Leandra Medine's Blog, page 724

What Kind of Butt-Dialer Are YOU?

Butt dialing is a dangerous game — it’s no longer the innocuous accident of early cellphone yore, but rather a ring wrapped up with more potential for anxiety than an unknown number calling the landline while you’re babysitting.

My dad once pocket-dialed his sister. He left one of those muffled crunch crunch slam crunch voicemails that most would identify as a PD but she took to mean: he’d been kidnapped and was trying to call her while bound from the trunk of a car. Once she figured out he was alive, she was furious at him for causing her to panic. Rational? No. But the fault of my reckless pocket-dialing father? Absolutely.

The truth is, we’ve all been purse/pocket/butt dialers at some point in our lives. And we’ve probably almost ruined someone’s day because of it. But as with many problems in life, the first step in finding a solution is addressing the issue. So. Let’s hold hands and get through this together — ready? What kind are you?

Top of the Alphabet Dialer (TAD)

TADS are the most common kind of pocket dialer because phones are logical and apparently asses are too, calling the first few individuals who sit at the top of everyone’s contact list.

But just so you know…you are the bane of all your A-named-friends’ existences.

The FaceTimer

The only thing more awkward than getting a butt-dialed FaceTime call is answering a butt-dialed FaceTime call. It’s like running into someone on the street that you didn’t want to see, and one or both of you is naked.

The Recent Callers-Caller

I get it, easy mistake, you were just on the phone with this person and probably didn’t hang-up properly so your phone immediately called them back. But be careful: because you just spoke, the other person is far likelier to pick up, which means that you have a serious chance of being caught talking shit. And the excuse, “Oh, I was talking about the otherrr Dikembe Mutombo,” usually doesn’t work.

The Possessed

Look. I get it. These phones have a mind of their own and can make a call to the West Indies from your purse when you swore that shit was on lock. It’s not your fault…but the recipient will blame you regardless.

The Cover Artist

If you’ve ever accidentally called someone, and then they’ve answered, you have two options: 1) hang up or 2) attempt to cover it up. “Oh HEY Carol…yes it is strange that we haven’t spoken since I ran over your pet turtle with my lawnmower but you know, I was just wondering what you’ve been up to and thought I’d give ya a little call.” Guys. Be kind. Just hang up.

The Liar

Butt dialing is no joke and using it as an excuse is insensitive. Besides, “Oops! Didn’t mean to butt dial you!” typically does not work when you’ve called your ex a casual 800 times on repeat around 3 AM, unless you’re someone’s grandma, in which case, we defer to “the possessed.”

The Voicemail Leaver

I’ve already illustrated above how leaving a rogue voicemail can be dangerous, but to those 45-and-under, it’s mostly annoying. Checking voicemail is awful. I would rather play frisbee with a steak knife than check mine. Even worse: because no one’s going to open the message for at least 3 weeks, your stupid butt-dial will contribute to his or her iPhone’s acne problem with that god-forsaken red dot signaling, “5 new voicemails!”…from your butt.

The Non-Pocket Dialer

If you’ve never pocket-dialed someone, then you’re probably a highly upstanding and organized citizen who miraculously doesn’t do other common things, like lose one sock in the laundry or forget to shower. Who are you, and can you teach us your ways?

In these sartorially glorious days of pockets-aplenty, where walking around like human kangaroos is a reality, it’s almost impossible not to accidentally butt-dial your boss. Who cares. Everyone does it.

Just pray you don’t fart.

Illustration by Charlotte Fassler

Pockets! They Make the World Go Round

While we’re on the topic of unsung heroes, I would like to address an oft-neglected universal truth about the way women shop. Let me start with a brief quiz.

You’re in a dressing room, right? You’re trying on a dress, or a skirt, or a tube top — yes, a tube top — and thinking to yourself, Self, this is cool. This is great. I am this girl. And yet, something is not right. This could depend on several isolated variables. Maybe it’s the price impeding on your imminent camaraderie. Or the way the hemline is sewn in. Or perhaps there are sleeves that you don’t quite care for. But then, and this is a big then, you reach for the middle of the dress, or the top of the skirt, or the bottom of the tube top and like a thirsty camel who’s just uncovered a water well, you meet salvation. The selling point – the pockets. Do you:

A) Do the pocket dance

B) Forget the things that were holding you back and haul ass to the cash register to buy the item in question

C) Put your hands in the pockets, pose in front of the mirror, love what you see but still refrain from making the purchase

If you answered any of the above, what you’ll notice is that in each scenario, whether or not the transaction met an end point, the pockets were a pleasant surprise — the jelly inside a Jewish powdered donut. The treasure beneath a Marino ice cup. Dare I call them full of sunshine?

They brought you closer to proprietorship.

Unless, of course, you fall into a small pocket (LOL!) that encompasses option D which is not listed above. This option suggests that you don’t care at all in which case, you are exempt from answering the following question:

Why do we like pockets so much? WHY?

Yes, yes, sure, sure, storage is important. Nothing is quite as nice as dipping into your pocket to swiftly pull out your Metro Card or credit card or nickel or dimes, ruling out the wrath of rummaging through the black hole that is your handbag to find that you’ve missed that train, left the credit card at home, and can’t find your nickels or dimes. Ugh!

But there’s something more.

Something…grand.

Maybe it’s about hailing a taxi cab. Maybe it’s not. Interjections welcome.

Thinking About Espadrilles

It is hot outside. So hot, in fact, that even the finest Italian leather sandals are bound to promote the growth of those inevitable heel blisters that seem indigenous to summer — when else is it even possible the bottoms of your feet can contract that much puss? — and always make walking, historically both healthy and enjoyable, frustrating and stressful.

I know this to be true because my feet found themselves in a pair of the aforementioned “fine Italian leather sandals” just yesterday and within just two city blocks — count that, two — the heels of my hooves were no longer hooves. Not that they are ever technically hooves. They were the victims of what seemed like ancient plague lucky #6: boils.

I refuse to allow this to become a new normal. All sorts of weird things are happening to my feet at the ripe age of 25. There are bunions reading to grow out of every direction and sometimes my big toe gets hairy (what?) but if you can’t count on the soles of your feet — the very foundation of your literal ability to stand — what can you count on, really?

In lieu of leather sandals and even sneakers and definitely boots, but in addition to clogs at large, this summer, I’m putting my money on espadrilles.

Reference points to construct the full look will include: Alexa Chung in denim shorteralls and again in jeans plus a striped t-shirt, one Italian man Charlotte showed me on Pinterest dressed in blue linen suiting, any version of a Riviera that de facto calls itself a Riviera and the fact that if I just wear them with my most reliable pair of denim cut offs with some version of a t-shirt every single day, that will be totally, totally okay.

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Resort All Stars

Rosetta Getty told Style.com, on the topic of her second ready-to-wear collection, “I want to make clothes that I need in my life, for my lifestyle.” 

Evidently, this meant silk robe-style coats and mustard colored walking shorts and chambray gown skirts, white poplin crew necks and tops that could also function as dresses. To the naked eye, this is the kind of clothing that does not lend itself to a universally acknowledged or endured lifestyle. That one should need an emerald green duster or strappy white tank top that appears to compliment black underwear spectacularly means what about her lifestyle?

But if you look through the collections of several relatively-to-brand new designers, you will find a common string that both separates them and brings them together. This string is a new mode of dress that appears complicated on the one hand (thanks to a slew of hard-to-pronounce fabrics and smart colors that push a woman out of her comfort zone) but easy on the other.

By nature of the flattering weight and novel silhouettes, the clothes present  no fuss, no unintended drama and no implications of impostor aspiration about them. They’re just honest.

That and wearable.

Take, for example, the offerings of Ryan Lobo and Ramon Martin’s label, Tome. There are voluminous culottes, even larger jackets and skirts that deserve their own zip codes. There are Sleeves with a capital S. There is a marigold jumpsuit and one really shiny, really cool pink metallic rain coat.

Adam Lippes, with his skillful use of clean lines and layers understands that a woman’s waist is one of her stronger suits and that she never, ever wants to change out of her favorite cotton striped pajama pants.

Maiyet echoes a similar sentiment, infusing with it the flavor of French sophistication, which successfully reports you can wear an elaborate tea-length dress and run around, or baggy, baggy pants and still look so feminine. Of course, no one really says that quite as well as Wes Gordon does, who, with his pencil skirts and unassumingly airy blouses has redefined what 9 to 5, or 7 to midnight-cool can look like.

You might not find that these items fit the bill of ordinary, everyday must-haves, but that’s probably because you haven’t tried them.

If you do, you’ll find that wearing them to your kid’s soccer practice works just as well as the jeans you’ve had since 1985 do. They’re just as comfortable as the sweatshirt you’ve been wearing night in and out to the library to study and they’re certainly as presentable as the floral dresses you’ve allocated toward time with your family.

The difference is, chiefly, that they’re not scrappy and they’re not old. They’re elevated. They accurately and maybe a little more beautifully celebrate who we are instead of who we think we want to be, which is more often than not an ambitiously distorted vision cloaked in heavy sequins and that sense not of me but of, perhaps, one day, this may be me.

So maybe we’re finally coming to realize that to be ourselves could mean a very quotidian sense of glamour, or maybe we’ve just come to terms with another truth worth reiterating as many times as need be heard: there is nothing wrong with who we are presently and our fashion choices should reflect that.

Weddiquette

There inevitably comes a time in every woman’s summer when, regardless of her early-spring due diligence (pre-emptive save-the-dates, developing carpel tunnel, etc.) she finds herself at the wedding she swore she wouldn’t attend.

Nine times out of ten, it will be on a holiday weekend. Eight times out of ten, plus-ones won’t be permitted. Seven times out of ten it will involve a confusing dress code, and ten times out of ten, guests will have to pretend that there is nowhere in the world they would rather be than sweating on a rented chair while watching bridesmaids hike up their strapless chiffon dresses and clapping as two people change their official Facebook status IRL.

But with adulthood comes great responsibility, i.e., acting polite in social settings. In layman terms this is known as “sucking it up.” In lay-man repeller terms, it’s also known as “sucking it up,” but comes packed with a guide of do’s, don’ts, and survival how-to’s:

Do: Practice your fake-cry beforehand

Learning to gently cry on command will help you to appear emotionally invested in your twice-removed-family-member’s happiness and will cause guests to make such comments, “She is just the most empathetic and kind human being I have ever known,” and “Wow, I’ve never seen such a pretty crier before.” The day isn’t about you, but little moments can be.

Do not: Wear waterproof mascara

Streaks equal drama. (But snot means you’ve gone overboard, calm down.)

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Do:  Pack an adult Lunchable 

There is nothing worse than realizing you are hungry at the beginning of a wedding ceremony. Actually, realizing you have to pee is worse, but potential hunger is easier to take a preemptive strike on. Choose a clutch that is large enough to fit a granola bar, a flask (although these can be strapped to your prosthetic or real leg), and a to-go slice of cake post-reception.

Do not: Forget there is a slice of post-reception cake in your clutch.

It’s fun when you make a cake discovery at 4 AM. It is not so fun two weeks later.

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Do: Creatively eschew the plus-zero rule

Being denied a plus one can be devastating to those with separation anxiety or anti-new-friendship policies (see: Drake). To get around this, wear a skirt long enough to host at least one friend. I’d suggest cotton, so that they can breathe.

Do not: Subject your hidden guest to the actual ceremony

Or the boring “cocktail hour” (which is wedding-code for “what the fuck are the bride and groom doing that takes an hour for them to arrive at the reception?”). ONLY bring your guest to the party. A dance floor is typically the less awkward scenario for a human to crawl out of your skirt.

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Do: Find alternates to throwing rice

I like glitter. Or sand.

Do not: abide by the “one year to get a gift” rule

You will never, ever, remember to get the couple a gift if you don’t bring it to the wedding, and mark my word, they are keeping track. “John, that’s so strange. We got everything on our list except the paella pan.” “That’s because Amelia is a life ruiner.”

Note: this is a creative and cheap (though not fail-proof) way to not get invited to other weddings. If you’re avoiding one on Labor Day, DO abide by the above rule and then start a rumor about yourself and your lack of gift giving.

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Do: Dance with a family member of the bride or groom

It’s undeniably charming and a surefire way to get in the wedding album.

Do not: Publicly dance-floor-make-out with a family member of the bride or groom

Even though it’s also undeniably charming and a surefire way to get in the wedding album…it’s just not good etiquette.

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How to Wear Clogs

Some great things about clogs: they’re comfortable; they do this neat thing to your ankles, which makes them look more like pigeon limbs than human limbs; a lot of them are from The Netherlands, thus rendering them worldlier than you. And they also allow for you to strike that fashion-revered, imperfect balance of perfectly in/formal — much the way sneakers do.

But here’s the other thing about clogs: they’re still way too naive to be adopted as a material pundit of normcore the way the latter genre of footwear has. So, if your outfit is your own personal America, it is my belief that clogs can be your international leader.

What?

Here are some ways I wear mine.

Photographed against The Bowery Mural, you’ll find what I call The Tribeca Mom Way. I am wearing a Rachel Comey jean jacket over a Vika Gazinskaya x & Other Stories cotton poplin blouse and high waist Acne jeans. I look like am going to pick my daughter up from school on the corner of White Street and I’m holding a backpack to make her feel like we are experiencing education together. She made me that daisy ring. Isn’t she the best?

Second, you will find the man-I-wish-I-was-on-a-beach-but-I-guess-pavement-will-do way of wearing clogs. It is not rare that you will find a misplaced New Yorker dressed like she’s half on her way to the beach, half on her way to an industrial power lunch and I think that’s what makes us so quizzical(ly special). Sure, I could have opted for sandals that would have sealed the nail in the coastal coffin. Don’t clogs just seem to bring this white linen off the shoulder blouse and burlap underwear shorts right on back down to Second Avenue? The shorts are Sally LaPointe, the sunglasses are Illesteva.

Third we have the Leandra way which I am only calling that because I don’t know why anyone else would conceal an intricately sewn, spectacularly feminine white lace mini dress – ostensibly made for a bride, though fit for a city — with a linen blazer but I do know why I did it.

Double breast-uh-ses are my breakfast and it is 9AM.

Finally, we have The Bonus Round which features not the previous 3-inch high Swedish Hasbeen clogs but instead a pair of 6-inch clogs replete with tassel and all. These typically pair nicely with at least two layers of denim, hence the Rachel Comey shorts and the now infamous Acne men’s jacket, and a blouse that can be injected with helium and make its wearer fly away.

If You’re Thinking About Birkenstocks, Consider the Madrid

Kale and Birkenstocks must have one thing in common: a really, really good publicist.

How else would the two rather unassuming enigmas have become as popular as they have within the realm of fashion if not for the aid of a truly trailblazing and unapologetic ball buster? Kale is being used in ice pops and on jewelry and in smoothies and on sweatshirts which are all as equal parts au courant as, say, a piercing is — not to mention Man Repeller has covered the calciferous green at least as many times as we have the concept of style in the last year and change.

As far as Birkenstocks are concerned, need I even really mention Phoebe Philo or Kate Moss or Giambattista Valli and so forth again? That’s a trick question because I already did but you get the point. To really drive the point home, here are three dedicated stories that have been published in the span of the last year.

First, there was On Birkenstocks.

Then, there was On Ugly Shoes, Again.

As recently as April, there was The Birkenstock Debate, and today, there is an answer to the question posed on the end of that post (“Should I get them?”), and that answer is yes.

But only if you’re going to consider the double strap’s determinately chicer older sister, The Madrid. It looks a little bit more like it’s fresh off a boat sailing through the French Riviera and a lot less like the remaining spoils of the last Woodstock festival.

What you’ll find in the slideshow above are the sandals styled three different ways by three different girls starting with me, who wore them with a denim-looking Acne shirt, replete with back side cut out, and 70s style flare leg jeans by MiH. The handbag is Chloe and the sunglasses are Illesteva.

While I let my ass run free as it does, Amelia covered hers with a Madewell striped shirt. She also wore a white sweater from Topshop and old jeans by 7FAM. Charlotte let her inner-Row girl out with a mid length dress from Reformation and a sweater by Vince.

When all was said and done, we three agreed that the shoes were more comfortable than the double straps (which, admittedly, we’d all tried at least once) and I, personally, liked that I felt like I was heading toward a ladies locker room to take a shower with every step I took.

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Now, will you try the Madrid? Frankly, it’s a wonderful way to remain on the fringe of a trend without pouring your entire body in the pool that is, I’m sorry for saying this, basic-ally Normcore.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Braid Your Hair

The Farmer’s Almanac predicts that this summer is going to be “oppressively hot and humid for the New York area.” Doesn’t that sound fun? Doesn’t that sound especially fun for your hair? 

My hair likes to do this cool thing where the area around my forehead and ears explodes into curls while the middle section flatlines, then the back ripples as though I’ve sent it through a large-pronged crimper. The best thing it does, however, is create tight bundles of tangles right at the nape of my neck that can only come undone with the help of a razor and so, by the end of the summer, I more or less have an under-shave that I didn’t ask for. 

Your hair probably goes rogue too. Maybe you frizz. Maybe you fuzzle. Maybe your straight hair stands on ends and your curly hair taps out, or, if you’re like Leandra, this happens:

Which is totally great. I think big hair is awesome. My own motto is the higher the hair, the closer to heaven.

BUT. Should you need a respite from the heat, from the frizz, from the unruly curls and all of the completely out of control rat’s nests living underneath your mane that you do not, for the fifth summer in a row, feel like cutting off — try braids.

At Kenzo’s Resort preview this week, models sported reverse-French braids in sets of 4. It looked fresh, athletic and unfussy. Simone Rocha, Marchesa and Tibi sent braided manes down their Fall 2014 runways as well, and I’ve been in the mood for woven plaits ever since. Luckily for me/you/us, my mom has been braiding my hair since I was old enough to grow it, and I quickly learned her technique by way of my trusty American Girl Doll horse who never once complained that I was pulling too hard.

And now you too can “get the look.” All you need is a brushed, slightly dirty head of hair, a comb, and hair ties of your choice. (By all means do this when you’re freshly scrubbed as well, but I find it harder to grip.)

Step one: Divide the hair with a comb into however many sections you want to braid. Secure each section with a tie to keep the extra hair out of your way. I’m doing 4 braids on Esther, a la Kenzo Resort.

Step two: Take one section, and divide that into three sections. Begin as you would with a regular braid, only instead of crossing OVER, we’re crossing under. Begin with the left side, cross it under so it becomes the middle strand. Then cross the right side under that piece to become the middle. Repeat twice — left, then right.

Step three three: Begin gathering a little bit of hair with the left side. The point is to start anchoring the braid down to the head. Cross it under, just like we did in step 2. Now grab a little bit of hair with the right side. Cross it under. I’m doing all of this in the gif below.

Repeat the pattern, tightening as you go. When you reach the nape of the neck, continue the braid going back to the old method: left under center so that it becomes center, right under center so that it becomes center.

Et voila.

Now it’s your turn. Think you’ll try this hairstyle? Or do you have a better alternative? Tell us, tweet us, put comments in the pictures, throw pecans in the air, ride an ostrich, etc.

Let’s all say a big thanks to our model Esther who, like my American Girl Doll horse, didn’t really complain either, and our intern Krista Lewis on the kick drum! Aka she took the pictures!

Scrunchies: Then and Now

The last thing the Internet needs is another throwback to 90′s memorabilia, but it was on a trip down powered-by-Buzzfeed memory lane that I stumbled across a photo of Cressida Bonas rocking a scrunchie so imperfectly perfect that it propelled me to bid the majority of my black elastic hairbands adieu.

The image left me on a wild goose chase, hunting down scrunchies and their muses. After about 60 sublime minutes of Pinterest-scouring, I had to metaphorically slap myself across the face and ask the question: what is it about the scrunchie that heats the loins as it does?

For close to two years, the fashion industry has been teasing the return of the scrunchie. After Cara Delevingne and Suki Waterhouse modeled for the label My Crazy Scrunchie, Vivienne Westwood commissioned the brand to design a few looks for her Spring/Summer runway show. And the Instagram account, #scrunchiesofinstagram, whose bio reads, “SCRUNCHTASTIC! Championing the return of the scrunchie, one scrunchie at a time” has close to 2,000 followers. Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez, Lisa Kudrow and, of course, Michelle Tanner, are just a few of the enigmas who have graced the account’s page.

There is sentimentality attached to the hair tie. When I reach for my fabric-covered elastic friend, I do so not only with the intention of tying half of my hair into a Samurai bun, but also in commemoration of all of my preteen friends who’ve paved the scrunchie path. Would I really be inclined to listen to Clarissa try and explain it all had she not been so effortlessly sporting her side pony/half bun galore? Probably not. And what about Napoleon Dynamite’s Deb?

Would the Bell have been Saved if not for Lisa, Kelly, and Jessie’s repeat offenses?

Let it be known, Olsen twins. We know where your hair has been.

No doubt scrunchies are on the brink of peaking again, but is this just another case of irony trumping earnest intention? Or are we on our way out of a minimalist renaissance, reaching for the protective, slightly experimental, and wholly playful bands of 80s lore?

Enduring The Flame of Rosie Assoulin

It is so hard to divorce the consumer that I am by virtue of loving clothes from the critic I would like to be by virtue of wanting to talk about clothes. Never does it seem as difficult to separate these respective churches from their states, though, as it does when I’m up against a collection like the most recent of Rosie Assoulin.

Never mind the gowns, or gown tops, with their hand painted stripes in phenomenal color pairings and quirky, backside nuances that confirm it: making an entrance is impressive, but making an exit is monumental.

Never mind the lengths, which don’t let women feel like lesser versions of themselves with the generous space they provide to let legs be legs. You don’t even have to mind the salient details – a cargo pocket here, a dramatic sleeve there.

The I have to have you feeling that Assoulin provides comes from an intimate connection. It leaves your jaw slacked open, your stomach aflutter and your finger tips clenching the inside of your pockets, and this has very little to do with shapes or colors or lengths.

Because her ability to take quotidian silhouettes (like a marled knit or a men’s classic board short) and not revolutionize them, but evolve them (with slits across the shoulders or through a fabric like faille) is where the real talent lays. Assoulin knows how to strike a connection between the wearer and her clothes — to make the wearer feel like she is being hugged and arguably more importantly like she never needs to change.

Out of her clothes or her ideals.

How could it be that such crisp, unassuming but chiefly new garments like pink wide leg cotton pants — vaguely reminiscent of pajamas, or a white shirt dress with a navy blue breast-sache, or green cargo board shorts could make a woman who has never known them before also make her question how she’s been living without them?

They say you can’t un-see things and they’re right but at least, when it comes to fashion, you can have them.