Leandra Medine's Blog, page 622

Amelia and Leandra Compete Against Each Other in: The Lena Dunham Diet

At the start of May 22nd, year 2015, Lena Dunham posted to Instagram a screen shot from her iPhone notepad featuring a list of summer to do’s. In it she — you know what, let me just upload it here for you to peruse at your leisure.

That was easier to consume, right? So easy, in fact, that maybe you felt like you should take upon yourself some of her #goals. When I, for two, acknowledged the cumbersome but admirable list of potential achievements, I knew I had to try this lifestyle —a diet by the rules of Man Repeller; attempting to befriend Drake, give money to people who need it, take money from people who are susceptible to giving it to women and grow the fuq out of my body hairs like they are chia pets and I? I am Juice Press.

So for the past week, Amelia and I have been doing just that. All of it (except the ovary clause because I’m having period issues that could use your help if yours, like, has taken an unexpected sabbatical?). The recap below.

Leandra: The week of July 20th was an interesting one. I was to fulfill two ten-hour shoots with self tanner (Charlotte Tilbury’s “Supermodel Body”) carefully lathered from the knee down among sprouting hair in the same region. I was luckily placed in a position where there were dogs and there were cameras and there was, incidentally a basketball court that I did not get to walk through but that I did get to look at while thinking about dogs and posing for a camera which I would say successfully fulfilled clause C. Wouldn’t you?

Win.

Moving on.

This diet helped me to realize that laser technology is not for everyone. My armpits are bare. More naked than a newborn. This was not the case in 2005 when I was just getting comfortable with my version of the 5 o’clock shadow but you know what happened to that totem of womanhood? Laser. And I can’t take it back.

Loss.

But! I made up for my pits with my legs, which to me is like 15x the victory because the region is larger and there is self tanner involved.

Win!

And I didn’t get free iced tea or a basketball jersey by way of feminine powers but by crying about my ovulation woes (not with tears, but with biting, manipulative words) I did get very fancy tickets to a Yankee game that I believe accommodated the sports clause mentioned in item D and a free ride on a ferry from Manhattan to Rumson plus cheap white wine.

You know what they say about white wine, right? It’s better than an iced tea refill and also you might need a therapist.

Win.

Oh! I also used my powers to get an APPLE WATCH! So that seems like a double win. I did not activate it because I’m thinking through the implications of how this watch can and will be my version of a “status watch.” (When I wear it, do people assume I run a VC-backed start up?)

Finally, I tweeted at Drake about getting involved in a charity I am running called Started from The Bottom, Still at The Bottom: How to Feel Good About Failure. He did not show interest in getting involved but I countered this tweet with another about love, see:

And a third about how naturally beautiful I am:

I’m not sure if he knows we are meant-2-b but I’m sure that if he were just to read this, that could change. And you know what they say about estimation, right?

Nothing.

I have never heard any single saying about estimation.

Conclusion: if you’re looking for a good time with a girl who has hairy legs. understands the merits of good self-tanner, free ferry rides and has a yet-to-be-activated Apple Watch, I win and Amelia loses.

Here is a gratutious selfie whereby I turn those perverse feminine powers on their head.

Rosie Assoulin jacket, Everlane shirt, Rachel Comey pants, Saint Laurent bow tie and jazz shoes

Just stop reading now.

Amelia: It turns out that no one notices when you forgo armpit shaving for a week. I brought it up a few times in sort of an apologetic manner, and though I suppose this makes me a bad feminist (who apologizes for hair?!) it mostly makes me a bad customer: my local barista politely advised that I either stop notifying her of the mild change in centimeter or she would have me permanently removed from the facility.

Win.

Where I excelled, of course, was in the tanning. I’m a faux-bronze professional so highly skilled in my craft that on at least two occasions I have been asked by bodybuilders if I wouldn’t mind “doing their backs.” Here’s the secret: you need an application mitt.

But here’s where I cheated: I did my whole body. HBO contract or not, Lena Dunham, I simply do not see the point in sending only half of my legs on vacation.

Win.

Part of this diet is to ensure my ovaries are working smoothly. That seems like it should be part of every diet, and I assure you the answer is yes: I stopped typing at night with my laptop on my lower belly and assigned a task manager to supervise my uterine lining.

(In the name of “sportsmanship,” however, I forfeit this round.)

“Loads of charity.” Loads is dramatic, but I actually did some. Or step one of some, at least, and registered for New York Cares. (It’s a great program. Learn more here.)

Win.

Per Lena’s instructions, I used my feminine powers to get stuff I want. Un-per her, I used them to get alcoholic beverages and pizza as opposed to iced tea and basketball jerseys. I also hardly think this has anything to do with me but rather, the strong leadership qualities of the aforementioned Uterus Task Manager. Yelp reviews don’t lie!

Win.

Third on Lena’s list was, “Walk the dog through a group of cool dudes playing basketball and see what happens.”

Guess what, Andy Cohen? Nothing happened. People just sort of stared at me until I got to the other side.

Win, but zzz.

Like a true procrastinator, I saved the hardest for last: “Meet Drake and get a compliment.”

If there’s anything I’ve learned from my ovaries’ career coach, it’s that actions really do speak louder than words:

Conclusion: I win. And if I’ve learned anything from Lena, it’s that her diet is far more enjoyable than Atkins.

Photo by Terry Richardson for V Magazine

 

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Man Repeller’s Summer Playlist

We have been hearing some disturbing talk lately. Statements are being thrown around that I would go so far as to call evil, venomous and downright unacceptable. Which is why we’ve called this assembly and gathered you here today.

Now, I don’t want to keep you here any later on a Friday than you’re legally allowed to be — I have plans too, you know. Emails to check. Carrots to deep condition. But — for a website that prides itself in finding the humor in almost everything — this is serious.

The summer is not almost over.

I REPEAT: the summer is not almost over.

I won’t point fingers. I will not name names. I will not call your mom. But I do want this cockamamie bullhorn frogplop to stop immediately. Summer, for those of your classmates who appear to be either dead set on ruining things for everyone or — benefit of the doubt here — calendrically disinclined, does not end until September 23, at 4:21 a.m. in the year 2015.

Which means you have a shit-ton of days left.

Stop your bellyaching. Don’t turn it into the centerpiece of small chat. It’s your responsibility to get your friends on board. How?

Blast this playlist.

Lloyd-Dobler your boom box.

Crank the volume on your iPhone and hack a Solo cup.

Let this be a reminder to you all that summer lasts for as long as you loop the soundtrack.

(P.S. If you’re a grandma like Amelia, note: it doesn’t end at “Time of the Season”. You can scroll.)

Now post your favorite songs in the comments so we can add them in. Class dismissed.

Feature photo by Slim Aarons from Getty Images via Vanity Fair

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MR Writers Club Prompt: The Breakfast Club

I have sworn — perhaps too many times —  that I am officially done making poor decisions. That I’m going to get my shit together, be a grown-up and just cool it. “Today’s the day,” I declare. “Carpe something!” Memorial day is the new New Years, the world’s my oyster, yadda yadda.

But honestly, what would my friends and I talk about at brunch?

(When we’re done covering current events, books we’ve read, career and existentialism.)

These morning tales are our war stories about trekking through our twenties. They’re the oral history of our college years and nostalgia for the days when we just realllly didn’t know better. They tend to revolve around romance that was had, love that wasn’t and hookups of varying degrees. And they bond us. Shared experiences — Oh my god, I’m not alone? Not a freak? Not doomed? — typically do.

Because yes: we are smart women and men with better things to do and discuss than how she got gum in his hair or what he said that made him run for the hills. And we tend to, in general, be emotionally better than Spanx.

But these stories are hilarious. They are laugh out loud, I’m-crying-and-dying funny. They’re therapy, they’re how we learn, and they’re how we move on. So join the breakfast club. We’ve already ordered you waffles. In less than 500 words, tell us (write@manrepeller.com — no PDFs, please!) about your most awkward hook up story. Deadline: Thursday July 30 at 12 noon EST.

It’s already the next day if you’ve lived down the embarrassing moment that you thought might kill you. Besides, laughter is not only the best medicine, it’s been scientifically proven to strengthen your abs.

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5 Things 2 Buy @ 3 Because YOLO

Fine, okay, flag up, maybe you’re not meant to buy all — or any — of the selected items enlisted to keep the wheels of consumption in motion on this fine, 84-degree Thursday afternoon, but you deserve to treat yourself! If not to an Olympia Le-Tan book clutch (on sale as a sailor at The Outnet and full price Crazy Cruella [Krazy Kruella?] on Net-a-Porter) than certainly to a scoop of ice cream.

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One that comes punctuated by the kind of boiler suit that has potential suitors questioning your occupation in the public domain. Is she a union worker? Does she just dress like one? When’s the last time she peed and why does it look like she’s giving birth to a flax plant? What is a flax plant?

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Okay, fine, boiler suit aside, your office is cold-as-fuq. So cold, in fact, that you must wear a jacket. May as well look bomb in a bomber, CAN I GET A HECK YEAH? A heck-Henry-Holland-yeah?

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Thanks for that! Moving on.

To elaborate striped boots that might seem premature, but it is often the wisest who know what they want months before they need it.

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I wish I could end on that note but it is the sunglasses that take the cake in this round of If The Internets Were My Closet. And now, tilapia grillers, it is your turn to click and comb and buy or not buy, but be inspired.

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Can Denim Cutoffs Look Adult?

Imagine the scenario: It’s Monday afternoon. When you got dressed this morning you were absolutely sure — nay positive — that you would have a minute to go home and change before night fell. As fate and a typical Monday would have it, though, you’re moments away from sundown and in this bleary state of remaining day, you’re looking down at your crotch, considering the denim cutoffs you’ve ambitiously worn to work in an attempt (to the chagrin of no one, score!) to pass them off as office apropos.

You’ve been thinking about how in the good name of white slacks you are going to explain to the effusively fancy people you are supposed to meet north of 69th street, south of 87th street, that they have the wrong idea about denim. That they’re not juvenile. They’re not incapable of elegance. They can be classy. You can look polished.

Let me retell a story that never gets old. When I was 17 and my great-grandmother, 91 at the time — may she rest in peace — was in the hospital with pneumonia, I went to visit. And when I went to visit, I sat down beside her, held her by the hand and from under her eyelid emerged the singular glare of her left eye. She looked down at the ripped denim shorts that I was wearing — these ones, as a matter of fact:

Jacket is a secret, coming soon. Vintage Levi’s denim shorts, Chloé blouse, Topshop sparkle socks, Chanel clogs (similar here)

She said nothing but, “Darling, I know we’re in a recession, but surely your father can afford to buy you shorts without holes in them.” She fell back asleep and that was that.

Well, not that that; she did not die until the impressive, seasoned age of 98 when she had just won $41 at a slot machine at Mohegan Sun. But I digress — my point is this: I am committed to making sure that the stereotype associated with denim cutoffs — that you’re a youth, that you live downtown, that your shit is not at all together — shall be debunked if it is the last thing I do before my slot machine comes a-ringing.

And I’ll start right here, with a cropped tweed jacket (Marc Jacobs, Yoox), a pussy bow blouse (Thakoon) and a pair of pumps (Carolina Herrera) that have been loosely inspired by the Mayflower but still gallivant among graceful toes to the beat of their own cello.

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Stay tuned.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

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I’ve Never Had a Facial Before

I’ve never had a facial before.

The whole thing is beginning to haunt me. I told someone three weeks ago in the sort of hushed tone a 16-year-old confesses she is still a virgin and as suspected, the receiving end of my confession gasped like I had told her I was dying.

Then, like two nights ago, as my husband appraised his reflection in the magnifying-mirror situated in our bathroom, I heard him say from under his breath, “I need a facial.”

I stopped short and yelled “what?” in a dramatic, nonsensical one-syllable staccato.

Incidentally, he was/is no stranger to facials. He gets them quarterly, in fact.

I never knew this.

We’ve been married three years.

You think you know someone and then bam, their skin maintenance routine is so far superior to yours, you may as well call yourself a crater. It’s like you’re back on a first date. Only you share a bed. A bed! But I digress.

The fact of the matter is, we’re all dying.

I’m just kidding.

I mean, I’m not, but we can talk about that later.

My pores, on the other hand, need me now. More even than my flapping annies do. So, I’m giving grooming a chance. I’ve started by crowdsourcing facials from industry friends:

Fivestory’s Claire Distenfeld raves about the facials at JTav Clinical Skin Care by Joie Tavernese: “She is like an angelic Cupid who pierces me with arrows for dewy, pore-less skin instead of love. There’s no BS. She just does whatever she needs to do to get you out of there looking your absolute best.”

Laura, our Ask a French Girl, goes to Mario Badescu — but only in the winter. Why? “Because they put my hands into a warm plastic warmer thing with creme.”

Sold!

At least two fashion editors and one beauty editor sang the high praises of Joanna Vargas, Anastasia Nairne of Net-A-Porter likes the Erno Laszlo Institute and Shiona Turni (and apparently Jay Z) swear by Skin by Mamie.

But for a beginner like me wetting her toes in the spa’s pool of relaxation, do you recommend anything of particular note? Have you gone anywhere you loved, tried anything at home that changed your life or come to learn a secret about non-facial facials that you would be so kind as to share with your pal, me?

I promise for an update in return and maybe a margarita.

Ttyl!

Photograph by Krista Anna Lewis of Photograph via i-D Magazine

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Where Have All the Hipsters Gone: An E-Mail Correspondence

On Wed, Jul 15, 2015 at 11:25 AM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Question. Where have all the hipsters gone?

On Wed, Jul 15, 2015 at 11:33 AM, Leandra Medine wrote:

I think Portland. Either that or they’ve retired their plaid shirts and artisanal basement beer breweries for hair gel and $400 sunglasses.

On Wed, Jul 15, 2015 at 11:54 AM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Did they relocate to Portland, or originally come from Portland? I think you’re on to something re: the $400 sunglasses, though.

If 2011 saw the rise of the gentrified ironic Brooklyn hipster who just moved to NYC, had his first job at an indie record label, shopped at thrift stores, wore big plastic eyeglasses with sausage-skinny jeans rolled up like man-pris and collected vintage t-shirts, then in 2015 this hipster is still our guy! Just older.

Maybe he has a start up now.

On Wed, Jul 15, 2015 at 5:14 PM, Leandra Medine wrote:

With VC-money to spend on sunglasses! So you’re saying that the hipster is still among us, making his own shaving cream and all. His outfit has simply changed.

But maybe he doesn’t have a start-up, no? Maybe he just holds Entrepreneur mag under his armpit. I definitely think he was at Men’s Fashion Week in printed socks and a three-piece suit even though it’s 90 degrees out. He has a monogrammed handkerchief. He wears a monocle.

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 8:36 AM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Yes!! Because he’s now a man but not The Man (aka corporate), he still had a beard.

I used to think of hipsters as being really ironic. At first they were so niche with their handle bar mustaches and mason jars but then those “novelties” became a thing. Less an expression, more an expectation.

Our new hipster is more earnest. Important to note! GUYS ARE MUCH MORE AWARE OF FASHION NOW THAN EVER BEFORE! If we did that video with you in Bryant Park five years ago, the responses would have been very different. Dudes would have been horrified.

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 9:50 AM, Leandra Medine wrote:

Right — “The New Hipster” understands fashion. He may be better at it than his sister. Definitely better than you. And because of this he’s harder to sartorially repel.

Meanwhile, the plaid-wearing, beer-drinking, Brooklyn-dwelling stereotype of the bygone aughts has become so pervasive in popular culture that we don’t even notice him and his pickling posse as a subset anymore. He’s the rule, not the exception and this well-kept guy, possibly with gel in his freshly shampooed hair is now who stands out.

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 3:46 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Mental update: if ye old hipster of yore has gone to Portland, I think he shaved. Got contacts. Became a dad.

But I think you’re right, our supposed hipster-missing-in-action is not missing at all. He’s right here. He’s just no longer a novelty. He’s the norm. Core!

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 3:46 PM, Leandra Medine wrote:

Like a baby who became a toddler, whose nurse can’t get over the fact that he can now count to 10.

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 3:51 PM, Amelia Diamond wrote:

Okay, weirdo. I think that if Spirit Halloween stores are still around in 30 years they will sell a cheap, packaged, polyester costume of “The Hipster” right beside “The Hippie” and “The Greaser.”

On Thu, Jul 16, 2015 at 3:58 PM, Leandra Medine wrote:

Well that settles it. The hipster didn’t go anywhere. He just grew ^^^^.

Illustration by Meghann Stephenson. You can also follow Meghann on Instagram and Tumblr.

The post Where Have All the Hipsters Gone: An E-Mail Correspondence appeared first on Man Repeller.

Are You a Stranger Taking a Group Picture? Read This.

How to Take Our Group Photo: the Official Stranger-Turned-Photographer’s Guide

Congratulations! You have been chosen with care to fulfill a duty of the utmost importance. The photos that you produce will either live on for eternity as profile pictures, Instagram posts, dating app bait and slideshows…

Or, they will be permanently deleted but negatively burned into our minds.

And we wouldn’t want that! So kindly ensure the following:

Head Check

Is everyone present to take the picture? Please ask us, then wait 5 minutes because Jenny is likely in the bathroom and wouldn’t want to miss this.

Clarity

Can you see everyone in the frame? How’s the lighting? Are we washed out and blending into our surroundings? Are we silhouetted in an unintentional, unpost-able manner? If so, try again. We’ll gladly change location.

Background

Speaking of location, set the stage. Creative direct! Is the ocean visible? Does it look awesome behind us? We’re counting on you. Don’t fuck this up.

Hotdog or Hamburger? (You ask us this.)

It means: vertical shot, or horizontal? We’ll probably want both to make sure you get details like jewelry and the full outfit including shoes.

Sunglasses On or Off? (You ask us this as well.)

Our answers will depend on the state of our hangovers and also, who feels comfortable without mascara.

Nice Face First, Then Funny

Please verify that we’re all making a “nice face.” Are our eyes open? Once you feel confident that a minimum of five (5) photos meet the nice face/eyes-open requirements, you can encourage us to make a funny face! It’s so fun. Jackie will probably stick out her tongue.

Hair Check

Please make sure no one’s hair is doing anything weird, i.e. sticking up straight, covering eyes, falling too flat, etc. We shoot the messenger, yes, but we tarnish the reputation of bad photographers.

Candid

A great photographer knows that the best shots happen when they’re least expected. Feel free to get photos of us doing things like laughing and looking accidentally pretty.

Thanks so much! Now can you do this on my phone?

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Of Lobsters and Loyalty

According to the Gospel of Phoebe Buffay, lobsters find a mate and stick it out together for life. In reality, they mate monogamously for two weeks, but nonetheless: loyalty during that time period abounds.

What’s more (and actually grounded in fact) is that the female lobster sheds her shell when courting the male. Though this makes her vulnerable to predators, her risk is mitigated by her mate’s desire to protect her while she grows another.

Just like our ocean dwelling brethren, human relationships — romantic and platonic — fundamentally rely on the delicate cultivation of loyalty and trust. Back in the day, our parents expressed romantic sentiments à la “I wrote you every day for a year,” and they picked up a landline at a scheduled time to catch up with their pals.

Today’s twentysomething, on the other hand, appears to have traded these private, relationship fostering moments, as well as the tangible exclamations of friendship – Best/Friend necklaces, secret handshakes – for documented representations of them: Instagrams. But don’t we also use that for food and memes and not-really-my-group photos? There’s no longer any real difference in how we signify the relationships we cherish versus the extraneous ones.

I am not an innocent victim in my gripe: I, too, enjoy taking posed picture with my friends. I want to broadcast the love between my lobsters and me. However, one has to wonder if our copious editing and strategic captioning are taking priority over cultivating actual bonds.

A quick filter here, a bit of brightening there, crop this, don’t crop that, craft a witty hashtag and boom, you’ve created the impression that you and your squad are the epitome of friendship, happiness and #goals.

But how often has a girl you’d hug-but-not-text appeared in the very same photo of you and your so-called “besties”? How many times have you said, “Love you!” over email to someone you wouldn’t share an emergency toothbrush with?

…When’s the last time you actually called your best friend?

Back in the days of disposable cameras, “BFF” actually meant something. Exposures were limited; you didn’t waste them or space in your Limited Too floating frog frame on just anyone.

Behind Juno’s vibrant hue or Willow’s nostalgic black and white, are we truly the best friends we depict ourselves to be? Are we loyal lobsters to those we grip in tight hugs or laugh candidly with before an iPhone lens? What about when there’s no one documenting? Whose back do we actually have while they are vulnerable and growing new armor?

Of course our smiles aren’t always fake and when we say, “She’s like my sister,” we mean it. But when we do feign friendship for the sake of photo op, I think we need to stop and ask ourselves why: Are we simply playing nice? Or seeking digital popularity over strengthening bonds?

Social media isn’t bad. It’s how we share life experiences, express our creativity. Celebrate our friends. But as the lines blur between real and filtered, let’s spend more energy fostering important relationships. Go ahead and include everyone in the photo so nobody feels left out. Add a tan filter. That seems like a nice thing to do. But don’t forget about your true friends. About your lobsters. About what matters, and who will be there when Instagram is as dated as a Facebook album. And don’t forget to be a loyal lobster back.

Follow Rachel Zuckerman on Twitter here. 

Illustration by Hannah Kellner

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Ask Isaac: “Is it Really Because I’m a Virgin?”

I don’t care if you’re male or female, sex is scary as fuck.

Guys often feel self-imposed pressure to perform like a porn star because we watch too much porn. And despite society’s collective expectation that guys always want to have sex, most don’t actually know what to do if they get themselves into a situation where sex is about to happen and they’re not entirely sure if they’re ready.

As males, our sexual organs are on the outside of our bodies, so if we’re not in the zone, it’s obvious. “REAL men” are supposed to always be up for it, you know? So a lot of self esteem can be lost when our dicks don’t work. And by the way, the moment a guy starts obsessing about not being able to get it up, he’s absolutely not going to be able to get it up.

With all that in mind…

We don’t know what happened between your dude and his ex girlfriend, but he said he didn’t want to have a relationship for the rest of his college experience. It’s possible something semi-monumental must have gone down.

Next, you’re a virgin, and for some guys that could be a daunting thing to encounter. Maybe he was scared you’d fall in love? Maybe he worried you’d hate him afterwards? You literally never know, but there’s also the simple possibility that despite the fact that you were ready, he might not have been — and I must stress that has absolutely nothing to do with physical attraction — it’s all nerves and neuroses.

You said that he reacted badly to you saying you were a virgin — he couldn’t get it up. To me, a bad reaction would be him yelling, “Get out of my bed you loser!” Or maybe laughing in your face. Not being able to get it up is an unfortunate occurrence, but at least he wasn’t insensitive or a jerk about it, right?

It’s a hard spot for both of you (no pun intended), because you probably felt unattractive, and he probably felt emasculated. The last time it happened he kinda blamed it on the virginity thing, and that’s not cool, but he wasn’t cruel or harsh, right? He’s just an embarrassed young dude feeling like a sexual failure.

We don’t know what’s going on with this young man. Maybe his ex cheated on him, maybe someone else said he was bad in bed, maybe it goes even deeper. Maybe he does have anxiety about taking your virginity. (It’s important to note: there will be someone great and wonderful for you who won’t.)

The only way you’re going to know what actually happened is if you have an honest conversation with him.

If you’re old enough to have sex, you should be old enough to talk about it, too. Just ask him what’s going on. Who knows? He might just tell you.

Have your own question? Post your questions below or email write@manrepeller.com with ASK ISAAC in the subject line. Follow him on Instagram here, Twitter here, and check out his website here.

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