An evening in Adams Morgan in downtown Georgetown

I like Betsy Fisher, I like Cusp, I like Anthropologie, I like Club Monaco, I like Barney's Co-op and I really like - okay, I love - Saks Fifth Avenue.

Don't be fooled, I can't afford the majority of the wares neatly folded and meticulously hung on these stores' shelves and cloth hangers, but nonetheless, these are the retail sanctuaries to which I most often flee to look at pretty things and to temporarily forget about my hectic, sleep-deprived schedule.

What draws me most to a shop, be it of a large department variety or a quaint, local boutique, is of course the clothing itself - as you well know, I tend to go for unique, simple, neutral, tailored, Katie-esque looks - but also the atmosphere, the quietude of the experience. You see, I'm a solo shopper, so even when I have a girlfriend or two in tow, I'm alone in that store, and I really require a certain level of privacy with that pair of calling-out-to-me high-waisted Katharine Hepburn trousers so that I can make the decision, free of pressure, free of false excitement, whether or not there exists a bond strong and special enough between the two of us for me to appropriate a portion of my tightly-budgeted analyst's salary for its acquisition.

Last night, as soon as I exited my lovely post-work drink at Hook* and saw the shockingly long Pucci-printed, flat suede-booted queue snaking around the corner of 33rd and M St., I knew I was in for the kind of shopping experience I not only dislike but physically can't stand for more than 20 minutes.

And in actuality, it was more like 17 minutes.

Now, I'm not saying the District Sample Sale** was poorly organized or poorly stocked with last season's ugly stepsister remnants - not at all, and judging from the gleeful looks on most shoppers' faces, my discomfort and anxiety with the fashion frenzy were not widely shared - but I will say this -- last night was my first and last foray into this sort of competitive, passive-aggressive-behavior heavy shopping experience.

Frankly, I love clothes too much to see them soiled with makeup stains and strewn over folding tables, hanging halfway out of plastic Rubbermaid bins and stretched to within a threadbare inch of their lives over a pair of you-knew-those-wouldn't-fit-in-there DDs. And because I honestly do believe in the notion of falling for that perfect dress*** or those perfect shoes, I want - just as I do with a lover - a beautiful memory and an awwww-inspiring story to go along with the moment at which we looked at each other, looked down, smiled and just knew we had to be together.

So just as I may skip out on the Adams Morgan nights with my girlfriends because I don't want to have to say to my parents, "Well, we met when he spilled his shot of Captain Morgan's down the front of my blouse," from now on, on DSS night, I'll be staying snug-as-bug put in my apartment noshing on baby carrots with my first love watching Carlito's Way on Starz.


*be sure to chat up bartender Duffy -- he's ador-uh-bull
**big snaps to BabsieD for her hard work in organizing the event and for her generous, fun-to-paw-through swag bag
***big snaps to K & L for having introduced me to my newest circus-necklined obsession

Adams Morgan - it is what it is

I had an Adams Morgan post.

It was witty, it was offensive, it was tightly written and peppered with random allusions to snap bracelets, the '86 Mets and robot-girl Vicki from that show I used to watch as a kid on Saturday afternoons.

But as I did my final read-through, something didn't feel quite right. What that something was, I'm not exactly sure, for what I'd written wasn't more mean-spirited, more superficial or more self-indulgent than any of my other posts. But whatever it was, it was acute enough and persistent enough that it not only prompted me to delete my entire morning's worth of work but it also had me doubting, among other things, my heretofore unchallenged belief that the best criterion by which to judge a woman's character is how elegantly she walks in high heels.

Any person of relative privilege who chooses to live in a place of relative poverty will tell you that the only way to survive is to set aside the values, routines and expectations to which you've grown accustomed and adapt by accepting your new surroundings' values, routines and expectations. Accept the spitting, accept the lack of cell phone etiquette, accept the fact that the smell of washed-every-six-days scalp will be flush up against you on every form of public transportation, and unsavory as it might be, accept that parents let their sons - not daughters but sons - urinate in their chairs at sit-down restaurants. The more you fight against whatever it is you don't agree with or whatever it is you aren't used to, the more miserable you'll be and the fewer friends you'll make during your time there.

This is how I feel about Adams Morgan.

If I choose to enter the world of the sloppy drunk, skanked-out size-10-in-a-size-2, that's my choice. Who am I to expect a terry cloth tubedress clad woman with chunky red highlights and acrylic French tips to apologize when she spills her Smirnoff Ice on my favorite satin ruffled halter? Who am I to assume a group of 35 year old men in flip-flops and Le Tigre polos would break their three-across on the sidewalk so my four-inchers and I aren't forced into the gravely grass less than a foot from moving traffic?

Likewise, who am I to expect women of the sort I encountered - ranging from those who attached their Peace Corps emblazoned Nalgenes to their backpack loops to those who did the mini with the low-cut neckline with the stripper heels with the white eyeliner - to set aside their affection for all fabrics unnatural and all fits puckered and instead pay attention to figure-flattering, venue-appropriate, confidence-enhancing style?

The answer is, I can't. And not only that, but I shouldn't. Like a third-world country, Adams Morgan is a place outsiders have to accept at face value, because as far as I can tell, the regulars like it just the way it is.

A girls night in Adams Morgan? Me?

That's right, my new 7-inches shorter, Katie-inspired 'do and I are swallowing our snobbery - or most of it - and hitting up 18th St. this fine eve for some beer, some aperitifs, some relentless judgment of others and a whole big Pyrex of uncensored, piping hot, serves 4-6 girl-dish.

Impressions of the Adams Morgan fashion scene colored by no fewer than five Miller High Life longnecks to come tomorrow...

Happy Friday night!

How to dress like a neo-Heather

Before I turned 14 and discovered the weathered good looks of Gene Hackman in The Firm and Ralph Fiennes in Quiz Show, nearly all my on-screen crushes were high school "preps" like Steff in Pretty in Pink, Hardy in Some Kind of Wonderful and of course, Jake from Sixteen Candles.

Likewise, some of my earliest and most indelible fashion (and personality) role-models were members of the popped-collar girl crowd like Blair from "Facts of Life," Claire from The Breakfast Club and the entire cast of Heathers.

Once I moved to the East Coast and spent four years at one of the prep-prep-preppiest eyelet-and-seersucker, cable-knit-and-linen, Tod's driving moccasins and Prada loafers loaded universities in the country, a place where you're more likely to hear the word "vineyard" used as a verb than a noun, my crush for all people and all looks preppy blossomed into passionate love.

I'm not saying I, nor anyone, should force a head-to-toe Ralph Lauren ensemble at Milly & Al's in Adams Morgan, but I do believe that in the conservative professional - and even social - DC corridors, to err on the side of preppiness is the most successful strategy to look audience-appropriate and maintain your unique style.

The operational definition of "preppy," from what I've observed, has evolved from the shoulder-padded blazer and Lacoste polo days of Heathers' yore to a look with a much slimmer silhouette, a much less overt pronouncement of wealth and privilege, and a much more permissive attitude toward mixing and matching traditional with trendy, ladylike with avant garde, and cotton knits with luxe satin.

The one characteristic of the preppy look that hasn't undergone a change over the years, however, is the primacy placed on full-coverage cuts. This means no cleavage, no backlessness, and certainly no short-short hemlines -- unless, that is, the neckline is high, the sleeves are substantial, the shape is demure, and the event to which you're wearing this outfit is not work-related.

To illustrate what this neo-prep style - my style - looks like, I've put together 20 representative items, most of which I can't afford but all of which I would warmly allow a Sugar Daddy to add to my wardrobe.

Enjoy!

Top to bottom:

1. Leather bayswater bag by Mulberry ($995 at net-a-porter.com)
2. Silk pencil skirt by Castle Starr ($281 at revolveclothing.com)*
3. Lawless shorts by DVF ($185 at dvf.com)
4. Keyhole blouse by Corey Lynn Calter ($80 at azaleaonline.com)
5. Silk newel trousers by Lauren by Ralph Lauren ($139 at macys.com)
6. Martine jacket by Peter Som ($2,300 at eluxury.com)
7. Valentine flats by London Sole ($245 at urbanchiconline.com)*
8. ‘60s dress by Alice + Olivia ($426 at urbanchiconline.com)
9. 7.5mm pearl studs by Mikimoto ($610 at mikimotoamerica.com)*
10. Black/tan pumps by Lila Norman ($250 at activeendeavors.com)
11. Double-breated linen coat (£55 at topshop.com)
12. High-waisted pencil skirt (£32 at topshop.com)
13. Puff-sleeve shirt by Nili Lotan ($203 at shopbop.com)
14. Puff-sleeve top by Rebecca Taylor ($249 at shopbop.com)
15. Pharoah dress by Vena Cava ($531 at shopbop.com)

16. Pleated dress by Development ($369 at pinkmascara.com)

17. Bubble-sleeve top by Mint ($253 at pinkmascara.com)

18. Verna d'Orsay by Fitzwell ($69.96 at zappos.com)

19. Metallic box clutch by Bottega Veneta ($2,250 at net-a-porter.com)*

20. Chiffon and sequin dress by D&G ($795 at net-a-porter.com)

*your editrix's favorites