I told myself I would make this three months exciting and interesting, filled with new experiences that would give me stories. Be careful what you wish for kids, I’m about to spin you a tale that will literally make you cringe.

I decided I would wear a unitard to work today because it makes me feel like a boss ass bitch and it looks fierce with a pair of light wash mom jeans. To be exact, it’s not a unitard…it’s the leotard that was bought for me by the PHS music department for the production of Chicago last fall. But hey, I’m gonna get the most use out of it as I possibly can. It has a low back so I don’t wear a bra with it which is a freeing feeling most unitards give you. The ONLY and I mean ONLY downside to wearing a unitard is that when you go to the bathroom you have to sit completely naked on the toilet, like a child who is confused by the concept that taking off your pants doesn’t mean you need to take off ever article of clothing.

During my eight hour shift today I had a half an hour break and during that break I went to the bathroom. I locked the door. Let me repeat that. I locked the door. I removed my unitard and sat shirtless on the toilet. I was doing my business and I kid you NOT I thought to myself, “wouldn’t it be so bad if someone walked in on me.” You can probably guess the climax to this story. I was zoning out and suddenly the door opened and a postman in his full postman attire stood before me. I don’t know why he was trying to use the employee bathroom but that’s beside the point. I didn’t catch the look on his face because after frantically saying “I’m sorry,” and me responding “Oh my god,” we both had closed the door.

I’m going to let you process that for a second.

Obviously, I was embarrassed, but the POOR man was DEFINITELY not expecting to see an eighteen-year-old girl on the toilet.. let alone a SHIRTLESS eighteen-year-old girl.

I went into the breakroom and told my coworker the story, and then another came in and we were both laughing so hard I had to tell him too. I think it brought a smile to everyone’s day. Except maybe the postman’s.


No avocados

I’m exhausted after an eight hour day so this post may be a bit brief. Avocados usually bring me great joy. The creamy, green, paste is so easy to spoon out and just eat straight from the like the good Lord intended us to. Today I was already on the verge of a mental breakdown because I kept fucking everything up and then I made a BLT or a BTL or whatever for a woman who asked for no avocados and I was intently looking at the cheat sheet and I put avocaDO on it and the sandwich and I did and I FELT SO BAD when she brought it back.


That is all.

But who doesn’t like avocados… like you’re insane.

Exchange Shitty

Part of me feels like I have been slacking on my blog posts (the perfectionist in me, who can’t handle writing something shitty). To be completely honest it has been hard to keep up with this blog and work full time, try to adult, and TRY to still have a social life. I’m not going to stop, because I’d like to have something under my belt, something with my name attached to it, and at the end of three months I’ll feel like I made something pretty amazing. It’s like being pregnant with less morning sickness (still a little bit though), not getting super fat, not having a human at the end of it… OK so it’s not like pregnancy at all.

A little part of me feels like I’m living someone else’s life. In six days I will have been here for a month. Last year I still had to ask to use the restroom and now I have a full-time job in a city and practically live alone. It feels like someone accidently sat on the remote control and fast forwarded through my life and it’s honestly so confusing.

It is interesting to see the little skills I’ve acquired in my short eighteen years on this planet come to use in the “real world”. Because, let’s be completely honest, up until now all of this has been kind of like a test run, Exchange City if you will. Exchange City used to be a program middle schoolers would visit on a field trip and mimic life as a REAL ADULT. In the 6th grade I was determined to get the most out of my day at Exchange City. In the weeks before the field trip our class would practice interview skills, figure out what our career would be, and learned how to balance a checkbook. I was taught how to balance a checkbook in the 6th grade and the lesson was never revisited. Moving on. Some jobs were easier than others, and some kids didn’t really care what they did. I on the other hand wanted this experience to be as GENUINE as possible and I decided to apply for the position of Editor of the newspaper. Not to brag…but I fucking nailed my interview and landed the job. I sat across my science teacher and answered each one of his questions perfectly because I had rehearsed them at home. JUST like in the real world. Exchange City was a fake little town in a large room with fake grass (that you would get a ticket for walking on) with little storefronts including a Dunkin Donuts that served munchkins. I do not know why they shut this program down because it was so fucking cool and definitely realistic.

Life isn’t like Exchange City anymore. It’s more like Exchange shitty (I’m a pun master I know). It’s not shitty.. it’s just hard. That is the most I can say about the real world. It is fucking hard. It’s more than not walking on fake grass and bossing around other 6th graders to write an article about UGG boots. The real world also doesn’t give you free munchkins. The real world is absolutely exhausting.

Stairway to heaven

I am sitting in my favorite bagel shop at home as I eat an everything bagel toasted with herb cream cheese and sip on bad iced coffee (like good bad…like I love it). They spread enough cream cheese on their bagels to cover about eight more bagels but that’s the way I like it. Now I can somewhat understand the struggle they face every day, and how they must feel like they are making bagels in their sleep because the muscles in their hands don’t know what else to do. I am trying to write coherent sentences but the table of middle schoolers to my left is making it a LITTLE challenging. To be completely honest, I am absolutely terrified of middle schoolers. Actually, I am absolutely terrified of any child between the ages of 11-16. I know they are judging me because when I was that age I was judging anyone older than me TOO. I know it’s a defense and probably fear but I can just see the little negative gears in their mind spewing insults. Something about the human brain makes confidence levels SPIKE dramatically when one enters the 8th grade. You feel like the absolute SHIT. I can attest to this because that is EXACTLY how I felt in the 8th grade. You are the oldest age you can possibly imagine, you have just exited your awkward stage and are practically a woman, you have phone privileges you didn’t possess in the 7th grade. Life is GOOD. When you reach high school you are back at the bottom of the totem pole but by the time senior year comes around, you feel as confident as your 8th grade self. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Since you have lived a little more and know how harsh the world is, and can sense your fame as an upperclassmen coming to a close, you are not AS confident as you were when you were a fourteen-year-old. This week my friend’s little sister had her first middle school dance and I was eager to hear the gossip of the night (because that’s where I’m at…an 18 year old who has nothing better to do than listen to middle school gossip). It was all the cliches of middle school dances:

  • One girl crying in the bathroom
  • One girl who danced with every boy
  • Terrible music
  • More girls crying in the bathroom

By this point, it’s textbook. After hearing her talk about the popular girl getting all the boys I couldn’t help pitching in. I explained that this “popular” girl was going to have this lifestyle all through middle school and during high school, maybe even college. It’s in her nature, and it’s basically scientifically proven she will say that way. I told her that the girl’s who don’t get asked to dance with all the boys, or are surrounded by everyone as they nail the cupid shuffle are not going to actually be happy with themselves in the end. If I could go back in time I would tell every person, every boy who didn’t dance with me, every girl with pin straight hair and a Hollister T-Shirt to chill the FUCK out. I would let them know how they turned out to be and maybe even show them some photographic evidence. ALSO, let the DJ know to stop playing Stairway to Heaven. I don’t really know where this is going. I should stop now.

I’m so glad I’m not in middle school anymore. That’s all.

I am woman

I decided to go home this weekend to experience Portsmouth in the fall and catch up on some shows I wanted to see around the Seacoast. In two days I have conquered seeing both Laughter on the 23rd floor and Cabaret. All this has done is made the aching feeling in my chest a little heavier and reminded me how badly I want to be in a show. I got to see my favorite acting teacher in Laughter on the 23rd floor as a fierce lady comedy sketch writer. It is always a treat to see the people who teach you things actually doing what they teach you (if that made any sense). She had one line, “I don’t want to be called a woman writer. I want to be called a good writer” and I audibly exhaled, so loud that a woman in front of me turned to see where the gust of hot, breathy air came from. THAT’S IT. She is one of my strongest female role models and when she said this line it was such a serendipitous moment, and collision of two worlds, I was LITERALLY on the edge of my seat. Something like that couldn’t go unnoticed to me.

Fathers and daughters

I don’t like to take ubers because I feel like a privileged, prissy, white girl but sometimes you just really need to. Today I was going home so I had a big bag of laundry that I didn’t feel like lugging around the orange line train. I called an uber and was a little frazzled because I had just spilled my coffee all over the rug and had to wash it and it was a whole ordeal. ANYWAY. I got in the car and a nice older man helped me put my things in the car. He spoke broken English and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from New Hampshire and he said “yes but you’re from Columbia.” I giggled and replied that I wasn’t which made him assume I was from the Dominican Republic. He spoke highly of his country and then he started talking about his kids. This is where I felt a little melancholy. He told me about his two sons and his daughter. He talked about how proud he was of them and how they were going to Boston University, some were graduating early. He then told me I looked like his daughter and flipped his phone over to show me a picture of the three of his children at Christmas. He pointed to each of them and said again how much I looked like his daughter. It felt nice to be compared to a father who was so proud of his daughter. It reminded me of my dad bragging about me in grocery stores and how I would get so annoyed and how he would say he wasn’t “proud” because that would mean he was taking ownership and I was my own person. He would have my updated school photo in his wallet and I would always be the lock screen on his home. I was told before he died a picture of me was sitting on his dresser. I miss calling someone dad. I miss being embarrassed in public and reading the New York Times comics with him. I made someone want to talk about their daughter just because I slightly resembled her. That’s the way fathers are.

Coffee cults

I appreciate the art and credibility of good coffee. I mean good coffee, particularly coffee that does not come with orange and pink straws and enough sugar to bake an entire cake with (I think we all know what I’m talking about). There are certain personas and demographic of people who are good enough to like good coffee and I am not one of them. I TRY extremely hard to like the bitter, raw stuff but when my coffee looks orange (which probably means real and not artificial) I get grossed out. I work at a coffee shop that sells the good stuff. A barista stands behind what is called the “bar” and has fast hands that shave off extra coffee grounds from a metal thingy and then put another metal thing on something else, grind something and create a beautiful heart design out of foam (believe it or not those are the EXACT instructions they give you when you train to be a barista) I wish I was as cool as the people who drink good coffee, they all have perfect little nose rings, or sketchbooks with intricate drawings of office supplies, or a pixie cut that I could NEVER pull off without looking like I was in an all Jewish boys school production of “Peter Pan” (DID SOMEBODY SAY TANGENT) I crave to be in this club/cult but I also crave caramel swirls from Dunkin Donuts.

Along with the people I work with being a part of the good coffee club/cult they are also some of the funniest people I have ever met. Starting a new job is tough but trying to ease your way into an already established group of people who were all born ten years before you is even harder. I am not a shy person and that is why being shy annoys me so much because I want to smack myself in the face and say, “This isn’t you!! You’re loud! You’re almost obnoxious at points!! SAY SOMETHING.” I have finally gotten up the courage to contribute to conversations with witty lines, and today I hit the jackpot. A woman came in and apologized for asking when her bagel was going to be ready the previous day. She explained she was waiting for a ride and her rudeness was out of character. I honestly didn’t remember this woman but I told her it was no problem. After she left one of my coworkers said, “Did you give her a bitch face?” and with a straight face I replied, “I just gave her my resting face so I guess so.” He ERUPTED with laughter and turned to everyone behind the counter chanting, “ZOE’S IN THE CLUB.” I thought that might have been one of the lamest jokes I had ever made, but apparently it earned my entry into the club. It was a resting bitch face joke…how original.

I may not ever be in the good coffee club/cult but I was granted access another club.

Today is national coffee day.

I have been here twenty days.


From any angle of my face,I either look like my mom or my dad. I have my dad’s full lips and my mom’s goya bean shaped nostrils. When people would tell me I looked like my dad he would always say, “Just add a beard!” I used to get irritated when I would hear the same one liner told to coworker after coworker. In Hannaford when I was younger a woman came up to my mom and I and said, “She looks just like you!” Apparently, I got EXTREMELY disturbed by this and made quite the hissy fit. When my mom asked me what was wrong I replied, “I don’t want people to say I look like you,” she asked me what I would prefer and I said, “there goes that funky girl.” Although I’m sure people on the streets of Boston don’t turn to each other and go, “wow look how gosh darn funky that girl is.” Something that DOES happen on the streets of Boston is catcalling which is a whole blog  post in itself. There is one “catcaller” in particular who sits on a stoop next to my building. Each day he murmurs something in Spanish to me. I have been told I look Spanish before, but since being in the city, almost every day my ethnicity has been questioned or brought up. At work, one of my coworkers asked if I had any pictures from my quinceanera and then later commented how I would look like a “chola” with a hairnet on.

Although it would be extremely cool to be from another culture, I am NOT Spanish and I  never will be. Something about my mother’s Hungarian roots and my father’s German genes mesh together and make someone who apparently resembles a Spanish human being. I’m going to be honest I don’t really see it.

I have always liked looking like my parents even though it does grind my gears when facebook automatically tags me as my mother. I will always have my dad’s dimples and my mom’s piano playing fingers (that have been put to no good use). Who the hell knows where my curly hair comes from, that’s a real puzzler.



Coffee and Krasinski

Today felt like the first day of school. I woke up at 6:00  (ha ha) and ignored my alarm just like I did in high school, and pretended the buzzing was just some annoying animal in my dream. I got ready and walked approximately 2 FEET to my new job. I feel like a grown ass woman. I mean I’m not…but hey I can pretend. Starting a new job may be one fo the most anxiety provoking things in the entire world. You feel like you have the brain of a toddler and your fat fingers are in the way of everything and somehow the simplest information sounds like jibberish German. The person training me asked me “what is the best way you learn,” which made me feel like I was in the right place. Finally, my sandwich making skills from my days at a little Italian market have come to use in the big city at a small coffee shop. We started with simple breakfast sandwiches and then eventually moved onto lunch. I only mistook turkey for ham ONCE. Something about your brain turns off when you are trying to do something so completely right. 7:00 AM suddenly turned into 1 PM and my shift was already over. It felt like the first-day jitters where you are relieved to leave your new kindergarten classroom (I’m making an awful lot of allusions to elementary school) but you are also excited to play with shaving cream and maybe be a line leader tomorrow. Just like starting Pure Barre, the first day left me discouraged but hopeful. It is scary being the youngest employee, but it also will help me mature. I’m going to do so much maturing that by the time I get to college I will be a 50- year old woman approaching menopause.

As for many girls my age, who watched The Office as awkward adolescents, Jim Halpert has always been my dream man. I don’t feel like this needs explanation? He is charming, funny, cute, witty, other synonyms. He is the PERFECT guy. When I saw a facebook event pop up on my timeline of “A talk with John Krasinski” for FREE I said sign me up. We arrived late which was a dumb idea because we could only see the tip of his red sox cap, but we could hear his voice just fine. He is just as charming as I had imagined and he gave some great one liners. He talked about his struggle to pursue acting, saying he felt like he won the lottery like everyone says when they are famous. He was completely genuine and JUST LIKE JIM. I will end on this note: Celebrities ARE better than us.