I Spent The Night Dressed Like Beyoncé, And It Was Pretty Much The Best Night Ever.

I've never really been a "Beyoncé person." I haven't seen the HBO documentary, I like some, but not all, of her music, and would never refer to myself as a member of something called the "Bey Hive." In fact, my college roommate and I have gotten into borderline friendship-ending arguments over the fact that I don't loooooove and worship "The Queen" as much as she thinks I should. 

To be clear, it's not that I don't like her; I've just never really gotten it. Yes, she's gorgeous/confident/the greatest dancer on the planet, but it never made sense to me why people were soooo obsessed with someone who once sang the lyrics "I fill the tub up halfway then I ride it with my surfboard, surfboard." (like, what does that even mean???????)

That is, until this weekend. 

At 6pm on Halloween night, I had no costume and NO plans for the evening. It was turning out to be the lamest Halloween in Halloween history. My roommate and I debated staying in and "handing out candy" (since there was zero chance any trick or treaters would make the trek to our 5th floor walkup, we really meant "staying in and eating candy we pretended to have bought for kids") but quickly realized we were young, fun and acting like big ol' losers, (and that there were no new chick flicks on Netflix). We needed to get off the couch, figure out costumes and turn things around. Fast. 

"You have the right to remain sexy, Sugar."

I've had terrible costumes and still had fun Halloweens in the past, so expectations were low when we ventured out in the cold to one of the creepy kiosks on St. Marks. I figured I would just buy some (flea-ridden) wig. throw on a slutty black dress and make something up. But then, I saw the most amazing wig on the PLANET, and was utterly inspired.

A quick trip to American Apparel to buy $90 worth of gold lamé spandex that I'll "totallllllly wear again" (yet another Halloween when I "didn't want to spend money on a costume," so I waited until the last minute and screwed myself.) and I was ready to be FOXXY CLEOPATRA, Beyoncé's character from Austin Powers: Goldmember.

I got home, covered myself in baby oil (my mom used to be obsessed with the fact that Beyoncé uses baby oil to moisturize, so I figured I would try it) and a ton gold eye/lip/face makeup, and put on my costume.

And let me just say — Holy. Shit.

I'll admit it: I'd been having a very fat-feeling, why-is-mercury-still-in-retrograde-and-messing-up-my-life, un-confident month (come on you guys, it happens to the best of us); until I put on the costume. I was a whole new woman. I stood alone in my room for a solid 15 minutes taking selfies (and sending them to cute boys) and feeling freaking amazing about myself for the first time in a while.

I'm FOXXY Cleopatra and I'm a wholeeeee lotta woman. 

The costume made me feel like I could do literally anything, so the night started to fall into place.

First, I decided that it would be  totally acceptable for me to go to a party alone, where I didn't really know anyone. So I went, talked to strangers, drank vodka/redbulls and shamelessly flirted with cute boys I knew I'd never see again. "Zoë" wouldn't do that (ok, I'd probably still drink the vodka), but Beyoncé totally would.

I also happened to run into dickpic guy on the way out (AGAIN!!!!!!!!!) and thought the universe might be trying to push us together, so considered going with him to a party uptown, but realized Beyoncé would never give someone who  showed her a picture of his penis on a first date a second chance, so I left. (Let's be honest— Zoë probably would)

I then walked (still completely alone) to a bar 10 blocks away, and have never in my life felt like such a badass hottie (not even on the hottest/baddest-ass day of my life when I got arrested in Montauk). I was winking at strangers, people were high-fiving me all over the place and SIX different groups asked to take my picture. 

I wasn't walking, I was full on strutting. In 7-inch heels, mind you. 

I got to the bar, immediately cut the line (after the bouncer told me I needed to "pull up my top because my boobs were out" ...whoops) and danced my bootylicious little gold butt off with my college friends for hours.

Later on in the night, I went to meet a friend (ok, a boy.) at TAO Downtown, once again completely alone. As someone who hasn't been to a nightclub since 2008 (it was a girl from a summer program's 18th birthday at Tenjune, naturally) I wasn't at all sure of what I was getting myself into, but had been drinking for hours and it seemed like a good idea. 

I walked (strutted) to the door, and the bouncer let me in immediately. It was the second time that night that I was allowed to cut the line, which hasn't happened since college (and that was only because we bullied one of our friends into going on a date with a bouncer so we could have line-cutting rites for life). It felt fucking awesome.

When I got inside, I couldn't find my "friend," so instead spent the night dancing with strangers and making "friends" with people who had tables. After all, who doesn't want Beyoncé at their table? ("Zoë" hasn't been at a table since 2010...)

My last memory (which must have been around 5am— thanks, Daylight Savings) is dirty-dancing with a hottie to "Trap Queen" whilst profusely sweating and swinging my wig over my head. Let met tell you: it takes a confident (or really, really drunk) woman to behave like that and still thinks she's sexy. 

The next day, it was horribly depressing to go back to being normal me after being Beyoncé for the night. After 9 hours in an afro and head-to-toe gold lamé spandex, I can honestly say I know what Queen Bey is talking about when she says "I'm feelin myself." If only I hadn't lost my wig at the nightclub.

I owned the shoes.

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.