I joked yesterday that after doing two back-to-back manis inspired by alcoholic drinks (Tuesday’s frozen strawberry daiquiri nail art and Wednesday’s cherry-garnished Manhattan mani) it was clearly cocktail hour here at Finger Candy HQ. Now that I’ve done another – these citrusy blue curacao nails – I’m just running with it. Cocktails are a surprisingly fantastic inspiration for nail art; there’s actually quite a bit to draw from there. For these nails I layered blue and turquoise jelly polishes one atop the other, and then added a sweet, fruity garnish.
Wanna hear a story about blue curacao? Growing up as a teenager in Ottawa, Ontario, THE thing to do once you turned 18 (or earlier if you had the borrowed ID of an older friend or sibling) was nip across the river to Hull, Quebec to take advantage of their lower legal drinking age. And THE place to do that was The Strip, a three or four-block stretch of bars and restaurants and dance clubs and resto-pubs that was pretty well overrun with drunk and horny teenagers every Friday and Saturday night. With my birthday coming toward the end of the school year, I was one of the last of my friends to make the journey across the bridge. Also because I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to go; The Strip had some very nice establishments – Chez Henri looked like a Victorian castle, and Campus was a hole, albeit a hole with fantastic music – but it also had a (deserved) reputation for being rough, a $2.50 cocktail-fueled debauchfest that spilled out into the streets every weekend, bringing with it fights and altercations and just generally crap behaviour. But I suspect that’s just what happens when you get a whole bunch of drunk and horny teenagers together in one place.
So I had my reservations. As did my parents, who never, ever prevented me from joining in on the reindeer games, although they did have some concerns. And so one day after school a trusted friend swung by my house to talk to my folks and put their minds at ease – “No, Mrs. Lewrey, it’s really not as bad as everyone says. We’ll be safe and we’ll look out for her; we always look out for each other” – we really did, good cab-taking girls that we were – “I swear I’ve never even seen a bar tussle.” Which was good enough for my parents, and so off we went that very weekend to the Land of Midori melon ball shooters.
No word of a lie, guys, I had taken maybe three steps into a dive called Ozone, struck dumb by the sight of an entire dance floor of sweating bodies embarrassing themselves to the Macarena, when a bottle of blue curacao arced gracefully above my head, crashing to the tequila-soaked floorboards and igniting a 30 second fistfight between a number of the flailing group dancers. Then it was over and *I* was suddenly embarrassing myself to the Macarena, and certainly not for the last time…although that bar fight was also the first and last time I saw one of those. Also the first fight my friend had ever encountered – she really hadn’t fibbed to my folks; it was just a stupid coincidence. This is also the first time I’m sharing this story publicly, so this should come as a fun surprise for my mom should she be reading this (hi, Mom! Aren’t we glad I turned out more or less okay?!)