A December Night on Charlotte Street

Snow falling on Charlotte Street. So pretty, I think.

Borough Market at Christmastime

Borough Market around Christmastime is just the best.

If you're not familiar with Borough Market, it's not only just a foodies' paradise, it's also London's oldest food market, established on the south bank of the Thames River when the Romans built the first London Bridge. For the past 250 or so years, it's on Borough High Street, conveniently close to my flat.

So last weekend, there I went. It's so quintessentially British. People are always banging on about how "Bridget Jones's Diary" and "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels" were filmed there, but I like to picture a way more Dickensian time.

Some highlights!




I'm not entirely comfortable with this butcher's showy display, and I certainly don't envy the parents who have to explain to screaming children why they can't pet these pretty birds, but in any event, I thought it was worth a shot.




Brits just love their mulled wine. It's been at every Christmas party I've been to this year, and when it's cooking on a hot stove, it makes the whole room just smell incredible. I don't particularly enjoy it, though, much to my hosts' dismay. (Red wine gives me an insta-migraine.)



Look at all of these mushrooms! All I see are $$$, since every time I've bought a few exotic-looking mushrooms, I've been at least $10 poorer. But how strangely gorgeous are these?




Mmmm! This Mediterranean food stand reminds me of being in Turkey this past summer. The people behind it are pretty friendly, and they always insist on giving you samples of their yummy olives. Here I bought a tub of freshly made pesto sauce, as it's my beau's favorite. Trust me, the pesto likely smells and tastes better than any other pesto you've ever tried. You just need the tiniest smidgen to get the aroma and flavors going.




These people here are waiting for coffee. Seriously. Next!




At the end of my little trip around Borough Market, I met my friend L. at this place, Black & Blue, which has become one of our favorite meeting spots. It's a steakhouse, but we don't really eat there much. No, there we drink white wine at the restaurant's sturdy marble bar, sit in comfy, supportive cushion-y leather chairs, eat olives and cover a wide range of topics. It's heaven.

Stuff I Keep Forgetting: Kate Moss is Somebody's Mom.

Is it just me, but does anyone else forget that Kate Moss has a seven-year-old child? I am always jarred by this news.

I was reading this article about Lila Grace's fashion sense, and was like, "Who are they talking about?"

How to Pull Off Glittery Makeup

Last night I went for drinks with one of my former editors, the very talented A.

A. met me inside the candlelit Charlotte Street Hotel bar wearing a gorgeous tartan dress and even more gorgeous sparkly golden eyeliner. It was très festive, but completely casual. (The snow falling outside the hotel’s big paned windows made the whole scene just so Christmas-y.)

Back to the glitter eyeliner — I was so glad to see it. I’ve been championing glitter since I was a wee one, and as I grow older, I’m continually dismayed to see so many of my contemporaries throw the sparkly stuff by the wayside. Some of them I genuinely think feel glittery makeup is no longer age-appropriate. (BOR-ing!) Others I suspect fear they won’t be able to pull it off. Sad, because just looking at something sparkly puts me in a better mood. (Honk if you feel the same.)

I think the secret to making glittery makeup look covetable (and not insane) is really about the other products you wear it with. Whether it’s glittery lipstick, eye makeup, blush or nail polish you’re contemplating, balance it out by keeping the rest of your makeup super-casual. Why, take my friend A. for example.

Last night A. revealed the contents of her makeup bag to me — an exercise that tells you more about a person than a Proust Questionnaire — and she showed off a pretty neutral selection of au natural, fresh-looking stuff (The Balm Stainiac, MAC Lip Erase, etc.), complemented by the addition of the fabulous golden Urban Decay Heavy Metal Glitter Eyeliner in (what I think was) Midnight Cowboy.

To get that pretty, ethereal look, A. had clearly used all of those nice neutrals, and then adorned her fresh-faced look by tracing the Urban Decay Heavy Metal Glitter Eyeliner along her top lash line. When you saw her, you noticed her pretty skin, smile and eyes, which were lit up by bright, shining, gossamer-like thread of teeny-tiny sparkles. She looked amazing, and she completely illustrated how glitter can be bold without being overwhelming.

Lily Allen Shuns Fame For Cooking, Linen-Sorting

Barf.

I pick up this week's Grazia en route to work today (anything to dull the pain of taking the Tube), and I’m greeting with a shot of Lily Allen in ice skates on the cover, looking part fairy princess, part Kristy Yamaguchi amid some Photoshopped snow. Her arms are raised, she looks optimistically to the right upper hand corner of the cover, and below I see the cover line, “Lily: ‘Why I’m saying goodbye to fame’”

Call me a skeptic, but I somehow doubt this is Lily’s last spin on the ice, so to speak. Inside, there’s the usual talk about how much she’s grown up, how she’s forsaken blogging, Twittering, MySpace-ing, etc., not to mention her hard partying ways. To fill the void, Lily now finds joy in things that are “real,” i.e. Listening to records on vinyl, cooking and “sorting out the linen.”

I’ll spare you the bit about how Lily dreams of having kids and moving to the countryside, how Obama was “the best [event] in social history” (really...all of it?) and how it’s so unfair that only a slim percentage of society gets to wear incredible designer clothes.

Don’t get me wrong, I really like Lily Allen’s music – I’ve got both albums and even went to see her perform – but I just can’t deal with hearing about any more multi-millionaire celebs gushing to the press about how all they really want to do is to fold laundry and cook from scratch at the end of the day. It’s all too Gwyneth for me.

Sophia Loren Likes to Eat.

Sophia Loren just may be Hollywood's last member of the Clean Plate Club.

According to this morning's Daily Mail, she says:

"Young actresses today don't eat enough. I meet them for lunch, we sit down at the table, they look around and they say, 'Oh, but everything is so good, everything looks wonderful.'

And then they eat just a bite of this and a bite of that. They never finish their food, never. I am the only one eating at the table! I get very upset by this."

I had to laugh at this, as Sophia's criticism reminds me a bit of my favorite Real Housewife of New York, the ultra-slim Bethenny Frankel.

As a chef, she's always surrounded by her carb-y Bethenny Bakes vegan pastries. On the show, she's constantly drinking and eating in really yummy restaurants. In Bethenny's blog, she gushes over Levain Bakery's softball-sized, raw-batter cookies and Rosa Mexicano's "fattening frozen pomegranate margaritas."

If you're wondering how skinny minnie Bethenny is able to enjoy all of these decadent delights and still look the way she does (i.e. incredible), she adheres to this philosophy, "Taste everything, eat nothing," which is clearly the credo for Sophia Loren's dining companions.

Maybe they all read Bethenny's book, "Naturally Thin." Or maybe Sophia was just like them in her day, and it's just that she's now too much of a legend to care.

American Products Worth Schlepping Back

This adorable intern at work crept up to my desk this week, and looking terribly scared, asked me for a favor in a hushed voice.

Given how scared and sweet she looked, I was preparing myself for something major (maybe mentorship or my yummy purple pen), but really, she just said, "Do you think you could bring me back some Strawberry Fluff from The States next week?"

"Sure."

Of all of the things she wanted from the Land of Plenty, Strawberry Fluff was it. I tried to tell her that of all of the American products worth hauling back, Strawberry Fluff was at the bottom of the pile. I don't know anyone who has ever actually stocked that stuff in their house, or even their dorm room. Doesn't she know there's so much more when it comes to American innovation?

Here, the domestic American products I'm missing most.

1. Crest Whitestrips Advanced Seal - Crest's top-of-the-line, mess-free teeth whitening strips are so noncommittal. You press them on your teeth like stickers, and leave them there for 30 minutes. You can even drink water. Expect Taylor Lautner-like choppers in 14 days flat. Dentists must be soooo pissed about this.

2. Mr. Clean Magic Erasers - These all-purpose cleaning sponges de-skeeved both of my New York apartments. You just dampen your Magic Eraser with water and run it over any surface that's making your skin crawl, be it a hardwood floor, greasy stove, white wall or bathtub. (Even your roommate!) Honestly, it's a miracle product. There's no bubbles or smell or spills or anything. I love you, Mr. Clean!

3. tasti-D-lite or Only 8 - If I could clone myself or get the capital, I'd open up a tasti-D-lite franchise right here in London. Or at least an Only 8 concession somewhere. There are days where only a soft-serve, low-calorie frozen dessert will make it better, and my only option was Yog, this vile, sour frozen yogurt that I wouldn't feed my imaginary dog. (I went there once, spent about £4 on a cup and immediately tossed it after the first spoonful. Nasty!) Seriously, I don't think London waist-watching girls know what they're missing. A small cup Fluffernutter and German Chocolate Cake Twist tasti-D with sprinkles on top for $3 and under 200 cals on a warm summer night? Yes, please!

Note: I realize Tasti-d and Only 8 are not so much products are they are foods, but since, like Strawberry Fluff, they're made with so many mystery ingredients, I think they probably are best classified as products. (I'll definitely be doing an American food-related post soon, so stay tuned for that.)

4. Us Weekly - Few things are sadly entertaining as scanning Us Weekly's "Stars! They're Just Like Us!" opening double-page spreads. Isla Fischer pushes her baby on a swing? Gripping! Katherine Heigl eats a French fry? Fascinating!

5. Slatkin & Co. Scent Port home fragrance diffusers - If there were a God of Home Fragrance, it'd be Harry Slatkin. Harry is responsible for some of the world's most sought-after and snobby home fragrances, churning out luxe, powerful, heavenly-scented candles that were picked up by Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys and Neiman Marcus. He even did those cool Elton John scented rocks.

Well a few years ago, he started doing home scents for Bath & Body Works, a markedly more affordable retailer, and amazingly, the Slatkin & Co. scents for BBW smell almost as fantastic as his more precious stuff. I love these Scent Ports, because they scent a room super-powerfully for over a month, but without giving off that disgusting, cloying artificial smell that other plug-in devices are famous for. You can even get a Scent Port with a night light built in!

I was promised snow.

So this morning, I wake up with a searing headache, the result of a touch too much Champagne at our office holiday party (or as the Brits called them, "office do's").

In a half coma, I slap my BlackBerry hard enough until it stops with that stupid "Antelope" ring (dun-dun, DUHN-DUHN, dun-dun) and remember walking out of the party last night through Mayfair, seeing big, fluffy dandelion-shaped snowflakes falling from the sky. They looked particularly pretty against the Ralph Lauren store windows, which were styled in that cozy, woodsy, wintry way the company does so well.

I emerge from my bed, thinking I'll be back in about two secs, and take a peek outside. NOTHING. Just dry, frosty pavement. No big whoop. My fantasy of some sort of exciting workplace snow day phone chain evaporated in about two seconds. To compound the disappointment, I realized I was running late.

My searing headache and I shuffle over to the bathroom to look for some Nuprofen, what Brits take for headaches. (Sadly, there's no Exedrin Tension Headache here.) I take out the box, which is empty. Fab.

Holding my head and covering my right eye, I make my way to the kitchen. (Honestly, it's not that far.) I open the fridge, anticipating uncracking my last can of Diet Coke, and it's nowhere to be found. I see a crushed can in recycling. My beau, who came home later than I did last night and was certainly in a snack-y mood, was definitely the culprit in this whodunnit DC mystery. A packet of empty potato chips lay on the floor. Exhibit B.

I check the internet quickly just to make sure my street wasn't miraculously missed by the snowstorm of the century, and no dice: Northern Line -- Good Service.

I was promised snow.

Blake Lively Delivers Again

Blake Lively's style strategy is so transparent, you almost have to respect her for it.

Being blessed with a nicer body than my Malibu Barbie (and equally inhuman, wax-like cleavage), Blake seizes every opportunity to wear something so blatantly sexy, you have to wonder if she's allergic to fabric.

Case in point: the Sherlock Holmes premiere. Her ensemble looked like she tugged on a pair of high-waisted, tummy-tuck black undies and threw a black, die-cut tablecloth over it. Mind you, a Dolce & Gabbana die-cut table cloth. The neckline was rather conservative for Blake, though. Instead of our usual deep plunging V, she went for a wide-spread sweetheart neckline. At this point, we've put the protractor away. Point is, you can always count on some cleave with Blake!

But the thing is, I have to tip my hat to her. She stole the show from Sherlock Holmes' Jude Law, who continues to grab headlines despite his tiresome nanny-cheating, extra-impregnating, ex-frequenting behavior, as well as provided me with enough style inspiration to lay off the carbs today. Thanks, B!

Faux Tan Disaster!

So, yeeeah. Ever since I've developed this rosacea-of-the-upper-arms thing (I grew into this charming feature about a year ago), I have been trying to devise ways to conceal it. I thought fake tanning was the answer.

Clearly not, at least the way I went about it this week, in anticipation of my company holiday party, where I would be working a sleeveless silky black Banana number. I grabbed a tube of a since-discontinued Clinique Self-Sun product, which has been sitting in my cabinet for a cool 18 months now, and I have been slathering it on my arms daily for the past three days. (Mind you, it does say that it's best used within six months of purchase, and I have been storing it in a hot, steamy bathroom since 2008.)

Under the inconsistent light of my apartment, my arms looked great in one room, and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish-orange in another. I ignored the whole Pepperidge Farm thing and went on with my bad self.

I go to work in a cap-sleeve dress today, thinking that no one will know about my rosacea-arm-situation, and BAM! -- the founder of our company (who I totally love and respect) comes up to me and says "You're orange."

Um...embarrassing. Especially since I get paid to know what's up in the luxe beauty world.

Now this woman who called me out is deadpan, direct and kind of hysterical, and she completely confirmed my suspicions, suspicions my ego - and God bless 'em, my co-workers - so kindly chose to ignore. Seriously, I did look a little Oompa Loompa-ish.

This, on top of my professionally applied £60 faux tan disaster this summer (where I had brown, muddy-looking feet for my buddy's breezy Maine wedding), I'm beginning to think I should make peace with fiery, angry upper arms.

My last-ditch effort: MAC Face and Body Foundation. Or more likely, sleeves.

Shadesters: They're Out There.

Okay, so there are two routes to get home from the tube station: the creepy route, and the semi-populated and therefore non-creepy route (which takes a little longer).

Wisely, I took the semi-creepy one tonight. I stop by the stale, icky corner convenience store for a couple of cold DCs (that's Diet Coke to you and me), and as I give me coins to the man behind the counter, I realize the guy has the BIGGEST COKE NAIL I've ever seen. I was shaded out beyond belief.

As if slinking through the rows of expired, no-name, dust-covered, dented cans weren't enough to make your skin crawl, my little paws were subjected to the sharp crescent shape of this man's filthy, dirt-encrusted fingernail as he pressed the five pence into my palm. Uhh, keep it bro.

Walking out, mildly freaked, I nearly bump into some sort of drug addict leaning over holding a Selfridges bag (huh?) and muttering to me with bloodshot eyes.

Hurrying down the street up to my flat, I see a young man skulking about the nearby apartment block wearing a hoodie (covering his entire face) and sweatpants sagged down to his knees. Though he could have been Beaver Cleaver under there, I was a little freaked out. Can somebody tell the youths that they scare the bejesus out of people when they sport that look and that strut on dark streets at night when there's only one young lady present? Give me a break.

Thank God I didn't take the creepy route tonight.

How to Disappear Completely: Take a Detoxifying Bath

I'm not really a bath person.

The whole stewing-in-your-own-filth thing and having to clean the tub beforehand puts me off. Also, since I don't have one of those fabulous half-a-dinosaur-egg tubs like they have in Soho House, my narrow bathtub kinda makes me feel huge.

But the other day I gave in, simply because my muscles were so sore, that I shed a little tear every time I sat down to pee. This pain, of course, was a result of me randomly acting like I was Jackie Warner at the gym, after a good month of being a total sloth. Seriously, I was practically playing hacky-sack with a 5 kg medicine ball.

So there I am, drawing my bath. I even light a candle for mood. Surveying the few rarely-used bath oils I have, I go for the Elemental Herbology Detoxifying Bath Infusion, given to me as a birthday gift. It smells really herb-y, in a nice way.

The label says to put two to three capfuls. I pour half the bottle. Oops. After soaking for about 20 minutes, I get up, and I feel absolutely blissful, in a way that I've never really experience from a bath oil. (Calgon, this isn't.)

I don't know if it was the hot hot water or the botanical actives doing their thing, but I seriously felt like I'd shifted into another state. I was so relaxed and completely incapable of carrying on a conversation. I floated to bed.

Hot Water Bottle action!

"Continental people have sex lives; the English have hot water bottles." - George Mikes, author

Oh, how I laughed and laughed when I first heard of a hot water bottle. Honest to God, I had no idea what one was when I arrived in London last year. I ignored the first mention of it, thinking it was something for sick people like a bedpan or rectal thermometer, and I should thank goodness I was never acquainted with one. I didn't ask about it any further.

Then I was at a Christmas party, and my friend B received one as a Secret Santa gift. Clearly this was not the medical aide I thought it was, since B seemed genuinely delighted with her new present. (Hers was wrapped in a chic red-and-white knit and came with hot cocoa and a fun mug.)

So over some hot Bailey's-ish Christmas drink, I openly inquired about this hot water bottle thing. I found out that you just fill it up with hot water and hold it like a baby to keep you warm. Someone else suggested I put it in the bed before I slid in, like a poor man's electric blanket.

Ahh, gotcha. I kept my mouth shut, but seriously -- in the age of central heating, "double-glazed windows" (as I've heard some Brits call them with wonder) and Ugg boots, the whole hot water bottle concept seemed no longer medicinal, but horribly antiquated.

And then I ate my words. Recently at the office, safely the world's coldest workspace (save for "The Tonight Show" studio), my colleague kindly suggested I borrow her mini hot water bottle, which she said would help my hands thaw out. Not wanting to be rude, I obliged. Hers had a soft gray cable knit cover (she has excellent taste, this girl), and after tucking my little paws in it, she was right: I felt my whole body warm up. It was instant cosiness.

I raced home that night and bought my very own hot water bottle from John Lewis (pictured above). It zips up in a plush faux fur cover - soft like a Gund! - and I fill it up with boiling water and put it on my lap. The weight, warmth and soft plush covering make it a nice substitute for a pet, too. Those can be just as warming, and certainly loads more comforting.

Below, the little friend I can't wait to own one day. My beau does not like animals, unfortunately, so we're going to have to strike some sort of deal.

My Fantasy Home

One might call it envy, but I call it fantasy!

You see, I can't shake this house out of my head. I spotted it a few weeks ago when I was home for Thanksgiving, riding around with my two friends in my old neighborhood in New Jersey. This house is about three minutes away from the house I used to live in (which, while really nice, bore no resemblance the stone McMansion illustrated here).

My friends and I have seen these houses more times than we can count, and as jaded as it sounds, I never really appreciated how grand they were. They all sort of melted into a blur after a while. My eyes adjusted to the size, I guess.

But this one just jumped out at me. I'm pretty sure that it was the shaggy dog that did it for me, as the house certainly wasn't the biggest, nor was it taking home the prize for most elaborate, energy-sucking holiday lights display. No, I think it was simply how content and happy this little pup was. He looked so soft and fluffy, like he'd just been shampooed with Kiehl's Cuddly-Coat Grooming Shampoo. (Probably by the person who was wildly Windexing the glass door inside while I took this picture.)

When I rolled down the window to take a picture, it just stayed there. No barking. No running. It was so dignified.

So you know when you can't fall asleep or you're on the verge of a panic attack, and you're supposed to picture a calm, peaceful, happy setting? I used to picture snow falling on a white beach. Now I just picture this house, on this night.

Spinning. Cancelled. Figures.

I fear spinning.

I've done it about eight times, and it was about eight times I thought my life was going to end on the floor of an East London gym, in a pair of too-tight adidas bike pants with all of my identification locked away.

This morning, I woke up ready to embrace that fear. I yanked on my little bike outfit on and called up the gym to book my space.

"No classes today," said the dude on the line. (It's so not even close to Christmas! Wha??)

Relief washed over my body like a cool rain, but then I got pissed. The ONE day I had the bravery to get on that bike and suffer, my efforts were thwarted.

If I hate it so much, why bother? Well, it was Bobbi Brown who originally inspired me to buck up and try this evil exercise. I used to interview her all of the time for work, and I was struck by her commitment to keeping fit, despite her absolutely manic schedule. She swore by spinning and even went as far as to open her own spinning gym, 3 Sixty Cycling Studio.

I figured it was worth a shot, so last July, I tried it. I'd never sweat that much in my life, and I think that's what you need to do in order to drop some lbs, which is the goal, my friends.

I'm getting back on the bike. Next Saturday. You heard it here.

London Brow Experts, Where Art Thou?

London girls with great brows, I need your help.

For the past six years, I've been fiercely loyal to my brow artist, the excellent Rachel at Valery Joseph in New York. Unfortunately, I'm now starting to lose the fantastic shape she created, and attempting to recreate it just results in frustration and asymmetrical brows. I need a London brow expert, stat.

I've heard there's someone by Kensington Church Street, but that she's a real brow bully -- the kind of person who will yell at you for touching up in between. Not really into paying for intimidation, so she's out.

I'm looking for someone who creates thin, gorgeous, nicely arched brows. NOT SPERMY ONES.

Any suggestions? I'll tell them you sent me.

Trash TV Hits the Spot

When I lived in New York, I took secret pride in not ever seeing a whole episode of any of those horrible reality shows - "Keeping Up with The Kardashians," "Real Housewives," "Girls Next Door," etc. etc.

Well when your best friends live across the sea, and you're missing the way only Americans can say "Oh my God" while texting, navel-gaze and emote without shame, those kind of programs are the ultimate comfort food. Some expats go to Tom Conran's Lucky Seven diner, but me, I plop on the couch in front of E! UK, which doesn't bleep out the curse words. (Kourtney Kardashian's got a mouth, baby!)

I know I should really adopt the whole "When in Rome" approach, but I'm sorry, "East Enders" looks like it was filmed by a high school AV club and "X Factor" just makes me nostalgic for watching "American Idol" with my parents.

The only UK shows I've gotten hooked on: "Life," "The Apprentice" (which kills Trump's version), "Dragon's Den" and "Stephen Fry's In America," the latter which hardly counts.

Zumba-wumba.

I swear I saw Missy Elliott pull some of these moves.

This week I bravely ventured into my first Zumba class. I've heard this "Zumba" name bandied about for some time, but wasn't really sure what I was getting into. Was it dance? Was it aerobics? Was it martial arts and I'd need to hold a stick? I couldn't care less. I needed to hit the gym - it's been a while - and I knew I couldn't be trusted to run my own workout (read: peace after 20 minutes on the elliptical while watching "Fresh Prince").

So to Zumba I went. It was easy to spot the instructor: he was the little Latin sensation with bike pants, a tight toosh and a t-shirt that said "ZUMBA!" on it. He sashayed in with a puffed up little chest and gave us a pitiful introduction. He just flipped on the music, which was kind of amazing in a Ricky Martin "Cup of Life" kind of way, and hopped to it, assuming we'd follow along with his little Peter Pan feet and find the beat somehow, someway. I only bumped into someone once.

The next 60 minutes flew by, and this is coming from someone who (shamefully) loathes exercise. Picture loads of hip popping, box stepping, stomping-and-clapping (which couldn't have burned many calories) and step-ball-changing, which I remembered from my days at Center Stage. But the coolest part were these moves we did where we jerked our heads and ribcages in opposite directions to drumming and these strange motions in which you plie while digging an imaginary grave. It was all very "Get Yr Freak On."

Dare I say it, I'd actually go again.

So tell me: What exercise class keeps you from cutting-and-running?

The Juicy Tracksuit - Still ace.

Okay, so I've been sweating Juicy Couture velour since J. Lo wore the pink Juicy hoodie and short shorts in the video for "I'm Real (feat. Ja Rule)" (Don't hate.) Unfortunately, my thighs are in no shape to be workin' J. Lo's pink shorts, but fortunately, nine years after said video, I've finally had the cajones to own up to my obsession and buy my very first Juicy Couture tracksuit.

In the States, the Juicy Couture tracksuit has unfortunate associations of an early-to-mid Nineties Paris Hilton. In the UK, it's up there with Burberry checks and door-knocker hoop earrings (read: "Chav-tastic!).

In my mind, the Juicy tracksuit shares the same trajectory as Uggs: it went from hot to passe to so-bad-even-my-13-year-old-cousin-won't-take-it to contemporary classic.

Though I'm one of Juicy Couture's staunchest defenders, there are a few conditions if you're contemplating buying one of these puppies:

1. No Juicy crests, cheeky sayings or rhinestones, please.
2. No lettering on the tuchass.
3. Absolutely never to be worn with Uggs. Ever. (Chunky white early 90s low-tops, absolutely.)


Have you or would you ever wear a Juicy tracksuit?

Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

If you're reading this, fantastic.

After holding in my thoughts for the past 18 months here in London, I can't keep my trap shut any longer. I've started this blog as a space to share my experience and swap some thoughts about everything from being an expat in London to what mascara makes your lashes super fat to the songs I'm loving right now.

The last thing the world needs is another blog, but that sentiment hasn't seemed to stop anyone. If anything, some of my friends are reading this right now. Holla!

Fellow expats, American friends, beauty buffs -- feel free to share your thoughts with me. It's my place, but you're invited.