Modern Miss Manners

Emily Post for the dazed + confused NYC twentysomething

Month: December, 2013

Surviving NYE


NYE in NYC: it ain’t for the faint of heart. Here’s what you’ll need to survive.

1. Some sensible motherfucking shoes. LADIES. Ladies. Unless you’ll be parked in VIP all night, nobody wants to carry your teetering, whimpering ass back wherever ya came from… and guess what? There won’t be any cabs. All the cabs are taken. 99% chance you’ll be riding the subway home when you have to duck out early cause you can’t stand up anymore. (None of this applies to the known Beyonces of this world, of course. You dance in those heels all night, girl. Do you. You wouldn’t even let on if your shoes were filling with blood.)

2. An outfit you can stand losing forever. Preferably all black. Reduce spillage, runs, rips and (almost) all stains to nothing. Regardless: if you don’t mind wrecking that shit, wear it. My girls, this is a prime night to wear that all-too-cut-up bodycon with some combat boots and call it a damn night. Get sexed the hell up. Tis the season. Dudes, same party destruction rules apply. If you’re that guy who insists on wearing a suit to someone’s shitty party, you’d better a) rethink your life and your choices and b) be prepared to toss it in the trash the second you get home.

3. Your shittiest, warmest coat. I’ve lost some good coats to NYE debauchery over the years. Whether wrecked or accidentally worn out by another drunk girl who couldn’t tell her black peacoat from my black peacoat… I’m hoping, for your sake, that you’re headed somewhere with a coat check. There’s no chance it’s a good idea to layer over the aforementioned next-to-nothing party getup (say bye bye to whatever you stuff in the arms of your coat, you’ll never see that scarf or cardigan again), so “warmest yet least beloved” outerwear is the way to go. It’s gonna be a chilly commute to fun tonight, folks. Them’s the breaks. Thank god there’s still time to embroider your name in the lining of your coat.

4. Cash for cabs and drinks. Mostly cabs. Hopefully you’re already kinda trashed by the time you arrive wherever you’re headed (“pacing yourself for the long haul” is for sissies who leave at 1am) and not about to blow the bank, but whatever you do: reserve cab cash. Hide it from yourself in your bra if need be. Do not fuck yourself over for a final round of vodka sodas.

5. Sunglasses and a phone charger. Always come prepared for adult sleepovers. It shouldn’t make or break an entirely overhyped night for ya, but I’ll be damned if it can’t hurt to plan ahead. The morning sun is especially harsh (and judgmental) on the first day of the new year.

Everything else you can figure out for your damn self. This is gonna be a disaster – but I’m rootin’ for ya. Godspeed.




You have three options.

1) Leave the city. Don’t look back. Hide in a woodland cabin with all of your friends. Get drunk, cook elaborate meals, make snow angels, dance around the living room, sleep in, whatever. It’s gonna be great. Your parents will be proud. (This option is most appealing to those already in cozy-ass relationships and therefore down for an NYE sock party. Don’t let them talk you into running away with them if you’ll be sad that there aren’t any equally-drunk strangers’ faces to lick at midnight. You’ll be a pouty mess and ruin the vibes.)

2) Lock yourself and all of your friends (and friends of friends and crushes and whoever else you can drum up) into someone’s apartment and don’t leave for any reason that doesn’t involve cigarette breaks or PDA. Nothing else is romantic enough to warrant stepping out into that madness before approximately 6am January 1st.

3) Go full-on douche. Buy too-expensive tickets to an all-night affair at a hotel or a shitty warehouse, blow even more cash on a fancy dress or suit you just know you’ll ruin (when else can one pull off looking classy as fuck during a shitty warehouse rave?), do all the drugs, drink all the drinks, kiss everyone, make new friends, cry in a corner, get it together, kiss everyone else, stumble home well after dawn… then recover alone in your bed with nothing but pizza and Gatorade for the next 48 hours. If you haven’t done this at least once, you’re just fucking everything up.

To be clear, none of these options include hanging in your apartment alone with three bottles of wine and a fully charged iPhone. Do you hear me? Goddammit. Go make out with some strangers, or your friends, or whoever. It’s good luck for the new year. Now get the fuck outside before I call your mother.

2014 or bust.



Christmas has arrived. Deliver us from evil, amen.

You’re probably still on a plane, train or automobile rocketing you toward holiday cheer. It feels lovely before you arrive: the holidays are for family, right?… RIGHT? The decorations, the food, the quality time… this year’s gonna be different! Your relatives are totally gonna treat you like an adult with a job and interests they’d like to discuss in casual conversation!

They’re not. They’re really not. Your parents are probably cool by now (you’re becoming less of an idiot) and your siblings get you. It’s the rest of your family that causes such general confusion and blind rage on the day we trot out fancy-yet-church-appropriate outfits to celebrate. Somehow they always ask the questions that are both inappropriately familiar and yet generally disinterested – all followed up by some horrifying relic of a memory from your tweens. (I was TEN when I spilled gravy on my new holiday pants and cried about it in the bathroom, not THIRTEEN. OKAY AUNT ELLEN? OKAY? JESUS GOD.)

My only advice is this: keep your goddamn mouth shut. This isn’t a verbal sparring match. This is survival mode. Smile and nod. No matter how clever your retort to any number of mortifying questions, you’ll sound like a petulant child. The sooner you accept the fact that they’ll see you as a gravy and tear-stained tween til the end of time, the better.

Now go refill your wine glass, all the way to the tippy top. Shh… it’s gonna be okay. Go take a nap with your cousin’s ancient poodle, or pet someone’s baby. They can’t judge you.

Happy holidaze, y’all! x MMM