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