Up's

Great, just what we all needed: dadaist nail polish. What is "up's" with this?


Actually, I'm kind of impressed. Who would have thought so much confusion could be packed into just three letters and one punctuation mark? In terms of nonsense per character this little number is compressed like [normals] Kim Kardashian's posterior in this dress [nerds] a ZIP file stored on the world's tiniest USB drive and thrown into Garbage Compactor 3263827 on the Death Star.

What exactly happened to cause this name? Was the author trying to go to the United Parcel Service's website to see when they would deliver her new keyboard without an erratically triggering caps lock and apostrophe key? Was she hoping to launch her career as a film critic by naming a nail polish after the first word of her thesis, titled "Up's Balloons: Intelligent Falling: a Metatextual Metaphorical Metaphysical Metallurgical Critique of Gravity"?

Whatever is going on here, this name is not exactly at the top's of my list. Not exactly one of Essie's high'slights.

Buy Me a Cameo

You know those days when you want to be obnoxiously demanding, but you ALSO really want your fashion to be at least ninety years out of date? Apparently Essie's got it covered! What's that you say? You also want to reinforce sexist stereotypes, like that the main goal in women's lives is to extract jewelry from men? No problem; this little number has it all.



In fact, I hear that so many women are clamoring for antique cliches on their nails that Essie is launching a whole line. This spring, check your local drugstore for sure-fire hits like Pull Over Your Ford Model T Right Now and Ask For Directions, Don't You Dare Take My Backstreet Boys Record Off the Victrola, No You Can't Go Out Fox Hunting With the Boys On Our Anniversary Weekend, and What Happens In Paris Only Stays In Paris If It Does Not Include the French Disease, Ben, Now Go Sleep On the Couch.

Below the Belt

There are many things below my belt. However, I would be concerned if any of them were this color:


(spotting courtesy of Drisana)

Even if we are to take this name metaphorically rather than literally, I am still dubious. Below the belt: underhanded, dirty, not allowed. I can see traffic-light red, or corrupted-soul black, but all's-clear angelic white? I don't think so.

Then again, there are people out there who make an average of $1.79 an hour to determine the sex of baby chickens by squeezing out their feces to open their anal vents and look inside for tell-tale male bumps, while somebody got paid more than ten times that to come up with this name. Talk about below the belt.

Meet Balls

I've tried about seventy different prescriptions of rose-colored glasses to look at this one. No matter how strong they are (and in this latest pair, Stalin looks like the pancake bunny), this name still grosses me out.


Meet Balls?

I mean, is the goal to look like you just dipped your fingers in squishy globules of ground up cow flesh?

Or...is it a tantalizing promise of your social life to come?

Either way, let me reiterate: eww.

Tennis Corset

Not only is this an awful name for a nail polish, but it is also one of the worst ideas for a piece of clothing I have ever heard (with the possible exception of foot-binding marathon shoes). Tennis is a game in which participants are expected to run around the court quickly. A corset is a device that inhibits you from breathing and will make you pass out if you try to run or bend over. It does not seem like a (game, set, or) match made in heaven. Maybe if you are so figure-conscious that you cannot leave the house without your corset even to exercise, public sports are not for you. It's OK; they invented Wii Tennis for a reason.

Also, the elitism of tennis combined with the Victorianism of corsets makes me suspicious of the kind of people who would wear this.

"Lady Thistlethorpe! What a pleasure to see you again! You are looking delightfully frail and delicate today."

Lady Thistlethorpe, with great effort, manages to breathe deeply enough through her tennis corset to raise her racket in greeting.

"Oh, Sir Caddington, you do know how to flatter a woman. Have you had any luck engaging a new upstairs parlor maid for Stuffybritches Manor?"

The tennis ball passes seven inches from Lady Thistlethorpe's gracefully outstretched arm and sails into Sir Caddington's monocle, cracking it in half.

"Alas, no. We thought we had found one at last, but she turned out to be a dirty papist. Caught her with those grubby little fingers on a rosary."

The ball speeds at Lady Thistlethorpe. She takes one step toward it on her tennis high heels, totters, and crashes to the ground. Sir Caddington nods his head approvingly.

"Damned fine woman, I've always said. Jeeves! Smelling salts!"

Huckle Buckle

Before you scroll down, try to imagine what color Huckle Buckle is.

It could be the color of a buckle, right? Perhaps a brassy gold, or even silver.

Or it could be the color of a huckleberry. I don't know what color huckleberries are, but in my head they are deep blue. Or purple. Or black. I guess they could be red. Berry tones, right?

Nope.

This is Huckle Buckle:


Looks harmless, doesn't it? Almost genteel. How is it that this nail polish has a name that makes me want to drawl "Cletus! Is ol' Bessie ready for the milkin' yet? We need somethin' to feed them chillens besides the squirrel you shot on Old Man Rafferty's land while you were gettin' your Stars 'n' Bars ready for the Skynryd concert!"