch of a finger, the private butlers, and the two daycare centers where residents can leave their kids while they work out downstairs at the Sports Club/LA. (The Residences at the Ritz-Carlton Towers, 1 and 3 Avery St., Boston, 617-542-1555,  www.millenniumptrs.com)

Mandarin Oriental: Set to open late next year or in early 2008, the Mandarin Oriental residences will be the condo equivalent of gold-plated caviar. The 50 units come with private parking, up-to-11-foot ceilings, balconies, fireplaces, and access to all the amenities of a five-star hotel, and many have private terraces. All but one of the $2 million-plus apartments have already been sold (to such local heavyweights as David Mugar, Chad Gifford, and Herb Chambers); it can still be had for $3.5 million. (Mandarin Oriental, Boylston Street at the Prudential Center, Boston, 617-566-4500, x301, www.mandarinresidences.com)

Battery Wharf: On the harbor near the North End, Battery Wharf boasts 104 luxury condos, some with water views, all with 24-hour room, concierge, valet, laundry, dry cleaning, and shoeshine service, as well as parking and full-service pet care. Smaller than the Mandarin's, the Wharf's apartments range from 900 to 3,200 square feet, but the penurious need not apply—they cost up to $4.2 million each. Residents will share a state-of-the-art spa and fitness center with the adjacent Regent Hotel, and can—of course—park their yachts at the Battery Wharf's docks. (Battery Wharf, 377-395 Commercial St., Boston, 617-994-9090, www.batterywharf.com)


There's a place that's Big Rock Candy Mountain and Shangri-la rolled up in a psychiatrist's prescription pad. A place where there is no trouble, far from spreadsheets and pink slips and yipping imps in tailored suits. A place where the crowds drain into gutters, where everything is made of Belgian chocolate, and where there's no such thing as a Registry of Motor Vehicles.

You have that place within yourself. It's called “slacking off.” And in the vale of tears we call the modern American economy, it's the surest chance you have for happiness.

But how to do it? It's easy to suggest a regimen of low stress and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. For us earnest, hard-working Yankees, it's much harder to follow one. The rub here is responsibility: The more you have, the more obstacles lie in the way of sloth. Of happiness. You have to clear away these responsibilities like so much Texas brush. Of course they'll grow back, but life is short and the joy of digital cable is fleeting. The perfect state of nature is horizontal—legs out and belly up before the television, one hand in a tub of something ranch flavored, the other on a quart of beer (with a catheter to pipe away the byproduct). Loose pants or none at all.

That is a true rejection of responsibility. That is the American Dream.

To reject responsibility, you'll need two things:

1. A friend or relation in elected office.

2. A job that involves working for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

If you lack those, obtain these five things:

1. A telephone.

2. A master remote control.

3. A generously stocked liquor cabinet.

4. Ice.

5. Privacy.

Now you're ready to begin shedding responsibilities. With a glass of something flammable in hand, determine what it is, exactly, you must not achieve. What chore can you absolutely not tolerate? Grocery-shopping weigh in your gut? Painting the walls put you off-color? Decide what it is that you positively must not get done, then don't do it.

And here's how not to do it. We're going to save you the trouble of even planning how to weasel out of your chores, or at least how to pawn them off on someone else.

8 a.m. Piss off, world. Time to call in sick.

10 a.m. Arise, dear soul, and let the sun caress you into gentle wakefulness.

10:15 a.m. The doorbell rings, interrupting your first nap. Answer the door for the good people from Crystal Clean (617-834-6729), a professional housecleaning service that you've hired to disinfect your abode. As they get to work cleaning out the gutters and dusting the moldings around the ceiling, you return to bed.

10:30 a.m. They've made the bed, damn them.

11 a.m. Ed and Chantal Boxer of Fini Concierge arrive (617-247-0043, www.finiconcierge.com). At $38 to $50 an hour, they perform whatever unbearable tasks you demand: waiting in line at the post office, taking Rex to the vet, filling out Grandma's Medicaid forms. Today you've hired them to make soothing ocean noises while mixing up a day's supply of delicious fruit margaritas.

Noon Who would have thought Maury Povich still had a job?

12:30 p.m. Lunch is delivered by Real Meals (617-629-7325, www.realmeals2u.com), a father-son team who prepare homemade dishes and pack them into insulated cooler bags, ready for heating. Slow-cooked boneless beef rib with thyme in a red wine sauce, for instance. Entrées range from $9 to $13; sides, $4 to $7.

1:30 p.m. Time to get a little air. Have Fini Concierge bring you some.

2:30 p.m. Susan Mullins, your personal shopper (617-437-0490, www.susanstyle.com), arrives to size you up and inject your wardrobe with a dose of professional good taste. For $200 a day (cost of clothing not included), she'll assemble all the outfits you require. Considering you're now on the short road to a state of lumpen vegetation, you request a designer sweatsuit.

4 p.m. Is it happy hour yet? You bet it is.

5 p.m. Feeling the encroachment of bedsores, you pull yourself off the sofa and waddle to the fridge. The door feels heavy. You must get Fini Concierge to replace it with a lighter one.

6 p.m. Your personal chef arrives, pans and ingredients in tow (Artisan Fare, 781-662-0985, www.artisanfare.com; De Cuzine, 617-867-4620, www.decuzine.com; A Fresh Endeavor, 781-860-0222, www.afreshendeavor.com). For about $350, you've hired him to prepare a week's worth of meals—such as Dijon-crusted lamb—all ready to eat. You pour a glass of pinot grigio and watch him sweat.

8 p.m. That vicarious sweating wore you out. After dinner, you decide to log a few hours of quality prime-time television viewing. God bless Dancing with the Stars.

10:10 p.m. Doze off to the dulcet voice of Channel 25 news anchor Maria Stephanos describing a quadruple shotgun slaying.

11 p.m. Sit bolt upright, your eyes wide with horror. You just had a nightmare that tomorrow's a workday. Thank God it was only a dream . . .

8 a.m. Call in sick.

Source URL: http://www.bostonmagazine.com/2006/05/wicked-good-fun/