Leandra Medine's Blog, page 727

Are You a Man Repeller?

Ah, the existential crisis. We’ve all experienced at least one moment of inner panic while shouting “Who am I?” at the mirror, only to find our own reflections mocking us by shouting the same thing back, like a well-synced version of Garth and Kat. And how annoying is this? Our reflections should at least have the decency to be like, “Hey idiot. You’re you. Here’s a name tag and a Sharpie so you don’t forget again.”

“What am I doing here,” is another question that we tend to ask ourselves. (Although, if you woke up on a stranger’s couch it’s probably better if you ask questions later and focus on leaving before they wake up.) These life-queries are often associated with the search for deeper, inner meaning — for answers that can’t be found on Google.

Sometimes, though, every once in a while, the hard-hitting questions can actually be solved with a simple infographic.

Don’t you just feel like you get it. All of it. Now?

Oh! And by the way, you probably are on either way but wasn’t this much more fun than doing work?

Illustration by Becky Murphy

The Super Marché

The only thing worse than the end of a holiday weekend that promised no sun at all but subsequently delivered a generous helping of just that, is the beginning of a work week that offers no promise save for one distant, fractured allusion that the Fourth of July is right around the corner. And may or may not be adapted into a musical starring Helga G. Pataki.

On the bright side, I suppose, at least this means summer may actually be rearing its shiny-ass head to smile upon all of us while we embark on a journey I like to call, Paste to Poop: An Expedition Through Skin Tones.

Still, though, that means nothing about this particular moment in time. The pesky Present, with a capital P. I’d imagine that your head is pounding while you think to yourself, did I forget how to read?

I’m right there with you.

So in the interest of assuaging this anxiety we’re facing together, forget the words and just watch this series of videos as produced with Nina Ricci over the course of the last fashion week. I extended my take on their classic, best-selling Marché bag and if I may, I’d like to start calling it a Super Marché bag.

We started in Paris with Ricci’s creative director, Peter Copping.

Then went to Italy, where the bags are handmade in the most delightful factory just south of Milan.

And just like Drake, now we here.

In New York.

The handbag will be available for purchase in a limited quantity soon on Net-a-Porter, but until then why don’t you just sit back, relax and judge me for wearing checkered suede shoes with an orange cap toe and a corporate-blue-meets-fiesta-down-below blouse by No.21 (I have never in my life said no to black beads that could be mistaken for cockroaches and don’t plan to start now) over an acid green slip dress, over a pair of ripped jeans and under a pair of knickers that say “Friday” even though it’s Tuesday.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Let’s go get a drink.

Part of a collaboration with Nina Ricci

Beach Babes

I live my life by one simple tenet and that is, to do what makes me feel good.

Sometimes that means Australian Licorice, which really shouldn’t call itself licorice, at 7:30AM on Friday (what?) and other times that means wearing a silk scarf wrapped around my head, concealing the entirely of my face as a nod to both Maison Martin Margiela and Kanye West. Where this tenet loses its precursor — simplicity — is when I start to consider the bathing suit.

See, I like bathing suits romantically. They are cool in theory, much the same way that ass-less pants are. Would I like a pair? Sure. They’re an unconventional take on the fragmented homage to the Old West running through fashion right now. And my butt could use a respite from its perennial state of cloaked. Realistically speaking though, what happens when I need to sit down? On the subway? What if my caffeine intake incites a burning case of the runs? What if, by some fault not of my own, I come upon someone else in ass-less chaps and we’re forced to do the bump and grind?

Romantically, a bathing suit seems to evince the spirit of living well. They’re like the physical manifestation of effortlessness. It’s just that when I put one on, it’s all wrong. There are too few layers to account for something I love to do: speak with clothes, not words.

Bathing suits, at least as I have come to know them, aren’t like the sentences that sometimes t-shirts and high waist pants and an interesting pair of shoes can be. They’re just a benign comma that does nothing to the syntax of dressing but what with Memorial Day Weekend on the very imminent horizon and a slideshow of bathing suits chock full of personality in tow, I plan to change that. Rectification effective immediately.

Let me just first finish this purchase on a pair of ass-less pants.

If You Give a Mouse a Faux Tan

The old story goes that if you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk. And that glass of milk is going to remind him of a song, which will remind him of the Jonas Brothers, and then he’ll want to visit New Jersey, or something like that. Who can remember. (If you can remember, remind me.) The point is that one thing triggers another, causing a chain reaction of events until the mouse is finally – finally – satiated.

I mean, he’s very high maintenance for a rodent.

But the same exact thing happens to me while I’m shopping online, and after reading Mattie’s story about her spray tan, it reminded me that I forgot to get mine for this weekend. Then it reminded me I need a new body scrub, and that meant a new loofah, and then a new lotion, and then it all spiraled….

Yes, the weather’s going to be shit, but still, I demand to be bronzed. With less than 24 hours to subtly brown myself, zero appointments available at Benefit (best spray tan award in my book if you have one near you), and despite my own self-described D.I.Y anxiety, I’m going to have to do this myself. Who’s with me?

So first thing’s first I’m the realest. Second thing’s first is we need to PREP. OUR. SKIN. If you don’t prep, you will be sorry. I apologize for threatening you but if you skip this step you’ll be threatening me later on when you look like a tiger and not in a good way. How do we prep? EXFOLIATION NATION.

If you wax, do it a day before, if you shave, do it right before applying tanner. Two super important notes: 1) shaving is exfoliating, so skip the scrub where you’ve shaved otherwise your legs will feel like they have a UTI. 2) Skip anything oil-based. Oil and faux tanner have drama with each other, and the oil will lesson the tan’s effect.

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After you’ve scrubbed, dry off completely and apply lotion to the bottoms of your feet, your hands, and I what I like to call the Alien Areas: aka, your weenuses, the creepy bendy spot between heel and ankle, and your knees.

HERE IS SOMETHING I DO: I take a towel and wipe the lotion off my knees right after applying. That way only a little tan absorbs there — you don’t want it to look like you tanned with knee pads on, after all — but because it’s a dry area you want to make sure it’s hyper moisturized. Dryness = orange-u-glad-it’s-too-cold-to-wear-shorts-yet.

Now we tan. Never, ever, tan without a mit. This sponge glove will be your new skin color’s BFF because it offers even-application and eliminates orange paws. PRO TIP: stick your hand in a sandwich baggie, then put it inside the mit because often, a little solution will filter through.

As far as product goes, I swear by San Tropez. I use the foam when I need an emergency, immediate tan. I use the spray to maintain, or when I just want a little “glow.” (One layer, though guys. All you need is one layer.) The best part about San Tropez is when people ask, “Whoa, you wheredya get that tan?” You can be like, “Tan Tropez.” And it’s not a lie!

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If you’re freaked about tanning, Jergins is ye old standby, and I honestly believe them when they say their new formula smells less. Less. The evil truth is that all tanners smell a bit like bread, but a lot of people like bread, so.

If you’ve tanned the night before, I recommend taking an AM shower. You’ll see some tanner run off — don’t worry, that’s the top coat. And besides, if you’re as white as I am, you want to look believably tan, not tangerine.

Once you’re officially sunkissed (but not sun-slobbered if you’ve followed my instructions!), a light touch with the makeup is key. All you need (if anything) is a tinted moisturizer, a dual cheek/lip tint, maybe a touch of powder bronzer (go easy on this, Baxter) and waterproof mascara.

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Last but not least, it’s important to remember that a faux tan does not eliminate you from getting burned.

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Sunscreen is still your friend, and hopefully, if your tan turned out well, then so am I.

Making Your Own Luck

I have accepted two theories as unobjectionable truths about fine jewelry.

The first is that people are always looking to tell or hear about the ornament in question. Just last week, someone I barely know asked me to share the tale of the unassuming gold coin I wear around my neck. But how did she know there was a story and furthermore that I was willing to share it? Of course, there was one. And I did want to tell it, but the question is still worth asking.

The second is that we tend to tether superstitious superlatives to the pieces we either really love or really hate. Because my grandmother once fell and hurt her shoulder while wearing an opal ring, she believes the stone to be unlucky. My mom, on the other hand, was proposed to while wearing a pearl brooch and to this day, she keeps the curio in close proximity in spite of how ugly it is.

Sometimes, it seems, it’s just not enough to love a necklace because you love it, so you make it special. And while I’m genetically inclined to shun whatever ring I happen to have on the next time I injure myself, it is my elected, though not bromidic belief that I create my own good fortune. Don’t you remember Hilary Duff’s critically acclaimed 2004 hit, Raise Your Voice?

I don’t either, but Charlotte just brought to my attention that in one scene, Duff flips a penny and then says something platitudinal like “What, haven’t you ever heard of making your own luck?”

She then drops the mic both literally and figuratively and we never hear from her again but I digress.

The point is simply that we should be able to manufacture our own talismans of fortune. Never mind the four leaf clover or the rabbit’s foot, or General Mills’ Lucky Charms even though they are so, so good. As would be the case, Cartier has facilitated my theory with the most recent launch of their Amulette, a small, round disc-of-a-pendant that opens and closes as you please to contain with your wishes and unlock as you see fit. 

If you want, you can say that it’s the modern, more luxurious interpretation of those glass bottles that came with a piece of rice inside with something minuscule written on them, but a necklace is so much prettier.

Part 1 of 1 in collaboration with Cartier. Valentino pants, Céline blouse and Mykita sunglasses.

Do-It-Yourself Anxiety

Ketchup ruins lives. It’s the most stupid condiment ever, not because of taste (which is almost as universally beloved as Funfetti frosting), but because its sole mission in life is to drip off whatever food you’re eating and land directly on to white. Any white. It is a sniper, and the color or lack thereof is its target.

One would think that I’d have learned by now to not wear anything brand new on ketchup-abundance day, but when danger is your middle name and responsible for the right-side initial of your monogram, you really have no choice but to make reckless decisions — like eating a burger, hands free, as a joke, while wearing a favorite winter purchase.

Is that what happened to my prized Être Cécile sweatshirt? Maybe yes, maybe no. I don’t like to put labels on things or point the blame. The fact of the matter is, however, that despite three washings and spot treating with bleach, the sweatshirt was marked just enough that I couldn’t wear it again.

But I couldn’t throw it out either — I’d spent too much money and only wore it on Instagram once. I’m also partially a hoarder. So after finding myself inspired by Charlotte’s patchwork DIY and the general attitude on Pinterest that anything is possible with a glue gun and a smile, I decided to take a stab at repurposing the ketchuped knit.

The first step was to consult Google: “What to do with stain sweatshirt,” typed my caveman alter ego. Various things came up, like adding a pattern over the offending spot, plus tie dying, screen printing, french braiding, freeze papering (?) — the Internet needs to calm down. I settled on what I thought was the easiest option and decided I’d make a pillow from the sweatshirt’s repurposed fabric. Oh Amelia, you stupid fool.

“I make stuff,” author David Rakoff once wrote about the meditative peace he experienced while crafting. “It’s an itch, a compulsion that comes over me when I pass by a sidewalk piled with particulary good garbage…the inability to to look at something without wanting to somehow make it into something else.” It’s how he explains the divide between two types of people in this world: those who craft, and those who don’t.

I realized which type of person I am halfway through begrudgingly gathering old socks to act as the stuffing for my pillow.

First and foremost, I am the type who thinks staples are a good alternative to a sewing machine. The only scissors I could find were the ones I trim my eyebrows with (…). The reason I was opting for old socks in the first place is because the craft store that carried actual pillow stuffing required a subway transfer, and I am definitely not the kind of person who will wait for the crosstown shuttle just to get “supplies.” I’d say my overall effort took 15 minutes of complaining and about 5 minutes of self-doing before deciding that actually, I could probably just live with the stain.

Pinterest, despite its sunny disposition and lovely fonts, is really just pickled self-doubt in a mason jar. Sealed with a grosgrain ribbon.

I am not a craftsman. In my side of the world, a pillow is made in a pillow factory and ruined sweatshirts get repurposed no further than to the exercise drawer. Patches appear on jeans because a designer put them on there for me. The thrill of doing it yourself is just that — self accomplishment — but I’m the type of person who’s more entertained by eating a burger sans hands, regardless of any casualties imparted by that stupid, stupid condiment.

Tanning Queen

Two weeks ago, I experienced spiritual enlightenment. The revelation did not require meditation or prayer or a juice cleanse. But it did demand that I strip off all my clothes, hold my breath, and allow a complete stranger to mist my naked body from head to toe.

On a quiet Monday in May, I got a spray tan. I now feel certain that my life will never be the same.

I had toyed with the idea of such artificial enhancement before. It was fun to think, “What if?” Like another person might have idly debated the placement of a delicate tattoo or the particulars of a subtle piercing, I wondered about spray tans. Hypothetically, of course.

I have always been pale. Many years before Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton made our ghostly complexion into a kind of high-fashion statement, I came to accept fair skin as my bright-white lot in life. It wasn’t easy. To protect my prone-to-sunburn pallor, my mother insisted not only that I slather myself in sunscreen by the pool, but also that I swim in an oversize cotton t-shirt. When I complained, she assured me that milky skin was a sign of aristocracy: “Think of Elizabeth I!”

I considered my sopping wet graphic tee and the neon flotation devices that left angry welts on my arms. How regal.

Still, I doused myself in Coppertone and dutifully toweled off in the shade. After all, I had learned my lesson. I had tried tanning once. I burnt my legs so badly I couldn’t wear pants for two weeks.

The truth is, pallor suits me. It is elegant and refined and requires more maintenance than you would believe. It is academic — in a way. It suggests I spend an intelligent number of hours in libraries and earns me compliments at my dermatologist. For years, I resisted the siren song of fake tanners. They seemed disingenuous. They smelled bad. I once knew a girl who swore by them. She looked like a carrot.

But then I planned a trip to Portugal with one of my best friends. We’re truly kindred-skinned spirits — we even use the same shade of Nars tinted moisturizer. It’s called “Finland.” We were headed to the Algarve with two olive-skinned friends who, we were certain, would caramelize within minutes of our arrival. It was so unfair! So unjust! They would return from holiday and look like Gisele. We would more closely resemble the Pillsbury Doughboy.

So I dared her. “Let’s get spray tans.”

Five minutes later, we’d booked ourselves back-to-back appointments for “Beaubronz” treatments. She made me go first.

Eager to leave a lifetime of pastiness behind, I donned a paper thong and stepped into a small plastic tent. Then a soft-spoken lady exfoliated my elbows and knees, asked me whether I wanted to be “a one, a two, or a three,” and proceeded to spray every inch of me with amber liquid.

Do you think Narcissus used Jergens Natural Glow? That would explain a lot.

For the next three days, we admired ourselves in every reflective surface. We looked down at our chemical-kissed limbs in awe. Spray tans — I soon discovered — were made for Snapchat. Nudism suddenly made a lot of sense. So did dancing in my underwear, which my skin-twin and I did for approximately two hours late one night.

After a few blissful mornings and sandy afternoons, the tan faded. While I was sorry to see it go, I know it will not be my last. I never wanted to be royalty anyway.

How To Tie a Neck Scarf

The art of tying a neck scarf isn’t so much an art as it is an act of passion and conviction. Will you, in spite of incrementally warmer weather continue to endorse The Cloaked Neck or will you jump off the deep end, ready to bare your deepest-v’s and triangular top halves in anticipation of the sun kiss that comes with late May and its blooms?

In the event you still fancy yourself a member of the tea party (get it? Me neither!), here’s a video tutorial for you detailing three ways to tie a neck scarf plus a bonus that I seriously don’t want to ruin for you with words. Because where words fail, video documentation rarely does.

So sit back, relax, watch and then mosey over to the comment section to either be like, WTF, Leandra? Or, why is Amelia running like a snail on acid toward you? Etc.

Video by Dani Girdwood & Adriana Banta. Isabel Marant top, A.P.C jeans, Newbark slippers. 

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Shoesday Special: Finding the Perfect Pair of Summer Sandals

I have had it up to here (you can’t see me, technically, but I am pointing my left hand at the tippy top of my head to signify the high level of frustration with which I have been plagued) with long lists of perfect summer shoes.

Don’t get me wrong, I like a list just as much as any other self-respecting woman who has read Joan Didion’s Packing List from within Slouching Toward Bethlehem, but when I say I want the perfect summer shoes, I mean just one pair. Just one pair. I’m not trying to buy or even see the best 265 best as intoned by [insert women's publication here]. I just want one.

That said, I have found myself engulfed in the same conundrum about shoes for at least the three summers. The conundrum doesn’t predate those seasons because I was too stupid to understand that what I wanted was a pair of multifunctional shoes as opposed to more clothes. So what constitutes this multi-functionality? I think I’ve finally figured it out and there are several variables to consider.

Firstly, it’s important to note that when I get dressed, I really, really try to look like I let two people dress me. One from the waist up and another from the neck down. Sometimes I isolate body parts (like my feet, face, etc) and have those dressed by third parties, but never do I ever allow myself to look like one, definitive thing. During the winter, I teeter more closely toward masculine clothes which lead way to my wearing feminine shoes. Think ballet mid-heels and pumps and dainty boots if there is such a thing. In the summer, however, all I want to do is throw a white poplin mini dress on every single day, or some version of that white linen/lace Isabel Marant is always rolling out and call it a look.

And that doesn’t work with flimsy feminine shoes, now does it? So what do I do? In the past, I’ve relied on sneakers. As recently as Sunday, I relied on brogues. But you know what I think this all boils down to? A dynamic pair of gladiator style sandals that don’t quite know they’re gladiators. Sure, Stuart Weitzman’s offerings are near impeccable, but there’s something about impeccability that doesn’t quite sit right with me. And those gladiators know they could take on Russell Crowe, know what I’m saying?

This summer, I think I’m going to rely on this pair, by Ancient Greek Sandals (in collaboration with Carven). They’re not too high on the leg, nor are they too low (though if you prefer little guys, they come as a foot sandal too). They allow for a prosaic white dress to look cooler but whisper in their tonal nude as opposed to yell the way some of their relatives do.

Also of note: they’re appropriate for trouser shorts, booty shorts, cargo shorts (which, help me God, I think might be on the cusp of A Moment), diarrhea shorts and mini skirts.

And where denim cut-offs are concerned, that’s what last decade’s ballet flats are for. Duh, duh, duh and duh. Sold. To the lady in face paint.

Canal Street Florals

“Are those real or fake?”

I clapped my hands over my mouth after the horrifying question had already flown off my tongue. You don’t just ask someone if her flowers are real or not.

If I were a less-rude person I might have tried to quietly determine their mortality by digging my thumbnail into the leaves. If it left a sappy mark, I’d have my answer. Since I was raised in a literal barn, however, I accidentally vocalized what the rest of us were thinking and thus my poor manners exposed the flowers and my friend.

Usually I can spot a faux orchid from a mile away (pro tip: if they’re dead, they’re real — no one can keep those asshole flowers alive). But I wanted to be sure because these fakes were particularly convincing. Their bright white petals stretched outward while the pink and yellow centers puckered up like lemon-faces, yet it was their decidedly un-plastic green stems that tricked me.

My next question was, “Where did you get them?”

Fake flowers aren’t anything to be ashamed of. I, for one, am not waking up at 5 AM to visit the local flower market so I can pick out the freshest begonias of the season. (Mostly because I have no clue what a begonia is, also because I’m not spending more on plants than dinner.) But for some reason there seems to be a quiet stigma attached to them…similar to the idea of wearing a knockoff designer bag from NYC’s notorious Canal street.

Maybe it’s because floral arrangements are currently “the new food” of the fashion world — a trend I’ve gleaned via Instagram wherein peony center pieces are now posted with fervency once reserved for macarons. And it makes sense when you consider fashion and flowers’ similarities: Instagram being one, the fact that trends and flowers die almost as quickly as they’re posted, being number two. Both are for pure aesthetic pleasure; they’re extensions of emotion and mood. To style a bouquet, Leandra pointed out, takes just as much skill as a perfectly layered outfit. And mark my words — there are judges of taste in both arenas.

Will the Suzy Menkes of the flower world please stand up.

My own fauxrchid anxiety stemmed from that of an old boss. She was very, very chic and devastatingly stylish, and she cringed at the thought of orchids’ fabric variety. When she had her second baby and I wanted to send her flowers in congratulations, the amount of panic that went into selecting the right arrangement felt as if I’d forgotten to study for my final exam in botany.

I clearly failed.

Upon my suggestion of a certain bloom-on-bloom-pairing, the florist assisting me raised her eyebrow so high that it was almost as if I’d asked her: “Your boobs. Are they real, or are they fake?”

I ended up dropping 200 dollars on my boss (who was worth it) and a bouquet that may have very well not been. Because while I can determine various shades of runway green, my own thumb remains a rather pathetic flesh tone. I’d love to be the woman practically drowning in vases of cherry blossoms and tulips, but I’m probably a lot more apt to splurge on designer shoes, all while relishing in the fact that I got my orchids from Zara.