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

House of Hoarder Hell

My friends are not the most responsible group of girls in the world. We once accidentally lost a girl for 15 hours in a foreign country, and consistently wake up having to ask ourselves "what the hell did we do last night?" Last year, our apartments were constantly riddled with empty beer cans and take-out containers, which made our emotional eating and drinking habits awkwardly obvious to visitors. We like to throw parties, and instead of cleaning up after ourselves we tend to sit around watching Friends and moaning about our hangovers (Whatever. We're in College.). All of this should have made it evident, both to us and to our parents, that we should NOT, under any circumstances, be allowed to live in a house unsupervised.

When I walked into my house in Georgetown a few weeks ago, all of this immediately became alarmingly clear. The entire house was trashed-- I kid you not, it was like walking onto the set of "Hoarders." By the time I got there, my roommates and their mom's had cracked a bottle (or 4) of wine and got to work on trying to make the place livable. We spent the rest of the night (until it was an appropriate time to go to Rhino) drinking and throwing away other people's things, all the while listening to our moms judging us for agreeing to live in squalor.

During the initial cleanup, we found:

9 unidentified articles of boys clothing
A backpack containing a lone box of tampons
13 empty DVD cases
A book that belonged to someone who lived here 9 years ago
A closet full of bedding, garbage and clothing
3 tennis rackets
A Volley Ball Net
2 broken TV's
Spoiled milk in the Fridge
A box of Condoms
A broken printer
A bike that had been spray painted neon pink
A broken electric guitar
A disco ball

We also had no internet or cable, as our bill (and maybe our rent?) apparently hadn't been paid in months. There was mail for tenants that haven't lived here since the 90's, and the only decoration was a poster that said "JERSEY FRESH," who's origin no one knew. Our kitchen had more rat poison than it did pots/pans (apparently we have a rat named Benjamin?) and 19 of our lightbulbs were burned out. My room, which is in the basement, was conveniently hit with a 3-foot flood in September. Some of the furniture (and previous tenant's crap) was moved out, but most of it was left in a soggy mess shoved into a storage closet. There were two random mattresses, which my mom was convinced had bed bugs and INSISTED we throw out, along with 2 broken dressers and what appeared to be a blood stained carpet.


Talk about home sweet home!!

Luckily, Our friend Matt brought this over
to make the place more homey. I don't know
where we got the flashlight or DVD's though.

PS- If anyone in Georgetown is missing anything, you probably left it at our house. And we probably threw it away.

Zo Buys a Bra

Today, as a way of spending quality time together, my mom suggested that she, my sister and I go bra shopping. Although my sister and I were taking bets on who would end up crying in the dressing room first (it always happens, and it's always me), we both really needed new bras: my 3 year old hand me down snapped in half last week, and she hasn’t owned a properly fitting bra since she was 13.

Not unlike my Saturday morning

I have to preface this story by admitting to the world that I have NO boobs.  Although I wore a C-cup until I turned 16, I’ve been down to an A ever since I cut out carbs. I have learned to accept that I will never be able to use my cleavage as a means of getting free drinks, and that I will forever be limited to dating “ass guys” instead of “boobs guys.”  I get made fun of a lot, and my ex used to tell me that if we ever got married he would buy me a set of implants as a wedding present (thank God that didn’t work out). Because of this, I asked my parents for a boob job for my high school graduation. Considering that I didn’t need a nose job—the Jewish girl’s rite of passage—it seemed like a valid request. When I went in for a consultation, the plastic surgeon told me that because I was so thin, I would look ridiculous with implants. While I am pretty sure my parents paid him to say this, I walked out of his office with a new confidence and a promise to return when I start Botox treatments in 10 years. Since I am now forced to work with what nature is willing to give me (which is nothing), a good bra is crucial. I normally opt for the biggest push-up/padding combination I can find, and pray that the lights are off if ever someone else is to remove it (rare).

So brings us to mother/daughter bra shopping.

When the three of us walked into Intimacy, we were immediately ushered into a dressing room by a woman named Susan. I recognized Susan from the posters in the front of the store, on which she identified herself as “The Bra Whisperer.” Needless to say, there was no hope of the two of us getting along. Every bra she showed us cost $100+ and looked like it was made for Helen Miran—I did not see anything that would look appropriate lying on someone’s floor after a night at Rhino. I was very forward in sharing these sentiments with Susan, who did not appreciate the fact that I would “rather buy an ill fitting Body By Victoria bra than any of her geriatric European crap.” Because Susan used the term “back fat” in my presence, I decided I was going to boycott the whole thing and refuse to let her touch me. Despite my valiant stand, I still had to sit there and be supportive while she fondled my sister and tried to convince her to buy ugly old lady bras.

This is Susan: The Bra Whisperer. Google her.

After checking out my sisters tats, Susan disappeared and came back with a few bras, all sized 34-C. Considering my sister has even smaller boobs than I do, I laughed in Susan’s face. This woman had to be kidding. Somehow though, she was right—the bras all fit perfectly. When I realized this meant my sister would be wearing a bigger cup size than me, I opted to reconsider my protest and let Susan feel me up. After not laughing at my joke about owing me a drink for allowing her to get to second base, Susan smugly informed me that I am not, as I had originally believed, a 34-A.

I AM A 30-D.

Although Susan may be operating on her own sizing system (especially because she measured my mom as a 34-DDD, which is gross), I don’t care. I am now the proud owner of two 30-D bras— and only one of them looks like it was passed down from my grandmother. Thanks to “The Bra Whisperer,” today was the best mother/daughter experience my mom, my sister and I have ever had—especially because we all went up three cup sizes. Apparently, nothing says family bonding like buying matching bras and getting groped by a stranger with a faulty tape measurer.

One Zo and a Baby

We are now on day two of what my sister has lovingly named "Zoe's birth control promotion week." I am currently out in LA celebrating my nephew Max's first birthday-- which means spending every day, 7am to 7pm (approximately the time I pass out from exhaustion), with a toddler. Right now, I am watching him try to eat dog food:

Until Max was born, I had never really known a baby. I don't have any younger cousins, and I was only 2 when my little brother was born. The first time we were ever left alone together, I hit him over the head with a whiffle ball bat. I have only ever babysat once: my junior year of high school, for my math teacher's three year old daughter. The little girl made me watch the same episode of Dora the Explorer three times and screamed until I hand fed her an entire bag of Goldfish. She also  insisted running around in only a tiara and a pair of fairy wings, which was beyond uncomfortable. Her parents came home to a house covered in cheese powder and their child dancing around naked to "Hakuna Matata." Needless to say, I was not asked back.

Because of all this, I am fairly confident that I don't have a single maternal bone in my body. I mean, look at me-- I don't exactly scream Mary Poppins. I think my sister got whatever maternal instincts our genetics had to offer (trust me, there weren't many to go around), because she is the most amazing mother I have ever seen.

... What happens when I am
left alone to feed a child

I haven't seen Max in 6 months, which means that although he is now more difficult for me to dress in my accessories, he has a LOT more personality. He has also begun to eat solid foods. His favorite is sweet potatoes, which he lovingly mashes up and tries to feed to everyone around him. I have NO idea where he learned how to do that, as the rest of his family has never been very generous when it comes to sharing food. We will, however, happily accept his ABC sweet potatoes and mashed up birthday cupcakes. Baby food, by the way, is delicious. Max requires constant entertainment, which usually comes in the form of a makeshift drumset or the TiVo'd recording of "Lady Gaga: Live at Madison Square Garden." Sometimes, we read him the same story anywhere from 2 to 14 times, and entertain ourselves by doing each rendition in a different accent. Today, when Max refused to go down for his afternoon nap, we all got in the car and drove around listening to lullabies until he fell asleep. During our hour and a half road trip around Beverly Hills, I learned that: #1)After 9 years of French, I am still unable to translate the second verse of "Frere Jacques" and #2)All Nursery rhymes are either morbid or dirty.

As much as I love my nephew, a day with him is exhausting. Being a Mom is a LOT of work, and I honestly don't know how my sister does it. I totally get why those teen mom girls are so effed up-- I think I would be too if I had to trade Friday nights at the mall for formula and dirty diapers. For now, at least, I think I will leave the parenting to my sister, who is truly a rockstar. And so (until I am at LEAST 30) I have earned the position of the cool Aunt. Exactly 20 years from today, I will be 40 (omg.) and taking my nephew out for (what better be) his first beer.

Happy birthday Max, and congratulations to my sister and brother-in-law for surviving their first year of parenthood. Love you all!!!!

They say the way you ring in the new year is the way you spend the rest of your year. I guess my year will be spent pool hopping and making out with random boys in the ocean. Here's to 2012!!!!