Leandra Medine's Blog, page 713

The Emmys are the Oscars’ Weird Cousin

The Emmys celebrated its 66th year last night with Seth Meyers as its host. There were winners, losers, 11 second kisses and a fair comparison between Amy Poehler and Queen Bey. The Violently Mangled Attire of Sunday night’s VMA red carpet was snubbed for varying hues of orange, and the energy was jovial with a twist of celebrity self-deprecation. (Was I there? No. But I have an HD TV so you’re damn right I felt it.)

The thing about the Emmys is that it congregates the most comedic, warped, and creative minds of a medium which continues to surprise and delight its audience. With those minds comes the invariable slip ups (albeit handled with grace) and the insider-y jokes that make you feel as though you should’ve been nicer to those drama kids back in your high school’s sketch group. They’re probably sitting in that audience. What happens at the Emmys would simply not fly at the Oscars, probably due to the lack of adult supervision at the former, meaning that the Emmys — if you think about it — are like the Oscars’ weird cousin:

1. Orange proved to be the new black of the red carpet.

Mindy Kaling, Kerry Washington and Sarah Hyland are just a few who opted for the color that my camp counselor once told me represented, “creativity, success, and enthusiasm.” To me it says, “Be bold! Don’t take yourself too seriously! Drink eggnog! This isn’t the Oscars, it’s a FIESTA.”

Images via The New York Daily News

2. Aaron Paul chose to use his speech as a platform to promote and profess his love to his wife:

“My god… thank you for marrying me…if you guys don’t know what she does look up Kind Campaign!”

The Emmys were like, “Aww.” The Oscars would have been like, “Cue the exit music.”

3. Lena Dunham proved she can have her cake and wear it too. Fuck yeah Lena! (You can’t curse at the Oscars, right?)

Image via Instyle/Getty

4. Weird Al Yankovic performed with Andy Samberg as a very convincing King Joffrey…

…then proceeded to gift “Game of Thrones” creator George Martin a typewriter while urging him to “TYPE GEORGE! TYPE AS FAST AS YOU CAN!” Again, the Oscars would have pleaded, “Cue the exit music.” We were like, “Don’t stop!”

5. Billy on the Street and Seth Meyers took to the streets.

Together they scared pedestrians with zero worries of potential harassment lawsuits.

6. Billy Crystal paid a beautiful tribute to Robin Williams.

He seamlessly wove in the late comedian’s funniest moments and touching testaments to his genius and influence: “For almost forty years, he was the brightest star in the comedy galaxy… Robin Williams, what a concept.”

The Oscars would have approved this one.

7. Bryan Cranston planted an 11 second kiss on Julia Louis-Dreyfus

…and it did not look the least bit staged.

GIF via Business Insider

8. Hayden Panettiere chose a sparkling baby bump over a concealed black one

…because this isn’t the Oscars, which means it’s her and baby’s time to shine.

Images via The Huffington Post

9. Kit “Man-Bun” Harington chose to discuss his proclivity towards skinny dipping over “who he was wearing”:

“I’ve got an addiction to skinny dipping. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I’m a nudist at heart.” He’s killing us.

GIF via The Mirror

10. Sarah Silverman whisked out not an origami fan from her purse, but her “liquid pot.”

…Thus becoming the first red-carpet-goer to prove Giuliana Rancic at a loss for words.

Did we forget anything? Does anybody even watch the Emmys? Does anyone else wish their weird cousin was this cool? Let us know in the comments!

Salute Your Boot

My friend broke her foot while exercising last spring and as a result has had to keep it confined within the sinister parameters of a healing boot all summer. Accordingly, she has refused to call the season we’ve blissfully endured what it is: a reprieve not just for us from the unrelenting and unapologetic cold, but for our toes, which have scientifically proven themselves far more joyous entities in the presence of sand, as opposed to socks.

That’s technically speculation, and I am sure there is scientific evidence to support otherwise but I’m going with it. Isn’t there something to be said for the mere fact that when it’s cold, our feet will shrink — they will recoil and shrivel up, eager to crawl into their cocoons until the heat re-emerges and they can expand, much the way a lion who wakes up from a particularly satisfying nap does?

Hint: yes. Yes, there is.

But every so often, there comes along a shoe — an elective boot, if you will — that changes the way you think about this alleged reprieve. It might successfully propel you forward, forgoing sarongs for sweaters, allowing you to leave behind the lusciously salty, extended days of summer in anticipation for the series of cold fronts that invariably lay ahead.

If last year this shoe was a blue patent leather, vaguely aquatic inspired rendition by Zara, the upcoming season reveals a direct homage to Karl Lagerfeld, rectified to appeal to a greater audience, in its navy suede estimation with its square toe, thick heel and the great length it will seemingly go to pair nicely with both trousers and skirts.

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Personally, I’m looking in the direction of jeans — those of the high waist persuasion — to wear with a shirt and a bow tie and a wool blazer, maybe sunglasses, leaving my knees deliberately bare to remember  (but not long for) those departed dog days.

Dries Van Noten blazer, Uniqlo shirt, Saint Laurent bow tie, H&M jeans, boots by Shellys London

Part of a collaboration with Shellys London, available at Nasty Gal.

To Stalk: That J. Crew Gingham Shirt

There is definitely a uniform among girls who go out. It varies, of course, depending on where you go and what your “scene” is, but in New York City on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday night I can guarantee that you will see the following items in such repetition that you may think you’re seeing the same girl multiplied by 250. I assure you it’s not your alcohol intake. The items are as follows:

- A leather jacket

- A black, tight “bandage” skirt

- Nude pumps

- A white tank top

- A black, Chanel-esque purse

For a while it seemed there was no male equivalent. Guys would go out in polo shirts, oxfords under under vests (shudder), sportcoats and khakis or various forms of jeans. The shoes were all over the place — loafers, sneakers, flip flops with the bottle openers on the soles or those terrible, terrible square-toed “dressy” things. But they all looked different. At the very least, you could easily assess who it was that you’d just been talking to do a mere five minutes ago.

But then it happened. THE SHIRT.

An unassuming gingham shirt — always based in white with corresponding checks in either navy or black, buttoned down, typically rolled at the sleeves, tucked into belts or worn over pants — found its way into literally every. Single. Man’s. Wardrobe.

EVERY SINGLE ONE.

Raise your hand if you don’t know a guy who owns this shirt. Just what I thought. All hands on deck.

My friends and I began to count these shirts. On a slow night we’d average 10-15. Other times, we’d get all the way up to 30. Then the shirt began permeating into the daylight hours and soon it was as if men were cartoon characters with a single item to complete and punctuate their now-eternal uniform.

Surely the trend began because some guy saw another guy and was like, “Hey, that’s a nice shirt,” and he was like, “Thanks I got it at J.Crew, it wasn’t that expensive and you can throw it in the wash.” But how it grew from a few “twinsies!” into billiontuplets is nothing short of a phenomenon, leaving me to wonder two very important things:

1) How many guys do you know with this shirt?

and

2) Do they acknowledge their 800 twins? Ignore it? Do they do that same thing we do when we see a girl wearing the same outfit as us, where we either compliment it (“Cute shirt!”) or make some sort of faux-jab (“Ugh, can’t believe you’re wearing that shirt”) because the big old joke is that we are both wearing it?

More importantly, do you think they turn to their friend after and ask: “But I look better in it right?”

Which is awkward, because their friend is also, uh, wearing the shirt.

Join me in the crusade, will you, and stalk that J. Crew Gingham Shirt.

Images via @thatjcrewginghamshirt Instagram, Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

Going Almost-Commando

As someone who crosses the street with the recklessness of blindfolded deer I’ve made it a priority to heed the advice of my late grandmother Mimi who once put the fear of god in me. Her words: always wear nice underwear just in case you suddenly die.

I used to take “nice” to mean pretty, lacy things. Anything scalloped and tied with a bow, slices of fabric so alarmingly demure that one might mistake them for anklets. My stupid “delicates” were so delicate that they had to air-dry on lavender-scented twine and be clipped with artisanal clothespins; prior to that they had to be hand washed in the Swiss Alps which required one hell of a dangerous hike and therefore one very fancy pair of underwear.

An endless cycle! It was so annoying.

It was also expensive. When you’re a lingerie shopper for the sake of morbidly circumstantial aesthetics, one begins to wonder where the line between “always be prepared” and “full blown insanity” is drawn. For me, I’d say it was somewhere around the time I nearly stabbed a surprise guest with a vintage letter opener — not because I was scared he was trying to murder me, but because I was scared to be found murdered in such an ugly bra.

The lightbulb finally went off when I came across the Instagram account of @tenundies. At first I was casually stalking photos of a wedding dress that came up on my “discover” feed. The woman in the dress was Daphne Javitch, and Daphne is a living Pinterest board. As I continued scrolling for potential pins, I realized that this was not just the account of my spirit guide but also for a brand of cool ass underwear.

It was every bit as pretty as those aforementioned lacy things, if not more. The brand, Ten Undies, opened my eyes to a whole world of simple cotton briefs that make even the word “panty” sound unnecessarily fussy. It’s kind of like better-than-normcore underwear for the deliberately low key, self-styled girl.

If Ten is for the woman who waits one day longer than she probably should to wash her hair, who looks like she skateboards and drinks a lot of fresh squeezed orange juice so her skin perpetually glows, then Skin is for the ideal version of yourself when you sleep: freshly showered, crisp white sheets, a simple tank top and the most simple pair of underwear.

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Also for the perfect-sleepers/dangerous street crossers of the world: Morgan Lane. The pajamas can be worn as street clothes, and the dark mesh separates are beautifully appropriate for any potential emergency. (Even if you’re just going to the E.R. for a swollen tonsil, your doctor might be hot and appreciate a well-sewn two piece.)

Bodas makes nursing brassieres. Not exclusively — they also make lovely soft triangle tops and knickers for those who aren’t with child – but if there’s anything more dangerous than a baby, I’m all ears.

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Finally, there’s Negative Underwear: underpinnings brainstormed by two young women who “get it,” made for the woman who would rather go commando. The elastic bands of the bras and bottoms lie flat, eliminating any errant fleshy bits that could possibly poke out and destroy a good outfit. The vibe is feminine, unprissy and cool.

All in all, a perfect solution for the paranoid hypochondriac who’s sick of lace but would rather die than be seen in a bad bra.

Does “VMA” Stand for Violently Mangled Attire?

What a mistake it was to choose sleep over the VMAs last night! I feel as though I have failed humanity by prioritizing mental health above cerebral paralysis. How could I have missed such a salient homage to 2001 in real time? The horror! The agony! Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears were remade 13 years later starring Katy Perry and Riff Raff and now, I’d have only reprocessed photos to show for my incipient elation.

I could get over that, though. As a matter of fact — I did. But when I got into work, headlines detailing the solidarity with which Jay Z stood with Beyoncé last night as she received some version of a lifetime achievement award ran amuck. What in the good name of children named after colors had I missed?

Twenty minutes later, I learned nothing. I had missed nothing that I couldn’t have caught up on in the twenty minutes that I did, you know, catch up.

And you know what else I learned? That Taylor Swift shunned pants in the name of a turquoise long sleeve cat suit to usher in the award ceremony, while matching outfits outside of the realm of the Perry-Raff jean-scheme of 2014 was trending; why else would Adam Levine and his partner in leather dress up like Cat Women while Jordin Sparks and Jason Derulo played the couple-o-angels card? Also of note was Amber Rose’s decision to wear a necklace as a dress and the acerbically attractive progeny of the Kardashian revolution in the form of Jenner sisters. There, I said it.

Kim Kardashian didn’t wear dramatic lipstick or as many layers of foundation as the public is used to, so apparently, beauty sites are up in arms about this new no makeup approach.

Of note in the metropolis were two cool women: Solange Knowles and Chloe Moretz. Both kept it real, Vogue style, opting not for birds of a feather or the latex of a condom, but instead provided the kind of fodder forecasts are built upon in anticipation of the deluge of street style we seemingly have in store for us next week, what with the initiation of Fashion Week on the horizon and all.

Conclusion: I’m glad I slept.

Continuation: Tell me everything there is to know about what happened elsewhere and otherwise last night.

Please?

5 Things to Talk About Today

Sunday night’s MTV Video Music Awards provided enough headlines/superlatives to last all week, but ICYMI a lot of other stuff happened online too. Here’s a news roundup to get it all out of your system before the Emmys tonight.

1. Reasons To Watch MTV on Mute

Whoever was in charge of writing the subtitles for MTV.com’s VMA playback may or may not have been drunk and typing on iPhone while wearing fake nails.

…Close enough. [MTV.com]

2. The Earth Shook And Broke A Lot Of Wine Bottles

A 6.0-magnitude earthquake shook Napa Valley, California on Sunday, breaking millions of dollars worth of wine bottles and barrels. They say not to cry over spilled milk, but spilled wine is an entirely different story. [Grub Street]

3. New Yorkers Collectively Forgot to Celebrate City’s 350th Birthday

New Yorkers are some of the world’s best partiers, which is why it’s so shocking that we collectively forgot to celebrate our own city’s 350th birthday. We didn’t even make a card! Shame on us. [NYTimes]

4. Prepare for the Emmys With Lena Dunham 

Expert beauty tip: prepare for the Emmys by enjoying some huevos rancheros and allowing your hair to marinate in its own natural oils

— Lena Dunham (@lenadunham) August 25, 2014

5. Jezebel Somehow Got Us to Watch Tampon Ads for a Good Five Minutes

They lured us in with the line, “These Australian tampon commercials are batshit and delightful,” and did not fail to deliver.

Still very much into the word “hoo ha,” but point taken. [Jezebel]

Ten Ridiculous Reality TV Titles We’d Love to See

I have a serious addiction, and it comes in the form of “reality” television. Few things make a night golden quite like a bottle of wine, my Seamless delivery man, and the Housewives of Wherever. There’s no greater joy than watching a prosthetic limb being thrown in a restaurant, or observing a pair of nude strangers try to forage for food in the inhospitable swamps of Louisiana (I’m referring to Naked and Afraid, not Real Housewives, FYI).

Reality TV is the black hole of guilty pleasures. It’s mindless, ridiculous, and further scripted than a David’s Bridal commercial. Be that as it may, the genre has set up permanent shop in the realm of pop culture, which means that our obsession with it ensures the continued existence of Bravo, TLC and its imposters who have successfully risen to the occasion to churn out non-realistic realistic premises faster than Betty Lou can whip butter.

So, Andy Cohen, if you’re out there listening — and something tells me you are — here are some titles we’d love to cozy up to in the not-so distant future.

1. Sex in Sin City: Las Vegas Edition

The cards that you’re dealt aren’t always full of hearts 

2. NYC Apartment Swap

The kale isn’t always greener in your neighbor’s 2 by 2 kitchen 

3. Dog Day Afternoon

They’re Chihuahuas and they rob banks 

4. The Real Help of the Real Housewives of Orange County

Because behind every pretentious woman is a stronger woman with her own dirty laundry to air 

5. The Real World. DETOX.

As if spending five months with complete strangers   wasn’t enough, these cast mates will subsist on juice. That’s right, juice. For five months. Five months. Just juice for five months. 

6.The Deadliest Match

They’re zombies, and they’re after beating hearts

7. MTA Wives

If that train goes off the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up! 

8.  Bun in the (Bachelorette’s) Oven

Twenty men know they want her heart, zero know she is pregnant 

9. Game of Gnomes

This garden is only big enough for one of us. All Gnomes must crack. 

10. Dancing ON the Stars

Celebrities dance on top of other celebrities while suspended in space: stars on stars on stars.

Ready TV-land? Your turn.

Ain’t No Party Like an Anchored Boat Party!

Two weeks ago, on a particularly spectacular Monday night, I played volleyball at Pier 25 by the West Side Highway. It was when I saw a yacht anchor itself  just 20 feet from the sanded courts by TriBeCa that I realized I was in a fracture of someone else’s alternative universe.

See, on this boat, this anchored, large sized boat replete with strobe lights and loud music, there were no people save for one DJ who was wearing sunglasses in spite of the simple, irrefutable fact that it was past sundown. There were also several bottles of alcohol positioned across a wooden plank on the second level of the boat and crudité for days — days, I tell you, hours upon hours of gas. Incidentally, a party was going to start.

The water that surrounds Manhattan was twinkling like a shiny-ass diamond — offering the city an especially angelic facade. The sun set over the river and Rihanna was preaching love in desolate locales from a stereo system. It all seemed so serendipitous.Chiefly, I should add, because I was wearing a pair of dangerously high waist white linen pants, complete with brushed gold buttons and pockets so huge you’d think they were deliberately put there to host scores of anchors. With these pants (by Chloe, purchased during SSENSE’s giving shit away sale), I paired a — what do you know – nautical striped shirt, which I had knotted at the waist to create the allusion of a Daisy Duke who may or may not at some point during her tenure as belle found herself on the wrong side of the right island. (As in, Gilligan’s.)

The fringed linen sandal mules I subsequently completed the sentence with provided no rhyme, reason or place on a boat deck but man, they good. The scarf around my wrist could have been used for my neck or my head, or to help a drowning passenger up, while the sunglasses on my face spelled out the only definitive word that matters this time of year: S-U-M-M-E-R.

Of course, I never got on the boat — I was there for volleyball, dammit — but all this is to say one thing in the event you find yourself headed toward a nautical themed party in an urban city and aren’t quite sure what to wear but know that you’d like to allow room for someone to ask if you’re a fan of Annie Hall, look no further than here. As in, here. Also, you’ve only got one more weekend to find a boat so I suggest you do it. If not for yourself than certainly for the pants.

Do it for the pants.

Christina Lehr blouse, Chloe pants and shoes, Illesteva sunglasses, Anna Coroneo wrist scarf and Khai Khai necklaces.

Happy Birthday, Kristen Wiig!

Dear K-Tuna, can I call you K-Tuna?,

How cool is it that you are 41 today? It must feel phenomenal to age so gracefully in tandem with your having racked up such important accolades as a near-decade on SNL, the ability to call yourself a director and a screenwriter and a producer and an actress with the conviction your multifarious dexterities have provided you, the existence of Bridesmaids at large and, of course, all those Emmys. I’d ask what you have planned next but this isn’t a minor cogitation.

Frankly, we just wanted to wish you a really happy birthday from the bottom of our deep blue hearts. In celebration of your life’s anniversary, we’ve made the executive decision not to give you a gift (hope you don’t mind!), but instead, in a sheer act of altruistic selflessness, to give ourselves, in the better interest of human kind, the gift of, well, you. We’re constantly in pursuit of a respite from the current affairs of the world we occupy so, we plan to spend today marveling in your multitudinal alter egos.

Of course, we will narrate as we go, starting now:

The time you were late to meet Seth was so cool. Even cooler, though, was that other time, when Garth aka the artist formerly known as Lawrence Welk who, previous to that, was called Fred Armisen had you on his show and you sang, with great aplomb, the importance of self-reliance.

And then, of course, there was that time at driving school, when Bill Hader as a hoodrat tried to show you up. That was stupid but you handled yourself with beauty and with grace. I would never second guess your postulating that an entire ocean resides in your bathroom.

I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank you for moonlighting as a human navigation system. I took Robertson that time you told me to and it saved me like, 38 seconds! 38 seconds that could have changed everything.

Like, for example, my watching your pursuit of the omnipresent silver lining that is an upside. Building muscle mass is a huge point of victory in the wake of having had eight inches of hair chopped off. You’re as wise as I am stoic.

Most of all, though, I do feel like I owe you an apology. I know how much you like surprises.

In that way, I feel like I have failed you. Happy birthday anyway, love you. Call me.

Oh! And the rest of you — favorite Kristen Wiig moments? Go!

Image via V Magazine shot by Terry Richardson

The Thought Process of Being Late

It is 8PM sharp and I have a date tonight.

Actually I have a date now, if you take into consideration that we agreed upon 8 as our meeting time, but 8 felt a little stifling what with its sharp and relentless arms pointing to the lower-left half of the clock. If 8PM were on the NY Mag Matrix it would fall just below the line that separates Highbrow and Lowbrow Brilliant.

What happened to the forgiving beauty of “a quarter past?”

Anyway the reason I’m “late” is because I work, you know, and even though I was supposed to leave the office at 6:30 I got this really annoying and urgent email. That I ignored. But I only ignored it because my friend sent me this dumb YouTube link that I had to watch immediately, otherwise it would be yet another open tab weighing on my conscience, right along with that Times article I meant to read and the credit card I never picked up from this bar on Leroy. So whatever, I watched the video and then I had to watch another one because you know how that goes, and then it was almost 7 so I ran out the door like a maniac while cursing about how I was going to be late, and then I stopped for a quick snack because you never want to enter a date on an empty stomach.

I got home at 7:30. Just enough time to body shower since you and I both know that one of us got a blowout this morning. Also just enough time to lie down for a minute and scroll through Instagram while trying not to drop my phone on my face. Then I stared in my closet for 10 minutes which brings us to where we are in this immediate moment, at 8 PM (now 8:02), me standing in a bra that I might have to change depending on the top I choose. I have zero clue what to wear.

That shirt sucks. I hate those pants. A skirt is like, calm down. Dress? Maybe I do dress. I call to my roommate — “Lev!” — he’s a guy — “Lev! Can I wear a dress?” He ignores me. It’s 8:05 so I take that as a yes, but with this dress, I don’t have to change my bra.

My reflection approves but my face needs work so I lean in like Sheryl and survey the scene. We can do this in two minutes easy and suddenly I am playing surgeon and nurse with myself:

Concealer?

Concealer.

Bronzer?

Bronzer.

Mascara?

Mascara.

Eyeliner?

No time.

Noted. Sew this baby up and we’re done.

Now it’s 8:09 which is the perfect time to send everyone’s favorite lie, “I’m on my way!,” buying me just enough time to fix the frizzy bit in the back of my hair and quickly look up the actor’s name from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” who later played the stepdad in “The Santa Clause.”

It takes two minutes to get down my five flights of stairs in heels.

It takes three minutes to hail a cab.

It takes ten minutes to get to the restaurant, one to banter with the cab driver over cash versus card, which means I’m 25 minutes late by the time I’m officially, “Here.”

This isn’t so bad if you consider the fact that everyone knows 8PM means “a quarter past.” And besides. What was that Holden Caulfield line? “If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she’s late?”

It’s 8:31. I hope he likes Salinger.

Collage by Charlotte Fassler