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!!!!

Cheers to a Better Zo in 2012

I have never been very good at commitment. I get bored easily and have trouble focusing on a single task for any extended period of time. I have tried (unsuccessfully) to use this argument to convince my parents to get me tested for ADD, and am now using it to justify the fact that in 20 years, I have never been able to keep a New Years resolution. The least successful resolution to date is the one I make every year at around 11am on January 1^st: to never drink again. It normally lasts until Happy Hour on the 2^nd, at which point I remember that being around my family requires a lot of liquid courage and that resolutions are for losers.

According to Wikipedia (the source for all things truthful), a resolution is more than just a goal—it’s a lifestyle change. While my parents and most medical doctors may not agree with it, I actually like my lifestyle. Despite the fact that my body sometimes hates me for it, the whole “work hard, play hard” thing seems to be going pretty well for me. I have amazing friends and a wonderful family, and I genuinely love my life. Still, I can’t help but wonder what I can do to improve myself (ugh) in the New Year. Mainly because my friends keep reading “Top 10 Resolutions of 2012” on Washington Post Social Reader and it continuously pops up on my newsfeed.

Most people’s resolutions involve losing weight or getting out of debt, but since I have actively been trying to lose weight since I was 11 and have no personal finances to speak of, these don’t really seem like logical “lifestyle changes” for me.  Apparently, the things I want to achieve this year are a little different than those of “most people.” Here’s what I could come up with:

1. Get some personal finances. Preferably in the form of a paying job, though I am not opposed to the idea of a sugar daddy.
2. Do at least one selfless thing every day. Seriously.
3. Run a Half Marathon by my 21^st birthday, without changing my drinking habits. Also, learn to run hungover.
4. Stay away from toxic people—especially the ones that come in the form of college athletes.
5. Open my own Netflix account. The fact that my ex-boyfriend and his entire family can see that I’ve watched four seasons of Keeping Up With The Kardashians this week is really not ok.
6. Have more respect for myself. Even when there is tequila involved. 

While I still think resolutions are for overweight housewives who read self-help books, I figure it can’t hurt to at least try to be a better person in 2012. This does, however, mean that I still have 9 hours to be selfish, spend other people’s money and make out with athletes. After that, it’s cheers to the new me. Happy New Year everyone!!!!

After this New Years, I resolved not to make this face in pictures.

Peace Out 2011

So it's the last day of 2011, and I am exactly where I was a year ago: sitting in my bottom bunk (yes, I am 20 and I still have bunk beds), looking for plans for tomorrow night. This will now be the third year in a row that I am forced to spend New Years in Bradenton, and I will more than likely ring it in yet again with obscene amounts of Champagne and Skyy at someone else's table at Ivory. Hopefully this year I will manage to secure a kiss at midnight-- It's my first single New Years in five years, after all-- and hopefully he will look something like a cross between a less-pretty Ryan Reynolds and a less-whitetrash Ryan Gosling. If all else fails, I would be more than happy settling for the Bradley Cooper look-alike from 2010.

The One That Got Away (Call me.)

2011 has been one hell of a year. I would even go so far as to say it has been the best year of my life. I welcomed my first nephew, broke up with my high school boyfriend and became friends with members of an Ivy League lacrosse team -- all  before Valentines day. I went on a four month bender with my "newly single best friend" (a term that helped us get free drinks through July), and somehow managed to get through it with only a few notable walks of shame. The only one worth mentioning is the time I donated some stolen official gear to a homeless man at Penn station on my way home from an athlete's apartment-- he deserved it. My Summer in New York is a blur of Vogue intern hell, tequila shots at Brother Jimmy's, and third-wheeling at The Smith and Central Park. I spent this past semester abroad (read: on a 4 month European vacation), and was able to explore (read: get drunk in) 9 different countries. Needless to say, it rocked. I chugged a beer on a table at Oktoberfest, got into an almost physical fight about Patriotism with a Turkish man in Istanbul and spent a week in Russia with 5 of my friends and a midget. I also created my first blog, which someone told me last week, "sounds like Chelsea Handler, but more Jewish." Talk about the best compliment ever.

All of this has somehow led me back here, to the bottom bunk. What the hell did I learn in the last 365 days (it wasn't a leap year -- right?)?? I feel like I'm more mature, but this sentiment is based solely on the fact that I can't remember the last time I #1) cried and #2) blacked out. I suppose I now know that I am capable of living independently in a foreign country and have the patience to work 12-hour days of slave labor, which is more than most 20 year old Jewish girls can say. This year has taught me that no boy is worth crying over, especially if he is a horrible hookup or is exponentially less hot than his friends. Most importantly, though, I learned that a good friend will be there for you when your boyfriend dumps you, but a best friend will slap him across the face for it. And if the world ends in December, at least I'll be able to say I made it to 21. And I was in a music video.

Peace out 2011. Bring it 2012.

No Place Like Home for the Holidays

We hired these actors to pose for our family portrait.

There is nothing like being reunited with your family after a semester abroad (read: a 4 month European vacation) only to find that they are just as crazy as they were when you left them. I got back to America last week, and spent a few days staying at my Rhode Island house wandering up and down the East coast. My parents opted to stay in their new condo in Florida instead of coming up North to greet me, and they eventually guilted me into flying down here for Christmas and New Years.

People are normally very confused about why I would rather sit in an empty house in Rhode Island than be with my family in sunny Florida-- but these people have clearly never been to Bradenton. First of all, it proudly boasts the highest concentration of retired people in the world. Granted my mom IS turning 60 this year (but looks like she's 35-- YEAH I GOT GOOD GENES) so she fits right in with the bridge playing, coupon clipping oldies in her new hometown. I, on the other hand, am bored OUT OF MY MIND. My big night out down here consists of going to Applebees for 2-for-1 Margaritas and Karaoke. That is when they are willing to serve me -- my ID usually gets rejected. If someone could please explain to me how I can pass for Naima Mauloaua in Manhattan and not in Bradenton, I would be greatly appreciative. So, while everyone is rolling face at Avicii on New Years eve, I will be sitting home babysitting my dogs. Hopefully "Naima" will be able to buy champagne, but it all depends on whether or not Bob of Bob's Liquors is in the holiday spirit.

Spot the retiree

The main issue with coming down here, though, is not the inhabitants of Bradenton-- it is the inhabitants of 5425 36th Court. My parents, my brother and their SIX animals are all completely, level 10, bat shit crazy. We live in a three bedroom condo, and somehow manage to have at least two extra people sleeping on our couch on any given night. My brother insists on throwing these weird gatherings that involve blaring Kid Cudi until 4am and playing beer pong. My mom considers herself to be best friends with the graduating class of 2011, so sometimes she joins the party. Every morning, I wake up to a kitchen covered in Natty Light cans and chicken McNuggets -- talk about a dream vacation.
Since I have no friends in Florida, my parents take advantage of the opportunity to spend EVERY waking minute together. Every day, we get up, go to smoothie king, go to spinning (yeah. my dad spins now.), go to the beach, go to dinner and go to the movies. At least I'll go back to school with a tan and an educated opinion on who deserves to win Best Picture.

As hard as I am on them (which must be pretty hard since my dad has now nicknamed me "the devil"), I love my family to death and am thrilled to get to spend time with them. And so, here is to being home for the holidays. And to hoping I will be able to purchase enough alcohol to get myself through it.