Leandra Medine's Blog, page 735

Ten Ways to Reel in The Mans

As you all know, we are huge proponents of revolving your life and sartorial pursuits around attracting a man, which is precisely why we bring you this brand new series. (Although it’s not technically a series in that it will only occur once.) So, cross your legs daintily at the ankles, lean in (but not too assertively!) and remember that it’s not just a way of thinking, ladies. It’s a lifestyle.

1. The old adage goes, “You Can Only Show One.” We say, show everything! This means that when it comes to getting a man, every body part goes: cleavage (ass, boob, belly button, armpit), exposed thighs, vagina. You know what? Just go naked.

1a. If you can’t go naked, the rejection of the “You Can Only Show One” tenet still applies to animal prints. Skip solids and try your hand at tigers and leopards and crocodiles and chihuahuas!

1b. Accessorize with tails and ears of said animals. Not teeth, though. (Unless he’s into that! Rawr!)

2. Wax your whole body. A scientific study shoes that heterosexual men may be more attracted to baby seals than cacti, so unless you’re dating a dendrophiliac (aka someone who enjoys “sex with trees and other large plants” according to the reputable Yahoo! Answers pages) just get rid of all hair. Eyebrows, eyelashes, leg hair, bush, etc. You’ll attract men like flies and slide across glacial landscapes with ease!

2b.  ; )

3. Pretend you don’t have a political opinion. Or actually don’t have one! Who needs choices. And reading newspapers is hard. Besides, wouldn’t you rather pluck the nose hairs from your nostrils while letting Buzzfeed quizzes decide stuff for you?

3a. And on the topic of choice, if your man wants you to wear lingerie that doubles as weaponry but you’re concerned about the bruising it will inevitably in your butt crack, just take a Percocet!

If it wears off, take another!

4. Suffocate any desire to be funny. Swallow that punchline as though it’s a little bit of acid reflux puke. Instead, try cocking your head to the side a lot and leaving your leg wrist limp and look perplexed by EVERYTHING. Laugh really hard at all of his jokes, especially the one about his other girlfriend!

5. Listen to every Susan Patton interview you can discover on YouTube. Study her. She is your bible. Fuck your horoscopes, ladies. This is the Suz to listen to.

5a. And on the topic of Patton, don’t forget that if you think he’s better than you, he probably is!

6. Keep your pants tight, your skirts short, and your tops off. Although, if he prefers you to be in baggy clothes so that other men can’t see your swag, do that. Just wear loads and loads of sleeping bags. Remember to cut out holes for your eyes! Bumping into trees is not a good look.

6b. You never know who you might run into, so, if you so much as shower without makeup on, I will cut you.

7. Make him feel like he is the sole driver of your confidence. Feeling good about that raise? Why? Doesn’t he bring home the bacon? Love your new marigold caftan? Oh, awkward. Hope it’s refundable.

8. Follow him around in a maid’s outfit — preferably a French one — and ask if he needs anything dusted, or if there’s any bed or sandwich he needs made.

8a. But on that note, if he texts you, wait seven minutes to text him back. Never call him. And if you haven’t met him yet but think he’s cute and kind of know he’s probably into you, do not initiate contact. Do you have Tinder? Don’t.

9. Do that weird ice thing that other lady magazines are always telling you to do. And poke at his butt-hole like it’s the year 2004 and Facebook’s just installed that feature.

10. Repeat after me: marriage, babies, pre-baby-body. Marriage, babies, pre-baby body.

Did we leave anything off? Always looking for brand new tips that will indubitably tickle his tip. And of course, don’t forget the cardinal rule: all bondage everything.

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Lol. Jk. Happy April 1st.

Image via Vogue China

The Lesson Learned from Kinky Boots

RED is….

the color of my preschool bus matron’s lengthy Sally Hansen glue-on nails; the medium rare cowboy steak my husband eats every Wednesday night; a treasured cinematic trove of glittering “no place like home.” Red is sexy – and the bread and butter of Broadway’s dancing queen, Kinky Boots.

As soon as my mother proposed we see the show together, I accepted. There’s just something about red thigh-high stilettos, Cyndi Lauper lyrics and feisty drag queens that screamed, “Must see with mom.” After all, this was the woman who cried tears of joy when I finally conceded to trade in my Doc Martens for her 6 inch platforms. Even if it was only once, when I was 18, and my knees wobbled through the entire duration of my wear.

While I failed to see the beauty in designer heels back then, the transition signified a rare and precious moment in my life. I was desperate to grow up and into myself, and my mother was facilitating the evolution. On the night we saw Kinky Boots, I don’t know what I was expecting, but what I received was validation.

The show began with the death of the main character Charlie’s father. This consequently boomeranged Charlie back to the slummy Northampton, where he was to take over his old man’s all but bankrupt shoe factory.

Pressed between the demands of frustrated employees and a whiny fiancé, Charlie is liberated by an unlikely crusader: Lola, a sassy cross-dresser with the confidence of Lindsey Vonn on a bunny slope plus a voice rampant with the power of seduction.

Lola and her sparkle-footed posse help Charlie identify a new niche target market: cross dressers looking for ostentatiously fabulous and supportive footwear, but even more so, individuals seeking the sartorial embodiment of freedom, pride and sex. The final heeled-product resembles a cross between Madame Tussaud’s interpretation of Spice Girl footwear and what I imagine Dorothy’s ruby slippers might have looked like if MGM were to do a remake featuring Ms. Gale as a cross-dresser. The boots were remarkable, misunderstood, and oozing with sex appeal.

As the ensemble on stage sang “The Sex Is In the Heel,” I danced in my seat, thrusting my arms in the sky with move I like to call “Reverse Stairway to Heaven.” The cast, meanwhile, shimmied and pirouetted across the floor in shoes that would no doubt have the average pedestrian on his or her ass in three steps flat.

For the purpose of the show, the cross-dressers were selling shoes, but behind the curtain of showbiz, the real sell was self-assurance and above all, sex. Sex that, in the words of the show, “shouldn’t be comfy”; the kind of sex that isn’t exemplified by a flawless swimsuit model, a seamless debutant, or a Dominique Ansel milk-and-cookie shot. Rather, it was sex exuded through power, vociferousness, and the unabashed embracement of wobbly knees as you walk on daggers for the very first time.

And that, you see, is the greatest lesson my mother has ever taught me.

Edited by Leandra Medine

On the Topic of Ankle Length Skirts

Marco Zanini showed a straight, mint colored ankle length skirt for Rochas in 2012 that was festooned with white wild flowers. I can distinctly remember that it was paired with a light-weight, vaguely teal v-neck cable-knit sweater, an interesting-though-decidedly retro take on cat-eye sunglasses finished in lilac and a pair of sling back platforms, replete with gilded cork heels that I have spent the last three years contemplating. This contemplation likely only occurs because I still frequently consider the skirt that flash-lit them.

But see, this isn’t a textbook case of “One That Got Away” syndrome — as much as I wanted the skirt (consider the time it showed: the fall of 2011, when skirts were incredibly short, pants were equally tight and the modesty renaissance was only hazily on the fashion horizon), I couldn’t divorce the implications of my personal history that were unwittingly tethered to it.

Here I was, an Orthodox Jewish day school graduate who had spent the larger portion of her adolescence gearing up to fight vociferously (see: Seeking Love, Finding Overalls) against a dress code that impaired the concept of personal expression — chiefly with its stringent statute against pants, shorts, and skirts shorter than the knee. And now, five years out of high school, I not only wanted but fashion-lingo needed the silhouette that supported the conflict?

As is always the case with burgeoning fashion trends, the hem length trickled. From runway, the skirt attacked It-girls and from It-girls, it made its way into specialty stores which allowed room for the eventual and inevitable crawl into Zara.

But this didn’t happen before every other designing heavy-weight placed their stamp of approval in the form of straight skirts, tulip skirts, peplum skirts — even dresses — on the emphatically prudent length. And in the same way that running into an ex-boyfriend (who you loved but also kind of hated) is horrifying when he’s with someone new who for whatever reason seems like a superior version of you, so too was seeing the hem length third-party-interpreted spectacularly time and time again. It almost made the forced dress code of years yonder seem, dare I say, romantic.

It took time to move on. Six fashion week seasons to be exact. But I’m here (and I’m baring my midriff) and I feel good about it. So much so, that if you are to confuse me for a younger version of myself, I might even mistake it for a compliment.

Jacquemus sweater, Tsemaye Binitie skirt, Chrissie Morris heels

Spring Fling

There’s something in the air that’s making us want to ditch our coats and roll around in fields of lavender and lilies; something that’s making us want to sit cross legged among stalks of wildflowers despite a very real threat of ticks finding their way toward our hoo-has. We want to weave daisy chains until our fingers fall off and make crowns from marigolds to put them in our hair like it’s SF, summer of 1969. Or Coachella. Hair bugs be damned!

There’s something making us want to run around outside naked in galoshes, hopping from lamp post to lamp post while singing in the rain, and that very same something is giving us this weird craving for sporadic, choreographed public dance as though we’re all classically trained dancers in a late ’90s teen movie.

It’s possible that this “something” has to do with the fact that the tequila diet has been extended (hair of the dog ifyaknowwhatImean), but really, I think it’s that we’ve finally shaken out winter’s residual effects and are truly, deeply embracing SPRING.

And what’s better on a Saturday morning when we’ve got this little extra umph in our step than a slideshow of floral beauties and a really fantastic shower song?

Nothing, little blue bird. Nothing at all.

We Tried The Tequila Diet

Journalism is a selfless trade, much like being a member of the CIA. In trying to disseminate information, a reporter is often forced to give up his or her liberties as a functioning, private member of society and/or the public consciousness. Think Joe McGinniss against Jeffrey MacDonald, Anderson Cooper against humanity, Al Roker against meteorology and most recently Amelia ‘asshead’ Diamond and myself against sobriety.

Time Magazine provided a brief if not questionable summary of a study, which reported that the sugar (agavins) found in tequila — and only in tequila — might aid the pursuit of weight loss. While that pursuit does not currently languish at the Man Repeller HQ, we can absolutely get behind a reason to day drink. The study did not provide any particularities tethered to a regimented diet plan and so naturally, hard-hitting journalists that we are, Amelia and I have, going against our better judgement, set out to create a plan that will either prove or disprove the hypothesis.

The rules we’ve created work as follows:

1. Every time you are compelled to drink water, replace the thirst quencher with a steady sip of tequila.

2. A tequila-based drink must be had with breakfast (we suggest muesli for the latter), lunch (refrain from quesadillas, err on the side of an avocado-based dish, consume cilantro at your own discretion), snack time (by this time you’ll be craving sodium-heavy chips, pizza and quite possibly a breakfast sandwich despite the time of day. Eschew the craving, locate mixed nuts) and dinner (if you can make it that far).

4. Your cellphone must remain on airplane mode while you’re on The Tequila Diet so that you can’t send any quasi-or-completely-inebriated texts.

5. You must force yourself to continue on your normal, daily routine. Do not nap. Tequila naps are the enemy of productivity and the cause of  most early-onset hangovers.

Follow us on this journey and check back every hour (don’t worry! We’ll remind you on Twitter!) on the hour to listen to our goings on, with our first drink commencing at 10 AM. Okay?

Olé! And, of course, happy Friday!

9:30AM

Leandra: I get into office. I know what’s coming and I feel like I’m in way over my head. Should I really be compromising my productivity scale for an alcoholic beverage I don’t even particularly care for? I get an iced coffee as I always do and bowl of fruits + granola and honey. I drink half of the coffee and down my breakfast and by the time I look up, it’s 10:15, Amelia has just walked in from a preview (yay! Press preview season!) and she’s got a plastic bag with a bottle of Patron in it.

“Let’s get dieting!” She declares.

I cringe.

And then take the first shot.

Amelia: I come in and Leandra tells me that I woke her and her bedmate up with a text about tequila. This is not unusual. I make my first drink but ignore it for my coffee, and eat an egg white wrap instead of my usual yogurt in hopes that it soaks up the morning happy hour…

11 AM:

Amelia: No. This is not a good idea.

Leandra: My lips are numb.

12:30PM:

Amelia: It’s never taken me that long to finish a drink before, but this is probably a good thing since it hit noon about thirty minutes ago. Charlotte makes drink #2, which tastes so much better than drink #1. The warm fuzzies are beginning. Everything is great! I love today.

Leandra: Well, I am hungry. Between drafting e-mails and then oscillating between my deciding not to send them andt (Beyonce?) then yes to send them, I cannot stop thinking about salty, roasted nuts. (I don’t know if you know this about me but I am nuts about nuts — and I don’t mean penises!). In the last two hours, I have also finished writing a Minor Cogitation, editing a contributor story and moseying through the What’s New section of Asos. If I don’t eat in the next 20 minutes I might very well eat my own face and I don’t mean that hyperbolically, see: this.

Also, I just did something so bad, but I’ll let Amelia take it from here…

12:31PM:

Amelia: I’m sorry. I needed a minute to regroup becase Leandra just replaced the word “contributor” with “KARDASHIAN.” As in, “our newest Kardashian is starting soon.” KARDASHIAN IS NOT A SYNONYM. I’m yelling this at her now because she’s trying to Irish Exit the situation.

2:30PM:

Leandra: Don’t listen to Amelia. Tequila makes her lie. I am waiting for lunch and in the two hour interval that has gapped my wanting to eat and needing to eat, I have craved water and so have had to pour myself another drink (I’m combining it with coconut water). May I just say that this beverage is dangerous. As someone who rarely taps into the hard liquor bar of life, I had no idea that tequila drink #2 basically does taste like water. I think that because my taste buds are numb, they have become immune to the sting of the first drink.

In case you’re wondering what I ordered for lunch: this “green garden platter” thing-y from Caravan of Dreams which is an organic vegan place on 6th street. I wish I got nachos.

Brb, food is here!

Amelia: I’m slightly buzzed, which means I start craving salty foods. “This is the tequila talking,” I repeat to myself. “Do not give in.” I to get (editor note: she means “try to get”) Leandra to go get a margarita with me down the street so I can get chips and guac, but she says no. She’s stronger (more boring) than I.

[Ten minute interlude]

I semi gave in and ordered La Esquina — one taco, one salad, but no chips. See? Diet’s working already. I accompany lunch with drink #3, and suddenly I decide this whole thing rules.

3:30PM:

Leandra: 3:30PM: Hot damn that was good. There was carrot polenta in it and cauliflower and bits of grilled seitan and other funny greens. I’m much more coherent than I was pre-lunch though and I’m not particularly thrilled with that. Better pony up and liquidate if you know what I’m saying. Do you know what I’m saying? The thing is, I am also kind of nauseous. Hope I don’t vomit all over my keyboard or in Charlotte’s hair!

Amelia: I don’t think this rules. I’m so sleepy. It’s the tequila nap coming on.

Writing is hard. Sentences seem long — all of them! Why do sentences have to be so long?

5:00PM

Charlotte: Hey guys, it’s Charlotte. Amelia is sleeping on an inflatable pillow that actually has a pair of Nike Air Maxes inside of it, and Leandra is singing what she keeps calling “the theme song from Speedy Gonzales” even though there is no such show. She claims she is not drunk but…

On the left: TBT to Leandra and Amelia around 3 PM. On the right: Amelia down for the count, Leandra as Speedy G reincarnate. 

Oh.

There she goes.

Leandra is sleeping too.

We’re supposed to have a post go up tomorrow morning at 10AM. One of them is supposed to write it but last I checked, the text box was still empty which either means see you on Monday or now is finally my chance to go rogue.

Stay tuned?

“Scandal” Spark Notes

Written by Carlye Wisel

You know when you want to catch up with a friend but dread the actual required phone call because it’s been at least a year and there’s too much to catch up on? Unless you’ve been a dedicated watcher since season one, you might also feel that way about the incessantly-talked-about Scandal. 

Good news! With this guide, you’ll get caught up all the way to tonight’s episode (we’re currently neck-deep into season three) in less than five minutes.

ALSO: spoiler alerts below. ALL OF THE SPOILER ALERTS. But that’s the point, right?

There’s nothing Olivia Pope can’t do. Or survive.

Olivia is a “Fixer,” which means she’s the main character, a police chief, PR maven, White House Press Secretary and Clinton-rivaling pantsuit diva all wrapped into one. There’s no problem she cannot fix, from bloody apartments to kidnapped babies to a big-time Congressman accidentally murdering his contractor. She has a long-running affair with President Fitzgerald Grant that some (but not all) people know about, but they’re in love so it’s, like, okay or something.

Her dad is an evil, powerful CIA guy who’s not as evil as she once thought (Scandal!), and her mom is an evil terrorist who’s not as dead-at-sea from a plane crash as Olivia once thought (Scandal!!).

It’s essentially a never-ending battle of good vs. evil.

Olivia and her team, a rag-tag bunch of wounded birds she’s saved personally from individual tragedy, are good.

B-613, the secret CIA program that trains off-the-grid secret agents — previously run by Olivia’s dad! — is evil.

President Grant, despite sticking his free world-leading rod in Olivia while holding office, is good.

Religious nutbag Sally Langston, current Vice President and secret husband-murderer, is evil. (See how this works?)

The only two that exist in the middle of the venn diagram are President Grant’s overly ambitious Chief of Staff Cyrus Beene, whose scandalous ways are to blame for his husband’s recent murder, and Quinn Perkins, doe-eyed B-613 agent and former employee of Olivia’s, who could still go either way.

There are lots of scandals, but only a few are huge.

Practically everybody in the show fixed the election to help Fitz win the presidency, which he was pissed about. He’s over it now, but if it pops back up, it’ll be referred to as Defiance, Ohio.

Season Two revolved around Fitz’s involvement in the plane Olivia’s mom “died” on, but it was all a hoax because she’s a crazy biotch.

Season 3 is full of nutzo plotlines, but Cyrus Beene’s husband getting murdered for trying to expose Vice President Sally Langston for murdering her own husband seems to be the strongest. (Whew.) Besides the terrorist attack Olivia’s mom appears to planning on US soil, of course.

Everyone’s slept with everyone.

Trust us, just assuming that no one is sexually off limits makes things a whole lot easier. Important relationships to note: Olivia and B-613’s current head Jake Ballard — aka Scott Foley from ye olde Felicity — banged a bunch, which made for a love triangle with his old Navy bro, President Grant.

Millie Grant and Andrew Nichols, President Grant’s VP candidate for the next election, have a secret fling, but less because of his lush hairline and more because he sees “the real her.”

Quinn and Olivia’s employee-BFF Huck have a weirdly sexual mentor-student relationship, and while it hasn’t been consummated beyond a kiss, he got real aroused by the idea of murdering her. Yeah, it’s pretty gross.

Kerry Washington is so beautiful it hurts your eyes to stare directly at her.

Like the sun! Or a spotlight! Nothing to do with the show, but it’s scientifically proven.

You see, Scandal is SO beautiful and insane that President Fitzgerald Grant narrowly survived an assassination attempt and it’s not even on the radar of important shit that’s gone down in Washington. The president! But still, we just saved you fifty hours of life you would have otherwise wasted on Netflix.

Thoughts on Food

Growing up, eating well meant eating low-fat; I felt good about a snack of instant oatmeal and Diet Coke. When I started to gain weight in college, the concept of looking at a food label for ingredients instead of calories was altogether foreign, and later, while living in New York, I swung between street meat, my aunt’s macrobiotic home cooking and an uncomfortably tight waistband.

I currently split my time between NYC and Northern New Mexico, surrounded by small farms and fresh food. In this new life with little conveniences or nearby McDonalds, I basically have no choice but to eat well. Ironically, once I stopped worrying about calories and started focusing on actual health, numbers on the scale became a non-issue.

21 year-old me was a different story — I’d basically eat sugar-free crap all day so long as I consumed no more than 1250 cal. Counting calories felt like a good way to be health-conscious, because every woman I knew was keeping track in one way or another.

At some point in the last few years, though, actual health became more important than dress size. For me, the shift came thanks to a few wise women and herbalists who helped explain what my body actually needed. Once I realized how well I could function with the right fuel, the seed was planted for a larger overhaul. And while it got me down to a steady, healthy weight, that was no longer as important to me as the improvements I was seeing in overall health.

What’s more, I’m seeing a similar trend among friends and relatives. Ten years ago, the women in my family opted for aspartame and low-fat milk in their coffee; now, the few who still drink coffee wouldn’t touch Sweet-N-Low. Meals are as delicious and joyful as always, but very little comes pre-packaged. Part of that is motivated by the awareness of sickness that comes with age. However, it seems there’s also a larger cultural change — while it still costs a fortune, organic food is no longer reserved for conspiracy theorists and the uber-wealthy.

The organic food market is expected to grow 14% per year over the next 4 years, and organic food production in the US increased 240% between 2002 and 2011. While healthful eating isn’t solely about eating organic, the increased production is a good measure for interest in eating well. It may be optimistic, but I don’t think we’re that far off from a time when girls are less worried about their weight and more aware of their waning energy post-candy bar.

To be clear, this isn’t an “I lost weight and you can do it, too!” post, or a plea for everyone to start gardens on their roof. (Though that would be amazing.) Nor is it a celebration of some great personal accomplishment — I will always want a pack of Twizzlers when I see them. But the sense of constant deprivation, and the embarrassment or hubris that comes from either succumbing to or resisting temptation no longer exists.

So, I guess my question is: have you felt a cultural change in the approach to food and calories? What about among your friends? Has it affected you or your habits? Does it feel like just another diet? Or is it finally a healthy, sustainable life-change?

Image via Vogue Brasil

Your Dance Moves, My Heart

A good wedding date is incredibly hard to find — more elusive, I’d argue, than the mythical, perfect man. The number one definer of a good wedding date is pure fact: he has to dance. That he dance well, however, is not a requirement. You’ve got to pick your battles in life (and getting a guy to attend a wedding with you is akin to the Battle of Gettysburg) so if he’s willing to get on the linoleum floor to shake the cake that the good lord gave him, then fine. I’m happy. No complaints.

On the other hand, should this wedding be the determining moment wherein you decide if you’re actually attracted to your date, he’s going to need some very specific moves. The Washington Post reported on a recent study by the researchers at Northumbria University and the University of Gottingen that pinpointed “what women want on the dance floor” in regards to choosing a mate. Let’s review this graphic together:

Right. So first I would just like to say thank you to the evolutionary scientists that are spending their time researching d-floor magic. I truly mean that. Next, I would like to point out that this graphic makes absolutely no sense to me (apparently it makes no sense to them either judging by the large purple question-mark above figure c’s head), as it demonstrates nothing other than that “ability” is attributed to a wobbling, drunken hot dog with possible joint pain in his knee.

Luckily, video visuals were provided as well, probably created using one of those XBox programs that somehow track your moves. The “scientists” gave male participants a singular drum beat and somehow came up with these two spectrums. Let’s watch together.

Here’s a “Good Dancer”:

And here’s the “Bad Dancer”:

But what the study failed to take into consideration is actual song choice! Remember, the researchers only provided them with a singular drum beat. The means like — bump, bump, bump, bump. What about melody? What about the words? What about about the chorus? I thought this was science! Let’s watch again, but this time with music.

Good dancer: (Click play but watch the dancing man video below. Do not get distracted by Chevy Chase.)

(Repeat video until song ends.)

Now stop the first track, and listen to this Drake song while watching Bad Dancer:

(Again, repeat video until song ends.)

THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING.

While our “Good Dancer” still looks awesome, our “Bad Dancer” is suddenly portrayed as though he’s got some nice, casual moves. He’s not showing off, which is great if you don’t want Center-of-the-Party-Guy.

Also, Drake is really hard to dance to! “Bad Dancer” nailed it! Doesn’t this freaky figure with a Ken Doll torso suddenly seem to have — dare I say it – swag? In disproving this scientific theory, I’ve simply re-underlined my very first point that for a man be an above-average wedding date, he simply has to dance. And to be considered for life-partnership? He just needs the right song.

Sorry science. Drake wins again. Happy Hump Day! 

(And if you find any other songs that add further evidence that any dancing is good dancing, let us know.)

Image via Vogue

The Manifold Ways to Wear White Jeans

It is a universal truth worth reiterating that the best thing about jeans is that no one can ruin them for you.

Unlike an easily identifiable dress, or skirt, or pair of shorts, which can serve as the controversial condiment you place over, say, a slice of bread, jeans are that slice of bread.

Everyone likes bread. Everyone eats bread. It comes ripe with opportunity to manipulate, garnish, or simply consume as-is. If you don’t like how someone else eats their bread, that means absolutely nothing about the way you eat your bread. And the same can be said for jeans; they’re the Switzerland of clothing in that they are so damn neutral, sometimes you forget they’re even there. Which, surprisingly, in no way detracts from their untrammeled ability to speak to a woman’s sense of personal style, and man do they make getting dressed easy.

So, while we continue to perform our respective sun dances in anticipation of warmer days smacking us where the sun don’t shine, let’s play the 1 piece, 5 ways game and festoon what are inarguably the world’s best pair of jeans: Madewell’s Boyjean in white clover.

First up: there’s the purgatory look, which finds you clothed when it is neither winter nor spring. Try a white blouse with neckerchief (Madewell shown), because we’re nothing if not a legion of banditos, and white sneakers – red and blue stripes not obligatory at all, though they do make a red lip feel more tied together and oh wow, I’m doing that thing where I look like America even though it’s not the Fourth of July, huh?

Looks two and three are supposed to function as a physical manifestation of summer. First in the form of a casual evening appropriate outfit, replete with a corporate blue bralette layered over a white t-shirt and shoes that boast not one but two layers of non-Western fringe, topped with a see-through clutch, which incidentally arrived with a tampon inside of it.

The second summer look is also casual but decidedly day time (work?) appropriate, what with its classic sunglasses, white patent leather Birkenstocks and arm-tillery of bangles. The peplum blouse, sleeveless and v-neck, evokes summer with its insouciant perforations, while the trench coat can’t stop humming Lovefool with a deserved touch of pomp. Normsnore? I think not.

The final two looks hearken back to a harsh reality: that it is still cold outside. In the casual day look, I wear the white jeans with a cable-knit ivory sweater, an ankle length blazer/jacket, black socks, and Madewell lace-up Oxfords. The sunglasses are Karen Walker and make me feel crazy.

Finally, we’ve got a black leather denim-style jacket, worn over a sheer dress, worn over white jeans, worn over white patent leather pumps. Meanwhile, I continue to sound like a broken record player, singing, come on, spring. Show. Yo. Self.

It’s a damn good thing bread is not seasonal.

Part 1 of 1 in collaboration with Madewell, outfit credits (sorry, cRediTz) in slideshow.

The Pros and Cons of Swiping Left

Napoleon Dynamite was the primary reason I used to be aggressively against online dating. In my mind, Napolean’s brother Kip was exactly the type of person to be found hanging out on such establishments as OkCupid and Match.com. Tina the llama was probably on there too.

But by the time I moved to Manhattan it seemed that the conversation of one’s online dating profile was as commonplace one of Facebook. It was un-stigmatized and viewed similarly to the way you might meet a stranger at a random bar, just with more information on them. At the very least, you could enter date #1 knowing they enjoyed long walks on the beach but detested mayo.

When Tinder and Hinge came on to the scene, both were met with raised eyebrows and sometimes the question of, “That’s a sex app, right?” But soon it seemed that everyone was on at least one of the two. My guy friends, my girl friends, not Napoleon Dynamite’s older brother. And they were using it for dates (as opposed to just boning, no judgement, YDY/you do you). So I thought, why not?

On any given Sunday you can find me swiping the shit out of my phone screen, mostly out of boredom but also because best-case scenario is that you meet someone cool. Sometimes I let Leandra play with my Tinder because she’s married and I’m nice: it’s sort of like sharing the Nintendo controller on a one-player game like Donkey Kong.

However, there are still the online dating naysayers. Which doesn’t offend me, I didn’t invent the app, but when I found myself defending the “pros” to a friend’s “cons” last night, I realized that everyone I’d talked to who hadn’t tried some form of it maintained the same fears.

Allow me to quell them.

Con: He might be a serial killer.

Pro: He might be. But really, anyone has this potential. At least online you have some immediate information about the person. With an actual dating site, a whole profile is filled out, and you can decide for yourself if his love of Celine Dion is a good thing or not. With Tinder and Hinge, you can avoid strangers completely by swiping them left. I wish I could do that at a bar.

Con: He/she might just be looking for sex, and I’m not.

Pro: You can tell. Usually because they’ve marked the button, “I am looking for sex.” Or because their opening line is something to the effect of, “I am looking for sex.” In real life, agendas are more easily hidden.

Con: What if someone I know sees me on there, and thinks I’m just looking for sex? Or worse, that I’m looking for a relationship??

Pro: If they can see you, they’re on there too.

Con: What if I get catfished?

Pro: My friend accidentally catfished someone once. Do your research if you’re suspicious, and remember what the MTV show taught us about Google-image searching. And if you get catfished, then you get catfished, and that makes for an awesome story.

(But you won’t.)

Con #5: What if it’s an awful date?

Pro: Similar to the above, I find bad dates make for the best stories, which make for extremely fun brunches and set you up as a future candidate for recurring brunch invites.

The reality is that you can have an awful date from a set-up as well, or with someone you met at a coffee shop, or with the person you’ve had a crush on for years.  The best thing you can do is remind yourself that you gotta eat (or if you’re me, drink) at some point during the day, so you’re basically crossing something off your to do list.

And if it doesn’t work out? So it doesn’t work out. Once, I met a guy on Tinder who was so blacked out by the time we met that I was able to take his phone from him and delete my number out of his address book.

The next day, I was the most popular girl at brunch.

Image via The Impact News