European Boys Don't Like Me.

As hard as I tried, I could not get a single European guy to pay attention to me the entire time we were away. I even dyed my hair blonde  so I would fit in, but that plan, unfortunately, backfired. 

I got hit on exactly three times during the week we were away:

This man had ZERO interest in me, even though we have the same hair.

1. While stuffing my face with a 7/11 croissant outside of the Copenhagen train station, a Dunkin Donuts employee chased
after me to ask for my phone number. I watched him rip off his D+D purple uniform polo as he ran toward Alix and I, but forgot to take off his company-issued visor. We were leaving that night, otherwise I probably would have given it to him.

2. Sitting at a bar in Shoreditch, London (the European equivalent of Brooklyn) and Albanian man who appeared to be tweaking on meth came up to me and told me he was a man of the world and could speak 6 languages. He was unable to name a single one of the languages

3. On our last night in Europe, a hot Norwegian guy sat at our table and proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was in Norwegian (he may also have been saying something rude or disgusting, but after  a week of ZERO male attention, I was more than willing to accept his translation). Things were going great until he launched into a 45 minute history lesson about how the plot of the show Vikings was based on he and his dad. The whole thing became more than I could handle, and I opted to excuse myself before getting my European make out.

My friend Alix, on the other hand, was the most popular girl on the continent. The Danish boys LOVED her (her dye job is, in fairness, a lot better than mine) and everywhere we went, they couldn't get enough.

In fact, the first night we were in Copenhagen, she got a guy to drop the L Bomb.

We went to "Boy Band" night (which, it turns out, was actually Gay night– not NSYNC vs. Backstreet boys night as we had assumed) at our favorite 80's club, NIGHT FEVER. Upon entering the club, I was taking a picture of Charlotte and Alix under the light up rubix cube (naturally), and an adorable Danish guy hopped in the photo.

"I have a girlfriend," he said, "but I have six cute single friends downstairs who would be perfect for you girls– come sit at our table."

Ummm.... Yes.

We followed him to the table of cute boys,which was covered in 400 bottles of Tuborg– instead of getting "bottle service," they got "bottle of beer service" and it was clear right away that they all  only had eyes for Alix. My jokes were all falling so, so flat (#doesnttranslate) and between that and the bad hair there was no hope for me.

Bottles, Models and a boy who did NOT like me.

1 Million beers and a few tequila shots later, the group of boys was showing us the matching tattoos they have on their asses and twirling Alix around on the dancefloor by her Danish bun (if you look at the NIGHT FEVER Facebook page, you can see a crowd of smitten boys dancing a circle around her....)

Me and Alix's boyfriend's butt tattoo.

Needless to say, as the night wore on, so too did all talk of the Danish boy's "girlfriend" (whom he apparently lived with??) 

Charlotte and I came out of the bathroom to him telling Alix he loved her begging her to come home with him (to his girlfriend's house??), to which she offered a polite "fuck, no." 

He continued to text and facebook message her throughout the trip, up until the very end when he asked if he could come to the airport hotel at 6am before her flight back to Boston– the whole thing was very romantic.

Those emojis tho...

Also, full disclosure– the Dunkin Donuts mayyyy have been talking to Alix. The Albanian too. 

GO BOATS #FTW

One of the best things about Copenhagen is that there are NO rules. You can drink anywhere you want, legally buy pot, and leave your damn baby unattended on the street. It is LAWLESS and I love it. 

It is for this reason that GO BOATS are able to exist. Alix stumbled upon the website pretty much by accident, and when we got to Denmark it was the only thing that we all agreed we had to do (that didn't involve eating street hotdogs or 7/11 croissants). The boats cost like, $50 an hour to rent, and you drive them around the Copenhagen harbor yourself, TOTALLY unsupervised. It seats eight people with a picnic table in the middle, and it's BYOB.

I stole this from their website.

We spent most of the day leading up to the GO BOATS searching for Viking hats to wear while we steered our ship. We weren't quite sure if we were being horribly culturally insensitive in our mission, but thought that the hats would make for cute Instagram photos so we soldiered on.

Alix's friends from LA, who had casually run the marathon that morning (genuinely the most casual thing I have ever witnessed- they landed the night before, split a cheese pizza, slept for 3 hours and crushed a marathon the next morning) met us at the marina for our adventure. 

The tutorial process was minimal at best. "This is forward, this is backward, this is left, this is right. Just follow the map," said a cute Danish man in a thick accent while pointing to nothing.

"Sounds good!" Alix and I confirmed- she was the driver, I was in charge of navigation. 

#captainzo

We set off down the river with no idea where we were going, and I proclaimed myself the tour guide (so I got to wear the Viking Hat) and made up fun facts about monuments I knew nothing about along the way. We were supposed to do a loop around the harbor that would get us back to the marina in an hour. 

As tends to be the case when I'm in charge, that is not what happened. 

Things were going great for the first half an hour (Or in my case, the first two beers) until I stopped paying attention to the directions. I got really into wearing the Viking hat and waving the Danish flag, and we were getting a lot of attention from the other boats in the harbor. I was waving to them like I was Miss America, and they were all cheering. Collectively, we got distracted by a boat full of loud, topless girls (they were in bikini bottoms, we were in ski parkas– the whole thing was REALLY confusing) and took a wrong turn along the way. We ended up in a full blownswamp behind Christiania (which is the the hippie community where everyone goes to buy pot) next to a boat of men who looked straight out of Deliverance. The driver was literally covered in soot. We had to go through a bizarre series of booby traps, only to realize we had hit a dead end and had to turn around. Shout out to Alix for her supreme driving skills in this awful situation, especially because it was my fault for getting us lost in the first place.

On our way out of the swamp, we found a group of old men shamelessly skinny dipping. 

When we thought we were in the clear, it seemed like prime time to whip out the Viking hat and do a photo shoot. When it was Alix's turn to pose, I took over the driving. 

Big mistake. A HUGE tour boat pulled up behind us in the teeny, tiny canal. Our boat only went 5 knots and hour, and there was no way to pull over or turn around. boat, FILLED with people and two pissed off looking tour guides (who had all watched our entire photo shoot), was gaining on us to the point where we genuinely thought it was going to run us over. Naturally, I took a selfie: 

They could very clearly see me doing this.

Luckily, Alix (shout out again for her driving skills) somehow pulled over to the point where they could pass and all was ok. 

At this point, it was 9pm and we were an hour and a half late to return our boat– whoops! When we finally made it back, the Danish Go Boat Lady was not pleased and tried to charge us an extra $100 and refused to help us park the boat. She also saw me with the Viking hat on, which wasn't great. 

The good news is, we got a lot of cute pictures!

The Three Baddest Bitches in the CPH Canal

Going Back to Copenhagen

Visiting somewhere you used to live is a bizarre experience. After four years away from Copenhagen, we were all struck both by how much and how little had changed since we left.  Taking everything in from the perspective of an adult (who has spent two years living and working in the real world) was also vastly, vastly different than experiencing the city as a 19 year old student.

First of all, we reconfirmed that our study abroad experience was WEIRD. Char, Alix and I hadn't been together as a threesome in three years, and reminiscing with the two of them about all of the stuff we did while we lived in Copenhagen made us all realize how absolutely bizarre everything we did was. Living in a tenement house with 30-year-old Danish men and a broken kitchen table, washing machine and shower? Not normal. Staying up until 6am every night to make cookie dough in said broken kitchen? Not Normal. Traveling through Russia with a 4'8" Danish teacher as your tour guide, and watching someone on your trip throw up on him? Not normal. Going on a field trip to Western Denmark with your Communications class to play paint ball? Just... No. All SO amazing- but seriously. NOT. Normal.

Standard 4am in Vendersgade

The second, most shocking thing we realized when we got back to Denmark was that we were not nearly as poor as we thought we were when we studied abroad. While Copenhagen is expensive, it's not nearly as bad as we used to think. We used to shop at a grocery store that accepted the equivalent of food stamps (and sold exclusively frozen and freeze dried produce) and refused to even set foot in the real grocery store that sold ACTUAL fruits and vegetables for like, a 40 cents more. The more time I spent there this week, the more I realized that I simply didn't understand the conversion rate for the 6 months I lived there (and, let's be honest, still don't even after this trip). We used to fish Kroner* out of the gutters to be able to afford a pint of Ben and Jerry's at 7/11, but somehow justified buying new "going out tops" every other day at H+M because "It's cheaper in Europe!" (It's not.). Not to say that this realization stopped us from eating $3 street hotdogs and 7/11 Croissants for every meal– but that was out of choice, not out of supposed necessity.

This is what sheer joy looks like.

Thirdly, we realized that between the three of us we saw mayyyyyybe half of all of the tourist attractions we should have while we lived in Copenhagen. Instead, we went out until 6am, got home and made cookie dough in our janky kitchen and slept until 3pm. We also didn't do a whole lot of homework– Alix took an entire class about the Carlsberg Brewery, and I wrote a final paper about Russian Vodka. It was nice to go back and see some of the touristy stuff we missed the first time around, but truthfully we really spent our few days in CPH doing a whole lot of the same stuff we did when we lived there. I will definitely, definitely remember this when my future child asks me to fund a study abroad program in Europe.

We have the EXACT same picture from 2011.

Most importantly, though, we realized that all the bars we used to go to when we were 20 are still REALLY fun four years later. We didn't make it to Kulor bar (where we used to pay $5 to drink unlimited beer and dance in cages every Tuesday night). We were buying $1 shots (seriously, the city is CHEAP these days) and listening to Top 40 hits from 2008 everywhere we went. It. Was. Heavenly.

#TBT

*Danish Currency

I Went to Europe on a Whim

When I was a Sophomore in college, my then boyfriend broke up with me two days before Valentines day. My friends, being the absolute angels that they are, took me out and got me hammered, and I woke up the next morning with an email from US Airways informing me that I needed to be at the airport for a flight to Boston in 45 minutes. My "angelic" friends had convinced me come with them to a Valentine's Day party at Harvard fraternity, and let me tell you– it was the best, fastest way I have ever gotten over someone.

My trip to Europe came about sorrrrrrt of the same way.

My two best friends, whom I met studying abroad in Denmark (a trip I documented via this blog, which probably prevented me from getting a job or two after college...), planned a reunion trip over memorial day weekend that would take them back to Copenhagen as well as to London.

They booked everything in October, when I had no idea where my life would be come May 21. But then, a week before their trip, I found myself conveniently unemployed and unattached (and, ok, a little drunk on chardonnay) and bought a last minute flight that I couldn't afford.

A week later, I was on my way back to Europe.

The only picture we've ever taken that all three of us like.

Going Back to College is SAD

The four years I spent at Georgetown were the best years of my life.

Trying to break into The Coop

I know that's a bold statement to make, as many would argue that "the best is yet to come," (marriage and kids, belch) but I firmly, firmly believe that I will never be again be as happy as I was during the eight semesters I was lucky enough to call The Hilltop my home.

This weekend, I had the pleasure of returning to Georgetown to watch my little brother graduate. It wasn't the first time I had been back on campus (I've been to one homecoming and one basketball game in the last two years) but it was the first time I had ever been there without my friends.

Going back in the context of "big sister" rather than "drunk alumni" was a weird experience, to say the least. At every party we went to, I was stuck talking to my brother's roommates' parents while he and his friends took shots of cheap vodka in the corner. The place that used to make me feel so young and fun suddenly made me realize how much I had grown up in the last two years, and I seriously hated it. At one point, I looked around and realized there was no ice at the bar, then instantly felt like a lame old lady– college me never would have cared about, or even noticed, a lack of ice.

There is nothing more jarring than returning to a place you used to call home only to realize that everything has changed. The bars we used to go to have all closed down, and the familiar faces felt fewer and far between than they ever had before. Walking by the house that I lived in for two years and realizing I couldn't just walk right in was, by far, the weirdest feeling of all.

My college experience was abnormal in that it was pretty much perfect. I had an amazing group of friends, all of whom I still talk to every day, and I don't think it would have been possible to have had more fun than we did. Spring Break 2013 literally almost got us killed. We are all incredibly lucky that the majority of us landed in New York, and that we still, to some extent, get to experience the glory days. But being back at school this past weekend, made me realize how much has changed, even if we still do all get to hang out all the time. We are all grown ups with jobs (well, actually, not me...) and responsibilities and rents to pay and grocery shopping to do. We still live only 10 or 20 blocks from each other, but it's still unfathomably farther than the 10 or 20 feet we had to walk in college. My best friends are all now uptown, which even after two years is a whole lot different than upstairs.

Don't get me wrong: as far as lives in the real world go, I feel incredibly grateful for mine. But after being back at Georgetown, it's hard not to feel nostalgic for the absolute heaven we used to live in.

Grad school here I come? 

My Last Night of College

In honor of being back at Georgetown for my little brother's graduation,  I feel it appropriate to reminisce about my own graduation two years ago.

Hoya Saxa, Bitches.

In true Georgetown fashion, there are countless traditions associated with our graduation. Each year, on graduation eve, there is a black tie event at union station, followed by after parties, followed by the entire senior class going to the Lincoln Memorial to watch the sunrise.

The ball was fantastic, though my only real memories are of dancing to "SHOUT!" and eating 75,000 mini dumplings. Afterward, I took my family to Rhino (which has since closed down) where my mom proceeded to go barefoot and leave her Jimmy Choo's on the bar. After my family (rightfully) decided it was time to end the night, my group of friends threw one after party after another until it was time to walk (cab.) to the monuments.

Being there, all sitting on the steps together watching the sunrise in half-tuxedos and beer stained ball gowns, was one of the best things I have ever experienced. Look how happy we all are! Honestly, it was the best.

After sunrise, determined to stay awake until graduation (which started at 9am), my friends and I went to "Steak and Shake" for breakfast. By the time we got home, it was time to put on our caps and gowns to line up for the procession.

I put my new dress, new shoes, cap and gown on, and promptly fell asleep on the foot of my bed.

An hour later, I awoke to my roommates older sister violently shaking me.

"ZOE. You have to get up. It's 9:15. Graduation has started."

.......... What??

I bolted out of bed and made a run for it.

Cap in hand and gown flailing in the wind, I DEAD sprinted past the 600 people sitting on the front lawn listening to President Degioias' opening remarks– including my parents, who had no idea I hadn't come in with the rest of the class. (Arnold Schwarzenegger was there too.)

As if this wasn't bad enough, as soon as the Dean started calling names, I realized I had forgotten my "Academic Hood."

"You need it!" barked the lady who was in charge of all of the back row, delinquent graduates (which included me and two of my friends)

So, as swiftly as I had come in, I sprinted back out of graduation back to my house to pickup my "Academic Hood."

I lived right around the corner from the front gates, so getting back and forth quickly wasn't that big of a deal. Except that the door was locked. Refusing to go back to graduation looking like a bigger idiot than I already was, I did what any sane person would do: hopped the 10 foot fence in the back yard (cap and gown still on) and broke into my own house.

Finally, armed with cap, gown and academic hood (and only 45 minutes late), I was ready to graduate. Luckily, my last name starts with a W.

Lookin GOOD.

That One Time I Went Blonde

JLo is my celebrity crush. She is a strong, independent bitch, and somehow seems to get hotter and more successful with age. What other 45-year-old woman could attend the MetBall pretty much naked and land herself on Vogue's Best Dressed list? The lady is a goddess, and I want to be her.

So, my summer, unemployed goal (even before I became #singlezo) was to turn myself into JLo. I wanted to get super fit, super tan, and for the first time in my life, super blonde (Ok. Maybe just a little blonde).

Immediately after my last day of work, I flew down to Florida for a week-long beach vacation. What better place to commence my transformation? I planned to lay out on the beach all day every day, work out like a madwoman and dye my hair slightly blonder.

By day 4, I had reached an appropriate level of bronze and decided I was ready for the next step of project JLo. I went to the colorist my mom swears by, and asked for "sun kissed" highlights similar to the below:

Simple, subtle, not streaky– exactly what I wanted, not at all what I got.

In retrospect, I should have known that a salon in a strip mall in Bradenton, Florida, may actually not have been the best place to "commence my transformation."

Two hours and a head full of peroxide later, I emerged looking like this:

2004 Called. It wants its hair back.

The vibe was far, far more "2002 Kelly Clarkson" than "2015 Jennifer Lopez" (see below) and I could not stop laughing. When my mom saw me, she started to cry– which only made me laugh harder. A few of my friends tried to convince me they "loved it," which made me rethink every outfit they let me out of the house in in college (and seriously made me reconsider who will be invited to wedding dress shop with me). 

I went back the next morning to get it fixed, and somehow my entire head turned a bizarre shade of metallic silver. "It's great!" I told the girl without tipping her, and ran as fast as I could away from that hellhole of a salon. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to look like a 75 year old woman for the next few days (which happened to be my little brother's graduation) and would get the situation fixed when I got back to New York.

The following evening, my highlights and I had to attend a black tie event in DC in honor of Georgetown graduation. My mom, who still felt somehow responsible for turning me into Christina Aguilera circa the Dirrrrrty video, was kind enough to schedule me a blow-out before the party (In retrospect, I think she was probably embarrassed about having to show up with me looking the way I did). The hairdresser started styling my hair, and stopped about a minute and a half in. "I'm sorry," she said "but this is the worst dye job I have ever seen. I cannot in good conscience let you go somewhere where you are going to be photographed looking like this." Ummm, thanks?

She rushed me back to the sink, and was luckily able to fix the situation rather quickly. For those keeping score– thats three dye jobs in three days. It's a miracle I still have any hair left, let alone that it's finally a normal color.

What I learned from the whole experience is (1) never get your hair dyed in a strip mall and (2) blonde's don't actually seem to have more fun.

As for looking like JLO, that's still a work in progress.

I sincerely apologize for the number of selfies used in this post.

On the first day of Summer Vacation, I got Dumped.

Getting dumped sucks.

And that's exactly what happened to me on the eve of my last day at Glamour. The guy I had been dating for the last few months came over and politely informed me that things between us were over. The details aren't important, and after all is said and done I agree that it wasn't right and needed to end (etc. etc.), but nevertheless the whole thing was really, really tough. 

No matter what the reasoning is, there is no easy way to hear that someone doesn't want to be with you. It makes you question everything, and shoots your confidence to absolute shit. Am I not smart enough? Not pretty enough? Too needy? Terrible in bed? Your mind whirs imagining all the things that could possibly be wrong with you, and leaves you with one overwhelming emotion: embarrassment. How mortifying is it to find out that someone you like doesn't like you back? It's like being in fourth grade all over again and finding out he checked the box that said "NO" when you passed him a "will you go out with me?" note.

When I was 14 and my first boyfriend broke up with me, I was heartbroken. To this day, I don't think I have ever been so sad. He kicked me to the curb via AIM, and showed up at school the next day with someone else. I was crushed.  My Aunt Dawn picked me up that afternoon (she found me sobbing on a corner) and in her infinite grown-up wisdom offered me a piece of advice that has stuck with me for the last ten years: "Breakups are like bikini waxes- the more you go through them, the less they hurt." I remembered this every time my high school/college boyfriend and I broke up (which was, on average, once a month), and all of the times that things haven't worked out with guys in my adult life (which has happened more often in the last two years than I would like to admit). 

With all of this experience, and a fair share grown-up wisdom of my own, I feel I need to make an addendum to my Aunt Dawn's advice: Breakups don't hurt less the more you go through them, but they do start to get easier. You learn how to effectively make yourself feel better (read: alcohol, exercise and Kelly Clarkson) and ultimately how to move on more quickly and effectively. Plus, every time it happens, you inevitably realize that while some breakups are worth crying over, most of them aren't.

And the most important thing to remember? Even Beyoncé has been dumped. 

I Quit My Job- Now What?

I am 23 years old, living in New York City, and just quit the job I had held for the last two years. I am going back to school in the Fall to pursue a Masters in Journalism, but until then the world is pretty much my Oyster.

I have three months of absolute nothing- no ties, no responsibilities- nothing.

While most of this time will be spent traveling and tanning, I promised myself that if I quit my job I would write every day until school started. 

So, here I am. 

This is my summer diary of sorts- I truthfully have no idea what will come of it or what sorts of adventures I will get myself into. Some of it will be serious, but most will be fun. Here's to hoping it's something good! #summerofzo

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