Category Archives: Culture

Essie. Nail. Polish.

I. freaking. LOVE. essie. nail polish.

I should just end my sentiments right there. Because, really, I. freaking. LOVE. essie. nail polish.

There’s little more to say than that I. freaking. LOVE. essie. nail polish. because essie nail polish is freaking loveably perfect.

bobbing for baubles, of the winter 2011 collection

I came across the polish in my youthful years at nail salons, but had never really encountered it in its true, beautifully wholesome form until college. My roommate freshman year had a thing for the feeling of her clean hands post-manicure and needed always-polished fingernails, so she had two bottles of essie always on hand. I didn’t understand her sentiments. Now I do. I really do.

Any girl who has seen Legally Blonde the non-negotiable eighteen times a year knows that a manicure is the solution to all of life’s problems. Not to get too biddie here, but Elle Woods knows what she’s preachin’ about.

Elle knows that a manicure is the ultimate mood-booster.

Freshly polished hands look better, and make you feel better. Every gesture you make is suddenly beaming with the glistening shine off newly lacquered nails. You want to touch everything. Texting is instantly more enjoyable. You find yourself completing the “mandatory” reading for that philosophy elective you took on a whim solely to drool over your fingers flipping the page. It’s amazing, and the masculinity-conscious men are missing out BIG TIME.

I had always thought that it was the manicurist’s magical skill that sculpted my nails and painted so delicately that made the manicure what it was. And then I borrowed my roommate’s nail polish. I’ll never forget the moment when I first whipped out the essie brush and the wicked color dripped onto my right pinky. It’s not the stereotypical and condescending salon ladies that make the manicure what it is. It’s all in the polish.

This ground-breaking revelation hit me harder than the time I realized the remarkable outfit-shifting capabilities of a pair of faboosh high heels. (I mean, they change everything.)

The essie polish and brush makes the manicure look glossy and lacquered and wonderful. My life was forever changed. I tried looking into other options, O.P.I. and Sally Hansen were certainly at a salon price point, but they just didn’t offer the same things that essie did. The names. The wonderfully quirky names that vary thematically each season. The options to change my whole week whether I go dark with licorice, or pop with geranium, or remain neutral and professional with limo-scene. All the girls know the new collections when they come out. It’s like this wonderfully culty club that I could now be part of! Yes, the first sign of summer means to slop on the fiji. No, there is occasion where waltz or ballet slippers is inappropriate. And YES, wicked is always the right choice.

Four years and 8 (yes, eight.) bottles of wicked later, my love remains true. I’ll certainly change my style with my mood and experiment or dabble with trends like the neons of bright tights and funky limelight, or that one fall where everyone was wearing mint candy apple, that is really more of a Tiffany’s robin’s egg blue than it was a part of that mint green nail trend. More than anything, it’s the emotional connection I have with essie that makes me love it so very, very much. Other nail polishes just don’t make me feel the same. Though O.P.I. certainly has very clever names (Ski Teal We Drop? Absolutely adorable), there is something about that teeny white cap and crisp clear bottle that just makes me so, so happy. It all comes down to the basic premise that I. freaking. LOVE. everything about essie. nail polish. Comment with your top go-to hues!



Los Angeles, California is the worst. L.A. BLOWS. L.A. SUCKS. L.A. is helL.A. L.A., dear L.A.-obsessed Los Angelians, is NOT a spectacular microcosm of glory, as you clearly have been misled to believe. L.A. is an infested black hole of environmentally-friendly SMOGFESTS.

A born and bred East Coaster, I first really came across the L.A.-obsessed Los Angelians when I arrived at college. Boston University prides itself in diversity, and I found this bizarre species of L.A.-bred West Coaster around every turn. Recycling, avocado-loving, drinking tea not coffee, going to yoga, driving, these SoCalies were everywhere.

I don’t care for avocado. Accordingly, I don’t care for guacamole. Tell someone from California that you don’t like avocado and they look at you like you’ve murdered their first-born. They don’t understand it. They can’t comprehend it. “But… huh?” It’s a texture thing. I just don’t like it. #CALMDOWN.

It’s not that I HATE Los Angeles. It’s just that people from there LOVE IT. Stop. It’s not New York. It’s not Manhattan, the center of the universe. It’s not that I HATE Los Angeles. It’s just that New York is just so much better.

Chill. Chill Cali Brah, L.A. is awful. There’s smog and pollution, and you can’t even see the crystal clear blue skies for a solid 200 feet because there’s a layer of blech before the blue. The people are vacuous and women wear high heels too much. Not every occasion is a high-heel-appropriate occasion. Yet, why not rock pumps, when you all drive everywhere.

I take huge, huge, issue with this huge issue and cannot begin to express the convulsing disgust I have with the driving in L.A. If the Nail Salon is building number 4820, to arrive at the Coffee Bean at 4824, biddies would gas up the white beamer to pick up an Ice Blended?! Well, you have to. The “city” is not conducive for walkers.

(okay, so LA music: +1)

I love walking. I love the time with my iPod. I love the exercise. I love the time with my thoughts and the people watching and the moseying and the browsing and the sudden adventure of “ooop! I’ll pop into this shop” and “ooop! I’ll run into this old chum of mine!” In L.A.: never. happens. I don’t see familiar faces in 20 minutes of stop and go traffic. I don’t have time to pop into shops when I’m late on account of traffic. I have to spend 50 minutes at a pre-party debating with the room about who is driving and who is calling a cab. Whole conversations like this never need to be had in real cities with socially acceptable forms of public transportation.

Considering L.A. a city in itself is the most outrageous of the falLAcies. How is L.A. a “city” by any definition of the term? Cultural landmarks? A sign, some hotels, and some theaters. Historic landmarks? A sign, some hotels, and some theaters. Tourist attractions? A sign, some hotels, and some theaters. There’s no culture in L.A., aside from the culture of LOVING L.A. What Kool-Aid is in the L.A. water that no one drinks because everyone sips bottled water out of their environmentally-conscious SIGGS?

The only redeeming quality of L.A. is the damn weather. Sweet sunshine, the weather is good. Really good. So you can’t be in a bad mood because of the happy sun-shining sunshine. But the smiling sunshine benefits are all negated by Los Angelians’ irrational decision that nice weather is all that matters in a life. When one L.A.ian meets another, the first and only thing they talk and bond about is their own irrational infatuations with the climatic differences between the coasts. Anything about L.A. is validated to the species of SoCal-obsessed SoCallies by the nice weather. “Well yea we don’t have seasons cause we kept the best ones,” “Well in a matter of minutes I can get to any climate I want.” Since when are these traits we all desperately had been seeking in a city? Los Angelians tout the weather as though all any other city dwellers do is gripe about how miserable the weather is and aspire to have weather like that of Los Angeles. Why do I need to be an hours’ drive from various climates? Why don’t I want all four seasons? I can visit your sh!tty c!ty.

bret easton ellis ref.

I’m not saying the city should disappear here or anything, but I do think it’s about darned time that the folks from Southern California take their own chill pills and acknowledge that there’s more to being an amazing town than warm weather and abundant weed. So please, stop pushing your laid-back Cali-ness on the rest of us and if you hate it so much here on the East Coast as you integrate into every conversation from “chilly” October to “too-humid” July, then GO. HOME. #hrumph.

Soupe D’Oreo

I think it is finally time to share with the world my twist on America’s Favorite Cookie. Behold! My own recipe for HOMEMADE OREO SOUP (Soupe D’Oreo). A long-time favorite of myself and my converted peers, Soupe D’Oreo is a classic favorite, and the only proper way to eat an Oreo Cookie.

STEP 1: Place 6 Nabisco Oreo Cookies in a bowl.

STEP 2: Pour milk into the bowl.

STEP 3: Take spoon, mush 6 Oreos.

STEP 4: Eat.

STEP 5: Feel no shame, for what you have just made is DELICIOUS.

The Boston Globe

I got a call a few weeks back from Beth Teitell, a Boston Globe journalist, who was writing an article about Twitter followers and Klout scores. My name was passed along by Marlo at marlo marketing communications, where I had interned this past fall and successfully positioned myself as that freaky intern who is irrationally obsessed with Twitter.

I spoke with Beth for hours and a bit of our conversation made it into the FRONT PAGE ARTICLE! 🙂 check it out here!

Disclaimers: I barely go on dates period, let alone do I actually real life care about how many followers a person has, please. Also, I don’t know how much as of right now I can stand behind the validity of Klout. They’ve always been very unclear about how scores are calculated and often some user scores seem higher or lower than is logical… #JUSTSAYIN


New Twitter started rolling out on 9/14. (Hence the alarm clock, 9:14… very clever.) I got it on 9/15, honored to have it bestowed upon me so soon and to be welcomed so early into the most elite and glorious of all socially medial clubs. I fell instantly more in love with the beauty of #newtwitter.

The beautiful homepages, the sleek lines and fade outs, the @___ that immediately pops up all the potential followings you could intend to tweet, the movable new tweet box, the pictures that link into the right side- #newtwitter is the #worldsgreatesttwitter!

My only main complaint: I like the OLD RT! I don’t always wish to RT exactly as the original tweep tweeted. Sometimes, and most often, a RT is to add personal commentary. The current and recent RT functions force a user to copy and paste if he or she would like to add his or her own insights. #thingsthatshouldberemedied

Nonetheless, #newtwitter I love you more than the old twitter, and this is a feat many thought not possible. Two wings way up for the new twitter!


Touched by Alyssa

Fellow NYC-interning-ADPi, Vanessa Misciagna, for some bizarre reason thought of me when she needed “models” for a segment on the PIX11 morning news broadcast.

Alyssa Milano was on the show to chat about her new clothing line, “touch,” which is sportswear for women that can be purchased online or in major ballparks, stadiums, etc. I’m not necessarily a Mets fan, but I am a fan of supporting Vanessa and Who’s the Boss Alyssa, and the very attractive morning co-anchor, John Muller.

It was lots of fun! We dressed up in the clothing (which we got to keep- thanks Alyssa!), and did a quick mock-modeling on the green screen stadium.

Alyssa’s really sweet, and SHE TWEETED US! Which is a huge honor, since this all came immediately after this summer’s Wieden + Kennedy Old Spice hullaballoo. Active tweep? She wins in my book.


Bryant Park Summer Film Festival

Bryant Park, one of my favorite New York time-killing spots (when I have time to kill) offers the (HBO) Summer Film Festival every Monday night June-August.

It’s a GREAT and magical time, where movies start at sundown on the lawn, and people line up, blankets and picnics in hand, by 4pm. Suggestions so you’re not jealous of others’ perfect picnics: wine. brie. hummus. grapes.

I went to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail with my boyfauxriend Greggy, and subsequently made a quick run to snag food, so as to not be overcome with jealousy at the look of everyone’s bags of Trader Joe’s organic glory.

The movie started with a Looney Tunes Pepe Le Peu short, which was probably my favorite thing of all time, and of course I loved watching Python with a crowd of people all anxiously waiting the same epic lines. “Help! Help! I’m being repressed!”

The whole experience is delightfully “summer in Manhattan,” and there’s always a cultured selection of films playing week-to-week. I highly recommend.