Next Level: Mint
I don’t know what it is, but minty green always seems to have more ‘tude to me than your average pastel—the whole range of which are all over the goddamn place right now. Here’s how to work the ice-cream-y hue. —erica
LEVEL I: Toss this camel-and-mint braided Rag & Bone belt over a striped tank dress, and all of a sudden you’ve got a look.
LEVEL II: The breezy silk top Rachel Rose made us is hand-painted—so it nails the also-popular watercolor note, too.
LEVEL III: The cut of these A.L.C. pants is so business-y. With tortoiseshell glasses, you’d immediately feel 43% more like Jenna Lyons.
LEVEL IV: Basta Surf gives the tankini a (much needed) makeover, in a color that looks surprising good on un-sun-kissed skin.
What We Heard About the Canadians
We heard they were not American.
Not British and not quite French.
They were not born in Hong Kong
did not immigrate from Russia with one pair of shoes.
They were not all russet-haired orphans
who greeted the apple blossom dawn with open arms,
crying Avonlea! They were not immodest,
did not want God to save the Queen.
Their leaders were not corrupt, no;
they were not all Mounties on proud horseback
with hot tasers. Nor did they shit hockey pucks.
Fuck me was not considered impolite in their living rooms.
It was not just the weather that made them curse.
Not just frozen lakes cracked under the weight of the moon.
There was no great Canadian hush of things not to be talked about.
They did not ride sled dogs to the prom,
nor fight off polar bears for a chunk of Narwhal blubber.
Cod-stacking was not their Olympic sport.
Wedding guests did not dine on icicle, nor did the bride
wear a toque over a white veil. Not all of them
ignored genocide. Not all of them sang a “cold
and broken Hallelujah” as the bells broke crystal ice
across Parc Lafontaine. They were not rich and also
not poor. Not overachievers. Neither believers nor unbelievers.
C’etait pas tout l’histoire, and they would not
be caught clubbing seals on TV, red bloom
on white coat, melting eyes, they did not mine asbestos
in Quebec, make love in skidoos,
sleep in snowshoes. Never danced hatless
under dancing Northern lights. They were polite.
By Rachel Rose
