I thought that by landing back in the United States at 4:30 PM, steaming and showering at Equinox, staying awake by perusing through Whole Foods like a zombie, and then going to sleep at 9, I would officially biohack my way out of Barcelona time and into my regularly scheduled programming.

I was wrong.

The entire week I felt a weird haze looming over me, different than the dark cloud I described a few weeks back, but an odd, barely there fog that made me feel like I was drunk through my days. My neck ached, I had a multi-day headache that I still have, and every night at 8:30, my eyes became unimaginably heavy.

As you all know, I’m a chronic fomo sufferer, typically panic texting my friends every Friday asking what they’re doing this weekend. Everyone was pretty lowkey—dogsitting with their boyfriend, laying low because of law school finals, Mets game with family, etc. That morning, I had looked around my disgusting apartment that had a layer of dust on every surface, a hamper full of laundry from my trip and before, and a shower that desperately needed bleaching. My weekend destiny was decided for me.

What does a chill weekend in my life look like? I’m happy to share.

On Friday I would scrub my apartment until my fingers became raw, spend the night dodging drunk people on the way to my laundry room, and organize every cabinet I had. For lunch, I had treated myself to a Vodka Parm from Compton’s because I was slightly hungover from a first date the night before and neglected a meal-prepped salad, which had to be for dinner out of the new principles of my finances.

When all of my ducks were in a row, I had gone through three Swiffer Wet Pads, and my pantry was a perfect little Jenga tower, I watched The Truth and Tragedy of Moriah Wilson on Netflix which was devastating and gripping while playing Animal Crossing, completing a May Day challenge bequest on me by Tom Nook and renovating my bathroom. This weekend, I also wanted to get a lot of reading done, particularly finishing Famesick by Lena Dunham. I crawled into bed around 10, read a chapter, and slept for approximately 12 hours.

On Saturday, my sister and I had plans to get lunch at EJ’s Luncheonette and walk around the Upper East Side, her new hood. We started with Honeybun Lattes at Casita of Brooklyn, a place that I’ve come to love after my first visit to her apartment, and embarked on a rainy journey down to EJ’s. Something we need to work on is walking with umbrellas at the same time next to each other. I eventually gave up and just went with my hat and trench coat.

Someone ruined EJ’s by posting about it on TikTok, so the line was wrapped around the block. We settled for the bar at Gracie Mews Diner, which was delicious while slightly expensive for a casual brunch. I got a bloody mary because, when in Rome. Monte Cristo sandwiches have been my favorite ever since I was a kid, and the Gracie Mews one was the perfect substitute for my favorite Connecticut diner that has since shuttered.

We then went to Zitomer’s where we got matching acrylic headbands a-la CBK (remember when I talked shit about those during Love Story), pondered over the Victoria Beckham makeup counter, and marveled a the wall of Mason Pearson hairbrushes before making our final stop at the Nespresso store.

So, I had never been to a Nespresso store until that point. I always just ordered on their app, because it’s incredible and fun to use. I didn’t realize that this was basically an Apple Store for coffee, with samples and bundles galore, as well as an espresso bar where you could get 20% off a drink with any purchase. I walked out with the Blue Bottle three-pack, cup, and ice tray set as well as the honey pistachio latte to enjoy for my long trip home.

By the time I returned back to the Lower East Side, it was pouring rain. I had a few loose plans or potential meetups in the works, but the idea of leaving my cozy, squeaky clean digs seemed impossible at the moment. I had also blew $60 at Nespresso, so it was in my best interest to lay low for the night in light of my recent international travels and money-spending.

I made some Kevin’s Mongolian beef on my hot plate (my building’s gas line has been under repairs and I can’t live without Goodles), cozied up once again on my couch, and watched NBA Playoff Basketball while reading Famesick.

This weekend at home, I felt so happy after an elongated period of sluggish sadness that I was afraid something was wrong with me. As I sat on the couch, watching a horrific documentary of a girl my age who got murdered and eating a salad I made, or stirring Mongolian beef on my hot plate while cheering for no team in particular, I was overcome with a cozy feeling in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a long time by myself. Recently, whenever I’m particularly level-headed or clear and sound in decision making, I genuinely wonder if my frontal lobe developing is something you can feel happening. I avoided all normal ruminating on how I’m young, I should be at the club or at a dinner with my friends at the very least, and genuinely loved being by myself in this space I curated just for me.

On Sunday I went to the pottery studio, where I got back on the wheel for the first time in what I think was a little over a month. Just like riding a bike, I made one of my favorite pieces to-date, and three of the biggest I had ever been able to accomplish.

After the studio, I hit Trader Joe’s and bought things that a sixth-grader who was given independence and autonomy in the grocery store would—frozen crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, instant garlic Thai noodles, potato chips, etc., as well as some beautiful ranunculus. I also hadn’t bought flowers in a few months, another step towards grounding myself and letting the fog pass.

Showering and steaming at the Equinox has brought me a lot of joy recently as well. As the final step to my recovery weekend, I laid splayed out on the stone step, taking in the hot, eucalyptus air, then enjoying the plethora of Le Labo products that my luxury gym membership has to offer. I had never felt cleaner.

This week has a lot in store for me that I’m excited about—the premiere of The Devil Wears Prada: 2 to be most specific. I didn’t want to be just barely crawling my way through like I was before, I wanted to feel like myself again. Mission accomplished.

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There’s a lot going on in the world of pop culture.

We’ve got Bravo hotter than ever with Summer House drama up the wazoo and the smash success of The Real Housewives of Rhode Island (Lisa Barlow is somewhere in Utah stress eating Wendy’s with “Ben Affleck”), Bieberchella, Lena Dunham’s memoir (I’m halfway through), trash episodes on HBO—and that’s barely scratching the zeitgeist surface.

I may regret writing this before seeing The Devil Wears Prada: 2 next week, but there’s always next Friday, and then the Friday after that, and the Friday after that, and…

This week, I wanted to go back to Coffee Order’s roots, where I gave my hard opinions on everything going on that doesn’t affect me at all in reality. My own personal lalaland of controversy, press coverage, and celebrity.

I’d say we’re overdue. Let’s MENTION IT ALL!

The Real Housewives of Rhode Island is a program I was highly skeptical of. I’m pretty sure I told a bunch of people that I wasn’t going to watch it. I’m happily eating my words.

First of all, I had no idea Rhode Island was so Italian. It’s basically a New England New Jersey. I’ve of course been a bunch of times being from Connecticut, but for some reason I assumed it was waspy like Nantucket or Fairfield County. There are accents on this show my ears have never heard before. Dialects of the English language I didn’t know existed. See exhibit A:

Alicia is really important to me. Everything about her is spectacular and I feel a draw to protect her for some reason. The fact that she’s been engaged for 11 years because her husband won’t give her equity in the Pizza Mamma business is obviously very scary to me, and I hope we work that out before Season 2.

Kelsey is also someone I feel connected to, which is weird because we couldn’t be more different. For those of you who don’t know, she’s a 30 year-old former Miss Rhode Island who is in a polyamorous relationship, living in her main boyfriend’s empty 16k square foot house while he visits his other girlfriend for 6 months in Miami. In the meantime, she’s trying to figure out if a kind man named Bill who she’s known since high school could do what her main man can’t—supplement her lifestyle and give her children.

These are storylines never before seen to The Real Housewives franchises. This isn’t about plastic surgery or tax evasion (yet) or opening weird clothing boutiques. These are unique problems that these gals are bringing to the table, which makes them so compelling, along with their obvious mob ties and beyond bizarre livelihoods.

In terms of Summer House, I’m a little tapped out and just want the reunion to come. Mia did a great job on Watch What Happens Live, she’s going to be a star, and she’s an amazing friend for Ciara to have in her corner right now.

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The three of us wanted to treat ourselves to a nice vacation—spend some PTO and some money, travel across the ocean, and have the time of our lives. We chose Barcelona because none of us had ever been there before, it’s on the water, and seems like a great time.

I haven’t been to Europe in a few years, so I was looking forward to completely and utterly disconnecting, spending time relaxed and away from all of my mundane issues in America. The flight wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, and as I write this on the journey home, I’ll time travel back to New York in the middle of the day there, losing no time at all.

We stayed at Soho House, which I highly recommend. Although I may be in debt now, it was completely worth it in terms of security and luxury. I felt very safe, enjoyed multiple days by their rooftop pool, and slept in a California King Bed which kept Eliza and I further away than me and my freshman roommate Emma spent our entire year. It was also nice to always have a place to have a great coffee, drink, or time, and was in a central location in terms of where the city laid. Our room had ocean views, a Dyson hair dryer, and a beautiful rain shower, a recipe for an amazing long weekend with my besties.

Day 1

Arrived in Barcelona around 9 AM local time. Waited in the customs line for an hour. Ubered to our hotel, used their locker room to get ready for the day, headed up to the roof for coffee and some Vitamin D.

We had lunch at Restaurant Sedna, a random place by the water that looked decent since we were starving. We called this Spanish Kiki’s (which ended up being kind of everywhere around Barcelona) because of its delicious small plates and cheap wine, just what the doctor ordered after a long flight.

Our first stop was Los Feliz Vintage, where I got a sick Moschino dress that was like Word Art from the early 2000s. This store had a lot of amazing Italian designer vintage and fun statement pieces that I tried on as well.

We then went to the Cathedral de Barcelona for some sightseeing, walked around the Gothic Quarter, and got frozen yogurt at Myka (now available in New York which is great news for me considering I cannot live without it anymore) before going back to our room for some rest. Eliza and I secured a daybed by the pool while Elizabeth took a nap, easing into the Spanish lifestyle with our first Siesta of the week.

Dinner was at Bar Tiberi which was excellent. We got some traditional tapas and great cocktails, and after all was said and done on the trip, I decided this was one of my favorite meals there. It’s more laid back than I had anticipated, but was the perfect vibe for our first night after long travel. I wore my new dress!

We went to Bar Marsella, a spot said to be frequented by Picasso and Hemingway, and cosplayed some girls studying abroad from the University of Michigan for two drinks with some pirates (literally). Unbeknownst to us, it was Barcelona Fashion Week, so we ended the night at a party back at the hotel hosted by the brand SSSTUFFF, and met some boys who we learned soon after were born in 2004. That was a little jarring.

Day 2

Had a long no alarm sleep before heading out for some shopping. We got breakfast at Raw Studios, I ordered pancakes and an americano, and fueled up before hitting the classics: Gimaguas, Zara, and of course, Brandy Melville. At Gimaguas, I got this skirt that I ended up wearing on Night 2 (why did I even pack clothes), and I also ended up getting a tank top and shirt from Massimo Dutti because, when in Rome (Spain). I left Zara empty handed which was disappointing, but nothing I haven’t experienced before.

The sightseeing for the day consisted of Basilica de la Sagrada Familia and Casa Batllo. Then dinner on the Soho House roof before we would go for some drinks and dancing the night away. The boys from the ssstufff party recommended this club called Chica because it had an “older crowd”——it became obvious they thought we were like, ancient——and we were dedicated to staying vigilant against pick picketers or other criminals, so we went with it because they honestly seemed like a bunch of little nepo babies.

Chica felt like New York and also Mexico City. The crowd started to fill up around halfway through our cocktail hour, and it was a lot of music with no words——again, when in Rome. It was pretty much a sausage party and after feeling like some discarded French fries on a beach full of seagulls, we called it a night (or morning). I’d still recommend going there because it was chic and reputable and not too expensive.

Day 3

Another slow wake up. Breakfast that turned into a pool day on the roof before dedicating our time to vintage shopping only. I got a vintage Agnes B cardigan from a store called The Favorite Vintage, which had a very cool American owner, an incredible archive, and super fair prices. Then, we went to Lullaby Vintage and a few other spots in that area (El Raval) that I don’t remember the names of, but if you message me I can find them on Google Maps.

We had another glass of wine before our dinner reservation at Julieta’s by the beach. This was a great spot and felt perfect for a special occasion we were celebrating (Eliza’s birthday the next day). We got a lot of fresh seafood, our Paella, more wine, and delicious gelato before a nightcap at Les Gens Que J'Aime, another super cool place for a late-ish night.

Day 4

Our last full day was Eliza’s Birthday, so we woke her up with a birthday sign, gifts, and got some breakfast on the roof once again. On the docket for that day was Park Güell, Handy Bakery, and a mid-day snack, my favorite part of the Barcelona lifestyle. Handy Bakery was genuinely one of the best slices of cake I’ve ever had, the neighborhood was beautiful, and it was hands down the cleanest and nicest bathroom in the entire city, so that’s a must. Park Güell was beautiful and it felt good to see, but the Aperol Spritz at El 37 was even better.

Our last dinner was at Akiro, a famous hand roll spot near the University of Barcelona (perhaps neighbors with our new friends). It’s walk-in only, but the hour and some change wait was definitely worth it. This was one of the best meals I’ve had in my life, and while it was a splurge, it felt like a nice thing to do for myself. Get the caviar nigiri with bone marrow and the wagyu hand roll.

We headed to the airport around 10 AM Barcelona time on Monday, and that was also the time I happened to be ready to have my hair feel normal again and order Chick Fil A to my apartment. Barcelona was truly spectacular and such a special place to be with two of my bestest friends. This feels like a time in my life where I should be maximizing my freedom and dexterity. After all, who cares about some light AMEX debt when you don’t have any dependents? Money comes back around.

Obviously, as someone who loves a 6 PM dinner and convenience, Spain was definitely more of a cultural difference than somewhere like London or even Mexico City. But it was fun to fully immerse ourselves in the culture and we acclimated quickly, eating breakfast at 1:30 on day 2 and dinner at 10 pm on day 4. The weather was beyond perfect, the people were very kind, and the hardest part was ordering an Uber during the evening hours. All in all, pretty awesome to be me.

These travel posts are fun. You can read my packing guide here, or all about my trip to Mexico City last summer here.

I was so jetlagged and tired while writing this I probably missed things like outfit links or additional info. You know where to find me. Also, it’s not edited. LOVE YA!

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I’m not the most savvy traveler. I definitely pack light, make lists, and rarely make any huge mistakes. I’ve never missed a flight (KNOCK ON WOOD), I have TSA Pre-Check, Clear, and a Delta AMEX. Despite all of this, I leave the country once every few years, mainly visiting friends and family within the continental U.S. or going on a short getaway.

I will also splurge on convenience. I do not care that a water bottle at the airport is $7 (less than a Coffee Order subscription, need I remind you), and I do not care how expensive food is. I need to be comfortable. PTO days are precious, and should be used for complete and utter relaxation.

The system I’ve created for myself is pretty full proof. Let’s start with the luggage.

• T.J. Maxx, Marshall’s, and Target undoubtedly make great suitcases for very cheap. I don’t own an Away or Rimowa. I won a July checked luggage-sized suitcase at an e-commerce conference this year that I’ve used once, but it was fabulous nonetheless.

• Dange Dover makes the best carry-on/personal items in the game. I swear by mine and don’t care if it’s not a chic leather carryall. I have both the large neoprene London Duffle and the medium mesh London Duffle in Black (not on their site, but Olive Green is more than half-off at Saks), which I’m using for this trip.

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I get into these “grey cloud” moods that tend to last anywhere from a day to a few weeks. They’re typically triggered by a series of unfortunate events—the L not running, a bad date, stress, things like that.

As someone who at one time had two different therapists and a psychiatrist, I’ve gone through extensive evaluation to determine that this just happens sometimes, and it’s not indicative of a greater issue or anything we need to be super serious about. Everyone has bad days, and I need to come to terms with that.

My friend asked if I wanted to go with her and her friend Jess to the Mets on Thursday. I love hanging with Evie because she always has a good idea and an even better attitude to bring with her. The first time I went to the Mets was last year, and I felt that it was such a fabulous event that everyone should be going all of the time. That was the last time I had been, and over 365 days later, I was clearly overdue.

The serendipity of the night began when Evie and I were on the 7, figuring out how we were going to find Jess, when she literally walked straight into our subway car. For the rest of the ride, Jess and I realized we had way too much in common to not be friends (both copywriters, both from the Tri-State area), so the night ensued seamlessly.

It should go without saying that I once again had a wonderful night at Citi Field. I have no idea to this day if the Mets won or lost. What I do know is that my hot chocolate, pretzel with cheese, hot dog, and a great time with the gals kept me warm throughout the night.

This weekend was special because it was the first time all 11 of my high school friend group would be together since 2023.

We are extraordinarily close, still texting in our groupchat every day, keeping each other updated on everything as small as a paper cut to as big as a house bought. The majority of us live in New York City, but we have a few in Denver, Tampa, and Boston that visit regularly, but never at the same time.

The agenda was packed—catch-up and pizza on Friday night at Grace’s apartment, day drinking on Saturday at Hartley’s in Bed Stuy for Hartley, Spritzenhaus in Greenpoint, and then the world would be our oyster.

These girls have seen me through a lot of different moons. Some of them I met in Kindergarten, so 2026 marked 20 full years of friendship with no interruption. We’ve played American Girl Dolls, mixed Smirnoff with Arnold Palmer, visited each other at college, and now plan trips for a time to reconnect. And the weirdest part is that it’s felt the same through it all. Even the friends I didn’t meet until high school—it all feels the same.

Spending time with each other is full of name dropping, reminiscing, and giving the headlines of what’s happening for ourselves now. Naturally, we’re all over the map in terms of where we stand in life. Ashley bought a house in Denver, Shayna lives with a boy (her boyfriend), Clare moved to Williamsburg from Murray Hill. Some of us are talking engagement ring shapes, some of us are talking pasta shapes. It doesn’t matter. When we’re together, it feels like it always did.

Hartley’s was a fabulous institution that I will frequent now. I’m not afraid of the A/C/E train. There was a one-year-old’s birthday party happening there (which was hilarious and genius, having your baby’s first birthday at a bar) who also happened to be named Sully (like one of our best friends), the bartender gave Hartley a cup for free, and I had two half-pints of Guinness (one full pint, I came to realize). We snapped pics in the late afternoon sun—a lesson we learned the hard way by not having a single picture of the 11 of us since 2018—enjoyed ciders, sang happy birthday to Sully, and added some college roommates and boyfriends to the mix, another really beautiful part of growing up with your best friends, getting to meet their best friends and people who love them just as much.

Spritzenhaus is an old classic, we go there a lot for work and it’s a nice change of pace from cramped, crowded bars where you’re getting elbowed in the face to a vast drinking warehouse that takes up a city block. Shayna worked her magic and got us a primetime table outside, where we set up camp for the foreseeable future. We ended the night with 7th Street Burger and the Masters reruns on one of our communal boyfriend’s roofs, sat around the fire pit, and did what we do best—laugh.

Needless to say, the grey cloud that carried above my head swiftly blew away. It’s hard to not say in your head so much when things seem to pile on. The best remedy for me is to surround myself with people who make me feel good, and the rest comes naturally.

I’m leaving for Barcelona on Wednesday, and since there was no Coffee Order on Friday (blame the grey cloud), I’m going to do a paid post on both Wednesday and Friday. I’m thinking Wednesday will be a travel guide, and still brainstorming for Friday. If you have any requests, holler…

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My dad grew up catholic and decided to not put his own children through that. I’m not sure where my mom’s family falls on the spiritually spectrum, we spend Christmas with them and there were rumblings of having attended Midnight Mass back in the day, but growing up with a Jewish best friend meant I experienced more synagogs than sermons.

I’m not baptized or confirmed, which means I’m fair game in the eyes of the lord when it comes to converting if I fall in love with someone religious and want my own Nobody Wants This moment. It also means I’m going to hell if you believe in that.

I watched an interview on CNN where Jake Tapper asked the cousin of one of the Artemis Astronauts if he was a religious man considering their mission falls over Easter Weekend, and how he reconciles religion with science as an astronaut. This felt like a ridiculous question to spend precious airtime on a segment that’s covering the first mission to the moon in decades. Who cares? She gave a pretty good answer that would please the masses—while he believes the universe is the result of a spectacular scientific event, God was the one who made that event possible.

According to TikTok and the mainstream media, Catholicism is on the rise and it’s actually trendy for Gen-Z to go to mass. People are meeting likeminded friends and prospective significant others in the West Village—something otherwise impossible for the last five years if you’ve been watching TikTok and reading the mainstream media.

Growing up without religion meant that Easter and Christmas were about outfits, presents, but most importantly, spending time with the people closest to you and eating good food. Both holidays revolve around potatoes mixed with four types of cheeses and corn flakes, which I guess makes my religion the Midwest.

My earliest memories of Easter are when my dad was still working for Golf Digest, he and my mom would invite his colleagues / their friends and their families over for an Easter Egg hunt, followed by cheesy potatoes and ham, and what I could imagine was a pretty early ending considering we were probably five. There are pictures of me in a straw hat, peplum dress, and pristinely white sandals, waving to the camera with my basket full of eggs, undoubtedly the buddings of my competitive spirit and love of looking good while winning.

“The Easter bunny” used to leave a jelly bean trail over night, leading from the feet of our beds, down the stairs, and to our baskets which were designated with an “O” for Olivia or “G” for Grace also out of jelly beans. My dad would yell about stepping on them about two hours after the magic had worn off, and my mom would wordlessly hand me and Grace empty ziplocks to fill that then became a treat for days to come. My mom is and always will be the best host as well as the best mom, giving us presents for every minor holiday. While my friends were getting chocolate bunnies and being forced to 9 am services, I was getting Nintendo DS games and playing them all afternoon once everyone left the party.

People like to debate the importance of religion when raising a family. Speaking for myself, it doesn’t seem that important. I still have morals and grew up afraid of a larger power without naming it “God”. Turns out, that was actually anxiety and OCD.

Of course, I grew up with immense fomo when it came to organized religion. I wanted to go on the service trip to Appalachia, I wanted a batmizvah. I wanted to be in on the jokes from CCD. I wanted to wear a cross. One of those things I could control:

I have vivid memories of reading in J14 magazine that Miley Cyrus was reading the Bible cover to cover and thinking that was really cool. It wasn’t until high school when I found out about Vice Media and people like Louis Theroux who would go to the Westboro Baptist Church or invade a cult when I found out that some churches were bad, that some people were being hurt and not everything was laughing with your friends and wearing a sparkly dress.

Maybe I had fomo because I was Godless. Maybe if I had a God, I wouldn’t feel left out because he would will those negative emotions out of me, like a Southern Baptist-style exorcism. Maybe the dainty, beautiful diamond-encrusted Star of David around my deck would create a forcefield against negativity. Maybe the fact that I would be a real, genuine WASP, straight out of Connecticut would provide me with enough sense of community to never feel left out or alone.

People are always surprised when I tell them Easter is one of my favorite holidays. It’s funny because at first, it makes me sound like I love Jesus. I’m sure if I knew him I would, he’s kind of one of those to know him is to love him types like Paul Rudd or Samuel L. Jackson. But the reality is I love wearing a cute spring outfit, getting lightly drunk off of mimosas in the comfort of my own childhood home during the afternoon, and eating all day. This is a little sacrilegious in nature, I know the true meaning of Easter is much deeper and inspiring, a tale of immaculate resurrection and the triumph of life over death (thank you, Gemini).

Something I did not and still do not have fomo over is Lent. I don’t understand how giving up TikTok is going to make you closer to Jesus. It’s the same thing with New Years Resolutions. I also think people should just do whatever makes them happy, and if that’s Lent or a resolution, knock yourself out.

As I write this, I’m in the middle seat on the 4:48 metro north train back to Manhattan. The guy to my right is resting his elbow in the nook where my thigh meets my hip and having open dialogue with ChatGPT. I hope he also enjoyed this week’s Coffee Order.

I consumed some pretty life-changing media this week. The first is Madeline Cash’s first novel, Lost Lambs, which was intercepted to me by my dear friend Nicholson after he gave our other friend Seth a book he already read for his birthday. I had seen a lot of press for this book including an Interview Magazine feature, private launch parties, and cool girls on Instagram posing with the book half covering their face, which is honestly the best press you could ever ask for. I immediately felt insecure about another person close to my age writing a book. To add insult to injury, it was revealed in the Interview Magazine article that she also lived near me. The walls of success were closing in. This is what led to me booking a solo trip to Copenhagen this summer to serve as a pseudo writing retreat.

Anyway, back to Lost Lambs. It was one of the most spectacular novels I’ve read in recent memory. From War Crimes Wes to Louise, to the gnats to the billionaires, I was seriously sad when it was over. Cash has a way of narrative storytelling that’s both inspiring and envy inducing. I highly recommend if you’re looking for something fun as the weather warms up, but not fun in a Kindle Unlimited lobotomy read type of way, fun in a way that makes you think and reflect and laugh out loud.

The next was The Drama. I went back and forth in my head about discussing this because it just came out and I don’t want to accidentally spoil anything, especially since I didn’t know what the twist was and that made the experience tenfold better.

I hadn’t realized that I had watched one of Kristoffer Borgli’s movies with an old flame last year, Dream Scenario starring Nicholas Cage, and thoroughly enjoyed it. If you’re not new around here, you know that I love weird movies, books, TV, men, music, etc. Kristoffer’s got weird on lock, and it was cool to see him execute that with such mega mainstream movie stars. The editing and the music alone is worth going to see it, and if you’re as shocked as I am, the experience on Twitter afterwards is even more-so.

The third and final was Tiny Furniture, ’s second film from 2010 that catapulted her into writing Girls. The movie is about Lena, called Aura, moving home once she’s graduated college, just having broke up with her boyfriend, carrying a lot of mental and physical baggage with her including a brat complex and a pet mouse.

I cannot believe I hadn’t seen this movie before. A Lena Dunham written and directed movie, starring Lena Dunham and Jemima Kirke, about a bratty 22 year old who is way too privileged to be acting the way she does, working at Clandestino? It gave me a weird feeling like the trajectory I’ve been on (having spent thousands of dollars and way too many nights at Clandestino over the years as a Lena Dunham disciple) is the trajectory I’m supposed to be on, and that everything will work out just fine.

I wanted to watch Tiny Furniture ahead of her memoir release next week. I’m seeing her talk about it with Andrew Randalls next Tuesday in Brooklyn, and I want to make sure I have every single ounce of backstory I could possibly have. Of course, I was again full of that existential crisis of not having produced a defining body of work at the age of 25, especially since Lena was only 22 when Tiny Furniture came out.

is one of those people like Gwyneth (Paltrow) who I have a thousand questions for. Should I freestyle my first book or follow an outline? Why would anyone read it if I’m nobody? How do I justify this very Hannah Horvath period of my life? She’s someone who seems like they have all of the answers to me. She would laugh if she knew I felt that way. But in the same vein, I feel like she understands why I feel that way. That movie was like looking in a mirror. I had never felt so seen by anything in my life. And while I’m not doing a lot of the things Aura was (i.e. with the coworker in the pipe), it made me feel like I was Timothee Chalamet watching Good Will Hunting or something. I couldn’t believe that Jemima Kirke has just always been a genius. I couldn’t believe they actually filmed it inside of Clandestino.

Maybe I learned more from Tiny Furniture and Girls than I ever would’ve from CCD. Maybe investing in the Criterion Channel is going to give me a higher ROI than any organized religion would’ve. Time will tell, that’s for sure.

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It’s been a week to say the least. From the Summer House cast having their very own “Scamanda” (from the derivative Scandoval in Bravonese) to the premier of the long-awaited Lamar Odom documentary, I’ve never had less going on socially but more going on personally.

Forgive me if I jump around here, but this Friday-edition Coffee Order is going to be representative of my brain—mush. It’s been far too much for one online-obsessed girl to handle.

I’d like to start with Summer House, just to get it out of the way because I honestly would like to forget about it until next week. If you don’t watch, I apologize. Skip to the part that talks about how Khloé Kardashian deserves the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Over the weekend, I asked three friends, one separate from the other two, if they thought the then unconfirmed rumors about West and Amanda were true. Two said no, one said yes. At the time, I agreed with the former, and went further to say that I thought Ciara and West had ended up dating after the season, and everyone was keeping quiet as an effort to retain the integrity of the rest of the episodes and the inevitable reunion. Enough has been spoiled (KJ and Dara dating, Ben and that girl dating, Carl and Bailee dating), save the real tea for when they get paid to unveil it.

Boy, was I wrong!

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I was desperate for a stiff drink and hours away from any screens. I had a coveted 8:30 reservation at the Lower East Side’s restaurant of the hour—Funny Bar—and two of my best friends joining me. It was a recipe for excellence, the exact thing I wanted to be doing on a Friday night. I obviously wanted to look as gorgeous as possible without it seeming like I tried too hard—effortless, some may say. Last weekend, I nailed my eyeliner to imitate Margot Tenenbaum if she had aged backwards and moved from the Upper East Side to the Lower, and with extreme focus and precision, was able to recreate it. I paired a floral top from Favorite Daughter with my ultra-baggy ReDone jeans, spiraled over the question is brown suede too fall instead of spring? and left about 5 minutes too early for a location that’s a mere stones throw away from my home.

I’ve loved Funny Bar way longer than you’ve loved Funny Bar, long enough to see that the menu has not only expanded in offering but also price. We were seated adjacent to Nina Dobrev, who obviously knew that I knew exactly who she was. We ordered a round of martinis—theirs dirty, mine dry with a twist—and got down to business.

Three martinis, one big steak, and a brownie sundae later, we ventured to Treasure Club, “‘ole reliable” as one of my friends called it. He knew the bartender who graciously supplied us with mezcal margaritas for the next few hours, and informed us that noneother than Clairo was DJing that night. I jokingly asked if I should request Bags, and have serious regret now writing this that I didn’t.

I woke up Saturday with a pounding headache at 7 in the morning, near tears in agony of not being able to succumb to more sleep that I desperately needed. Before I knew it, I was rising again, this time at 10 feeling good as gold. In performance of my favorite new weekend ritual, I saddled up in my On Cloud sneakers and made my way over to Abraço for the best latte in Manhattan and a slice of carrot cake. After fueling up, I embarked on a journey to cross another thing off of my 2026 Bingo Card: a long walk across the Manhattan Bridge to Dumbo, my 2nd out of 3 bridges I needed to cross to accomplish my goal. I had never walked across the Manhattan Bridge however I frequent the Williamsburg one as you all know. I didn’t know how good I had it. I’m not sure I would encourage the experience as the railings are much lower and the large gaps big enough to fit a hand or a small child even caused a bit of vertigo, but I’m sure I’ll find myself on there again.

I arrived by foot in Dumbo where the wind was whipping and the temperature was about 10 degrees colder than it was in my neighborhood. I did a quick loop, pondered the Brooklyn Flea where I came out victorious for some new bathroom art, and made my way back to my island.

20,000 steps later, my hips were sore and I had laundry to fold before watching college basketball with my friend who graciously included me in some plans with her sporty crew. I didn’t want to show up empty handed, so I went to buy beer for the second time in my life. Naturally, my contribution to the hangout was Patagonia-brewed lager.

The team they wanted to win lost and the dog whose space I was invading was giving me some mild allergies, which meant it was time for me to go home and catch the 9 hours of deep sleep I was hoping for.

After a very confusing nightmare, I woke up early to go spend some time in the pottery studio. In an effort to make breakfast, I smashed a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette on my floor, which smelt like someone tried to cover up an Italian crime scene for the better part of the last four hours.

I’ve been working on a series of floral-glazed bowls and dishes, which I think I’ve finally completed:

Although to me they look quite amateur, I’ve gotten incredibly sweet and kind feedback on them. I’d like to try some other type of artwork next, but my hands always gravitate towards the twisty vines of unidentifiable buds.

The line for the Sandy Liang sample sale was wrapped around the block about an hour before they opened up shop for the fourth and final day. I will never forget the experience of standing in line for 3+ hours during her 2023 sale and only moving three feet before surrendering. It was like seeing a horrible ex. Godspeed to those stronger than I.

I recently booked a solo-trip to Copenhagen (please send recommendations if you have any) for later this year, so I’m not exactly in the place financially for a sample sale of any kind. I’m also not in the position for a $10 matcha at Le Gaz, or $60 luxury groceries at Happier Grocer, both of which I indulged anyway. I met my friend Maddie for our monthly Happier Grocer date (two months strong), and she accompanied me through troves of Goyard, Chanel, and Rolex on every block of Canal.

Now, here I find myself writing to you, dear reader, with overpriced chicken salad in my refrigerator to bring to lunch tomorrow, about to head out the door to watch even more college basketball (who am I?). This Sunday has felt about 100 hours long, but I’m not complaining.

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Dating-in-New-York-discourse is my least favorite kind of online fodder. Every time any semblance of a “relationship” I have comes to an end, whether it was two dates or two months, I’m always met with the same sympathy—dating in New York is basically impossible.

I appreciate everyone trying to make me feel better as I seek sympathy out from my friends, family, and known associates on a daily basis. As a born and bread antagonist (it’s genetic, and I’m not looking at you, mom), it’s my nature to challenge this. It’s obviously not impossible, but it’s definitely very hard.

I’m flattered that any of you would look to me, your dear, single friend of almost a decade, to bestow guidance. My therapist recently said to me—you’ve had a seriously rough time! If we can’t laugh…

As I get going here, I am a little afraid that prospective future lovers will find this. At least I will get $5 in return for their curiosity.

Let’s get into your questions for lil ol’ me.

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I do not have a barista friend (I should) and I do not have an Oscar-nominated friend (I should not, per this essay). What I do have is weird parasocial relationships with people who have become extremely successful in their 20s, leaving me feeling like I’m running out of time. This is one of those posts that is going to come across as annoying to anyone over the age of 25. Listen to Olivia. She thinks she’s running out of time at 25. What an idiot—you must be thinking.

And you would be right, because I will look back on this letter in 25 years, having built a successful career, my gorgeous husband and our genetically blessed children also successful and happy, and my laugh will echo off of the walls in our ginormous home. I was so worried about nothing…I will think.

Friday night, my best friend from home and I planned to let loose at 169 Bar after dinner with her twin sister. A red wine carafe from Kiki’s and a few tequila sodas, you do the math. I was home and in bed by 10 pm. I woke up on Saturday feeling horrible and wanting to watch TV for the rest of the foreseeable future. I parked my ass on the couch, opened my Letterboxd watchlist, and selected Boogie Nights.

I wanted to watch the movie that arguably launched Paul Thomas Anderson’s career from indie master to one of the great cinematic artists of our time after reading this Substack from Playboy, an interview they resurfaced hot off PTA’s first Oscar win:

The Playboy Reader

Paul Thomas Anderson Always Knew He'd Be a Winner

When Playboy first interviewed director Paul Thomas Anderson for the February 1998 issue, he was only 27 years old and hot off the release of Boogie Nights. That alone is enough to make anyone feel a tinge of youthful jealousy, getting an installment in the “20 Questions” series at an age where most peop…

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a month ago · 34 likes · 3 comments · Playboy

Where he discussed the film, something he created at the age of 27.

27? Boogie Nights came out when he was Twenty Fucking Seven?

I was sent into a spiral. Here I was, hungover, eyeliner stained on my pillowcases, exhausted, playing Animal Crossing, watching one of the most prolific films of the 20th century, made by someone who was less than two years older than me?

This was the third bout of young fame I had come to realize recently. A few weeks ago, when I went to a book talk about Cazzie David’s latest release, I did some math while waiting for the conversation to start. If Cazzie was one of my favorite writers because of a book I read six years ago, and this latest book, Delusions, was all about her turning 30, that means the first book was when she was TWENTY FUCKING FOUR?

Of course, it’s important to note her status as a nepo baby, her being the daughter of Larry David granting her unrivaled access to film sets, publishers, and editors that would read her first rough draft of a book or a script. Paul Thomas Anderson seems to be lightning in a bottle himself, a once-in-a-generation talent that from a young age, people had trust in their vision. He wasn’t a nepo baby, it was 1995, and he was persistent. It’s like one of those things your dad says to when you complain, when I was your age, I walked 10 miles to school, already started my own company, blah, blah, blah.

I’m lucky to have a great job that gives me creative freedom and exposure to cool things. I went to art school, which is college for people who have aspirations greater than a company or tenure. For four years, I was surrounded by people who wanted to start their own brand, be an independent artist, a famous photographer, an actress. All of our projects were working towards that. It ignited an entrepreneurial spirit in a way that’s different than an Ivy League business school or a Forbes 30-under-30 list, you just need to make something really good that people want to consume. Something that’s subjective and not for everyone, but for a lot of people.

Recently, I’ve been telling select close friends and strangers I meet for dates or in bars that I want to write a book (now I’m telling the internet). I’ve wanted to for a few years (and even started outlining and test-writing a few chapters), but as I witness and consume art made by people my age no matter how they got there, I feel like I’m staring at an hourglass that’s running out of sand. I have fantasies of going to Paris alone for a week and just letting it rip, writing for ten hours a day and then going to a wine bar to take a breath, cosplaying the mysterious American young writer. Maybe I’ll go to L.A. and let the Santa Ana winds take me away like they did Joan Didion. Or maybe I’ll save the money and just do it from my living room floor, turning into a hermit until it’s done. But what’s romantic about that?

This pressure isn’t new. I jokingly talked about it a lot when I turned 25, because it was the age that Lena Dunham created Girls, the magnum opus of television for me personally. I may be mentally 13, but the reality of my biological age is making me go through some type of quarter-life crisis. I have Hello Kitty clothing and stuffed animals on my bed. Did Lena have that, too?

As I write this, my sister texted me:

It was very ironic and also very real. I genuinely feel like Barbara, the forgotten bisexual from the Real Housewives of New York, season 11, giving a pink toolbox to anyone who will take it.

Clearly I don’t feel that pressured, because I spent the whole weekend drinking tequila sodas and applying eyeliner. I woke up at noon on Sunday. It’s all for the book, I tell myself.

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My Dyson Airwrap and my Hatch broke in the same week. I’ve consulted the Easter Bunny’s liaison (my mother) regarding the Hatch considering it’s something I absolutely cannot survive without (and my phone battery has died tenfold playing ocean sounds all night), and she said she will see what he can do (yes, I’m 25).

I also have a list of invention/business ideas, but this subscription would have to be $1k/month for me to tell you guys those secrets.

Gardenheir clogs are like, $78. I want them for the pottery studio in the summer, because my current studio shoes are Merrell’s that now will forever have clay dust imbedded into them, and these are much easier to clean. Too many of my friends have the Rag & Bone Sweatpant Jeans for me to not have them, and I’m seething with jealousy every time they reveal them while we’re at a bar or dinner.

A Mubi Subscription is something I currently have as a Hinge Prompt to show perspective husbands that I’m not like other girls. That’s partially why I don’t want to pay for it, because this is on the list of things I would like as a relationship benefit, alongside a shared collection of vintage sweaters and plans every Friday night.

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This was a big night for me in the sense that while it doesn’t affect me personally, it does still affect me on a deeply personal level. Famous people. Fashion. Judgement. Three things I hold terribly deep to my heart.

It took a while for things to get going. If you were a member of the Coffee Order Chat last night, you would know that we really picked up the pace about T-45 mins to showtime, 2 hours deep into the Red Carpet. I would really impose E! Network to do an internal audit on their Red Carpet talent before the next big show rolls around. Keltie Knight was steering a sinking ship.

I analyzed a lot last night both in the chat and on my Instagram Story that’s still live, so if you want a deep dive, go tap on there. For now, let’s just do my high-level favorites and least favorites:

BEST DRESSED

Gwyneth Paltrow in Giorgio Armani Privé

After TWELVE LONG YEARS, GP finally makes a comeback at the Oscars. Extremely classy and chic.

Jacob Elordi in Bottega Veneda

So hot, so Heathcliff. I like the length of the vest in contrast to the jacket. I also really like his face.

Kylie Jenner in Schiaparelli

The hair. The jewels. The bodyodyody! I also love that she recycled this look from 2024:

Outfit repeater representation we all needed. Did anyone catch her face card in the show opening? Insanely gorgeous.

Teyana Taylor in Chanel

Not your grandmother’s Chanel!!! This train!!! Obsessed.

Emma Stone in Louis Vuitton

Hot off of my favorite award show look of all time:

Emma Stone and her Louis Vuitton contract have added another look into my inspo rolodex.

Ji-young Yoo in Carolina Herrera

I adore this shape for occasions such as the Academy Awards. It’s one of the few times you can wear it, and I love that Ji-young capitalized on it. Ear cuff, fierce. Bob, fierce.

WORST DRESSED

Demi Moore in Gucci

Need I explain further?

Jessie Buckley in Chanel

I knew this looked familiar…

Damson Idris in Prada

This looks like a costume from the set of Bridgerton and not seasonally appropriate.

Law Roach in Chanel (?)

Zendaya—help.

Odessa A’zion in Valentino

I would’ve loved to see her stunt here. I’m glad that she stays true to herself, but I think she could’ve done that in a more couture way.

Conan was a great host. I’m glad someone finally got an adult in the room. I have trauma from Trevor Noah’s latest Grammys. I won’t bore you all with my feelings about Sinners once again. I already bought my tickets to The Devil Wears Prada 2. I’m going to pre-order the popcorn bucket.

I had quite the lovely weekend. On Friday, I grabbed a bite with some of my dear coworkers at Gator in Greenpoint, a spot that’s long been on my list. Bernie’s basically laughed at us when we asked how long the wait was (at 7:30, nonetheless). Gator serves their burger without fries (there aren’t even fries on the menu), but it was delicious and so were the miso bean and golden beet appetizers.

Saturday, I woke up early—to my dismay—and did some chores before walking across the Williamsburg Bridge to meet my friend Eva for brunch at Rose Marie. This was another place on my list, from the owners of Yellow Rose in the East Village. I’ve been craving a bloody mary for a few weeks (your guess is as good as mine), so I squashed that before also having a shortstack of pancakes that came with some tassels.

Eva and I walked back over the bridge to pop into Café Forgot, where I’ve had my eyes on a hat for a while. It was the last one left which means that it was meant to be mine—that my head was the only one for it—and I took a brief break in Sandy Liang before being convinced to go back and get it by Eliza, reporting via text from Palm Springs. I can’t remember the last time a purchase made me this happy.

I then met my friends Lauren and Mia for a quick dinner at Taqueria Gramercy—the best deal in the city—before walking home, watching half of Two Lovers, and passing out at 10 pm sharp. I slept like a baby, which was long needed, made some chicken salad for the week, logged on for the Oscars, and the rest is history.

The cold is back this week but I won’t let it break my spirit. The laundry I have to fold before bed might, though.

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My therapist and I decided that this Daylight Savings felt more intense than others past because it came with a physical change. With the loss of an hour came sunshine, warm weather, and a new lust for life. I was able to walk over the Williamsburg Bridge home from work for the first time since early October. The Lower East Side looked like a Friday night in July at 6 pm this past Monday. Restaurants and bars wasted zero time getting their Parisian-style outdoor tables back on the pavement. I didn’t wear a jacket. Life was GOOD.

By Tuesday, all of the snow had melted. I realized this on my lunch break, when I ignored the turkey chili I had brought from home because who could eat turkey chili when it’s 70 degrees and sunny after months of freezing darkness, and opted for an expensive sandwich and an iced tea. I forgot what it was like to be cold. Just like that.

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A “going out top” is the backbone of the wardrobe for girls 14-40. I think perhaps even beyond 40, and I absolutely will not limit anyone during Women’s History Month. When you enter high school, you also enter the never-ending chase of finding the right shirt for every occasion for the rest of your life.

If you plan on wearing a dress, you’re marked safe. However, when you’re 15, you’d probably rather die than show up to someone’s sticky basement with a bottle of Svedka and a babydoll or mini dress. The dress code for here on out, which is the next 6-8 years of your life, is jeans and a little top.

I write this week’s letter from my bedroom at my mom’s house in Connecticut, which houses approximately 100 going out tops of my past, present, and future. In recent efforts to declutter and bring myself out of minor financial strain, I’ve sold 10 bags of clothes on ThredUp, 8 of them from these four walls. Going out tops, in case you’re not familiar, require the least amount of fabric than any other garment besides a thong or a sock. I begrudgingly sold probably 20, coming to terms with the fact that I probably would never wear something made of scuba-adjacent fabric with a metal ring in the middle ever again.

The things I used to wear before joining “the real world” were a little insane sometimes. My style has gone from basic to eccentric to contemporary (growing up in Connecticut to art school to living in the LES), and I have an archive of photos, going out tops in tow, to prove it:

Apologies to all of my friends who caught strays in that collage. You were sacrificed for the sake of storytelling.

Although I am 25 going on 26, this chase has not ended. Every girl-turned-woman realizes, around the time you graduate college, that this is actually, most likely, a lifelong endeavor. First dates, birthday parties, office gatherings, just because—all these are reasons we find ourselves in adulthood still buying a GOT (going out top).

My closet in New York has its own GOT Rolodex, ranging from college stragglers to things I’ve bought recently. Urban Outfitters and Free People has turned into Intimissimi, Cleo Camp, Paloma Wool, and The Real Real, their companions of skinny jeans with rips in the knees and patterned flare pants now trousers and jeans that have holes in the hems from dragging so low on the street. No matter how old we are, us as women are indebted to the idea that the perfect top will make the outfit complete.

Going out tops are more than just a piece of clothing. They’re the essence of eternal girlhood. My friends and I used to swap them like Pokémon Cards, begging each other to wear the one we saw them debut last weekend. This was the best in college because the dorm basically served as a trading post. My dorm was as stereotypical as it got—disgusting carpeted floors, yellow-wood lofted beds, the same wood used across our desks and cabinets, the walls cinderblock, the hallway endless rows of rectangular rooms divided by girls rooms and boys rooms. From Thursday to Sunday (and if it was a game day—forget about it), these halls were a runway for us, running back and forth from room to room to borrow a top that would complete the outfit from someone you met two weeks ago, but was now your new best friend.

Since I live alone, this exchange happens on a blue moon. When my best friends from childhood and I embarked on our trip last year to Mexico City, I was transported back to one of our high school bedrooms before a party. We were swapping bags and shoes and tops for the hour before dinner, our suitcases mixing and merging into one to the point where when we left and went home, a few of us found some stragglers that weren’t ours in our luggage. I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience slight anxiety when lending precious pieces out. As a fashion-obsessed type-A person, I must remind myself that 1+1 does equal 2. However, this was my favorite part of the trip. It was so fun to feel 16 again with the people who know me best. And what this all boiled down to, was the always important, eternal, going out top.

Now, the going out top is integral to my wardrobe in different ways. An easy after-work date or dinner only takes around 20 minutes to get ready for so long as I already have jeans on. If I toss three into my suitcase for a weekend trip, I leave with both options and room for more. If you take a closer look at Devon Lee Carlson, Olivia Jade, Lila Moss, Hailey Bieber, or anyone else who falls under the quintessential “cool girl” umbrella, you will see that the majority of their outfits on a night out revolve around the top—it’s a way to look effortlessly cool, like you don’t have to try to look chic. You’re laid back. You’re chill. You’re a chill girl. Imagine that.

Here are some of my favorite going out tops to wear now as a teenage adult woman, and some I think you should buy before I do:

• Susanna Monaco Tube Top

• Emily Dawn Long Kipling Tank (I have black)

  

• Some sort of fun baby tee (sorry mine is one of a kind )

  

• Favorite Daughter Clean Cut Tank

• GUIZIO Ira Cami (Tank Air dupe it seems)

• SKIMS Side Tie Tube Top (the naked eye cannot tell the difference between Khy and SKIMS, alas)

• Gimaguas Silky Short Sleeve

• Fleur Du Mal Jersey Built-in Bra Cami

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I’ve seen a lot of funny Tweets/Substack Notes/Instagram Stories I can’t find about this, so it seems like we all need some help in terms of transitional dressing. I am a corporate warrior, and if 5 days a week in the office for three years has taught me anything, it’s how to dress for whatever the day has in store.

I broke this out into men’s and women’s so that the gentlemen of Coffee Order can also enjoy, or your boyfriends/husbands can be helped.

WOMENS

Layer 1: Jackets and Coats

We’re starting with the outside and working inwards. I have approximately 25 overlayers perfect from the 6 weeks where February turns into April. Some of them were $50, some of them were $500. This deems me an expert on lightweight jackets.

• Gu Denim Jacket ($39.90) Shoutout Tommy, my Gu king. This is quite adorable and gives the appearance of something much more expensive.

• The Real Real Barbour Utility Jacket ($84) I got one of my most prized possessions—a double breasted Dolce and Gabbana cropped trench with cheetah-printed lining—from TRR last fall. I’m obsessed with this one from Barbour, which is also a smart investment.

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Girls who worked three floors above Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy at the Calvin Klein offices, men’s magazines, and thrice-removed fourth-cousins who have never even seen the driveway of the Hyannis-port compound alike are jumping at the first chance to sink their teeth into 15 seconds of fame on TikTok, Instagram, and right here on Substack. I didn’t know her but—, I was born after he died but—, I heard once—

I was scrolling on Reels the other night when I saw one of the Acquired Style Twins declare that her previous CBK-inspired post had garnered media attention for being so horrible. I had to look for myself, and now you all do too:

To be honest, it’s not that bad. People said “she” would never wear her hair like that, exhibit A, straight from the pages of my copy of Once Upon A Time that sits on my coffee table:

People said she would never wear a flared leg. Exhibit B:

The logomania Dior slingbacks are for sure an issue, I will admit. But Danielle swiftly course corrected, posted about it, and continued the never-ending cycle of CBK JFK Jr. obsession.

I can’t think of a single other celebrity that people with no relation whatsoever make up so many rules for. The gatekeeping aspect of this phenomenon is insane—she was one of the most referenced people before this new series came out (literally the entire basis of things like The Row), and she will continue to be long after. She’s the reason there even is a show. No one makes shows about niche fashion icons, and no one cares that much about JFK Jr. All we know is that he was hot, rollerbladed, and loved silly little hats. If he married someone of the Kennedy ilk, someone brunette and Irish from Princeton, there would be no Hulu series. What we know about Carolyn, how complex she was, the way her mind worked, the way she moved, that fuels our fascination.

The quietest people are always the ones we want to hear from the most. The Carole Radziwill erasure from Love Story and the conversation ensuing after is beyond comprehension. Kelly Klein has been sticking to posting ominous Instagram slideshows. Jack Schlossberg is being shady in the comment section (as he should!). Instead, we’ve got armchair fashion experts and friends-of-friends-of-friends-of shoving stories full of nothing down our throats.

All of this to say, everyone needs to take a deep breath (myself included). It’s simply not that serious. The hair stylist got Sarah Pigeon’s blonde wrong on the first day of principle photography, and the internet had a meltdown. We are at war, people. Pull it together.

I’ve been really enjoying the series, particularly the most recent episode that depicted the couple’s infamous public spat.

It’s eerie how similar the two of them look like the real deal. I’m having so much fun watching, I don’t even care that Bubby’s or The Odeon are going to be even more impossible to get into after being featured. It’s all around so fierce to look at, the styling, their faces, the aesthetics. I’ve been a Kennedyphile ever since I was a little girl, so anything that involves them, I’m sure to enjoy.

I asked my friend Caden—my go-to for a quick and clever saying—to come up with a way to sum up how I’m feeling. I leave you all with that.

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I started my week off with the great blizzard of 2026, which forced me inside—what a shame! I was honestly pretty surprised at how much it snowed and how forceful the winds were, and it was one of those days where while I felt blessed to work from home, the walls were starting to close in after lunch, and I was ready for some human interaction again.

Tuesday I dined at Balthazar, where I saw both Yung Gravy and Keith McNally. After the fact, it came to my attention that this was the second or third time I’ve seen Yung Gravy since moving to New York four years ago. Do you think he’s following me? It was very exciting for me to see Keith as a newly-minted fan girl after reading his memoir, I Regret Almost Everything. I leant my copy to a guy I was seeing last year and things ended before he finished it, so I need to buy it again.

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This is one of the pinnacle signals of growth for me as a chronic fomo sufferer most of my life.

As this blog makes evident, I have a pretty packed schedule, and a hard time saying no. This would be a recipe for disaster and burnout if my life were not so much fun. It’s hard to complain when I’m going from dinner with my mom to a trip with my best friends to a date to an event and beyond. However, when I reach my eighth spicy margarita of the week before the clock strikes Thursday, my skin, body, and soul are begging for a reset.

I could feel my throat starting to hurt an hour into the flight home from Nashville, which also happened to be packed full of women 20-35 also returning back to New York City from presumably a girls trip or bachelorette party. What I was struck down with is something I can only call the revenge of the bachelorette express. It’s different than strep or a cold, and honestly might have been COVID. I had a sinus headache for six days straight and felt delirious at work on Friday. When I woke up with the same throbbing ache in my eye socket that carried down to my shoulder on Saturday, I decided enough was enough.

Thursday/Friday is the day all of my shows come out, so I had a lot to watch. Starting with Love Story (I want to talk about this, but there is so much CBK discourse even I’ve had enough), moving into Love is Blind, then The Pitt, and finally, If I Had Legs I’d Kick You.

This season of Love is Blind is perhaps the most terrifying yet. Alex “H” is the Anna Delvey of Columbus, Ohio. The devil is alive and well within Chris’ heart and soul. Imagine telling a woman with an MD in internal medicine that you aren’t attracted to her because she doesn’t go to Pilates everyday, meanwhile, you look like this":

And then to hear what he did at the happy hour…my stomach was CHURNING!

I watched If I Had Legs I’d Kick You before bed. I had high expectations especially given all of the accolades, but I honestly feel like I was missing something. Went way over my head. Rose Byrne was incredible, and I got a little clarity during my ritualistic post-viewing Reddit search, however I still was left confused. Loved seeing A$AP Rocky in his role, though.

The Pitt is something I need to re-watch because I was playing Animal Crossing during it, and the episode didn’t have the same affect on me as it did my friends. I plan on re-watching the season in full once it’s over so that I can get the true binge experience, which is when The Pitt is at its best.

In an effort to feel less zombie-esque, I got a manicure and a gel pedicure, where the manager of the nail salon I’d been going to for four years finally acknowledged me as a repeat customer. I almost fell asleep in the chair twice, but the effort was worth it for that newfound friendship alone. I also wanted to paint some cards for some birthdays and occasions I had coming up, so I tapped into my art student origins and trekked to the Blick in Union Square, where watercolor paper was buy one get one free. At that point my eyes were crossing, so I crawled back into my little cave before steaming at the Equinox, a last-ditch effort that actually proved to be the cure to my congestion. I felt silly for not doing that as soon as I’d awoken, but alas.

I posted on the Coffee Order Instagram Story asking if a ceramics and pottery section of this weekly send would be something you’d be interested in. I then realized it was basically a rhetorical question because it would be cruel to say no, but I’m glad that’s something people will read. I’ll try to get that in on Wednesdays or Thursdays, or maybe a Studio Sunday segment. I had some things to work on, and due to the impending blizzard I didn’t want to suspend that until Sunday, so I took advantage of my lonely weekend and went to the studio on Saturday night. I glazed one of the bowls inspired by a cherry blossom motif I saw on Instagram, and the other two were kind of just experimenting with the underglaze.

Last week, I got this little catchall bowl back that I had painted, and it soon became one of my favorites:

I had a friend commission an ashtray, and I want to make a few garlic grater/spoon rest sets as well. If anyone has any requests, I’ll only charge you the cost of firing ($2-10).

I got a lot of fun things in the mail this weekend that I feel legally obligated to tell you all about. I had my eye on this SKIMS short sleeve bubble hoodie for a while, and they just restocked.

You may be wondering what those fabulous jeans are on the bottom half of that photograph, and I’d be happy to tell you that they’re the J.W. Anderson Uniqlo collaboration. For $49, I found the perfect, comfy straight dark wash silhouette. I got the color 69 Navy.

I’m a big fan of Warmies, which my dear friend Lucy gifted me this year for Christmas. For those of you who don’t know, Warmies are microwavable stuffed animals that smell like lavender, providing warmth—as the name suggests—and comfort. They did a Hello Kitty collaboration which was kryptonite for me. I got the Kuromi one.

Last, but certainly not least, I ordered Free City sweatpants for $20 on Thred Up. I was going to buy new ones, but at a $190 price difference, I found the pre-owned ones to have a charming worn-in effect. My Olsen Twin cosplay is only going further.

This weekend has left me feeling very settled and accomplished. Besides the fun things I listed out such as the nail salon, art store, and pottery, I did a mountain of laundry, mopped my floors and wiped every surface, cleaned out my fridge, watched everything on my watchlist, and just all-in-all settled back in. When you live alone, chores pile up pretty quickly, especially if you’re as type-A as myself. After three days out of the house, I have a lengthy list of things that are just maintenance, and it takes the forced surrender of an unidentified American Airlines illness to make you get it done.

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This will help ongoing legal initiatives for people displaced or detained during the raids last month. Thank you to everyone who donated. While it may be out of the news cycle, there’s still a lot of work to be done.

Speaking of work to be done, I’d like people to start doing some.

I sit here today to write this Friday-edition Coffee Order, grasping at straws to make something worth your $5 a month subscription.

$5 isn’t a lot—a point I’ve driven home to you all many times. It’s cheaper than this airport water bottle:

But I’m extremely flattered you would pay anything at all to read the nonsense I have to say.

Nothing happening in the cultural zeitgeist is interesting to me right now because it’s being force-fed to me at volumes unpleasant to my digital palette. I was interested in Clavicular before GQ. I was interested in CBK before everyone wanted a tortoiseshell headband (and if you need a Vogue article to tell you where to buy one, I need you to wake up). I don’t care about “maxxing” or “aura farming”.

I wrote two whole posts before this one that I scrapped. Maybe they will see the light of day, but it just felt stupid. One was about Rebecca Minkoff, the other about people liking Carolyn Bessette because she was mean, not because she was stylish. I don’t even believe that statement, and no one really cares about Rebecca Minkoff. Why can’t I enjoy the hobo bag I found in my mom’s basement without having to dissect her “lore” to all of you? At the cost of $5 a month?

recently wrote that Substack is boring her. This fatigue is becoming increasingly more popular on my feed, especially for people who don’t live in New York or LA, and don’t want to read about Dimes Square or Erewhon or Chez Margot.

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On Friday night, I ventured to the Alamo Drafthouse with my best friend Tommy to see Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights”—a film that has garnered much chatter and discourse from the moment it was announced a few years ago—Margot Robbie stepped out at the first premier, appearing to continue her streak of method dressing thanks to her stylist Andrew Mukamal—Jacob Elordi being crowned the token horny boytoy of the hour—to now, where after seeing it (or just reading the Twitter discourse and joining the hate brigade), everyone hated it.

I did not read the book. I have not seen any other film adaptation. I’m well aware of the differences and the reasons why everyone is upset.

However, I couldn’t help but absolutely love it. It’s almost as if Miss. Fennell herself sat down and thought to herself, how could I make the ultimate Olivia Hawkins movie?

I love perverse art. I love Victorian aesthetics. I love weird romance. I love things that look great, and I love hot people. I love Charli XCX, I love movies.

The online chatter about how awful it was is kind of reminding me a bit of when people would hate on Lena Dunham over ten years ago for Girls and her other projects. Some things are not for mass consumption, and we live in an era where everything is shoved down our throats that make us feel like we should all be participating in discourse. I don’t watch Squid Games or Marvel movies or The Last of Us for a reason—I know I’m going to hate it. I don’t like science-fiction or zombies or superheros or the idea of all of those people killing each other, not even in an escapist realm like television. All of these things garnered the same amount of press, if not more than WH, but as an adult women who knows my interest, I was able to ignore it like a normal person and not a troll under the Williamsburg Bridge. I wasn’t going on Twitter to talk about how stupid I found the plotlines or how much I hated the dialect in which Chris Pratt was talking.

As a white girl from Connecticut who lives in Manhattan, works in fashion, and lives a very privileged life, weaning off of her parents’ support like a five-year-old who is still breastfeeding, Girls is my favorite show. I understand how if I grew up differently or lived a different existence, I wouldn’t be able to relate to it, find it annoying, or just hate it and think it’s all around disappointing, as Lena put it herself.

I consider myself a woman of pop culture, first and foremost. I love Sabrina Carpenter and Taylor Swift and rhode lip treatments and Brandy Melville. These are not unique opinions, they’re actually of the masses. I can’t comprehend how I could love something so much that everyone else—it seems—hated.

What I loved about it was the sheer ridiculousness. The tiny dog, the ribbons, the accents, the sexiness. The soundtrack, the casting, the vibe. A Pomeranian + Alison Oliver + a song like Dying For You = a smash success in my eyes.

I spent hours online—on Reddit, Twitter, Wikipedia—researching the original, reading the true story (really barely scratched the surface, huh?) understanding who Heathcliff and Cathy are, who they were to each other and to the world. I would be lying if I said that I thought this version really captured all of that, so if I were a lit-fanatic, I would be annoyed as well. Lucky for Emerald, Margot, and Jacob, I’m not!

From the hills of Yorkshire to Nashville I went, going to visit one of my best friends from college, , with our other bestie Eliza. Elizabeth moved there to pursue her dreams of country singing, and she is also the unofficial queen of Valentine’s Day as a February Pisces that loves pink. Each year she throws a Valentine’s Day party, and I wasn’t going to miss this year’s no matter where it was.

Upon landing on Saturday morning, we got lunch at Mama Bread, went shopping at a bunch of amazing places which names I don’t know the name of (Elizabeth please comment below), where I found these picture-perfect Prada kitten heels. Finding these on VDay felt very serendipitous—the price even more so.

We then enjoyed dinner at Sho Pizza Bar which I’m very upset is not in New York. I had a martini with a mozzarella-stuffed olive, vodka sauce pizza, and the cheesiest Caesar salad I’ve ever seen. We got drinks at Close Company and Mother’s Ruin thereafter, where every bouncer commented on my East Coast ID.

Sunday, Elizabeth was hosting a writer’s roundtable at Cross-Eyed Critters, the bar located inside of the Graduate Hotel near Vanderbilt’s campus. For those of you who don’t know such as myself before attending, a writer’s round is where local artists perform their original songs in small groups, each singing three songs total. Elizabeth sang my favorite song of hers, I’ll link it below.

There is so much undiscovered talent in Nashville, it’s kind of crazy. As Elizabeth put it, these people aren’t famous, but Benson Boone is. Make it make sense.

My new favorite singer is Tiffany Johnson, who sang right before Elizabeth. She was as if Audrey Hobert and Taylor Swift had a baby. You should stream her if that descrition resonates with you because I guarantee you’ll also love her, but it’s also very important to support small artists.

Elizabeth has a new song coming out on February 27th, which you can preview here:

Nashville was like a breath of fresh air. It was amazing to drive around in a car that my friend was driving with the windows down, especially after the weather we had to endure in New York for the past several weeks. It was also incredibly special to spend our third Valentine’s Day together as best friends, a tradition we promised to continue even when we inevitably settle down. Traditions like these are why Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday, and I think it’s pretty wonderful that it doesn’t involve the stereotypical elements of romance.

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