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

An annual tradition

The second Friday in July will forever be a very special day for my wardrobe and me.

Two years ago, on July 8, 2005, I received the first real paycheck of my professional life, a milestone that marked a final financial separation from my extraordinarily patient, extraordinarily generous, as-long-as-you're-in-school-we'll-help-out parents.

What does a clothes-loving girl do when she sees that first all-hers direct-deposit sitting in her first non-joint bank account? She follows her father's advice, of course, and invests in a meaningful first-paycheck-purchase.

I bandied with apartment furnishings, a donation to charity, a bigger cable package, but ultimately I had to be true to myself and admit what I wanted - what I really wanted - was a designer dress. Up to that point, I'd never owned one, not even a vintage, hand-me-down or gifted one. I'd spent my entire life admiring, which was fine, but now that I had the means and an excuse to indulge, I wanted my first swath of rich fabric, my first stunningly fitted, my first of-interest necklined, bought-with-my-own-money evening dress.

So I did. I bought one. And much to my surprise, it wasn't black, it wasn't monochromatic, it wasn't fitted through the hips and it certainly wasn't demure down front. In short, it was everything I'd never had and never thought I'd like.

But under the soft lighting and honest, informed tutelage I found in the Betsy Fisher boutique, I selected the one wardrobe component - a matte-silk, tea-length Nicole Miller scarf-print dress - that would always remind me of the moment when I finally burst free from familial dependence.

Financial dependence, that is.

Below, getting ready to go out last night for the annual celebration of my first me-purchased dress:

Dressed up drinks at the Round Robin and late-night dinner at Old Ebbitt can only be trumped by one thing...

When Georgetown's good, it's *really* good.

Most days of the week, most weekends in the month, most holidays during the year (graduation season, included), you couldn't tempt me with a Cusp giftcard to put up with Georgetown. It's a mix of the crowd, the style, the stores, the tourists and their hold-everyone-up pace, and most notably, the ubiquitous sense of entitlement with which I inevitably come into contact that never fails to ruin my day.

Some days, though, WiscAve from Sequoia to Urban Chic and M St. from Hu's Shoes to Waterworks - Georgetown's shopping district - is good. Really good.

And sometimes, when the weather, the company, and your mood is just right, even the walk from Logan Circle to Lily-Pulitzer-central can turn a brokenhearted girl into a hopeful one.

If she stops at Betsy Fisher, that is, and drinks a Pinot spritzer while trying on a couple of beautiful dresses she might one day be able to afford.

Readers, enjoy below today's low-pixelage shopping diary:

Python-trimmed grey plisse racerback dress by June

($400, in-store only at the Betsy Fisher boutique)

I tried to look surprised instead of "I know, right?" when

Betsy told me this dress made my chest look amazing.Eyelet housewife dress by Vivienne Tam

($445, in-store only at the Betsy Fisher boutique)

I imagine myself wearing this dress commando with pearl studs
handing the man I love a packed-with-care sack lunch while

whispering in his ear how I'm going to ______ his ______ off

when he gets home from work.

High-waisted black-scribble-print pencil skirt
($149, in-store only at Club Monaco)

L insisted you get an ass shot. Thank her, not me.
Metallic Ankle-Strap Sandal by Maison Martin Margiela
($645, in-store only at Hu's Shoes) In the end, pricey duds are nice, but all a girl really needs on a

sunny May day is to find an identical twin (in black) to her

under-$100 red Zara baby and a thick-strawed Thai bubble

milk-tea with extra tapioca bubbles ($4.25 at Snap)

Okay, that's complete bullshit.

The truth is, I offered the extremely gracious salesman at Hu's his choice of any and all of my vital organs - even those I only have one of - for those unbelievably sexy, unbelievably so very me, last-pair-in-my-size gold-bangle-ankle-strap stilettos but he wouldn't budge. Sugar Daddies, please take note -- I wear a 38.