Lifestyle
Paige DeSorbo of ‘Summer House’ Adds Author to Her Resume With ‘How to Giggle’
When Paige DeSorbo graduated from college in 2015, she scored a full-time position at a TV station in her hometown, Albany, N.Y. She’d always wanted to be an on-air personality, so the job seemed perfect, at least on paper. As her mom put it at the time, Ms. DeSorbo could work her way up to anchor, get married, have kids, and live down the street.
But she imagined something different for herself.
“I remember just getting the biggest pit in my stomach of like — no, that’s not my life. No way,” Ms. DeSorbo, now 32, said in a recent interview.
Instead, she persuaded her parents to foot six months of rent in New York City so that she could try to find something better. She took a job as an executive assistant at ABC before landing a role on “Summer House,” a Bravo reality show that follows young New Yorkers as they spend debaucherous summer weekends at a shared house in the Hamptons.
“I called my dad crying when they offered it to me because I was like, ‘I think I’m actually too sensitive to do this,’” Ms. DeSorbo said. “And I remember him saying: ‘Do it for the first summer, and if you hate it, we’ll get you out of it. You never have to go back. And if you love it, you’ll never wonder, Oh, imagine if I didn’t do this.’ And honestly, after the second weekend, I was like, ‘I love it.’”
So began Ms. DeSorbo’s unexpected career as a reality star.
To date, she’s appeared on three Bravo shows — “Summer House,” “Winter House” and “Southern Charm” — despite the fact that, in many ways, she’s the antithesis of the modern-day reality personality. She has a New Yorker’s authenticity: direct, assertive and unafraid to voice her opinion even if it might make her look bad. She lacks pretense and showiness, which has earned her fans.
Ms. DeSorbo is more like the reality TV stars of yore — think the first few seasons of “The Real World” rather than the last few seasons of “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” — serving up memorable one-liners not (just) because they make for good TV, but because that’s genuinely her personality. There are occasional missteps, like a podcast comment in 2021 about the skin tone of Regé-Jean Page, for which she apologized, and there are moments dramatic flair, but there’s no performing for the cameras: What you see is what you get.
Seven seasons into her run on “Summer House,” Ms. DeSorbo has fashioned herself into the ultimate millennial multihyphenate: a reality TV star, a style influencer, an author, and a co-host of a top comedy podcast, “Giggly Squad,” with her best friend and former “Summer House” cast member, Hannah Berner. Ms. DeSorbo recently introduced her own shoe collaboration with DSW, and, alongside Ms. Berner, hosted the Vanity Fair Oscars after-party livestream. In March, the two capped off a multicity podcast tour, selling out venues like Radio City Music Hall.
Now, they’re publishing a satirical self-help book, out April 15, called “How to Giggle: A Guide to Taking Life Less Seriously.”
Ms. DeSorbo said that her and Ms. Berner’s publisher, Simon and Schuster, insisted that, unlike other reality TV authors, they not use ghost writers so that the book could be authentically in their voices.
“I was like, ‘I can’t wait to tell all of my English teachers from Grade 3 to 12 that they were wrong and I do know punctuation,’” Ms. DeSorbo said.
Much like the topic of the book itself, it’s not meant to be taken seriously. “It’s for the casual reader,” she said. “I really pictured the girls like, going on vacation, grabbing this book, throwing it in their bag. Maybe they pick it up on vacation — but maybe they don’t even open it.”
Though the book tackles questions about love and relationships, it was written before the ending of Ms. DeSorbo’s own: In November, she and her boyfriend of three years, the Bravo star Craig Conover, officially called it quits. Ms. DeSorbo announced the news on “Giggly Squad.”
The former couple made some pointed remarks about each other on shows that aired in recent weeks — Mr. Conover said on a “Southern Charm” reunion that he was shocked by the breakup, and in a conversation with Ciara Miller on “Summer House,” Ms. DeSorbo asked, “Am I dating a secret hater?” — but Ms. DeSorbo downplayed the drama between them.
“No one did anything,” she said. “It wasn’t a bad thing. I think we both were just being really mature and saying what we want and what we didn’t want, and I think that’s extremely powerful to be able to voice how you’re feeling in real time and what you want for your future.”
The breakup of one of the network’s most beloved couples generated plenty of online commentary and speculation, especially as it happened just ahead of the premieres of the new season of “Summer House” and Mr. Conover’s show, “Southern Charm,” which follows the lives of young people living and working in Charleston, S.C.
Every on-camera interaction between the two suddenly became fodder for dissection. On one episode of “Southern Charm,” Ms. DeSorbo and Mr. Conover, who had not yet broken up, discussed her increasingly busy schedule, and how that conflicts with his desire to have her move to Charleston and start a family.
“It makes me feel like if I get more and more successful, it’s a bad thing,” Ms. DeSorbo says in the episode. “Like, if I don’t make you the No. 1 priority, I’m going to feel guilty.”
The scene is awkward to watch, especially with the knowledge of where the relationship ends up. Mr. Conover, who has discussed having purchased an engagement ring for Ms. DeSorbo, seems to want the life that Ms. DeSorbo ran away from in Albany all those years ago. But her refusal to give up her dreams, and to instead commit herself to the career she’s worked so hard to build, has stood out in the typically unfeminist world of reality TV.
“I’m proud of myself for making a tough decision even though the public was like, ‘You’re wrong, you’ll never find another person again,’” Ms. DeSorbo said. She said she had been heartened by the reaction of many of her female fans, who have written to her expressing how grateful they are to see a woman on TV willing to stand strong in what she wants. “I am really thankful for the women that supported me and saw what I was going through,” she said.
Though the love story between her and Mr. Conover may be over, the one between her and Ms. Berner is not.
“It really is true that there is nothing better than your best friend in moments like that,” Ms. DeSorbo said. “I feel like I was processing the breakup so differently because I had those months where she allowed me to say every single thought that came into my brain about relationships, being someone’s wife, being someone’s mother. Like I had said everything I could, even I could think in those months. And so then once, like the public found out, I was like, ‘Oh, this is going to be fine.’”
Now that she’s single, Ms. DeSorbo is focused on continuing to grow the career she’s fought for. “I definitely feel driven and focused,” she said. “I wanted something, so I’m working toward it.”
And the fact that her success has come in tandem with Ms. Berner’s only makes it that much sweeter. “Hitting these milestones in your career is so exciting,” Ms. DeSorbo said, “but hitting them with your best friend is like a different level of happiness.”
At the start of “Mile End Kicks,” a film set in the Montreal indie music scene of 2011, a music critic in her early 20s, played by Barbie Ferreira, has arrived at her Craigslist apartment share fresh from Toronto. She’s promptly invited to a loft party by her Quebecois D.J. roommate. “Dress hot,” she’s told.
The camera scans the critic, Grace Pine, as she walks into the night. Brown lace-up brogues. Black socks over sheer black tights. A short burgundy corduroy skirt. A navy sweater with a white collar peeking out. A denim boyfriend jacket to finish the look. Hot? Depends on whom you ask.
“It’s a punchline to a joke in the script,” Courtney Mitchell, the film’s costume designer, said in an interview. “But there’s a genuine understanding to some audience members where that is what we felt sexy in, in a kind of nerdcore way.”
Montreal as an indie sleaze epicenter
“Mile End Kicks,” written and directed by Chandler Levack, is the semi-autobiographical story of a music writer who moves to the Mile End neighborhood of Montreal in the summer of 2011, a time when rents were cheap enough that artists could afford to live blocks from the venues where they played.
Ostensibly, she’s there to write a book about Alanis Morissette’s album “Jagged Little Pill.” But other items on her to-do list, such as “have actual sex,” take precedence, leading her to loft parties, poetry readings and a love triangle with members of the fictional band Bone Patrol.
The era, called “indie sleaze” in retrospect (but referred to as “hipster” by those who were there), with its messy, gritty-glam looks, is captured extensively in the film. “I never felt as free a dresser as I did when I lived in Montreal,” Levack said in an interview.
Head-to-toe in American Apparel
The clothing brand most closely associated with indie sleaze is American Apparel. Think deep V-neck tees, ’70s-inspired separates and ads featuring young women splayed in suggestive poses. “I was always digging something lamé out of my butt crack,” Levack said, not without a twinge of nostalgia.
To recreate the vibe, Mitchell collected more than 200 garments and accessories from the brand, including high-waisted jean shorts, shiny disco shorts, hoodies, bodysuits, rompers, bandeaus, oversized tees, jelly shoes and belts. She was adamant that the items date from 2011 or earlier to reflect that they had been in the wardrobe rotation for some years. She found them on a mix of resale sites including Facebook Marketplace, Poshmark and Craigslist, as well as at one Montreal dry cleaner that happened to have a trove of American Apparel dead stock.
And there was a personal history, too: Mitchell had worked at American Apparel stores while in high school and in college, and Ferreira modeled for the brand in 2012, when she was 16. They shared a deep familiarity with the clothes. “That really brings out an emotion, when you return to a beloved silhouette,” Mitchell said.
Homage to the ironic graphic tee
An ironic T-shirt coupled with a cardigan became a totem of indie style, thanks to icons like Kurt Cobain, who served as inspiration for Bone Patrol’s lead singer, Chevy (Stanley Simons). At his day job selling shoes at Mile End Kicks (a real store), he wears a plaid mohair cardigan over a pocket T-shirt emblazoned with “Time to Be Happy” in off-kilter print. “The slogan was Chevy’s tongue-in-cheek nod to his retail job,” Mitchell wrote in an email. “As if he is wearing a salesman costume while dying inside because he is ‘a real artist.’”
Two of the shirts worn by Grace belonged to Levack: a Spin magazine shirt she got as a summer intern at the publication, and a Sonic Youth baseball tee from a 2007 show at McCarren Pool, then an abandoned public swimming hole in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn. But the runaway star is merch from a vacuum store, La Maison de l’Aspirateur, in Mile End — a black shirt with a hoovering elephant logo worn by Archie (Devon Bostick), the lead guitarist. “It’s become an iconic shirt for the film,” Levack said. “I’m going to screenings and people in the audience are wearing the shirts.”
Hidden gems found in vintage piles
In the Mile End of 2011, vintage clothing was a fact of life for reasons of style and necessity, and it became core to the hipster aesthetic. “These aren’t characters that are buying clothes; they’re, like, finding them in the street and rummaging through the giant clothing pile at Eva B,” Levack said, referring to a Montreal vintage institution.
One of Chevy’s most lurid onstage looks is a shimmering shot silk women’s trench — worn over a pair of American Apparel briefs, of course — courtesy of Renaissance, a chain of thrift stores in Quebec. “Everyone at those shows, whether or not you were onstage or not, you felt like you were onstage,” Levack said. “People would dress up to be noticed and to outdo each other. But it was so creative because nobody had any money.”
Pete Yorn moved to Los Angeles almost exactly 30 years ago.
“I remember it was May 16, 1996 — maybe three weeks after I graduated from Syracuse,” says the singer and songwriter known for his smart, tender folk-rock stylings. “Which means I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else. But when people ask where I’m from, I still say I’m from New Jersey.” He laughs. “I guess I identify very strongly with my upbringing.”
In Sunday Funday, L.A. people give us a play-by-play of their ideal Sunday around town. Find ideas and inspiration on where to go, what to eat and how to enjoy life on the weekends.
Jersey pride notwithstanding, Yorn’s 2001 debut album, “Musicforthemorningafter,” is suffused with his experiences as a young transplant moving and shaking in a busy L.A. social scene he compares now to Doug Liman’s classic “Swingers” movie — “at least if you take away the swing dancing,” he says. “But the driving around and the going to parties — it was all the same stuff.” (Yorn’s older brothers, Kevin and Rick, are both prominent players in the entertainment business.)
The singer, who’s 51, is on the road this year performing “Musicforthemorningafter” in its entirety to mark the LP’s 25th anniversary; he’s also playing songs from throughout the rest of his career, including a 2009 duo record he made with his friend Scarlett Johansson. On July 24, he’ll release his 12th studio album, “All the Beauty.” Here, he breaks down his routine for a Sunday in his adopted hometown with his wife, jewelry designer Beth Kaltman, and their 10-year-old daughter.
7 a.m. Rise and dine
I’m like a 6:45 or 7 wake up just because I’m used to driving my daughter to school every day. I like to eat right away, and I eat the same two things every day: either yogurt with frozen berries, or there’s this overnight oats called Mush. The blueberry Mush — I can’t get enough of it. That’s what I eat before my shows too. I’ll go to a venue and the people are like, “What would you like for dinner? We have this beautiful menu,” and I’m like, “I’ll just have the Mush.”
10 a.m. Horsing around
Sunday is usually a day for something with my daughter. She’s taken a love to horseback riding — she’s much braver than I am — so I’ll drive her out to this barn near Bell Canyon, which my wife told me is actually in Ventura County. I said, “No way — Ventura County is way up there.” And sure enough, there’s this southern tip of Ventura that’s like 25 minutes from my house up the 101. Anyway, I’ll go and I’ll watch her ride the horse. I’ll be honest — I’m very nervous every time. But my wife grew up horseback riding, and my daughter, she just loves it. She can be very fickle, but this is one thing that’s stuck.
Now, I should say: If it’s NFL season, I can’t skip football. I’m a huge Raiders fan — it’s terrible. So if there’s an important game, I’ll have my Sunday Ticket on my phone and peek at what’s going on. But that’s fine — it’s understood.
12 p.m. Retail therapy
After the horse, we might go this place in Van Nuys called Iceland. It’s ironic because my wife, her dream trip is to go to Iceland the country, and the closest we’re getting to that right now is an ice-skating rink. Or I love going to the Fashion Square mall [in Sherman Oaks] — I don’t know if it’s a remnant of growing up in New Jersey or it just gives me the nostalgic feeling of being with my parents at the mall. I don’t even have to buy anything. I mean, I might end up getting roped into buying something — not a Labubu because that’s over but some sort of kawaii animal stuffy. I just like that the mall still exists in a time when it’s so easy for everyone to buy everything on their phone. My daughter was like, “Whoa, you can go in and touch things?”
3 p.m. Guilty pleasure
Here’s a naughty one: There’s a little bakery right off Ventura Boulevard called Schazti’s, and they have this chocolate banana pudding that is ridiculous. It comes in a paper cup.
6 p.m. Time to dine
If it’s Football Night in America, my wife and daughter would order Japanese or Chinese or Thai. They’d probably order that every day if they had their way — they’re obsessed. Sometimes I’ll just eat a bowl of cereal and call it a night. If there’s no game, a cool place to go that’s been there forever is the Smoke House in Burbank. I’d always seen it but had never been until a few months ago. Just a classic, old-school place — steak is great.
10 p.m. Slow for show
I’m early to bed because I know I’m gonna be up early to drive my daughter to school, which is my favorite thing when I’m home. I don’t want to miss it. I’m very conscious of how fast she’s growing up, and I know me — I’ll be sad when it’s over. We might watch a show or a movie but I’ll feel my eyes getting heavy after like 10 minutes. It takes me quite a few nights to get through an episode.
Zoe Latta, a co-founder of the fashion brand Eckhaus Latta, saw the clock on Instagram and started searching for pharma swag on eBay. “It was just a hole I got in,” she said. Latta soon rounded up some examples at “Rotting on the Vine,” her Substack newsletter, describing them as “silly byproducts of our sick sad world.”
Pharma swag feels somewhat like Marlboro Man merch — “like this very specific modality of our culture that’s changed,” Latta said, adding, “At first, I thought it was ironic and cheeky. But it’s also so dark.”
In particular, swag like the OxyContin mugs that read “The One to Start With. The One to Stay With” is regarded as highly collectible and highly contentious. Jeremy Wells, a newspaper owner and editor in Olive Hill, Ky., remembered, for example, seeing the mugs sold at a Dollar Tree in New Boston, Ohio, in the late 1990s or early 2000s. “At the same moment that the epidemic is blowing up,” he said.
“You can do a chicken-and-egg argument, and I doubt very seriously that those mugs made anybody get addicted,” he said. “But I do feel like things like those mugs did add to the mystique and the aura of seduction.” (After a protracted lawsuit, Purdue Pharma, the maker of OxyContin, has been dissolved and is on the hook to pay more than $5 billion in criminal penalties for fueling the opioid epidemic.)
“I was surprised to see how much this stuff was selling for in general — there is demand,” Latta said, pointing to a vintage Xanax photo frame listed for $230. Latta said she could imagine buying it for a friend who takes Xanax on planes (“if it was at a thrift store for under $10”) or maybe a pair of Moderna aviator sunglasses that she found, which seem to nod at Covid vaccines and the signature Biden eyewear, she said.
Pharmacore — medical-branded pieces worn as fashion — has found new expression at the confluence of identity, medicine and commerce, and at a time when skepticism toward pharmaceuticals is at a high (see: the MAHA movement).
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