Leandra Medine's Blog, page 729

On Trend: Food

Since Kale was due to retire its crown this year, I surveyed all of my friends on what would be the “it” vegetable of 2014. Swiss chard was the consensus, with a few people thinking cauliflower might be due for a comeback.

There is nothing new about food and diet crazes: TV dinners were the epitome of “modern” in the 1950s; Julia Child introduced French technique to the American middle class in the 1960s; Chinese food became popular during the 1980s; and at some time during the 1990s, sushi made its way to our shores and we’ve been hooked ever since.

Right now we’re in the golden age of health food. Generations from now our descendants will marvel at how we consumed so much chopped salad while wearing corset-like yoga pants. My friend Lara and I will likely end up in a rehabilitation center for an addiction to smoothies. Just yesterday I texted her, “My Vitamix is my wife, but my Magic Bullet is my mistress,” referring to the mini-blender I keep at my office.

Like many of my contemporaries, a good amount of my disposable income is spent on niche/artisanal/pretentious health-foodie products: probiotics, green juice, seeds and powders whose names I can’t pronounce. Health is the new luxury, and I bought in, which was hard for me to admit as someone who prided herself on not preferring designer clothing to Zara.

This world of magic elixirs can be overwhelming though, so here is a list of the 10 best food trends that are defining the golden age of health:

Green Juice:

If superfoods had to elect a team mascot, it would probably be green juice. Nothing screams “I care about my body” more than holding a bottle full of liquid salad while wearing workout gear.

Chia Seeds:

According to Leandra, chia seeds are the Justin Bieber of superfoods because of their meteoric rise to fame. She told me over Gchat that “now they’re in their heyday but they’re probably going to crash and burn…presumably initiated by publicly peeing in a janitor’s cart.”

Smoothies:

I’m a huge fan of these pureed meals. Why bother chewing if it’s optional.

Almond Milk:

Almond milk is the litmus test for whether any given coffee shop in New York is “current.” Right now I would say about 40% of places offer it, with higher rates in hip neighborhoods. My friend Jilly lives in Williamsburg, and when she asked a café if they had almond milk, the barista looked at her like she was insane and responded, “Why wouldn’t we?”

Frozen Yogurt:

Frozen yogurt is the marijuana of health food since it’s basically just a gateway drug. First you’re eating Tahitian vanilla self-serve with rainbow sprinkles at 16 Handles and next thing you know you’ve just spent $21.99 on a slice of raw vegan goji berry cheesecake.

Goji berries:

Leandra calls these the Hugh Grant of superfoods. I’d like to see everyone else guess why in the comments below.

Quinoa:

It is only a matter of time before a celebrity names their child Quinoa. This is the cultured man’s grain. If rice is basic cable, quinoa is HBO.

Probiotics:

…Except the kind in the Jamie Curtis yogurt commercials.

Nut Butters (almond butter, cashew butter, etc.):

Amelia thinks that peanut butter is the Sheryl Sandberg of nut butters. Her reasoning is that peanuts are technically not nuts, so they became overachievers to compensate for impostor syndrome. The result was peanut butter’s ascent to the top of the nut-product world.

KALE KALE KALE:

Kale is so popular that it has non-edible merchandise. In addition to kale salads, you can find kale shirts, kale fine jewelry, and kale footwear.

I’ve eaten every single one of these ingredients this week. Some multiple times. Maybe asking a sales clerk if the coconut water I’m currently drinking is raw and unsweetened makes me a snob, but I’m a snob with glowing skin. Basically I think it’s all worth it. As Leandra once exclaimed after a romantic dinner we shared at Rock N’ Raw: “They say you only live once, but if you live (eat) like us, once lasts forever.”

Backpacks Are Back

I was an idiot in high school for a variety of reasons, the number one being that I didn’t appreciate my backpack’s worth. Halfway into freshman year I dismissed my faithful Jansport — navy canvas with a suede bottom, all covered in band names that I’d written in Wite-Out — and swapped it for various purses. The goal was to look more grown up and fashionable , but the result was me constantly dropping shit because I had to carry the books that didn’t fit. Still, once you ditch the pack you can’t really go back…that is, until I saw Leandra’s husband in a red one.

How could I have been so blind to the beauty of a backpack? They’re symmetrical, minimalistic, unfussy but not “mass” enough to be considered in the core of norm.  Wearing one is like having a utilitarian koala bear hugging your shoulders with even weight distribution. The only thing more convenient than that is if said bear understood human language and could hand you whatever you needed as though you were a doctor/nurse team in the operating room.

You: “Pencil.”

Koala bear hands over the pencil and then repeats what you just said: “Pencil.”

You: “Notebook.”

Koala bear hands you the notebook and then says, “Notebook.”

You: “Wallet.”

Koala bear leans in and tickles your armpit because they really have the best sense of humor out of all bears.

A backpack will not tickle your armpit on purpose, but it sure as hell beats developing a pimp-walk due to nerve damage on the right side of your body from a bag that weighs more than a fishing boat.

What a backpack will do is make your weekends feel more happy-go-lucky. And it will make your subway rides to work easier, and your commutes homes less cumbersome. It will make trips to the gym feel somehow more athletic — (does anyone else feel douchey showing up to the gym with a purse, or is that just me? Or is that “just me” because I don’t technically have a gym membership so therefore I have to jump over the fence in the back and sneak in through the laundry room?) — and, if for nothing else, it will make you feel like a kid again.

But it won’t make you look like one. Say you’re on your way to the office, or a dinner, or a any non-formal event where you have stuff to carry, need to look nice but want to go hands-free:

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Or, maybe it’s a Saturday and you’re meeting a friend for an iced coffee and want to be weighed down by nothing other than the sunshine:

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Choose your own adventure here. Go wild, ditch the purse. And if you still aren’t sold then may I just remind you that no Jedi got where he or she is today being burdened by an oversized clutch. Backpacks are the future — the koala bears of fashion.

Crazy Cool Collabs: Vika Gazinskaya x & Other Stories

In the event you are one to frequent street style blogs, there is a near 0% chance that you have not, at some point, come upon either Vika Gazinskaya herself, or a garment that she has produced. Most typically, you will see said garments flourishing on (or is it off) the shoulders of one Anya Ziourova, or Miroslava Duma. You may alternatively be familiar with a hand-painted, green chiffon dotted blouse that I wear with the conviction of a Hepburn.

Her designs are impeccable, price point incredible high — though not without reason. If you’re lucky enough to find yourself proprietor (whether temporarily or permanently) to one of her garments, you will learn that similarly to, say, Katie Ermilio or Rosie Assoulin, these are clothes that breathe new life into the body of their wearers. And, really, can you put a price point on that?

Don’t roll your eyes at me just yet! There is news. It is mostly good though vaguely bad. What do you want to hear first?

Okay, I’ll start with the good: Gazinskaya has finally released a collection of her characteristically whimsical and devastatingly feminine dresses and blouses, some replete with endearingly kitschy polka dots, others with larger drawn on stripes for Stockholm-based, affordable fashion brand, & Other Stories. The price point runs a range from 30 euros to 200 euros, which pales in spectacular comparison to her regular price point, teetering the line of multi-mille if you know what I’m saying.

Alas, though. Now for the bad news: while she was digitally stocked at Colette’s e-shop earlier this week, the clothes sold out faster than tickets to a Taylor Swift concert at MetLife Stadium. And the thing about & Other Stories’ website is that they don’t ship to the United States.

So, here’s my advice: find a friend who resides in any of the following countries: Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, The Netherlands, Spain, Sweden or the U.K., let them  know you’re expecting a delivery at their residence then hightail it on over to collect your purchase, come back and send a photo of your spoils.

Or, you know, just marvel in the pretty pictures photographed here of the best collab-o-lab of all time ever and think to yourself: if there’s a will, there’s way.

Also, happy weekend. Bye!

The Many Clichés of Tinder

If you are looking for the quickest way to have your soul sucked into a deep, digital abyss for hours on end only to come out of the trance cross-eyed and slightly more skeptical of humanity than you were before, I highly suggest you download Tinder.

What’s great about Tinder, however, and why I spent the entire duration of a three hour movie one time swiping through its Rolodex, is that it’s not so much about meeting someone new as it is about discovering the weird and sometimes esoteric trends among these pioneering men, such as…

The Ostrich Equestrian

Ah yes. The Ostrich Equestrian is a Tinder classic, because nothing says romance quite like a man straddling prehistoric birds. I know that for me personally, when a guy doesn’t lead with his OE pic but rather slips it in around photo number three or four, I’m sold. It’s such a subtle touch that says, “I’m not gonna jump right out immediately and brag, but I am going to let you know: I can ride.”

The Urban Fisherman

I would love to meet the two guys who were consulting one another for dating counsel and accidentally spawned what has to be the strangest advice resulting in the most proliferated theme of Tinder: “Dude. Chicks love giant trout. Trust me.”

The Obama

That photo of you shaking hands with Obama says, “I have moderate political aspirations and may talk about them on a first date.” It also kind of says, “If I’m good enough to meet Obama, I’m probably good enough to meet you.” That may very well be true, but since about 8 billion of you have the same picture in the same pose, try adding some clip art or glitter or something. Nice blazer, though.

The Iron Throne Takeover

You do know the tagline of Game of Thrones is “All Men Must Die,” right? Maybe choose a friendlier chair. One that doesn’t subconsciously evoke murder or hint at the fact that you waited in a line for 24 hours to sit on a prop replica.

The Maury Povich Paternity Test

If your photo needs clarification, i.e. “Kid in the pic is my nephew, not my son, LOL,” then don’t post it. No one can see taglines unless they click on your picture, and if someone’s rapid-fire swiping with abandon, mark my words, they don’t have time for the whole paternity-test reveal. Besides, that baby doesn’t need to be on Tinder yet. Let him have his youth.

Famous by Association

No woman has ever thought to herself, “I’m pretty sure that guy is a serial killer, but since he’s posing with Bethenny Frankel and Drake, I’m in.” 

The Headshot 

So, I’m confused. Was this photo taken for your LinkedIn, your acting portfolio, or as a gift for your mom that transitioned into your multi-purpose profile picture? Do you always wear sensibly-colored t-shirts in skin-flattering palettes such as dusty purple and sage? I’m not hating, but I am asking.

Siegfried & Roy, Before the Accident

A LOT of you have photos with tigers. These tigers appear to be laying down, just chilling in the sun having a late afternoon nap, not minding too much that you’re squatting next to them like a Cub Scout troop leader in cargo shorts pointing out edible mushrooms, but hasn’t the violent tale of the mauled magician taught you anything? Or are you trying to subtly hint that your middle name is danger?

Note: The Tinder Tiger is often accompanied with the line, “I love adventure.” Guess what? I don’t.

The Lonely Boy

 

Where are your friends? All you need is one. One friend to sling your arm over, and one stranger to take your photo. How do you think girls get so many pictures of themselves? We ask the first poor, unsuspecting human we spot walking down the street with a free hand and then count on the fact that there are still a few good people out there in this world who won’t steal our iPhone while we’re fixing our hair. Please do this, for the sake of your love life. There’s something far too sad about you standing alone in that dingy bathroom with poor lighting while flexing your facial abs.

Englishman in New York 

Men. Englishmen. Do you know how many of you there are in New York and more specifically, on Tinder?  Is there some sort of Englishmen in New York convention you attend each year in order to assign online dating profile hobbies with an artistic edge? “Ok, Simon, you take ‘freelance photographer.’ Nathaniel, can you be ‘singer/songwriter’? Ah, you’re sick of that one. Ok. What about, ‘Painter of the heart’? Yes? Fantastic. One last thing — for anyone moving to Los Angeles, Englishmen of LA convene in this same room but on Wednesdays. Meeting adjourned.”

Illustrations by the one and only Charlotte Fassler. Let’s give it up for motorskills!

So, You’re Going on a Date, Right?

Look, I’m no dating coach.

I spent the three years that my now-husband and I were broken up calling him on an unrelenting weekly basis to check whether his temperature on the thermometer of love-for-Leandra had changed in my favor. Through the course of the three years, it never ever changed UNTIL ONE DAY! when he saw me exiting his building on Mercer Street with an English man, who I was about to embark on a first date with.

I was wearing a shin-length skirt with a white button down blouse, which I had taken from my youngest brother’s closet, and a pair of devastatingly basic Chloé gladiator wedges, which I had not taken from my youngest brother’s closet even though I wish I had.

I went over to say hello because I am a gentlewoman and he reciprocated the pleasantry. Then he text messaged me to say that the encounter had “physically hurt,” to which I lent absolutely no credit to handsome English man who stood to my left during the encounter and surmised that CUHLEARLY, my outfit has incited his heart’s starting to sing an *NSYNC song that made him (guitar solo please:) want me back.

Now that I am married de facto, I don’t think it’s in your worst interest to take my dating advice. Especially, I might add when it is deeply imbued with the sartorial pursuits of a first date outfit. Because, think about it. When you’re about to enter a first date, you don’t really know who you’re meeting and he (or she!) doesn’t quite know you either. Without using your mouth, it seems like your prerogative should be to convey a point about who you are.

And how do you do that?

With clothes.

If you fancy yourself a man repeller, the first date seems like high time to experiment with two of the most boring silhouettes a woman can engage with: the button up shirt and the pencil skirt. Why? Because nothing says I am a ball of ecstasy (the non-narcotic kind!) like making said boring silhouettes look like Fun with a capital-F.

Enter the photographed, embellished skirt from H&M and the corresponding striped shirt by Steven Alan (or this funky sleeved one from Topshop).

Because it’s 2014 and currently de rigeur, I’d also suggest a pair of mules, sparkle heel notwithstanding but again: think about upping the fun factor. Take a handbag (in case he sucks and you need somewhere to throw up — this $19 one looks like a pug) and a pair of reflective lensed sunglasses because even though it might be night, for the sake of thematic consistency (speaking without your mouth), in the event you do like him, you might want to put them on to demonstrate how bright his future is.

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Worst comes to it, the date sucks but the way I see it, you still win. Hard. Why? Because your outfit ruleszzzzzzzzs.

Part of a collaboration with H&M Life. 

First Resort: Brooklyn by Dior

To imagine a group of finely clothed women and pristinely suited men sitting on a public ferry headed toward Brooklyn is funny. To see that thought take place, though, is endearingly hilarious, and such was the sight last night for Raf Simons’ resort collection for Dior.

So, do again imagine that group of fine clothes. Standing in a long line that extends from the East River to the most eastern, walkable point of New York’s 35th street. On that line, try to picture color-blocked chiffon gowns and sparkly stilettos. See the double breasted blazers tinkering against and in spite of the murky water.

If you see a yellow ferry in the distance, we’re on the same page. It’s about to come and collect the group. It’s pulling up and seems excited to reveal its branded boat sides, both of which read Dior. Now watch the line of cocktail dresses manage through the planks that partition Manhattan’s concrete from its sea. Hear the wearers start to bemoan the circumstance for ripping the suede off their heels. Now listen to the silence. They’ve been interrupted by the ferry’s interior, which boasts white Dior branded seat covers and a premium bar. A bar!

It’s spectacular in that way that French things in America are, which was the theme of last night’s nod to the United States as dictated by Brooklyn. Silk scarves reigned, first appearing tucked into streamlined jumpsuits and blouses and then as bodices, skirt bottoms and finally, full-blown dresses.

There’s something distinctly formulaic about the way a show by Raf Simons occurs. The trajectory always seems to follow a course that begins with the most subverted and subjectively wearable and transgresses to encapsulate the especially spectacular. And with its untrammeled beauty and likeability, it always makes you think: why didn’t I think of that? Of course, because of the consistent sense of perversion, that thought is cut by the realization that you couldn’t have thought of that. Not even if you tried.

The uncharacteristic-of-the-resort-seasons-of-yore blanket coats and fur capes were draped over the models bodies, who appeared in groups of sometimes three, sometimes more, or as singles to convey Simons’ point of view.

This opinion seemed to elaborate on an idea about the future of the season as less of a collection about the establishment of resort (though make no mistake, the triplet of lace squares that constructed mini dresses and the skimpy, spaghetti strapped sheaths called to mind visions of the French — sorry — American riviera and beyond) and much more an ocular transition toward a new truth. Seasons are depleting and as that happens, the clothes must change.

But not just yet. Not at least, while we watched the sun set over Manhattan and the heads of the models traipsing across the venue from out the floor-to-ceiling windows at The Brooklyn Navy Yard and resolved to get back on that ferry.

Images via the Cut

The Fedora Takedown

Fedoras are the assholes of the hat world — a statement I make well-knowing that as soon as this story publishes, an army of fedora enthusiasts will come at me faster than a ten legged squirrel on a nut-hunt, their sharpened pinecones ready and aimed. It’s more dangerous than you think to dis an accessory, but I stand behind my decision. I’m taking one for the team.

As with most things I can’t stand, there’s a strong reason tethered to it.

During the phase of my life that can best be described as trendy, a fedora was like the Maraschino cherry-topping to my mall-affected outfits: artificial, bad for you, and completely superfluous. It was the unspoken 20% percent devil that accompanied my shirt which read 90% angel. These were dark times. I was overcompensating for everything: the braces, 13-year-old insecurity, bad hair days. When I see someone in a fedora now, I can only assume the same — that they too are overcompensating for something that needs zero compensation.

I know that when I assume I supposedly make an ass out of you and me. But the fedora will create the illusion that your head is an actual ass — have you seen the top of one? It looks like it’s modeled after a slightly-parted butt crack. However, I blame the fedora here, not its wearer. We’re all victims to the hat’s alluring charm. Fedoras are sirens who call to male and females alike, singing promises of looking cooler, of getting laid, or appearing “in style.”

The felt ones are smart and know exactly whose heartstrings to pluck. They go after the same type of men who wear formal vests over dress shirts with no jacket to a club; guys who wear square-toed “going out shoes”; males in bootcut, white-stitched jeans. Josh Groban. Meanwhile the straw ones (which are the worst of their kind) stick hatted claws deep into the weak: coeds on spring break, my dad on vacation, people who’ve spent too much time drinking in the sun then went shopping. Women looking for a hat to steal off someone’s head as a flirting technique, or men who saw Matthew McConaughey do it and said, “Yea, I’m gonna do that too.”

But they’re not Matthew McConaughey. No one is. And so, with fedora season rapidly approaching, I’ve made it my duty to stop the madness. My plan of action? A quiz.

Check Yes If You Are One Or More of the Following People:

Carmen Sandiego

Frank Sinatra

Humphrey Bogart

A grandfather in Boca

A character on Mad Men before the costumes began teetering into American Hustle territory

Emmanuelle Alt

Daria Webowy

Anyone else in the slideshow above

An adorable animal

Bill Murray

If you are not on this list, do not wear a fedora.

So easy, right? However, my strong aversion may have less do with my eighth-grade projections and instead more about the fact that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a fedora truly prove its worth. So if you’re a fedora wearer who is still reading this and not yet en-route to stabbing me with the aforementioned pinecone, then post a picture. Prove me wrong.

My hair is really dirty today anyway, and I could actually use a hat.

Advice from Moms

The world would not exist without moms.

This is true scientifically (ignore those members of the Audubon Society who maintain that babies are delivered via stork), but figuratively, too, because without the collective of motherly advice — which come care of your biological life giver or s/he-you’ve-elected-to-play mom, survival would be much more difficult.

How else would we remember to eat our vegetables? Or understand that words like “please” and phrases like “thank you” are precursors to getting what we want? (Just me?)

Our moms teach us the value of friendship, the meaning of kindness. They pass down secret recipes (which subsequently go unused) and hope their experiences will deflect the mistakes that we will inevitably make.

Of course, they don’t, but then again, there those moms are, honing in on the bigger picture lesson before hugs and tissue offerings.

They teach us to wash darks in cold water, clean our faces with warm water, and never, ever cross the street without looking both ways. They wipe tears from our eyes and show us how to dance. Actually, the majority probably set a better example for how not to dance, but there’s vivaciousness there. And they remind us again and again, with the patience of a monk, that time heals everything and broken hearts always mend themselves.

Sunday is Mother’s Day but it’s never too early to reflect on our moms, so three days prior, let’s share the advice they’ve doled and passed down. We’ll start with a series of slides as illustrated by Charlotte and hopefully, too, you’ll share yours. Because even if the person you consider your “mom” is actually your dad, or your grandma, an adopted parent, or your in-law, a sister, a teacher, an aunt, a caretaker, or a real life stork — he or she is still, fundamentally, your mom.

And without them, like, the limit, we simply would not exist.

Get in the Zone — Astrology Zone

Congratulations on making it 7 days into May without your horoscopes. Personally, I don’t know how anyone made any important decisions or signed any papers or made purchases at Ikea without *Susan Miller’s astrological predictions. I also don’t know how I was able to focus on paraphrasing her words for you with the flashing ad for sailing lessons that appears in the periphery of each horoscope, but if that’s not a sign of good things to come for this month then I don’t know what is, baby.

Taurus - HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US! Suz starts us off nicely enough with a George Clooney mention (his bday was May 6, so don’t forget to write on his wall or text him because you know how he is), then goes rogue and hits us with news that more or less says our teeth are going to fall out. I wouldn’t worry too much because SOMETIMES she’s wrong. More bad news about relationships — your gf/bf is going to piss you off — bla bla bla, take a road trip trip to fix it. Then she wants us to move quickly at the end of the month. If there is one thing I do not do, it’s move quickly. Jesus Christopher, Suz, can’t a birthday girl get a leisurely break? At least we’re supposedly getting rich at the end-o-May.

Gemini - “You made it through April alive!,” is essentially how Suz starts off your ‘scope. If you had health issues last month, they will be resolved in May. (How lucky for you, because I am about to have no teeth.) However if your incisors fall out, the problem should be fixed fairly quickly thanks to the full moon. ”This month is extraordinary for money,” she says of you Twinsibobs, so if I were a Gemini, I’d get my ass on Who Wants to be a Millionaire A$AP. On May 18th, you’ll fall in love. On May 28 she basically forgets my birthday ever happened and gives you guys a new moon, which means you’re going to be alluring and have energy and write a screen play. I think Susan Miller is picking favorites.

Cancer - Crabby patties, were people super nuts around you in April? Suz said it was like “the crazies were coming out of the cage,” but your sign’s not totally clear of the eclipse yet. If you didn’t feel it in April, you might around May 15-ish. The good news (depending on your idea of a good time) is that on May 24, Jupiter and Cancer are going to pee all over everything, although Susan’s actual language was “rinse with golden light.” Pee or no pee, this month is an ideal time to make major moves toward a huge goal of yours.

Leo  -  Do you skateboard? Susan thinks you do. She may be using it as a metaphor, but just in case, have one on deck (badum-cha!) so that you’re “ready to roll” when unexpected progress happens in your various life projects. Speaking of rolling, if anyone’s critical to you around May 10, let it slide, because on May 28 you’re gonna be more popular than a koala bear at a hug convention: so many invitations, so little time. I wonder if this is how Pharrel pheels. End the month with a little road trip — maybe put the cool in school and rent a giant yellow bus to drive all your brand new marsupial friends around.

Virgo - Stick your thumb into the air’s butt like a hitchhiker and hail the school bus your Leo friend is driving around, because this month is all about traveling for you. Suz the Travel Agent wants you to hit up Canada, Mexico, Istanbul, Rio de Janeiro and/or Beijing. “The world is your oyster,” she says, but “don’t eat oysters on months without the letter ‘R’ in them because that’s when they mate.” Actually my aunt Thea says that second part about oyster sex but still. Also, your career is going to flourish, which is good considering you can’t actually pay travel agents and airlines in gum, you liars at Trident Layers.

Libra - May is the healing scab on the bullshit rug-burn that April may have created for you in regards to your relationships. Just don’t be gross and pick it off. I’m just going to skip over May 10th because that’s a shitty day for everyone, and on May 14th note that you may have some real decision making about to do involving money. BUT guess what? You’re about to get a promotion, and that means a potential corner office, no-shoe Tuesdays and moolah. At the end of the month, travel. You might fall in louvre.

Scorpio - You’re either breaking up from a major relationship or strengthening an existing one, and unless I’m reading cross-eyed which I just might be, it sounds like a truth could be revealed that provides a strong push in whatever direction ya’ll were already headed. Someone you love might tell you they love you, though! That’s always fun. It will feel like you’re on the episode of The O.C. where Ryan finally says it to Marissa. Last thing: Susan Miller literally and not figuratively said she’s holding you hostage in July and August, so get out of town NOW. GO. Leo’s driving!

Sagittarius – “Thyroid, tonsils, sore throat, lower lip, sore jaw, or vocal cords” may have troubled you last month, so maybe stop listening to me when I keep saying to kiss strangers. Take a knee on May 10 and just avoid that day (it’s semi-sucking for everyone). Only Leandra is exempt because she’s contractually obligated to hang out with me that evening. Venus and Uranus are “aligning” in your true love sector, btw, so you’ll either find love or celebrate love. And here’s something nice: in addition to S. Millz for calling herself out on sometimes being a Debby Downer (SOMETIMES SUSAN?!) she suggests you buy new clothes. “You will have the ‘wow’ factor now with Venus at your side.” And Uranus.

Capricorn - If there was ever a time to prune your rose bushes into giraffes and whatnot, it’s now. Something to do with Venus being the Martha Stewart of planets in regards to landscaping. And manscaping. (But really, now’s a good time for haircuts and shopping. See if a Sag feels like going to the salon with you.) All month you’re going to also going to feel the effects of Saturn hanging out with Jupiter, which means luck and gifts and unicorns. “A new moon opens months of good energy,” Suz writes. “Begin now and you will be quite memorable on the dance floor in December at the holiday parties.”

Aquarius - If you’ve been scrolling through everyone else’s horoscopes thinking, “Man these are long and boring since they aren’t about me, when will she get to my sign?” then you should know that you could have just skipped down to yours but also, you probably noticed a trend that May 10 is a shitty day for all. You’re no exception. BUT! All of the work you’ve been doing for the past few months will finally pay off this May, in the workplace and in your creative endeavors. “Go for the gold,” writes Susan, who must have been watching the Kentucky Derby whilst penning your horoscope.

Pisces - Jupiter is going to bring you love, happiness, travel, and profit. “Be optimistic,” she stresses. On May 15 a surprise is going to put a smile on your face. On my 28, you should probably hit up Restoration Hardware or, per my intro paragraphica, Ikea. That store really rules. And so do you: “If you’ve ever watched a rocket lift off to space, the booster rocket’s job is to get the rocket into the stratosphere, and then the booster rocket drops away, having done his job. That’s Mars, but when Mars is retrograde, you have to do all the heavy lifting.” She wrote all that. And you know what my analysis is? You are the rocket. And you are also the booster. And I am the walrus, so yada hoo ha happy day.

Aries - Susan seems to feel badly about the whole eclipse-thing that happened during your birthday month — sounds like there were a lot of heartaches and dentist visits among your tribe — and to make up for it, she wants you to shop. If you’re attached, your sig other will be all over you. If you’re single, you might not be much longer. The 15th is an exceptionally good day to makeout with a stranger who could become a friend ifyaknowwhatImean. (Safety first though!) She ends your horoscope with news of a “golden day” on May 30, and says this: “Fly away, drive away, or sail away in the sea-green boat of the Owl and Pussycat. Your venue matters not – just go! It’ll be fun!”

I told you that sailing ad was serendipitous.

Until next month, amigos!

Illustration by Cynthia Merhej 

*The Planet Whisperer fell ill in April (Susan Miller, not me) causing a delay in here Astrology Zone postings. We wish her a speedy recovery and send her all our good thoughts!

Consider the Breton Stripe

Did you know that the original breton striped shirt came with 21 stripes on it?

Me neither.

Each stripe functioned as a numerical totem that tallied Napoleon’s militant victories.

It was not until 1917, when Coco Chanel first introduced the hitherto work shirt (it had been created in the mid-1800s for members of the French Navy — seamen if you will) to a collection for resort (though it was not being called resort back then) that the shirt made its first foray into the sartorial vernacular of fashion.

Then, of course, there came the Audrey Hepburns and Brigitte Bardots of the world, who seemed to emanate that sense of, “So you can’t quite approximate my full eyebrows or conversely fluent-looking bed-head? No problem. Approximate our shirts.”

And approximate ye did.

If Alexa Chung, Audrey Tautou, Kate Moss, Edie Sedgwick et al are an indication of anything when considering the horizontal slivers of navy, it is that the easy, achievable and accessible nature of the tees are exactly what make them seem so swank now.

Don’t they seem kind of swank in that way that steadily reliable friends do? You love your friend, she’s always there for you, you kind of don’t want to share your friend, but even if you do, there’s a fundamental understanding that it won’t affect how you two interact, how frequently you’re together and more importantly, how profoundly you get each other.

Of course it doesn’t hurt either that the illusion of a little French boy is consistently conjured up too. But if I’m being really honest with you, all this metaphor is to say that my money is on stripes for the imminent summer season. They’re befitting wherever they’re placed.

Pair one with a ball gown skirt and host your own Met Ball. (Please, though, call it the Guggenheim Ball or at very least acknowledge that I’ve been calling it that for three days. I likely won’t stop until you tell me to or laugh).

Shut your mind off, close your eyes and throw (literally throw, I’m dying to see this visual) a pair of high waist jeans or cut offs on. You’ll look like “you woke up like dis,” even though you are far too creative to say such a thing.

Or, try a linen sarong as a skirt and pretend you’re at the beach, unless you actually are at the beach, in which case: fuck you.

I’m kidding! Bring me back a seashell.

Or a striped shirt.

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Oh! Right! Also, my current favorite is from Zara. Amelia is committed to the purveyors of stripes at Saint James and recently, I bought the photographed one from the mens department at A.P.C. and so far, I have no regrets. (The rest of the outfit includes sunglasses by Karen Walker, jeans by the anterior (also mens, they’re a size 28, and now on sale) and Christian Louboutin heels.)

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I should also mention that accessories seem integral too. The right sunglasses, a gold choker. Striped shirts are a reliable friend and a loaf of bread. One that begs for fancy marination. So give it what it wants.