The Spring Break Diet

The final count down is upon us. With five days left until Spring Break, my house has become a delivery post for Victoria’s Secret Bikini’s and Nasty Gal dresses; and tomorrow morning we are expecting four shipments of “The Blueprint Cleanse” on our doorstep. Trainers have been hired, appointments booked and The Food Network banned entirely, all for the sake of looking our best (read: not fat in Facebook photos) for five days on the beaches of Mexico.

            I haven’t eaten a carb in three weeks, and am on day 18 of a strict exercise regimen—but I am still one of the least prepared for the looming vacation. I have seen girls starving themselves and powering through two-a-days at the gym; and those are just the ones who are trying to do it the “healthy” way. Rumor has it that there are girls wearing bikinis under their clothes at Yates for “inspiration,” and the more hardcore ladies have turned to the adderoll/cigarette/coffee diet to slim down. Even a group of my guy friends joined a yoga studio (not Down Dog… that would be far too public) to get in shape, and more than a few of them have asked us girls for tips on how to get a base tan.

            I will be the first to admit it: what we are putting ourselves through is freaking miserable. The months of starving, the incessant exercising, the primping and the new wardrobe all seem extravagant when you consider that the whole vacation is only 8 days long. The worst part about it, though, is how much everyone lets their obsession with losing weight for the beach interfere with their lives. They have given up nights out to avoid alcohol calories, and I can guarantee that Tuscany’s monthly earnings have plummeted.  Plus, it’s all anyone wants to talk about. Dinner table conversations have shifted from the usual gossip to incessant calorie counting, and the whole thing is stressful and depressing.

            I am just as guilty as everyone else for this type of psychotic behavior, but I think we all need to take a breath and make sure we aren’t letting ourselves get carried away. I know that these next five days are a time for juice fasts and two hour elliptical sessions, but it’s important not to drive ourselves crazy over five days at the beach. I have heard so many thin, beautiful girls beating themselves up over “losing these last five pounds before break,” and watched more than a few break down over being in front of a boy in a bikini. Just try to remember (and I will, too) that regardless of what happens between now and your vacation, the minute you hit the beach (with a margarita in hand) it won’t matter.

            Here’s to counting the minutes to a post-break pizza party. 

Why doesn't anyone want to late night with us?

I never knew what "Late Nighting" was until last spring-- my sixth semester in college, to be exact. As an underage drinker, I would always get to the bar early, when I knew the bouncer would be easier on my fake ID (Naima from West Virginia, you ethnic goddess sent from heaven, thank you.). An 11pm arrival, combined with the fact that I still had yet to learn how much alcohol I could consume without dying, usually meant that I was blacked out and "home" from the bars around 1am. I use the term "home" loosely, as my older, heavier-weight boyfriend would often return to his house around 3:00 to find me passed out in his bed spooning an empty bag of Quick Pita (I really wonder why things didn't work out between us).

When I got back from abroad last January, an allllllllmost 21-year-old single woman, my nightly habits changed quite a bit. Suddenly, I was drinking more responsibly (read: diluting my vodka drinks with Sugar Free Redbull) and was thus able to stay awake long after the Rhino lights came on. And so I discovered the beauty of the "Late Night."

The first time I stayed at Rhino until close (seriously, it was at the end of junior year) I became a member of a new routine that I have performed every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night since: the upstairs lights come on and everyone moves downstairs as slowly as possible. Then, everyone stands by the door until Sweet Caroline comes on, we all sing along, and then the night is officially over. We turn to each other and ask "Where are we going????" and attempt to figure out our next move (after we all get food, obviously).

Late nighting, truthfully, is my favorite part of a night out. All the best stuff happens after 2am, especially when this "stuff" includes Tuscany Pizza, Natty Light and 90's pop hits. Trying to make out with a boy? Bring him to late night. Trying to get rid of a boy? Bring him to late night.

The best late night The Coop (a name I gave to my house a year ago that has yet to catch on) has ever thrown involved a drug dealer named DJ (who was looking for, not selling, drugs-- he left disappointed), a flasher, a large Domino's pizza and six jars of Queso smashed on our back porch.

Seriously, the possibilities are endless.

This leads me to my question, and the root of this post: Why doesn't anyone want to late night with us?

For the past umpteen weekends, myself and all of my (super hot) roommates have stood on the Rhino stairs shouting "LATE NIGHT AT OUR HOUSE!!!!!" inviting anyone and everyone in Georgetown to come hang out with us.

Without fail, no one shows up.

We have all the makings of a good party: food, beer, girls, music... we even invested in a strobe light.

And yet, every night, the six of us end up falling asleep alone over a half-eaten (ok. fully eaten.) box of cheesy bread.

Last weekend, two of our guy friends showed up, but they promptly fell asleep too.

So, if anyone in Georgetown is reading this, please come late night with us this weekend. We promise to provide beer and good company, and will do our best to stay awake. Seriously-- you're invited. (Unless you're DJ the Drug Dealer... he is unanimously banned.)

Why I Stopped Writing

I stopped blogging for a really, really long time after a potential employer called my work "offensive and unprofessional" when I showed it to her after an interview. I was so embarrassed  I deleted the e-mail immediately and never told anyone about it (seriously, this is the first time I've even admitted it to myself). The whole thing made me question the kind of writer I want to be, and for the last year I have been trying to find a new voice that hopefully wouldn't repulse anyone trying to hire me.

The problem, though, is that my voice is who I am. I am honest and crude and sometimes say things that make people judgmental or uncomfortable-- but at least I am entertaining. I have been warned against becoming the "next Taylor Swift" who publishes her feelings for all to see, and have been asked by boys I've hooked up with to "promise not to write about them." While I can swear to maintain the anonymity of these boys (trust me, in most cases I would prefer to forget their names), I can't pledge not to laugh publicly at their expense. I get myself into a lot of terrible situations, both with boys and otherwise, and really the only way to deal with them is to laugh about them and hope that others laugh along with me.

Watch this video, which a friend sent to me after my own similar sexual mishap, and realize that if Louis CK's wife can forgive him for this-- anyone out there will eventually  find it in their hearts to forgive me, too.

In the spirit of my last semester of college, I pledge to blog regularly and honestly, and hope not to offend any of my readers (do any of you still exist??) along the way.

Welcome to Senior Spring

Laying in my twin bed, coming off of the first Rhino Wednesday (is that still a thing?) of the Spring, I am really, genuinely happy.

True, spring syllabus week is always one of the best times of the year. Everyone is tan, rested and happy, and has forgotten about how much they hated each other during their caffeine-induced finals week misery. Nobody has work yet, and all we really have to do is get drunk and say "How was your break?!?!??!" for nine days straight.

But still, this time things feel different.

When I first walked into the bar, a girl a barely know had 40 tequila shots lined up on the bar and was handing them out to every senior she could find. Then, I split the rest of the night reminiscing with my freshman year best friend and making up with my freshman year worst enemy.

Everyone, regardless of who they've been for the last four years or who they plan to be in six months, has the same "let's-make-this-count" attitude, and I am seriously, seriously into it.

It's The End of The World As We Know It

Congratulations, everyone. December 21st came and went, and we are all still here. The sun hasn't exploded, and our laptops haven't turned into robot-minded monsters with the ability to come to life and rip us to shreds. Sorry, Mayans, but you were totally, totally wrong.

I will admit, though-- there was something rather exhilarating about life in the days leading up to the "end of the world." True, I never actually thought that we were all going to end up as zombies, scouring the earth for human flesh and canned peaches, but I also wasn't 100% convinced that the whole thing was made up. Did I think the world was seriously going to end? No. But did I behave like it was going to, just in case? Yes.

#HoyaYOLO

In short, I believed what I wanted to believe about 12/21/12-- a luxury that proved very convenient in the days leading up. Studying for finals? Not worth it-- the world was going to end before final grades were posted, anyway. No job for next year? Who cares-- we'll all be dead by Christmas. A boy I like? Better kiss him before the apocalypse!

I know how dramatic this sounds; but starting my last semester of college feels sort of like the end of the world. Obviously, I'm not crazy enough to think that the world is actually going to end on graduation day. But the truth is, come May 19th, life as I know it will be over. I will be forced to move out of the house I have lived in for two years, away from my best friends, into the harsh reality of no longer being supported by my parents.  I know, I know-- I will grow up and adjust and figure out that the real world isn't so bad. I hope. But right now, it's the same "walking into the unknown" feeling that so many of us had in December of this year.

It is with this, this fear and anxiety and excitement, that I vow to live my final semester the same way I lived out the end of 2012; with an uninhibited, who-gives-a-shit-because-the-world-is-ending mindset. It was this kind of thinking that made 2012 the year of YOLO, a concept that became all the more pertinent as the "end" grew closer. In the words of my wise best friend, YOCO-- You only college once. Thus, my spring will be a season of minimal consequence, full of late nights and new experiences and kisses with inappropriate boys who I will never have to see again.


2013, I am going to live you like the sun is about to explode.

St. Patrick's Day

My ethnicity has always been a really confusing thing for me. And for others. Mostly, I have no idea how to answer the question, "What ARE you?" because secretly, I don't really know. So I make things up.  Seriously-- pick a continent and I can convince you I have relatives there. The only one people don't believe is the one that's actually true: despite my curly brown hair and racial ambiguity, I'm half Irish. So yesterday, to prove my dedication to both my Irish heritage and to being college student, I celebrated the number one drinking holiday of the year: St. Patrick's Day.

The morning started with pitchers at Booey's and a darty in our neighbors back yard. Everything was going great until around 3 o'clock. While I was at Booey's for round two, the party got broken up. Instead of filing out with the rest of the crowd, some drunk freshman thought it would be a better idea to hop the fence. Into our back yard. Through a glass table. When I came home from lunch, I found a fire truck in front of our house and 12 police men cleaning blood off of our porch. My roommates were nowhere to be found.

Once the police left, we went back to the neighbors and the remaining five party guests did keg stands. My personal choice was a gargoyle, which I gave to myself. At this point, one of my roommates realized that she had traded t-shirts with a boy, and had now lost her fourth shirt this month. None of which, by the way, were in any way related to a hook up. I have to hand it to her though, taking off her top in the middle of the party was a pretty good way to get the boy's attention. (Side note-- If anyone has seen a sheer white crop top, call us.)

After this picture was taken, we made up
 a secret handshake. #Goldfinger

We then headed over to a house that I still don't know who lives in. They were playing "Call Me Maybe" on repeat and dancing on the kitchen table, so I knew it was my scene. Again, things were going great until we heard the lovely, familiar sound of shattering glass. Someone accidentally punched a whole through the window while attempting to fist pump. Because this didn't seem like a sufficient amount of damage, someone else punched through the other window to make things look more symmetrical. Boys will be boys! We patched up the holes with inserts from a rack of Natty and continued on our merry way.

Somehow, we all made it to Rhino. We spent the entire evening dancing in a circle while a group of Mexican men watched and participated periodically. One of my roommates (surprisingly NOT the one that was topless at the Darty) opted to throw out her stickie boobs half way through the night and go braless in a white shirt-- which actually might explain the crowd we attracted.

When we all got home circa 3:30, we proceeded to eat everything in our house and text everyone we know to come over to late night. Only one boy showed up, and brought an unidentified, tuxedo clad drug dealer with him. He was promptly asked to leave, but not before the braless roommate shouted "FORYOUREYESONLY" and flashed him.

Once everything had settled down, a group of bike cops showed up and tried to arrest us for throwing fire crackers. Obviously, we weren't, because as we told them-- we are girls. Girls don't detonate fireworks. When we convinced them that we were, in fact, female, (Casey's pajama choice didn't help much) we invited them in for wine and hummus.


It was a really weird day, which ended with a group of us smashing wine bottles into our back yard (Pledges, come over at some point today to clean up) and thanks to head cameras, someone caught it all on film.

Zo Gets a Tattoo

As if this blog wasn't enough to ensure that I never get a job, I have managed to find yet another way to scare off potential employers. Surprise Dad! I got a tattoo. (Seriously, he doesn't know. Don't tell him.)

I've always wanted to get one, but I never really thought about it as a serious possibility. I mean, I'm a little Jewish girl. I have no business being anywhere near a tattoo parlor. But last Friday morning, I decided I was going to do it. Of course, I immediately told everyone I know. Considering I am absolutely terrified of men with tattoos (ironic, right?), I needed to find someone to chaperone me. My guy friends, who are all apparently total babies about needles, thought I was completely full of shit and refused to come with me. So, one rainy, hungover Friday morning, I dragged my four best friends with me to get a tattoo.

My Tattoo!*

We walked into the place three times (once before breakfast, once after breakfast and once after breakfast#2) before I worked up the courage to ask for an appointment. Based on the people in the waiting room, four of whom had those creepy expandable earrings in their earlobes, I could tell that we were not their usual clientele. Five loud, hungover college students in Nantucket/Georgetown/Chatham sweatshirts-- we didn't exactly fit in. Nevertheless, I got up the nerve to go talk to the guy at the counter (who had a lip ring, an eyebrow ring and one of those nose rings I associate with South American bulls) and show him the picture of what I wanted. He was surprisingly nice, considering how lame my request was compared to the 8-inch snake he had inked on his bicep.

He told me I would have to come back in a few hours, once they had finished up the "Starry Night" mural they were drawing on some girl's back (WHAT WAS I DOING IN THIS PLACE?!?). So, the five of us trekked our way home in the rain and I twiddled my thumbs until 4 o'clock. During this weird lag time, my sister, my mom and my friends tried to talk me out of doing it. But, because I had already told everyone what I was doing (I'll admit it, for attention), I figured I couldn't chicken out.

Finally, 4pm came around and we all waddled back to M Street in our Hunter boots. The man with the huge ear holes (gauges, I think?) ushered me back into the studio, but informed me that my "posse" would have to wait outside.

Holy. Shit.

So, there I was, all alone in the back of a tattoo parlor lying on a surgical table next to a girl bleeding out of her back in the shape of a Vincent Van Gogh painting. Somehow, though, I managed to go through with it.

It didn't hurt at all, and so far I don't regret it. So far. For anyone who knows me, good luck trying to track it down!






*KIDDING