Leandra Medine's Blog, page 716

Last Vegas

Written by Jilly Hendrix

I think my first time in Vegas was when I was 17 for a friend’s birthday, and it was the first time I had ever been to a strip club (in America). 10 years later and I’m stuck in the middle: too old to go to Vegas to party my ass off and too young to go to Vegas to need to escape adulthood. After all, I am somewhere in the middle and doing just fine.

So what brought me to Vegas?

Britney.

Britney Spears is the last thing I hold on to from my youth. I was still a girl, not yet a woman when I purchased my first Britney CD. She represents a time in my life where the only serious decision I had to make was thinking about which college to apply to. I remember taking a limo from Orange County to LA to see Britney perform at The Staples Center and thinking, “WOW. This concert is something.”

10 p.m. and I arrive at Planet Hollywood in leather pants and a t-shirt. 10 years ago I would have been double fisting vodkas in a mini dress and now I’m casually sipping tequila, wondering who actually enjoys vodka sodas. I walk in and start bopping around in the massive pop bubble that is “Piece of Me.” Britney plays her usual hits and then moves on to what I like to call “Progressive Britney.” It has more of an EDM sound and mostly includes her saying the words: “It’s Britney Bitch.”

The crowd has every line to every song memorized, and they sing and dance along. Every so often I can make out whispers from the otherwise deafening mass of people: “Is she going to dance into the audience?” “Remember when Britney held the snake?” “Why is she wearing that bustier?”

Her outfits aren’t extravagant, her dance moves aren’t over the top, and her performance isn’t noteworthy. It just is. Britney’s still beautiful, talented, and playing her beloved tracks. But the crowd holds on to the Britney Spears they once knew, wishing for the familiarity of her twenty-year-old six-pack & glitzy two-piece. They were hoping that tonight wouldn’t signify that she’s changed, hoping that tonight wouldn’t signify that they have changed.

I move on to my next location, Beacher’s Madhouse. The club is filled with life-sized Gumbies, flying human bumblebees, and a woman whose multiple breast implants allow her to crush beer cans and glassware with one breast-hit. The cast consists of people you can’t relate to, so you watch with excitement — not sure if you should laugh along with the joke or accept that you’re an asshole for even showing up to a place like this. It’s as if each character in the show walked into the wrong party but was having too much fun so they decided to stay. It’s something to awe at if you’re in the mood to be awed.

See, that’s the problem with going to Vegas when you’re in the middle and doing just fine. You’re not looking to be shocked. You’re not looking to escape. But you automatically ask yourself, “Why is this night different from any other night?” Because you’re in a location where lust thrives. Where saying no isn’t an option. I was stuck somewhere between the Vegas of my youth and the Vegas of today. Wanting to fade into some of the crazy, but still perfectly content with my present life. Wanting to stay out all night and party but knowing the consequences. Searching for something real but accepting the idea that nothing would come to fruition.

Vegas didn’t change but my perspective did. Something I once found exciting and dangerous became entirely too generic the second, third time around. The realization that no one experience will ever be like the last (accompanied by maturity, age, and a desire for more) left me self-aware.

I didn’t become too old for Vegas but too mindful of its activities.

And just like Britney, Vegas became a part of my past.

 

5 Things to Talk About Today

Since it’s a sad, rainy humpday, you’re probably ordering Seamless lunch and not leaving your desk/home office, but here are five things to talk about nonetheless…

1. Actress Lauren Bacall Dies at 89

Actress and indisputable fashion icon Lauren Bacall died Tuesday at the age of 89. Bacall made her on-screen debut in 1944 in the film adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s “To Have and Have Not,” which also starred Humphrey Bogart, whom she later married. If you weren’t familiar with Bacall before today, take a moment to delve into the many online slideshows featuring her work. The woman was an absolute stunner. [NYTimes]

2. Zosia Mamet Opens Up About Eating Disorder

Zosia Mamet, who plays Shoshanna on Girls, opens up about battling an eating disorder in the September issue of Glamour magazine. She says her struggles began after being called “fat” at the age of 8 and has since spent time in and out of treatment centers. She hopes that in sharing her story, others will do the same, urging readers to “diminish the stigma.” She writes: “Let’s remind one another that we’re beautiful.” [Glamour]

3. Anna Kendrick Had a Drink with Theon Greyjoy in Vegas; the Internet Goes Wild

Actress Anna Kendrick is reportedly dating actor Alfie Allen A.K.A Lily Allen’s “Alfie” A.K.A Theon Greyjoy, the castrated “pet” of that creepy dude from “Game of Thrones.” Kendrick used to date Edgar Wright A.K.A “Shaun of the Dead” director. TRY TO KEEP UP. [Gawker]

4. Ariana Grande Goes Full-On Zenon

Ariana Grande goes into zero gravity for her “Break Free” music video and it makes zero sense, which is unsurprising since the lyrics don’t either. The video claims to be “two steps ahead of present-day reality,” but if this is what the future looks like, then I don’t want ANY part of it. The appearance of a “phallic Snuffleupagus,” as Charlotte aptly describes it, will make you want to use gravity to your advantage and throw your computer out a window. [YouTube]

5. STOP WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING AND TAKE A DANCE BREAK

Amelia shared this link with the office this morning and it made Krista cry. [YouTube]

If you can find a way to focus after consuming all this Internet stuff, you win every prize ever.

What’s Your Freakum Dress?

People love cute things. BuzzFeed wouldn’t exist without cute. But as a woman in my early twenties I’d prefer, for once, to be labelled with an adjective other than the one which is most commonly tethered to babies and sloths.

I get carded at the ticket booth of R-rated movies. At the grocery store, while buying a bottle of wine, I’ve received the same response at every register that checks my ID: “I thought you were 12!” While leaving my apartment the other day, a construction worker asked if my mom was home because he needed access to the building. I told him I don’t live with my parents.

This doesn’t even broach sartorial troubles.

When Kendall Jenner wore that pelvic-slit dress back in June, it ignited a thought process of both “DAMN” and “I could never pull that off.” I know I’m a grown woman who can wear what she wants. But when people are still squeezing your cheeks into your early twenties, wearing a dress with any kind of sex appeal makes you look like a toddler in a tiara after one helluva night.

Not cute.

I don’t have a personal desire to wear anything bandage or bodycon. I enjoy food too much and have a phobia of Spanx. But a certain icon once told me that every woman has a freakum dress, and I’m just trying to find mine.

What Beyoncé failed to divulge was that not every woman’s freakum dress looks the same. Maybe it’s not even a dress. Maybe it’s a pantsuit. Or a swimsuit. Or your birthday suit! Or sweatpants.

It doesn’t really matter because, ultimately, you look sexiest in what makes you feel sexy. I think Barney said that. Or he would if he worked in fashion and not as a singing dinosaur.

I cannot imagine myself wearing what society has deemed sexy. On any given day, I am more of a kitten than a Megan Fox. But perhaps it’s okay that I don’t have that same sex appeal. The difference is that for me, I feel confident in my favorite pair of jeans with a slouchy T-shirt, mules and a red lip instead of going commando with a pelvic high slit à la Kendall Jenner.

But to each their own.

And to each their sloth.

Now show us your freakum dress. (Or at least tell us about it.)

– Amina Khan

Sexy Lady Shot by Yossi Michaeli for Luxure Magazine Summer 2013; Cara Delevingne shot by Angelo Pennetta for i-D Magazine; Flowers via Web Gallery of Art

Inanimate Objects and Their Human Equivalents

Amelia initiated a unilaterally viral sensation last March when in her first “Amelia Post” Etiquette story, she coined the concept of a human backpack. What she’d originally meant to illustrate was the kind of person who stands so close behind you in line for, let’s say, the movies, he or she is practically koala-ing on your back, thus creating the illusion of a human backpack.

I took the term to mean someone who is relentlessly stuck on your ass and won’t leave you until you forcibly remove said person from said ass. We discussed the variations and thus, the concept of the Human Equivalent of Things was born. It spawned an entirely new way of describing the character traits of both people we love and people we hate. So today, in honor of it being Wednesday, we bring you an index of human-animate objects, mechanisms and functional devices so that the next time you want to make yourself heard about the behaviors of your peers, you can do it with pungent but pleasant words.

Human Toilet – We encourage you to use your imagination here. Actually, it’s more fun to type out: a human toilet is someone who gets shit on. It could also, however, theoretically refer to someone who gets “a ton of ass.” It’s all about context.

Human Diaper  - The mistress (or male equivalent), as opposed to the wife/girlfriend or husband/boyfriend. The Human Diaper — like the Human Toilet — ends up getting the shit end of the stick. He/she also ends up being disposable. But beware, because it’s like they say: there’s nothing as scary as a mistress scorned…save for, of course, a dirty diaper that’s been forgotten about all day.

Human Ladder – He or she who is social-climbed on, like an upwardly-mobile version of the floor mat.

Human Subway - Someone with a bladder problem because they’re always stopping. Note: a human subway could also be a mom on a cruise during formal dinner night because she is – per her girlfriends – “pulling out all the stops.”

Human Garden Gnome – Someone who is kind of short but also really, really unfriendly. If not unfriendly, then stoic and always watching.

Human Treasury Bond - A really nice husband.

Human Coffee - That friend who makes you crazy hyper when you were just starting to calm down and do your work. It is also an amateur tap dancer who physically cannot stop practicing pinwheels because the clicky-shoe-noises are too addicting.

Human Prius – Someone who tries to act down to earth but frankly speaking, isn’t fooling anyone.

Human Credit Card Machine – A prostitute.

Human Square (as in, the app) – A prostitute who lives in San Francisco.

Human Brita – Someone who thinks carefully before they speak.

Human Faucet – Someone who won’t shut the F up – the opposite of a Human Brita.

Human Sriracha - A very popular person. He or she is so popular, in fact, that others are scared to say they dislike this person for fear of ending friendships or being kicked out of the Sunday night dinner club.

Human Designer Handbag – This is your “going out friend” – you probably wouldn’t call her if you were crying. Instead, you’d call your far more reliable and durable human tote bag.

Human Bag of Lays Potato Chips – Someone who appears to be really smart (as in, full) but when cracked open (spoken to) he or she actually presents the reality that he/she is a half-empty bag of potatoes with “just three ingredients.”

Human Table Gum - That person in your group of friends who kind of grosses everyone out, but like it or not, they’re ride-or-die-stuck with you.

Human Seesaw – A woman on her period or a man with serious mood swings.

Human Gluten – The person who suddenly can’t seem to catch a break.

Human Comments Section – Actually this is you guys. Your turn. Add your human equivalent of X.

Human ladder photoshopped by Krista Anna Lewis, ladder composed of girls from Jonathan Saunders pre-fall 2014.

Are Legs Out?

Things of paramount importance between the months of May and August: watermelon juice, sunglasses, swimming pools and denim shorts.

Denim shorts in particular are like a second domestic dwelling center (or, the artist formerly known as “a house”) in that we (we, right?) live in them. The vintage kind known to flourish behind much better-known brands at fast-fashion depots like Urban Outfitters are typically favored, though not unanimously accepted as The Best Shorts Ever.

Make no mistake though, the BSE exist. This is understood. Some of us have located them while others haven’t. If you haven’t, you know that the pursuit is often relentless, and if you have, the supposition is your life is perfect.

They’re just easy, you know? And as reliable as a good therapist. They’ll likely never fail you nor will they fight with you. They’ll watch you grow older and more mature and therefore less interested in the debauchery of denim underwear but they’ll also remain loyal and faithful, optimistic for their day of redemption.

Or that’s the hope at least, because something unusual is happening. As I sit here and type in black high waist jeans from H&M and a sparkly ass top from the same place, I look out the window at clear blue skies and hear from my left that it is “so hot outside.” This news is thrilling but it makes me wonder why in the good name of Levi Strauss I’m wearing long pants. Furthermore, I should ask why I’ve been wearing them, or long dresses or skirts or culottes — not short-shorts — almost everyday for the past two months. Does this just come to show that the perfect cut-offs also fall victim to the plague of Want What I Can’t Have Syndrome, or is there a larger mechanism about the way we’re currently experiencing fashion at play?

Are legs out of style?

Designers who have seen substantial success from their young brands such as Rosie Assoulin, Isa Arfen and Tome have all surreptitiously renounced the proliferation of minis in favor of larger-than-life balloon pants, skirts and dresses. Even those famous for their leggy threads — think Balmain or Anthony Vaccarrello — have spent the last few seasons testing the trouser waters, and if the resort presentations of June were an indication of anything to come from the imminent Spring season of September, the likelihood is high that the Best Shorts Ever might very well be on their way to a state of hiatus. Only festival season will tell.

Flashy or Trashy: Overall Edition

Code red. White flag. I have to tell you something and I have to say it now.

After my book came out last September, denim overalls sprawled across the cover, I was 99% sure that I would never be able to look at the once-praised hero of my closet again. But then, as if directly from a mythological Greek deity who warns mortals to not be so sure of anything, that single, forlorn percentage point shined down upon me. And so, for the last two weeks I have been consistently rotating a pair of “shorteralls” and the photographed white pair of “painteralls” on my body like it is the sun and you, you are its orb.

Though I like to think that I am fluent in wearing overalls and have heretofore cracked every code there is to splatter across the ground floor of Condé Nast on how to wear them, I also like to think that I invented the word FOMO, which is to say, I can probably use the help of your opinion.

Just last week, I walked into the office wearing the white overalls with absolutely nothing underneath them. Before I left home, I did that thing I do and looked into the mirror and said to myself, Self, go on now, you look fine. But once I was released into the wild that is The Bower, I realized that to wear a pair of overalls directly over my birthday suit is to invite a sexual deviant into my FUPA.

Of course, once the hypothetical deviant is to get past the layer of fabric and make contact with my bikini line, he or she is liable to experience a hugely dangerous site that may or may not impair his or her vision but let’s cut the chase: overalls with nothing underneath them — flashy or trashy?

In the event you’re unfamiliar with the definitions of either word, I invite you to take a step back in time to the immortalized morning of June 17, where in a pair of white high waist shredded jeans, Amelia asked you the very question being presented again right now. If you’re still uncertain about the definitions, here is a simple sample guide: trashy = not good, flashy = ranging from decent to awesome.

So, tell me, world: would you wear overalls with nothing underneath them?

Horses Atelier overalls, R13 denim jacket, Isabel Marant sandals, Anna Coroneo wrist scarf, Paula Mendoza bracelet. Text me — bye!

Laying Good Eggs is Easy

My mom always advised me in the direction of marrying a good egg. It seemed self explanatory at her time of consultation; there are good eggs and there are bad eggs, we are not impervious to the bad ones and sometimes they dress up as good ones, so trust your mother and marry one from the latter camp.

In 2014, this advice would go way over my head. Marry a good egg? Good Egg? As in the about-to-explode-I-can-feel-it-in-my-cruciferously-nourished-bones Good Egg?

You might be confused. I don’t blame you. Nowhere do I succeed as well as when I am mangling the English language, though I do have one more talent but it is fairly new:  spreading the farm-to-table gospel that is organic eating and lucky for you (me?), it’s about to go viral.

See, Good Eggs is the name of a fairly new website whose model is not unlike Fresh Direct’s save for a deluge of General Mill products that languish by the latter. There are infant-sized yellow plums (what are those things called?) freshly picked from a garden in what I will henceforth call our extended backyard. There is “faux-gras” which is a punny play on duck liver, as this kind is made from walnuts and lentils and miso — yum yum! There is fresh bread that will not make you consider the dismal side effects of bleached grain consumption, there is a sour cherry compote that makes me feel like a gay man trapped in the body of a woman. And, of course, there is kale.

Good Eggs hand delivers the nourishment within 36 hours, which should theoretically seal the nail in the coffin that is Chipotle lunch hour if you plan ahead. I also suspect the tote bag they sell moonlights as a carbon foot print reducer.

The whole thing is so extremely New Age, so very Martha Stewart-does-yoga, and as far as I’m concerned presents only one known issue: you can’t marry the damn thing.

[Good Eggs]

– Photos by Krista Anna Lewis 

What Your Ponytail Says About You

The High Ponytail:

This pony is ideal for exercising. It’s also great for signaling that you don’t give a what. The HP can take many different forms depending on execution – was the head flipped over then fastened upside down, or was the hair gathered in a rush with one skilled swoop? Was a soft-bristled comb employed to get rid of any bumps, or does the ‘do look slightly slept in? High ponies are the maxi dress of their kind: some people can pull off the style and look cool, while others just…cannot.

The Low and Parted Ponytail:

This is the champagne of ponytails: elegant, timeless, goes well with black tie. The woman who wears her hair parted and pulled back at the nape of her neck is making a knowing decision to look put together. Think Dries Van Noten or Calvin Klein.

The Medium-Height Ponytail:

It’s the denim of ponytails – accessible to pretty much everyone. At its best it looks neat and clean a la Olivia Palermo. At its worst, it’s still fine, if not slightly reminiscent of vintage Antonio Banderas. Middle tails can also give the impression that you’re an athlete and/or no nonsense, which can either work in your favor or really throw a person off when choosing teams for an inter-office game of volley ball.

Pigtails:

Unless your name is Michelle Tanner and you live in San Francisco with two sisters, a dad, and two uncles with great hair, pigtails are probably bad news. Adult women only wear pigtails when they are trying too hard to look casual.

For instance: you’ve gone on three dates with someone and decide to have a low key night in together. “Let’s just like, stay in and drink wine and order Thai and watch a movie!” You might be tempted to wear pigtails with a sweatpants-outfit that took hours to pick out. You might also be tempted to claim, “These are my old pajamas,” even though you what you actually sleep in is a ripped XXXL t-shirt from your brother’s Bar Mitzvah.

I would advise to just wear jeans, and limit yourself to a single scrunchy.

Half-Up-Half-Down Ponytail:

People who dare to sport the HUHD tend to be wildcards. They are normally interesting. I’d bet that if Gertrude Stein had kept her hair long, she would have worn it half-up, half-down. This style comes with a warning, however, pointed out by my strange friend Amelia: if you’re not careful, or around someone who watched too much WWE in middle school, you could get compared to professional wrestler Shawn Michaels. This is not necessarily a bad thing.

Front-Bump-Pony:

The front-bump-pony is the HUHD’s clubbing cousin. It can be achieved in several ways, from bobby pins and hairspray to the utilization of a gadget sold in infomercials. Anyone who wears a bump is most likely oozing with personality and also, product. Gwen Stefani can pull this off. I, on the other hand, should not even try.

The Antenna:

At some point during the 1990s, women started pulling pieces out of their ponytail to frame their faces. The pieces varied in size from severe chunks to thin whisps but were always, always taken from the immediate left and right of one’s center hairline. Sometimes they were treated with a curling iron for coils in front of one’s face. (Sometimes = fancy times.) In their modern iteration, The Antenna have become strategically-pulled whispers of hair from all around the hairline (think J.Crew model), but to those of us born in ’87 they will remain forever burned into our brain as the only thing that made a ponytail feel truly complete.

No-Part, Slicked-Back Pony:

Slicked-back ponytails without a part are a very sensitive subject for me. Growing up, I probably lost my voice 10 times screaming at my mom to “GET THE BUMPS OUT!” A little product and a soft-bristled brush helped, but somehow a bump or two managed to appear. Meanwhile Kelly in math class’s pony was perfect — her mother clearly practiced witchcraft. Otherwise it’s just not possible.

Now show us your ponytail, and tell us what it says.

Illustrations by Charlotte Fassler

Remembering Robin Williams

I can’t seem to put into eloquent words how I feel about the death of Robin Williams. It might be because I didn’t know him personally. It might be because his energy was louder than life. It might be because, during the years he truly affected me, I was just learning what words meant and the various ways to use them: how they could make others laugh, like his did through the illustrated body of Genie in “Aladdin.” How they could tell a story, like his lines and their corresponding inflections did in “Jumanji.” 

Words, I learned, could help you cope, just as his in “Mrs. Doubtfire” helped me deal at a very young age with my own parents’ divorce and a new life in San Francisco. I’m sure on some subconscious level I saw myself in his daughters, and pictured Robin Williams as my anything-for-his-kid dad.

I certainly saw him as something magical in “Hook.” Even at age 26 I find it impossible to not tear up at the scene where Pockets, one the Lost Boys, puts his hands on the grown man’s face and realizes it’s Peter Pan. (“There you are, Peter!”)

And I saw him as a teacher in “Dead Poets Society” where, to come full circle, he awakened my love of words.

Typically an author is credited for doing this: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Kerouac, Salinger — all those greats you read while still under the watchful eye of school and a homework deadline. Then, in a rare moment of escaping adolescent stupor, you pause to actually read rather than skim the page and realize, “Holy crap. This is amazing.”

I’ve had those moments. I hope I never stop having those moments. But when Robin Williams crouched down to a room full of boys (and me at age 12 if my memory is correct) to explain — with the help of Walt Whitman — why it is that we read and write poetry, my understanding of the beauty of words finally clicked.

Words don’t always come quickly, especially when we need them immediately. In this case, I guess I was just lucky that I was able to rely on his.

Image via TheFanCarpet.com

Questions to Ask Yourself After a Date

I went through a phase during winter — partially to bulk up anecdotes for Man Repeller, partially to temper Vortex doldrums and mostly because sometimes a girl’s gotta do the damn thing — where I was going on a fair amount of dates. You can hang on to the slow clap, though, because a lot of my friends, both guys and girls, were doing the same exact thing. It was like everyone got bored at the same time. Or maybe Groupon was just really hooking it up with the two-for-one-plus-pasta dish drink specials and we got sick of using those up on our pet fishes. I don’t know. But amid the mass dating phenomenon, it seemed we all had one common thread: the post-date interview via a barrage of texted questions from our fellow inquiring friends.

The five most common were always:

1) “Did you have fun?”

2) “Do you like him/her?”

3) “Did he/she offer to pay?”

4) “Did you makeout after?”

and 5) “Did you more-than-makeout after?”

These were reasonable at first, and easy to answer:

1) Sure I had fun.

2) Um yea, I like him okay — wasn’t aware he had an attached twin that negated a backslash-her situation, but that’s fine!

3) He paid.

4) No, awkward hug/cheek kiss.

5) See #4.

But then the Qs got monotonous. Routine. And they inadvertently became my own measure of what constituted a successful date and therefore, a small but relevant source of anxiety. (For example, my friend Devon once asked if a date of mine ordered appetizers. His reasoning was that if he likes a girl, he orders apps to extend the date. Going forward I will now have a quiet panic attack and probably sit like a paralyzed goat the next time a future date doesn’t suggest we split a fig. Then I will dread the inevitable question: “So, did you guys get apps?”)

This isn’t to say that our journalistic tendencies should evade us. Asking the hard-hitting questions are always important. I just feel there are more pressing issues we can ask ourselves — or more interesting topics we can quiz our friends on — regarding post-date feelings.

My friend Laura pointed out that one should always asks herself, “Was my hair parted correctly during the entirety of the evening?” Anxiety-provoking? No doubt. But the reason he didn’t ask for a second date? Absolutely.

Another crucial question she routinely explores: “Was the person I just sat across and who walked me home so they know where I live potentially, or definitely, insane?”

That seems reasonable. Reasonable and fun!

I frequently ask myself: did that individual, regardless of solid manners and a polite disposition to the waitstaff, have an annoying tick that will later cause me to stab him with a shard of glass?

What about: who told better jokes?

Forget the standard: did he have clean fingernails and non-square-toed-shoes?, and instead opt for: Is he or is he not a future member of the United Association of Desk-Gum Collections? Followed up with: And am I into it?

Is her middle name Danger? Or even more intriguing: does she have a middle name at all?

These suggestions sounds like a joke, and since my brain is involved, they kind of is. But wouldn’t you rather spend more time hanging out with the aforementioned pet fish than waist energy agonizing over whether or not you had kale in your teeth the whole time, or just at the end, and whether or not his drink order-to-bathroom-time ratio signaled his second-date intentions?

No? Ok. Pet fish are kind of lame. So instead why don’t you tell me: what questions should you ask yourself/do you ask yourself — or your friends – after a date?

Original image shot by Chris Craymer for Glamour UK, February 2013.