Leandra Medine's Blog, page 618

A Floaty Crop Top How-To

It is amazing how other people can “ruin” a piece of clothing for us. It’s not actually their fault; we of the fast fashion generation simply have a lower threshold when it comes to our trend attention spans.

But what happens when your little sister buys the same sort of cropped, floaty top that you bought on a whim (“It’s so not me, but isn’t it fun for summer??”) — the one that you haven’t worn yet because you haven’t quite figured out how without feeling too…something, so you’ve been saving it. Saving it for a birthday or a party or night with strong Instagram potential.

And then your little sister posts a picture of herself in this very same top, paired with teeny tiny cutoffs and a dramatic amount of feather jewelry.

Oh god, you think. Is that how these things are worn? You were in no way prepared for this much skin. Or poultry-related accessories.

Hey! Earth to you, monkey bread! Things are worn however you damn please and if Justin Timberlake can take back the night then you can take back the frilly top!

And we’ll do it together, because a top was almost ruined for me until Leandra reminded me to get a little funky.

First, let’s do it like they do on the millennial channel and keep it casual.

Tibi top, Madewell jeans, Iro Paris sandals, Eugénie dress worn as vest.

Pair your top (it is a “top,” by the way — as opposed to a shirt — when it’s this tiny) with baggy jeans and biblical sandals to keep it coooool. Add a vest over for a little bit of structure. Or you know, don’t.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Now let’s do it the party pants way.

H&M pants (similar here), Fendi sunglasses, Rosie Assoulin bag.

What we have here, my friends, is a classic case of debunking volume myths. Wide leg pants plus a peplumed top = funky aunt Carol on her way to the Whitney.

(And if you can smell what the Rock is cooking then you can definitely suss out who barraged me with accessories JUST as I was leaving the office to be shot. Hint: Leandra, part time back up dancer for Bruno Mars and full time supporter of the uptown funk.)

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Now what? Grab your sister’s shirt (you just spilled something on yours) and run, Garden, run!

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

Big ups to Hadley Mendelsohn and Ella Viscardi on their help with the market barz.

The post A Floaty Crop Top How-To appeared first on Man Repeller.

MR Writer’s Club Prompt: Say You Were Your Own Therapist

Look, Leandra, I know you’re fragile. Too hard on yourself. I know you need consistent reinforcement in order to propel yourself forward. I appreciate your work ethic and the conviction with which you operate both emotionally and physically. When I say physically, what I mean is that it’s obvious that you’ve been working out. Your elbows look great. They are fit. But we need to get down to the crux of what should be keeping you up at night. I know you said you sleep like a log, but I ask you to reconsider that clause that you’re “genuinely satisfied with life.”

We’ll start with that blanket you’re always clutching as you immediately doze off once your head hits a pillow. I know you’ve said it’s not as important as it seems — that you do fine without it, but it’s just a token you’ve held on to for memory’s sake. It seems clear to me that you’ve developed a severe case of separation anxiety. I know you’ve said you do fine on your own, that you prefer ripping as opposed to peeling off Band-Aids, but we’ll probably need to schedule another session to get into the crux of what is really the problem here: your optimism.

We psychologists have a term, you see, it’s called “distorted thinking,” and the optimistic purview you’ve crafted is truly distracting you from reality. Please remember the following: you’re alone, you’re going to die and eating donuts will just accelerate that process.

Now, as for this series you’ve put in place — the “Man Repeller Writer’s Club,” shall we address the level of laziness you have demonstrated in expecting your readers to produce content for you? I know you’ve suggested that it is an implemented tactic to include readers, make them feel a sense of ownership of the website, but where does this laziness stem from? You can tell me a little bit more about your childhood in the session after next, okay?

My understanding is that the character limit clocks in at 500 words. Is that not a bit…pithy? The deadline — 12 p.m. EST, August 13th, the Thursday preceding publication — means you’ve imposed a two day buffer to select the story. I’m sensing some cognitive dissonance. That and self-fulfilling anxiety. I think you’re sensing it, too; a textbook case of metacognition that I’m proud to have located in you.

Do you ever think that — oh, our hour is up. See you next week; same place, same time.

Cartoon via The New Yorker

The post MR Writer’s Club Prompt: Say You Were Your Own Therapist appeared first on Man Repeller.

The Best of the MR Date Outfits

Just because we’re in the thick of Uncuffing Season and running around free of titles like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” with our proverbial sleeves torn right off does not mean we are totally naked.

For the uninitiated (although considering it’s August you are probably getting your MFA in the matter), Uncuffing Season begins around Memorial Day and extends until the first signs of pumpkin spiced fall. Those who have not yet dropped L-bombs to (or made travel plans with) the people they’re “seeing” rid themselves of romantic responsibilities and become single for the summer.

Then October hits and everyone’s like, Waaaaa I just want someone to watch Netflix with : (

BUT THE POINT IS — you may very well be uncuffed. You could be texting Bumble prospects, hooking up with your neighbor or having staring contests with your wall; you still need clothes to wear. And why not wear clothes that give the appearance of having somewhere fun and mildly momentous to be?

See? Aren’t you already excited?

If that shit looks familiar that’s because it is. I pulled three outfit best-ofs from our past “what to wear” dating stories for you to copy right this very moment. I will copy them too.

Let’s start with that outfit above. You need: a button down, a pencil skirt and mules — the shoe, not the result of a horse mating with a donkey.

Fun fact: mules can’t reproduce!

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Outfit number two:

Consider this an updated version of my 2013 suggestion that Leandra did better back in March. You’ll need: a button down (there are no other shirts worthy of our time), flares and a denim jacket. Shoes don’t matter because your pants should cover them, and please stop throwing protein at me: restaurants can be over air-conditioned and you may be chilly, hence the jacket. If you’re too hot, TAKE IT OFF.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Outfit number three:

Free to be you and me, man. Find the biggest skirt you can find, top it with a vest (if it’s not a button down, then let it not be a shirt at all, you know?) and add a pair of sandals that wrap around your ankles.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Now what?

TAKE YOURSELF OUT FOR A DRINK.

The post The Best of the MR Date Outfits appeared first on Man Repeller.

iPhone Consumption: Where’s the Weirdest Place You’ve Bought Something?

When I ask about the weirdest place you’ve bought something, I don’t mean it to point fingers at the strange consumption habits your browser has been conditioned to develop. That’s on you and that shit is private.

This is a question about physicality — as in, where is the weirdest place you have been physically positioned while you were buying something? I know personally, I bought a pair of yellow Balmain jeans while touring The Breakers — a mansion in Rhode Island that once belonged to Cornelius Vanderbilt — last week. We were in the former butler’s pantry. (I went on to return them yesterday.) When I was asked this question some weeks ago, the inquirer admitted she’s a regular airplane-shopper. It’s those literal fight or flight moments that propel her to the point of consumer-based decision making. Because once the WiFi is off and you’re in the air, the dollars aren’t real…right?

But who cares about us. Think about this for a second. Where’s the weirdest place you’ve flexed your mobile device’s expertise in, you know, mobility and bought something? I’m not saying I will try to practice some Myers Briggs personality exam shit on you, but there is a 20% chance that with your answer will come some version of a personality assessment. So, go on…

Dries Van Noten blouse, Bulgari watch. Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

The post iPhone Consumption: Where’s the Weirdest Place You’ve Bought Something? appeared first on Man Repeller.

Where to Eat When…

Amelia was right: picking a place to eat in New York City can be more challenging than picking a mate with which to procreate for life. There are so many! They all look so cute! If I eat at the one with the decorative tins full of flowers, will I regret the missed mason-jar-full-of-tequila across the street?

But as is often the case with abundant choice and the anxiety it incurs: if you can narrow down the pool from which to pick, you can quell the panic that comes with it. And if you can quell the panic, you can make a decision based not on distortion but rather, on merit. Like it is a basketball team, my friends. And you? You are the referee. (What?)

Enter this: a 4-part series chronicling five restaurants across the four corners of New York City (plus two beyond the bridges and tunnels that demarcate our rent fees!) to trust as your personal, handpicked-and-tried (Drinks were drunk! Taquitos were consumed!) Zagat guide-in-theme. Today, we tackle a portion of lower Manhattan east of Broadway.

So you’re having dinner with a whole bunch of girlfriends, don’t want to make a reservation, see anyone you know outside of the inner circle or get judged for asking, “Extra guac, please?”

Try La Palapa at 77 St. Marks Place. And the cool thing about this place, which can be pretty dark inside but offers solid half-in-half-outdoor seating at the front end, is that the guacamole dish is so big you probably won’t have to ask for extra. The margarita pitchers are not exorbitantly sized, which is either a downfall or win depending on whether you’re comfortable ordering one for just yourself. And, the fish tacos taste like zesty grilled fluff rolled into an ocean of carefree gluten. Don’t get dessert, but only because you are in the East Village and Big Gay Ice Cream Shop is one block east while DF Mavens, a coconut-based ice cream shop, is one block west. #Blessed.

Your parents are in town, you haven’t seen them in three months, you’re not paying for dinner and you want to prove that you’re 10 degrees cooler than them, solely because of your impeccable new restaurant knowledge and choice.

Try Seamore’s at 390 Broome Street, brought to you by the kind folks who bequeathed to us The Meatball Shop. If you’re into ceviche, appreciate the notion of a gin mojito, don’t mind — and in fact relish — communal seating and like the idea of sitting in a restaurant that looks like a curated Instagram account, you will shit yourself on immediate contact. And then you will feel great about that bile release because the food is that good. There is also a daily soft serve on tap for dinner, which comes in a cone to you at your table. Eat that while your mom is picking up the bill.

It’s been a long week, you’ve had four dinners at Jack’s Wife Freda and you’re ready to try something different. Something that will either blow you away or suck you the F in.

Try Noreetuh at 128 First Avenue. If I’m being really honest with you, I have not tried this place but accordingly to Cristina, our ad sales wizard, it is “really funky.” According to the Internet, it is Hawaiian — sorry, elevated Hawaiian — cuisine. I don’t know what that means other than maybe bbq’d pineapples, but if that’s all, that’s enough. Let’s head there together?

You have just one task to complete on your evening agenda and it is to get wasted.

If you’re wearing high waist linen shorts with a striped shirt, leather jacket, clogs and a topknot above your head, try Leadbelly at 14 Orchard Street. Ask for the cucumber martini but substitute the vodka for tequila and shed your layers of self consciousness because the people populating this bar are so cool you feel like a fraud. Also! There’s popcorn. #Blessed x 2.

If you’re wearing anything else, try Sweet and Vicious at 5 Spring Street (by Elizabeth St.): drinks in mason jars, happy hour specials and a backyard garden that feels like home. Once you’re wasted, you will invariably realize that the other thing on your agenda was dessert. Morgenstern’s is but a mere block away, friends.

You’re leaning in like any good female aged 24-36 in 2015 does and choosing a first date spot for a one-on-one you have planned tonight. You anticipate that your choice will reflect ​whether or not you are a suitable partner and in thinking through the character traits that make you special, you decide spontaneity, willingness-to-get-down and how well you can eat (waffles!) on your feet are key factors.

Try a food truck…any food truck. I did this once and poof! Three years later: married.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

The post Where to Eat When… appeared first on Man Repeller.

The Thought Process of Going Out

It is by no small miracle that I am at the bottom of my stairs with zero broken bones, two matching shoes, a clothed body and a wallet. It’s also a wonder I haven’t fainted or died; no apartment has ever been as hot as the one I just left, because fact: no apartment is ever as hot as the one in which you’re rushing to leave.

I’m trying to explain this with my thumbs to a collection of 5 other women when my phone lights up. Across my screen, three angry words flash, “Where are you?”

Their tone is accusatory, as though they just “know” I haven’t left my building yet, even though I said I was in a cab.

I am in my lobby, so I am almost in a cab. Guys.

Update: “En route!” But for real this time.

I do my best lying in cabs, actually. It’s a fun opportunity to practice any creative stories I may recite throughout the night, like where I’m from (hell yes, that’s a Southern accent you hear!), what I “do” (bingo, mostly) and my pseudonym. Carol.

The cab driver has pulled up right next to the bar. Getting to the actual bar, however — the weary strip of wood covered in beer and cinnamon-scented whisky — proves itself near impossible. There are like, 800 people in here.

I assess my team. No longer mad at me for my tardy arrival though expectant that I buy the first round, they are prepared to flank both my right and camera-good-side as we charge through the crowd.

“Excuse me!”

“Sorry!”

“Whoops!”

We’ve made it. The bartender sees me. The bartender ignores me. There is someone behind me who finds standing up to be the absolute hardest thing he has ever encountered and so, while I attempt to charm she who controls the libations, I work on my new craft as human leaning-wall. This is nice. This is so nice. I love supporting your weight with my back, total stranger.

Ah! The bartender has signaled that I may speak.

My order rolls off the tongue with alarming ease — my friends and I have done this dance before. The bartender, elegant and swift in her own choreography, is balletic in comparison to the swaying crowd. She pours our shots and accessorized vodkas, then hands over 3 beers in tandem with collecting my card.

“Keep it open,” she states. It’s not really a question.

“Sure,” I reply, then relinquish my spot at the bar.

My friends and I find the only other area of space left and huddle like campers around a fire.

“Anyone cute here?”

“Not really.”

“Spot anyone we know?”

“Nope.”

(Bars, like cable television, showcase the same phenomenon: 500 channels and nothing to watch. 800 people and no one to see.)

So I brace myself for the inevitable — either we leave, or we lap. I hate both because I hate moving. I’m fine standing right here, in this circle, so long as the speakers are playing my song.

“Let’s go somewhere else, guys.”

Outnumbered, I follow…but here’s a thing I also do: ditch.

(Bad habit, I know.)

I check my phone in the cab — one text, no emoji: “Did u just”

(The ellipsis thing is blinking)

“Leave? Wtf? Where’d you go?”

“I left my card at the bar, had to go back and get it,” I write. But that’s a lie, because I’m in a cab on my way home. And the name’s Carol.

The post The Thought Process of Going Out appeared first on Man Repeller.

Ask Isaac: Where Do I Meet Guys?

Mate! I would not insult your intelligence by telling you “you’ll meet a guy when you least expect it.” But I would also not recommend anybody — female or otherwise — to frequent the bar-or-club scene in an attempt to meet well-adjusted humanoids or potential marriage-mates. In my experience, people “looking” at bars are looking for casual sex, not longterm love and commitment.

Okay, so: I come from a country (New Zealand) where the concept of sitting opposite someone you don’t know and eating dinner or having coffee or whatever (aka dating) is completely foreign. While I admire Americans and the courage you exhibit in the pursuit of love, I’ve gotta say that our way is so much easier.

Here’s what we do: We have drinks or BBQs or dinners or whatever, where a bunch of friends (male and female) get together. We invite people, they bring more people and everybody gets to know everybody else in a relaxed group environment. There’s no pressure to sell oneself or worry about conversation lulls or anything else. PLUS, everybody is co-signed because you know they’re the friend of someone you’re friends with.

As the night goes on, natural alliances form. Maybe somebody gets sloppy and tries to make out with somebody in front of everybody else, phone numbers are exchanged, and you do it all again the next night or the next weekend or whenever suits.

If you don’t meet anybody you like, that’s fine, because you just tell people to invite different people the next time round. I cannot even tell you the amount of friends I have who have met their future girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife, or baby daddy in this exact setting. 75% of the time it works every time. Trust me!

Summed up in a sentence: throw a party.

The post Ask Isaac: Where Do I Meet Guys? appeared first on Man Repeller.

Cohabitation Before Marriage: Sliding or Deciding?

A few weeks ago I was driving to dinner with a friend, talking about a couple our age that had just moved in together. She thought it was a bad idea given that there’s no marriage in question, but I thought hers was an antiquated attitude — couples move in together at varying stages of their relationship, and often out of convenience. She turned, taking her eyes off the road, to shoot me a horrified look.

“But that’s sliding,” she said. “Not deciding. Convenience is the worst reason to move in with someone.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “Watch out for that van.”

“You need to watch Meg Jay’s Ted Talk,” she said urgently, nearly running over a child. “It’s really important.”

Dr. Meg Jay is, according to her website, “a clinical psychologist, an author and a speaker who specializes in twenty-somethings.” The focus of her talk is on the value of your twenties — or as she calls it, “the defining decade of adulthood” — and how critical those years are to the development of your career and long term relationships.

She believes that twenty-somethings too often operate based on “present-bias,” thinking of the short term reward for their actions and not the long term consequences. They “slide” into what’s convenient for them — moving in with a boyfriend, accepting a mediocre job — instead of actively “deciding” on a path or plan for their future. Those big decisions they instead save for their thirties, which they idealize as the time when all the important stuff will get done.

This life-can-wait attitude fosters a behavior in the dating world that Jay compares to a game of musical chairs (spoiler alert: it’s way less fun than musical chairs!): you bounce around from person to person, trying each relationship on, until your thirties creep up on you, the song ends and you’re forced to commit to whatever — and whoever — is in front of you.

But the relevancy of her argument is dated: being in your twenties now doesn’t mean what it meant twenty years ago.

We’re making serious relationship decisions later because we’re focused on our career. Women are still up against a biological clock, yes, but we are no longer expected to view marrying and rearing offspring as our sole, life-defining pursuit — nor do we require a husband to have a child. We can also start a new career whenever we want. It may require a pay cut and a blow to the ego, but note that these are two things the perfect path to success doesn’t necessarily negate, either.

There’s also a chance our plans don’t work out — but hasn’t that always been the point of your twenties? To slide around and figure out what we like and don’t want? To move in because of love and a split rent bill, then break up because it wasn’t right? To create failed apps, make mistakes and drain our bank accounts and work hard and be tired all the time because we thrive off the notion that we’ll sleep when we’re dead? Our parents weren’t without mistakes and false starts — many of them just did it with a baby Bjorn strapped to their back.

No matter how early you start, no one can “decide” a perfect relationship or job or apartment into existence — I’ve tried. I think all we can do is make the best calls we can, watch the road, and hang on for dear life.

Illustration by Kate Worum. Follow Kate on Instagram and Pinterest.

The post Cohabitation Before Marriage: Sliding or Deciding? appeared first on Man Repeller.

August Beach Read: “China Rich Girlfriend”

If there’s anything more luxurious than a nap, it’s a beach read — a book to devour on your baking belly and sun-screened back, its chapters keeping time with your rotation schedule. A proper beach read should keep you entertained and eager, excited for the page turn and so engaged in its characters that without the book in hand, you find yourself wondering if everyone’s going to be okay.

In keeping with our recent theme: August Is Still Summer (So Stop Saying Otherwise), allow me to introduce the perfect book: China Rich Girlfriend by Kevin Kwan, author of Crazy Rich Asians. Because a great beach read is nothing without its cast of truth seekers and trouble makers, however, perhaps I’m better off introducing the key players.

Here’s who you need to know:

Rachel Chu

Who? NYU Economics professor from Northern California. Down to earth. Could care less about Instagram followers. Like Andy in The Devil Wears Prada before she was Andrea, she used to think Club Monaco was couture.

So who’s her favorite designer now? Erica Tanov. Because Rachel knows so little about fashion, she is of the lucky few whose taste is pure and based on nothing more than personal aesthetic. (Read: Prada’s “Car Collection” means nothing to her.)

Fashion moment even though Rachel would never use the word “moment” outside of its original intent: Her husband buys her this Fall 2013 couture outfit from Alexis Mabille.

How’d she get into this world? She married Nicholas Young (see below). They met while teaching at NYU.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Nicholas Young

Who: NYU History Professor, recently married to Rachel Chu after near-disaster: he kept a major family secret but it was only because he loved her!! (Cue groans, I know. But since Rachel forgives him, so do we.)

Ok, but what else — we’re all friends here: Fine. He comes from one of the wealthiest families in all of Asia/the world. Per the author, he’s “dashingly handsome.” He’s an only child and next in line to the kind of fortune so great that his winning the lotto would be like one of us finding a $5 bill in our pants and it making our week.

(But he would never say that out loud, hence book 1 disaster with Rachel where he was like: “Oops! Forgot to tell you I’m basically royalty! Hope that doesn’t freak you out!”)

Regarding that aforementioned line… It’s red and fine. Nick’s grandma Shang Su Yi is pissed at him for marrying Rachel (“an American commoner!”) and not someone from an equally notable, respected Asian family. They’re not on speaking terms. Though he’s kind of in danger of losing said fortune, and you can bet Su Yi’s receipts are kept on for passive aggressive measures, Nick’s still the favorite.

Shang Su Yi

Nick’s grandma seems intense. She is. She’s the Young Queen Bee, Ruler of Tyersall Park Estate. Wary of newcomers, tolerates zero bullshit. Goes radio silent on blood-related family members for disrespecting her. She’ll sting you — then stay alive.

Da fuq is Tyersall Park? Don’t curse in front of Grandma. It’s an estate smack in the middle of Singapore. It would literally be like saying, “Oh, I live in Central Park. In a mansion. Inside Central Park, because Central Park is my front and back lawn. No you can’t come though because it’s not open to the public. LOL.” Fun fact: it actually exists.

If I can’t walk my dog there, who cares? Well, all the cousins want it, besides Man of the People Nick — who’s currently on the will to inherit the Tyersall fortune but he seems to not GAF.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Astrid Leong Teo

So what’s her deal? She’s the granddaughter of Shang Su Yi and Nick’s cousin. She’s a double heiress who’s been wearing couture since she was 16 years old, but don’t let the early-2000’s version of the h-word throw you off: she’s the shit.

Sounds oddly low drama… She’d love you for saying that. She’s married to Michael Teo, the tech king of Asia who looks like a GQ model. (Insider visuals tip from Kevin Kwan: google Godfrey Gao.) Together, they have a son named Cassian. But here’s the thing: she may or may not still have feelings for her ex, Charlie Wu.

There’s the drama! But first, the fashion: She’s bffs with such designers as Azzedine Alaïa, Dries Van Noten and Undercover’s Jun Takahashi. She also has a museum-quality collection of vintage couture — especially Madame Gres, Balenciaga and Yves Saint Laurent from the 1960s and 1970s.

Best in-book-look straight from the runway: a black Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit from his final couture collection.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Eddie Chang

Who: Cousin of Nick and Astrid, hungriest for the Tyersall throne.

Give me the dirt: I’ll give it to you clean, straight from the author’s mouth: “Eddie Cheng, who entered Hong Kong Tatler’s Best Dressed Hall of Fame when he was 21, is the ultimate dandy. His favorite accessory is an ascot or a cravat (he loves Etro for those), and he has a bespoke shoe fetish. Of course he loves patterned socks, but he especially loves William Abraham’s Vicuña Cable socks at $425 a pair.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Corinna Ko-Tung

Who? She’s Hong Kong old money who’s made a career as a private social-ladder climbing consultant. The things you do when you’re bored, man. (Besides shop for understated Armani suits, per her uniformed wardrobe.)

So who’s her current project: the former Kitty Pong…

Mrs. Bernard Tai

But I thought we were just talking about Kitty Pong.  We are. Prior to meeting Corinna Ko-Tung, she was Kitty Pong: Soap opera actress-slash-ex porn star. In book 1 she dates Alistair Cheng, Eddie Cheng’s brother.

What now: She wants to rebuild her image. To tell you any more would be giving too much away, but know that when her name is mentioned, drama follows, as does a train of feathers and sequins and glitter and all that is so-wrong-it’s-right with the crafts-meets-fashion world.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Araminta Lee and Colin Khoo

Why do I need to know them? Colin is Nick’s childhood best friend. Colin and Araminta’s wedding prompted Nick to bring Rachel to Singapore, thus exposing her to this crazy ass world she was in no way ready to digest. However, Araminta and Colin are super cool. They adopted Rachel into the family almost immediately.

Colette Bing

Who? She’s the daughter of the fourth richest man in China. And per author Kevin Kwan, she’s not just crazy rich — she’s “China Rich.” She’s also a top fashion blogger and gets papp’d more than Anna Dello Russo and Giovanna Battaglia in matching outfits at fashion week.

Oookay…where did she come from? She’s “casually dating” Carlton Bao, Beijing’s answer to Prince Harry circa his party years, who got in a major car accident and nearly died.

[image error]
Turn on your JavaScript to view content

Carlton Bao

…He’s connected how? His mom, Bao Shaoyen, was introduced to Eleanor Young by Nick’s cousin Eddie Cheng (see above) at the beginning of the book. Bao Shaoyen is married to Bao Gaoliang, former governor of Jiangsu Province, currently a major high power politician in Beijing. When Carlton got in the accident, Eleanor Young connected the Bao family to the top surgeons in Hong Kong.

Eleanor Young

That’s nice of her, but so what? Who is she? She’s Nick Young’s mom. Hates that Nick is married to Rachel because it threatens his fortune. Like, hates.

So this connects Carlton back to Rachel somehow? Ah, I see you’ve finally caught on…

And if you’re a visual learner who doesn’t mind a few spoilers, see below:

LAST QUESTION: WHAT ARE YOU GUYS BEACH-READING???

Get your copy of China Rich Girlfriend here and Crazy Rich Asians here. Follow author Kevin Kwan on Instagram and Twitter, and for more info on the fashion, check out the Crazy Rich Collection. 

Original cover artwork and illustrations by Alice Tate. View her online portfolio here, shop her artwork here and follow her on Facebook.

Infographic by Hannah Kellner

 

The post August Beach Read: “China Rich Girlfriend” appeared first on Man Repeller.

How to Style a Boiler Suit

Something to consider when you’re road-mapping how you will avoid nudity after summer ends and your legs are pasty again and that glistening glow that you thought for sure your chest had figured out how to retain in perpetuity but lo and behold, disappeared with the absence of the sun again, is whether or not you will jump on the boiler suit bandwagon. You might not realize now that all you want to wear is one — it’s a balmy 95 for cut-offs sake! — but trust me that in a few short months’ time, you will. And so when you get there, I want you to remember that on one especially moist (yes, moist) day in August, it was I, who between shots of iced espresso and frozen cubes down my back, weathered the parks and streets of the East Village to bring you the very best of how to wear one like a professional jack ass.

Cheers!

Exhibit one: So You’re Not a Porn Lord but You Like to Wear the Glasses While You Take Walks

Reformation jean jacket, Etoile Isabel Marant jumpsuit (worn throughout), Golden Goose sneakers, Chanel sunglasses

I have been pretty relentless about trying to make these sunglasses happen and will not stop until you’re face planting in them. A good way to under-literalize their crystal brim (very Gloria Steinem meets J. Lo, if I may say so), is through the fell use of a jumpsuit worn dutifully with a striped shirt — like any good sailor, plus a jean jacket as accessory — like any good Mark Wahlberg ca. Fear fan, plus running sneakers that were never intended for running’s use because I am back on a J.Crew model diet.

Exhibit 2: Strategic Reasoning — They’re Jeans, Too!

Steven Alan shirt, Caroline Issa x L.K. Bennett shoes, Aurelie Bidermann necklace

If you, like me, appreciate a solid game of cost-per-wear, I invite you to suppose that your jumpsuit is not just a jumpsuit. No, no, green lantern, it is also a pair of pants. You can cuff or uncuff them depending on how invested you are in Man Repeller’s bounteous dating stories and give your arsenal of shirts a way to be heard through the noise. Pumps are cool too, red tassels have so far never been a bad idea (especially not on my nipples! What?) and if I’m being honest, I really want an ice cream sandwich.

Exhibit 3/$: I Wore This to a Gala and Got Kicked Out, Now I’m Going to Write an Op-Ed About it

Rosie Assoulin earring, Christian Louboutin mules (they were a Real Real score at the competitive price of $150), Anya Hindmarch clutch

Satin mules? Check. Pretentiously-titled-in-french “minaudiere” handbag? Double check. Elaborate earring that could be mistaken for unique ear muff? Got it. So why in the good name of Harry Cipriani was I denied access to that gala, g-dang? Don’t you people know that in fashion, there are no rules, no dress codes, no single events where a boiler suit — the new age black tie jumpsuit for heaven’s sake! — is not appropriate? I’m starting a hashtag.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

The post How to Style a Boiler Suit appeared first on Man Repeller.