Halloween: A Retrospective

I am terrible at Halloween. My costumes are never funny, my hair is somehow always a MESS, and  I usually drink too many weird jello shots to actually care. I have, however, gotten back together with ex-boyfriends 3 of the last 4 Halloweens, so I guess I'm doing something right. Here's a look at some of my bestworst halloween costumes throughout the years.

1. Senior year of high school, my friends and I all dressed up as a hockey player in our class. This was before "bullying" was a trendy topic.

The only time I wore a jersey in high school.

2. Freshman year of college, I was insane. There really is no better way to describe my behavior during that time than with these two costumes: one, which was essentially the same as going naked (the fact that I was 2 solid months into the "Freshman 15" didn't seem to matter at the time), and the other, which required me wearing a tutu and carrying a whip around all night (it was confiscated by a bouncer, and I cried). So weird, but my boyfriend at the time wasn't thrilled with any of this. Square. 

Absolutely Not.

3. The first semester of my sophomore year, I was pledging a business fraternity (I know, right?) and they made us wake up at 7am on Halloween morning to go on a scavenger hunt throughout DC. I was clearly still drunk from the night before when I put on this monstrosity (which was basically every animal-print article of clothing I owned), and was forced to start drinking candy corn flavored Burnetts vodka before sunrise. It was a really, really fun day, except for when I was doing "metro acrobatics" (one of the items on the scavenger hunt list) and fell out of my cool pose flat onto my head. I had to get a concussion test from a doctor while all my pledge brothers (not kidding. it was a thing. I was pledge president) watched. The doctor said I was totally fine, but only because I had that horrific hat on to protect me. Here I am posing with the T-Rex at the museum of natural history, because that seemed like an appropriate place for a drunk 19-year-old with a weird costume and a minor concussion. 

This is my Tinder picture

4. That same year, my best friend dressed up as ME. Her Outfit: High School Billy's baseball sweatshirt, the Tutu I wore on the first night of college that earned me the nickname "tutu girl," A pair of JUICY COUTURE knee socks, a Moses Brown baseball hat, and a TON of glitzy necklaces. I wore lingerie and animal ears, and called myself the "Energizer Bunny."

Cool middle fingers, Zo.

5. My first year in the city, when I worked for Glamour, I was tasked for finding a Wonder Woman costume for a photo shoot. I ended up having to get the thing specially made by some woman I found on Craigslist, and as a thank you for my efforts they let me keep it.  It's only on this list because I think I look awesome in it. Worth Nothing: this was one of the years I got back together with an ex (who is not, contrary to confusion, the stranger in this picture). 

I think I thought Batman was Wonder Woman's sidekick when I started hugging this stranger and demanding we take a heavily filtered Instagram pic.

6. Last year, I decided I was too old to pull of slutty Halloween anymore, and
went a completely different route: I went as a fat cloud. I spent an hour stuffing a trash bag with $70 worth of cotton balls (I went the DIY route so I wouldn't have to spend money on a costume — jokes on me I guess). The trash bag ripped on the way out the door and I spent the rest of the night leaking cotton ALL over Manhattan. The people who hosted the apartment party I went to were not thrilled with me. ("no you guys! it definitely wasn't me who left cotton balls everywhere!" was apparently not a convincing argument.) This was also a year when I got back together with an ex, which is.... confusing. Thanks, Jello Shots. Needless to say, I've come a long way since I went as a naked "Girls Gone Wild" girl 6 years ago. 

Facepaint apparently makes my cheeks look even BIGGER.
Who knew THAT was possible?! (also look how long my hair was.)

I have NO idea what I'm being this year, and no plan for Halloween because I can't afford the $90 one-hour open bar at The Dream Hotel. If anyone has any ideas for either of these things, text me. 

This wasn't even Halloween. This was summer camp. 

New York Is Getting To Be Too Small.

I've lived in New York for 2 and a half years, and have been on first dates with exactly 18 different guys. Some of them (three,  if you're really wondering) turned into actual boyfriends, some lasted for a while until one of us got bored and things fizzled out, and some were so horrible that we never even made it past the first drink.

The first guy I dated when I moved here told me the morning after our third date he was actually "seeing someone else" and we "probably shouldn't do this anymore." (Searching for my clothes in his room after hearing that was.... tough).  Then, There was the guy who took me to a Kanye West concert, went to the bathroom and left me alone for an hour and a half, only to be found again as I was walking out of Madison Square Garden. There was the guy who showed up to our first date so blacked out he started yelling at me when I wouldn't come up to his apartment, and tried to make out with me on top of a pile of garbage until the 13th Step bouncer had to intervene. There was the one who went on and on about the "redonkulous soufflés" he makes for his roommates and how "soul cycling with his work wife" was his life, the one who came back from the bathroom in the middle of dinner with white powder on his nose, and the one who cried when I told him, after two dates, that I didn't think things were going to work out.

And of course, there was the one with the dickpic.

New York, arguably more than anywhere else in the world, has "plenty of fish in the sea." Everywhere you turn (or in my case, swipe.) there's another eligible guy. I, apparently, just happen to catch all the crazy ones, and last weekend I had the unique pleasure of running into ALL of them.

On Friday night, I was coming home from dinner and got a text from my upstairs neighbor ("Upstairs Andrew" as he's eloquently named in my cell phone) inviting me to a party at his apartment. As soon as I walked in, I was taken aback by the sheer volume of hotties sitting in his living room. I was introducing myself around the circle, happy that I hadn't changed into my pajamas like my roommate had, when I stopped at someone who looked suuuuuper familiar but I couldn't quite figure out why. After a full minute of staring at each other, we both burst out laughing. It was dickpic guy!!

My roommate was laughing  so hard, she had to excuse herself from the party.

I stuck around, though, and it actually turns out he's not as bad of a guy as I had originally thought. We hung out the whole night, and zero photographs of genetalia were exchanged, which was nice.

Then, on Saturday, my roommate and I drove 2 and a half hours north of the city to Storm King Art Center (and, ok, to go to the outlets). As soon as I got out of the car, (again, we were TWO AND A HALF HOURS AWAY FROM THE CITY) who was the first person I saw? My ex-boyfriend. Who I dated for a year. And broke up with with one text message that he never responded to (maybe he never got it?). And haven't seen since.

Needless to say, despite crossing paths upwards of 10 times throughout the day, we didn't say hello.

Finally, on Sunday night at Hillary Clinton's birthday party (don't even ask.) I ran into the concert guy with his gorgeous new model girlfriend. That one actually wasn't terrible, minus the fact that I had to listen to my brother tell me HOW much hotter she was than me all night long. Thanks, Rich. Bet he never left her alone while she was crying to "Hey Mama."

So, the bottom line is, all of my ex-boyfriends/first dates/casual hookups/perverts are contained to this one tiny island (minus high school boyfriend, who thankfully now lives in San Francisco) and there will always be the risk of running into them when I least expect it. Hopefully next time, though, it won't all be over the course of 48 hours. 

What It's Like To Bring Boys Home To Meet My Parents

Last night, I brought an ex-boyfriend of mine to dinner to meet my parents (that's normal, right?) to quell their fears that I'm not going to die alone (tough to be 24 and single these days, apparently). He isn't Jewish, but is at least a banker, so it was the best I could do on short notice on a Monday.

Could they be any cuter??????????

On Sunday night, they invited me to an event that they demanded I bring a male date to (their friends were starting to ask questions) but I couldn't find anyone and brought my female friend Jordan, instead. My 22-year-old brother brought a 34-year-old woman that he'd met at a wedding the night before, which luckily took the heat off of me, but nevertheless they were stressed about the fact that I couldn't find a single eligible guy to bring to the party. (Lay off, guys.)

To prove to them I'm not a huge loser, and that all these "boys" I'm constantly writing about aren't made up, I convinced an ex (who now, luckily, happens to be one of my best friends) to come to dinner with me to meet them. (I think he thought my dad was Anthony Weiner, not Mark Weiner, and was curious to meet him. Whoops!)

Bringing boys to meet my parents, which doesn't happen often, is an experience. My last boyfriend told me he was "terrified to meet them" (his exact words) after my roommate told him about the time my mom forced me to stand on a chair in the middle of my apartment and sing Celine Dion's "It's All Coming Back To Me Now" to a room full of my friends and their moms while she looked on with tears in her eyes (to be clear, this was 6 months ago). They're the absolute best people on the planet, but certainly make an intense first impression.

My mom always shows up looking amazing— stilettos and a blowout, every time, without fail— to make sure the guy knows I have good genes and will age well. She then throws rapid-fire personal questions at him ("Where are you from? New Hampshire? I mean I would never live there but I've heard it's nice." "What are your intentions with my daughter? She's really pretty, you know.") and then as a test, makes my date pick out a bottle of wine for the table. No one has ever, to this day, made a choice she's totally approved of.

My dad, who can barely get a word in, usually spends the first 15 minutes calling the guy by the wrong name and then falls asleep. Literally passes out sitting upright just before our appetizers come. Admittedly, I've dated some boring guys. If I have managed to find someone interesting enough to keep him awake (it's happened exactly once) he spends the entire dinner showing him pictures of famous people, or of our dearly departed dog Tyler. Then, he takes out one of his three cell phones and starts taking pictures of us.

I chug white wine and wait for the whole thing to be over.

My mom and dad are a tough crowd. As much as they want me to find someone and settle down (and like, COME ON guys. I'm 24 and barely have a job yet. Relaxxxxx.) their standards for me are high. Unless he's a jewish lawyer/doctor/banker/heir to a throne, he need not apply. Unfortunately, as someone who has recently started trying to pickup dates on the internet, my standards aren't quite in line with theirs.

Last night actually went better than could be expected, except for one teeeeeny problem: they loved the guy, which never (ever ever ever) happens. I don't know how to break it to them that we aren't dating, so I'm just going to write it here and hope that they read it.  Sorry, guys! Hopefully this week's Hinge date will live up to your standards.

Am I a Grownup, Yet?

The other day, my high school boyfriend texted me after reading my blog post about what it was like to date me (he refused to provide feedback and "plead the fifth" when I asked him about it. Law school has made him kind of obnoxious) and started inquiring about my life. He moved to California to live with his new girlfriend, and the only time we really talk is when I text him once a month to find out if they've gotten engaged yet and he ignores me. We haven't seen each other since he left New York 2 years ago, but have remained good friends (when he decides to respond to my texts, at least).

As we were catching up, he commented on the fact that my blog made it seem like I'd gotten really mature in the last few years.

..... Ummm, really? Are you sure you're reading the right blog?

It got me thinking, though. In some ways, I really have grown up —at least a little bit— since the last time I saw him (when I was 22 and could still drink 6 nights a week and function as a normal human being the next day). I can't wear Pleasure Doing Business bandage skirts to the bar anymore, can't get away with flirting my way to the front of the line and can't leave the house with wet hair. I don't hang out at Brother Jimmy's/Saloon/13th Step, and don't take nearly as many tequila shots as I used to (I still do them, just not 15 at a time in quick succession)

I swear I'm not boring, just not 21 anymore. There are a fews other things that make me feel like a grown ass woman, none of which involve "falling in love" or "settling down" anytime soon. I'm still, technically, only a "young" adult.

1. Having My Own Netflix Account.... And Other Annoying Stuff I have to Pay For Myself

I used that same boyfriend's Netflix account for 8 years (sorry to him and his family for screwing up there "recommended" list), until last spring when I decided it was time to man up and splurge for the $10.99 a month so it would stop telling me I had to watch "Vikings." I also now pay normal bills too (which, in college, weirdly seemed optional).

2. Ordering Wine at a bar

Bonus points if I actually know what kind of wine I'm ordering (it's rare, but it happens).

3. Waking up and realizing I haven't Drunk Texted Anyone

At 24, it's sort of stopped being cute to be blacked out drunk and texting embarrassing stuff to boys (Ok fine. It wasn't ever cute.) But as someone who used to do it all the time, it's nice to finally feel like I've grown out of it. The texts do, admittedly still happen, just not as often and not nearly as desperate.

4. Wearing slacks, and/or high heels during the day

In general, I am a mess. Especially now that I don't have a job, and can wear leggings and sneakers all day every day if I want to (#college) it's tough to find the motivation to pull myself together. When I can somehow manage to put on pants that aren't jeans, and actual high heels before 6pm, and not feel like a complete, overdressed, doofus; I consider it a successful afternoon.

5. Using the Oven

I'm a terrible cook. I make the same meal every night, and still haven't even gotten that down. That said, every once in a while (as in, ONE time in 2015 when I roped myself into cooking dinner for a guy I was dating) I like to experiment. Something about pulling a roasted chicken out of the oven makes me feel like "Ok, maybe I will have a domestic skill to offer to a husband one day." Again, this has only happened once, but I swear I'll get there.

6. Scheduling My Own Doctors Appointments

I haven't been to an actual doctor in 6 years (so far, so good— fingers crossed). The last time I went for a checkup was when I went to my pediatrician before I left for college (a few months ago had a real panic when I needed my medical records for grad school and they told me they'd shredded them). Going to the dentist/gynecologist (two different doctors, to be clear), though, are things I actually remember to do every year. In fairness, my dentist is still in Rhode Island, but when I need an appointment I do call them myself; I just usually have to get their phone number from my mom, first.

7. Having A Preference in Vodka

Ordering a "Titos and Soda" sounds so much more sophisticated than a "vodka soda." Ordering a "Tito's Martini, Extra Dirty, Hold the Vermouth," pretty much makes me the classiest girl in Manhattan.  (As a side note-  I "accidentally" ordered a vodka soda at 11am Easter Brunch when I met my ex-boyfriends parents for the first time. That was 8 months ago, though, so I'd like to think I know better now— at least I would order it with better vodka).

8. Getting Manicures

I'm not sure when, exactly, it happened, but at some point in the last 2 years it became unacceptable for me to walk around with chipped nails. I hate sitting and getting manicures (I get SoOoOoO bored, and always manage to mess them up before I leave the salon) but it makes me feel like a real woman, especially if I use red polish.

9. Being a "Morning Person"

In college, I could sleep all day. On days when I didn't have class, I would hole up in my room until 3 or 4pm, and only emerge when it was time to go to dinner/start getting ready to start drinking again. Now, though, I am up without fail before 8:30 every morning, even on the weekends, despite the fact that I'm technically back on a student schedule (with class 2 days a week— don't judge me). Mornings are when I get the most productive work done, and when the cutest boys hang out at the coffee shop I use as my office.

10. Not Getting Carded

Kind of awesome, kind of offensive. 100% means I'm getting old, and starting to look like it. 

PSA: Don't Forget To Brush Your Hair Before Leaving The House

Because you might run into a guy you used to hook up with, and he might do this:

What It's Like To Date When You Write About Dating

When I first started blogging back in college, a guy friend of mine told me no one was ever going to want to date me because they'd be too afraid I was going to write about them. "No one wants to date Taylor Swift because they're worried she's going to write a song about their breakup" he said. (Keep in mind that this was 2011, not long after "Dear John" came out. Obviously, she's been doing OK for herself since then).

Personally, I found this offensive.  Partly because I want to date Taylor Swift and find anyone who doesn't to be insane, but also because he was insinuating that if I were to keep doing what  I was having soooooo much fun doing (as in, making out with boys and then writing about it on the internet), I was going to die alone.

Me, doin me, until I can find a man who can handle me
(eh not really, I just love this picture.)

What would be the point of all of the hookup horror stories I've experienced in my lifetime if I couldn't make fun of them? The fact that I happen to do it publicly, and that other people laugh at them too, just makes it all the more worth it. (Side note: readership is up to almost 8,000! Thank you to my loyal viewers in Ukraine, and to all of the girls in Georgetown's class of 2015)

So, despite the rude advice, I kept writing about boys and have decided to try to make a career out of it (at least until I get my degree and go on to write about more important stuff, like fashion). Still, though, it gets me into some sticky situations.

When I first started seeing my most recent fling, I begged him not to read anything I'd put on the internet. I didn't think it would be fair for him to essentially get a cheat sheet on all of my dating tricks and past relationships before I was ready to tell him about them myself. After a few months, when he had finally seen enough of my "crazy" first hand, I conceded and sent him the link. Things were totally fine (he got a little annoyed once when I referred to "the most boring guy I ever dated" and he thought I was talking about him... I wasn't, and it was awkward.) until he saw this post about another guy I'd gone on a first date with while we were together. Let it be known: we weren't exclusive, so it was totally kosher, and it was too good of a story not to tell.

The problem wasn't really that I was dating other people — like I said, that was totally allowed — but  rather that he was able to read all the dirty (literally SO dirty) details of it online. It wasn't something I would have ever told him in person (when it comes to dating around, I personally think a "don't ask, don't tell" policy is best) so it was a little uncomfortable that he was privy to the information. Things ended shortly after that (it actually may have been the same day), and even though it wasn't totally about the blog post, it definitely didn't help.

As far as exes go, I've certainly written about them before (I literally just did it) but I would never, ever use their names or paint them in an unflattering light. Unless, of course, they wronged me; then I would slander the hell out of them and take out an Ad on Facebook (kidding— if that were actually the case there would have been a lot of LifeOfZo ads on your newsfeed this year).  Most of the time, I ask their permission (except for the guy I just mentioned, because we're no longer speaking*), and if I'm dating someone new I would neverrrrrrr put it on the internet. That would be embarrassing and make me look insane.

Still, though, my friend from college was right: people get nervous about it.

The other night, when I told a a guy I was talking to on Bumble that I was a writer, he asked if I was using the app for the sake of "research." Considering I was using the app to find, at the very least, Thursday night drinks plans (and at the most, the love of my life and future father of my children) I thought it was a pretty rude question. I made some joke about how Columbia University was actually sponsoring me to test out dating apps, and he promptly told me he "had a reputation to protect" and stopped responding.

So, if I'm being totally honest: dating as a dating blogger, in a nutshell, kind of sucks.

But here's the thing: I'm not going to stop writing about my relationships. Given my luck, they're always rampant with good stories, like this one about my ex and I getting arrested together or this one about the time my other ex accidentally gashed my face open, and at 24, dating is a huge part of my life. Plus, when you consider that I had my first full blown boyfriend at age 9 and we had our first kiss in the row behind my mom watching Pearl Harbor, I've always been a little boy crazy.  I guess I just need to find someone who's cool with it, or someone I have such a perfect and amazing relationship with that it isn't even worth writing about.

Can someone find one of these guys and set us up? Thanks.

If any of my ex-boyfriends would like to write a response to this, about what it's like TO date someone who blogs about dating, message me. There certainly are a lot of you, and I'd love to hear the feedback.

*If you're reading this, can I have my shoes back?

#WhyIWrite

I'm interrupting the regularly scheduled programming (aka talking about my dating, family and drinking life) in honor of National Writing Day, which as I just found out from Twitter*, is today.

Last night, during a particularly lovely text conversation with a guy I met on Bumble (judge me.), he asked me if I had always wanted to be a writer. He also asked me if I knew what "Truffle Butter" was and if I needed help researching a story on "50 Tips For Giving An Orgasm With A Feather," but I digress.

The short answer to his question is yes, I have always wanted to be a writer (And yes I know what Truffle Butter is, no I don't want his help with my research, yes I will still probably have drinks with him). Here's why.

When I was in 2nd grade, I won a national poetry contest for the following poem, which, 18 years later, I still remember verbatim:

RAIN 

Zoe Weiner, age 7

Peaceful Light

In Each Drop

Making Not A Whisper With The Wind

Me and my first boyfriend composing award winning work. 

Obviously, they didn't expect as much out of 2nd graders in 1996 as they do in 2015 (considering my
4-year-old nephew knows how to make his own YouTube videos and is proficient enough with an iPhone to hang up on me when I'm boring him, I can only imagine that kids these days are way smarter then we were back then), but whatever. That poorly formed Haiku got me my picture in the newspaper, a new dress, a ton of flowers, a ceremony in my honor, and, best of all, more attention than any of my siblings for at least a month.

After that, I was hooked (realistically, it was the attention thing that got me). I started writing stories about my imaginary friends Alvin, Simon and Theodore (of Alvin and the Chipmunks fame) and forcing my parents to take them to Kinkos to get them bound into legit looking books, complete with illustrations.

In middle and high school, I was an English buff.... Sort of. I glossed over pretty much all of the readings (8th grade's Princess Bride? So much yes. But AP English's Paradise Lost? Give me a break.) but loved when I got the opportunity to show off my writing, as long as I didn't have to read a book first. The two huge, semester long  English paper's I had to write — one about my older brother, Steven; one about my eating disorder — earned me A+'s. I don't know how that's relevant, it's just something I like to bring up whenever possible (In that same vein, I was the head of A Capella in high school, too. Ask me about it).

I got to college and tried out business school because I knew I had expensive taste and a writing career wouldn't allow me to afford my lifestyle. It took me three semesters to realize I could barely calculate a tip, let alone balance a proof, and gave it up after three semesters to pursue a degree in English and Journalism. Now, I'm at Columbia getting my Masters in Journalism and spending any free minute I have writing for this blog, and this blog, and this website where I offer "advice on how to do really dumb stuff that people apparently don't know how to do,"  as my friend Ben so poignantly described it to me the other day.

So, here I am: 24-years-old and for all intents and purposes, mainly because I don't have an actual "real" job, a writer.

When I quit my job as a fashion assistant at Glamour a few months ago, it was,  at first, really weird to call myself that. The first guy I went out with after quitting pretty much laughed in my face when I told him that was what I did (he was, naturally, a banker with an attitude problem) and it took me a long time after that to be able to declare with confidence that, Yes. This is what I do.

Here's the thing: after years (literally, 20+ of them) dreaming about what I wanted to be when I grew up, it's a strange feeling to think I'm pretty much there. Yes, I still have a lot to do (like graduate, get a job that pays more than minimum wage, take Cindi Leive's job) to be able to actually say I've "made it," but it at least feels like I'm getting there.

So, to finally give the answer to the question I asked 9 paragraphs ago, I write because I realized in college that I'm really, really bad at math.




*Side note: I just spent an hour deleting ALL of the random people I've been following on Twitter since 2010. Including, but not limited to "menzsportshumor" and "uglyharvardgirlproblems"

How To Have A Fabulously Basic Fall Weekend

Last Saturday, thousands of white, preppy East Coast kids stuffed the pockets of their Barbour jackets with nips of Fireball and  flocked to suburban New Jersey for The Hunt. The Daily Mail calls the annual horse race the best day of the year for the "attractive and inebriated elite," and anyone I know over the age of 22 calls it, simply, "hell."

Couldn't have said it better myself. So I didn't 

Back in the day (read: every year until now) The Hunt was my favorite weekend of the fall. My girlfriends and I would road-trip out to Summit, NJ — first from college in DC, then from the city once we became real, working adults — and spend Friday night drinking wine and eating pizza by the fire. It was EXACTLY what we would have been doing at home, but somehow felt more special when it was done without the threat of the rats that lived in our house/apartments running around trying to steal our pizza (seriously; we knew it was a thing long before "pizza rat" got famous.)

The next morning, we would wake up at the crack of dawn to straighten our hair. Getting ready was actually a surprisingly fast process, considering our outfits were always heavily curated (as in, bought brand new the week before) by the time we actually got to New Jersey.

You can't tell, but EVERY person in this picture is wearing aviators. 

We'd drink mimosas and pick at a tray of bagels until it was time to get on the train (we always missed the first two — luckily they ran every 20 minutes) where we drank more champagne and complimented each other's aviators and Hunter boots.

The rest of the day was, pretty much, exactly how the Daily Mail described it. We would drink beer/champagne/whatever we could find, flirt with the boys who had the best looking sandwiches at their tailgate (we never actually bought a plot, so were literally forced to scrounge for food and alcohol) and run into pretty much everyone we'd ever met.

For the first three years, it was HEAVEN on earth. Did I mention how cute the boys were?

Last year, though, something had changed. Saying I was suddenly "over it" is the understatement of 2015, and I exaggerate a lot. I got there, stayed for 20 minutes and decided  it wasn't for me. Considering I'd paid $175 ticket, it ended up costing me $8.75 a minute to wait in line for the port-a-potty and drink a warm Natty Light.

After that, I retired.

So, this past Saturday, when a few of my brave 24 and 25-year-old friends went out to Far Hills for one last hurrah, I donned my white-girl fall uniform (jeans, boots, sweater, vest, aviators) and decided to treat myself to an equally basic, but far less alcohol fueled, fall weekend.


The weekend went as follows (listed in order of chronology, as well as basic-ness):

Nothing says "basic" like a selfie of a girl in a vest and
Ray Bans at an apple orchard

1. Took the train out to the suburbs (New York, not New Jersey, but otherwise the exact same as usual) with two of my besties, where we cooked ourselves a huge dinner. A guy in the grocery store stopped us in the snacks aisle to ask if we were throwing a party because our cart had so much stuff in it; I couldn't decide if it was rude or flattering
2. Watched a Diane Keaton movie, which I slept through, and was in bed and asleep by 11:30 
3. Woke up at 9:03am, put on a hot pink Nike running outfit with matching sneakers, and went on a run. Listened to Taylor Swift's 1989 the entire time, and at one point paused to jump in a pile of leaves.
4. Put on aviators, drove an hour to an apple orchard, picked apples, ate apples (like, 45 of them each), drove home. The Taylor Swift CD wouldn't play in the car, which was a real buzzkill, but we soldiered on
5. Got home, put on leggings, made pumpkin bread. 
6. Watched Season 2 of The OC (the second best season in history, next to Season 1 of The OC) while eating pumpkin bread and drinking apple cider that we bought at CVS. 
7. Debated skipping Saturday night in the city and continuing our weekend on its current trajectory until my friend's mom told us we were being losers and needed to go out.
8. Trained back in to Manhattan and went to a girls'  dinner where we drank vodka sodas and talked about boys, then to a birthday party for a friend of a friend where we continued to drink vodka sodas and tried to meet boys.

Sunday went similarly, except we came back to the city and ate Sweet Green Salads instead of pumpkin bread (#skinny) and watched The Intern and Nashville instead of Because I Said So and The OC. I wore the same leggings and sweatshirt  all weekend. Judge me.

Worth noting? I saw equally as many horses at the apple orchard as I did in all three years at the hunt combined: None.

The pumpkin in our pumpkin bread came from a can,
not from these.

Going Back To College is EXHAUSTING.

When my friends and I were seniors in college, we affectionately referred to ourselves as "SWUGS," or, "Senior Washed Up Girls."

To put it nicely, it was NOT cute. We wore weird outfits to class and to the bar (workout clothes on a good day, full blown sweatpants on a hungover one), ate fried food nonstop, and only talked to the boys we'd made out with as freshman and had, in the course of four years, had basically become like brothers to us. I don't think I brushed my hair or kissed a boy once the entirety of senior spring (with the exception of Spring Break. Obviously.).

#SWUGlife

When my mom came down to DC for graduation, she and I went dress shopping and I came out of the dressing room in a hot pink bandage dress. 

I thought I looked AMAZING, despite the fact that it was senior week and I had been drinking for 8 days (and four years) straight. Looking back, though, I was 15 pounds heavier than normal (due to the beer and fried food consumption that had become the #SWUG way of life) and definitely looked like a neon-colored sausage. 

“She doesn’t normally look like this!” My mom told the lovely young couple next to us. “She’s a senior girl. She’s normally much thinner.” They nodded in agreement, seemingly understanding of the fact that my lifestyle pretty much required me to consume 10,000 calories a day, and the rampant hangovers inevitably prevented me from exercising. 

Regardless of the fact that I spent the whole semester looking like a chubby, unkempt gorilla, it was the best time of my life (probably because I was eating ice cream 3 times a day and going through 9 bottles of wine a week). I lived in a house with my best friends, and we did pretty much WHATEVER we wanted. To this day I’m still too afraid of the Georgetown housing office to put the true details of our debauchery on the internet, but just know that we came very, very close to not being able to walk at graduation. 

This weekend, I went back down to DC for homecoming to find out what its like to be a SWUG who’s three years OLDER than an actual SWUG.

I sent this to a boy on Saturday because I
thought I looked sooo cute. I don't. 

On Friday night, four of my closest friends and I piled into a car with 6 bags of popcorn and some Big Macs (really getting back to our Senior Spring eating habits) and made the trek from New York down to Georgetown. It took us 5 and a half hours, one pit stop to pee in a parking lot and one pretttttyyyy scary accidental detour in Elizabeth, New Jersey, but we made it. We did almost kill each other a few times (mostly over the fact that SOMEONE wasn’t fulfilling her duties as the front seat passenger) but by the time we got to the hotel at 2am we were, as usual, deliriously obsessed with each other and for some reason all speaking in weird accents. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, breeds more inside jokes than a long, tense car ride. 

It was, admittedly, really weird to get to the hotel and only have to share a bed with one other person (considering when we were in Montauk this Summer we slept 19 to a room and I slept on the floor) and to have my own towel that no one else had dried their body with or thrown up on. We did, however, wake up with a 12 hour old Big Mac on the desk, so we haven’t totally changed since college. 

After addressing the rotting Big Mac situation, we went to brunch at a lovely restaurant on M Street with our group of friends like the civilized 24 and 25 year olds that we are. I only had one Bloody Mary. My suggestion to pickup beers at the deli and find a sophomore party to go to before the tailgate got laughed at — apparently, we were too old for that. 

When we got to the tailgate (at 11:35am — more on time than EVER, because we had literally nothing else to do) we promptly realized that we no longer knew anyone who went to college at Georgetown. I recognized two people who were freshman when I was a senior, and even they looked like ancient grownups compared to the 18-year-olds walking around in jean shorts and crop tops. 

One girl walked by in a GO HOYAS bandeau (read: bra pretending to be a shirt), and I pretty much wanted to kill myself. Did I mention I was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers? 

Waking up and finding out this was
my Snap story was... tough. 

I spent a large part of the tailgate trying to find beer that wasn’t flat (when did I start caring about that??) and catching up with people who told me they loved my blog, which was AWESOME (seriously, thanks guys — you made my weekend). I also made it a point to apologize to a boy who I thought thought I robbed him senior year, only to find out that my friends made the whole thing up and he had no idea what he was talking about. At one point, I ran into a boy who I briefly dated, and neither one of us recognized or acknowledged each other.  

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the waterfront drinking Dirty Shirley’s (if you don’t know what they are, look it up) and catching up with people who, thank God, graduated around the same time we did. It was around this time that we figured out that 3 years after graduation is really the last time it’s still appropriate to go to homecoming — we were the oldest people there. 

That night, we went to a bar that I could never get into in college because you had to be on a “list,” and I knew 19-year-old me would still be really proud of old, boring, cares-about-the-carbonation-of-her-beer 24-year-old me. I almost ended the night going home with  a guy I had a crush on in college, but jumped out of the moving cab on the way to his apartment and went back to the hotel to order pizza with my friends, instead.

Unfortunately, we fell asleep before the pizza got there. 

The next day, we squeezed all four of us into the back seat of the sedan we’d driven down in — somehow we’d agreed to let our two guy friends come with us, and generously gave them the front seat (you’re welcome, guys) and embarked on the darkest, longest, coziest 6-hour car ride of our life.

I didn't change my outfit all weekend. SWUG me would have been proud. 

Just a girl and her house. We tried to rent it for the weekend, but
considering we almost got evicted on four separate occasions when
we lived there, the landlord turned us down. Rude.

The Late, Great Tyler Weiner

My house is a zoo. I actually rarely know how many pets we actually have living there, because my mom is constantly giving away cats and adopting new puppies (well, buying them from designer pet stores). My freshman year of college, she called me three times to tell me about new dogs she'd purchased  — one of whom was a male pomeranian that she'd named "Baby Zoe" because she missed me so much — and my younger brother threatened to move out of the house.

#Squad (Tyler's Not Pictured)

Through the revolving door of Weiner animals, one remained constant: Tyler.

He kept on kickin right up until he turned 18 (which in my opinion is a very long and very happy life) and my parents sadly had to put him down earlier this year. My mom nonchalantly called to tell me this as I was walking into a 2nd date, which I subsequently walked into sobbing. We went on to date for five more months, probably because he was afraid he would have to see me cry like that again if he ever broke up with me (which eventually, he did).

Jewish Dogs Are the best dogs.

Tyler was a legend. When I was in first grade (my most adorable age), I convinced my parents to buy me a puppy from the pet store that opened up next to the supermarket. Like any 6 year old, I did zero to actually take care of the puppy, which is probably why he was never potty trained.

When we were little, my mom brought Tyler everywhere. Once, when I was in 6th Grade, she brought him to visit me at school and then got distracted and forgot him. I was sitting in English class when all of a sudden, Tyler came barreling down the hallway and somehow found me at my desk. He came to math and science with me, too, before my mom even realized he was gone.


As much as my mom loved Tyler (until she got newer, smaller dogs that she liked better — not dissimilar to how she feels about my little brother and I) my dad was his BEST friend. The two of them went everywhere together. My dad in his signature red, white and blue Adidas track suit, Tyler on his lap with his head out the window, blaring Motown. I don't think my dad has ever liked any of his kids as much as he liked Tyler. Actually, I know he didn't, because he tells all of us so all the time.

Ty-Ty loved vanilla ice cream, manaschevitz wine and humping stuffed animals. He will forever be remembered as the most beloved, and longest lasting, pet in the Weiner household. To this effect, he will forever be commemorated in this painting at the top of our stairs:

The real star of this painting is Tyler, to the left.