If I had a sugar daddy...

Blouson keyhole sweater by Catherine Malandrino

$325 at shopbop.com

When the wishlist dress isn't *quite* the wishlist dress

It was that dress.

It was that dress in my size.

It was that dress in my size on sale.

And it was the last one left.

Hanging by a single Secret-stained strap on the kind of frill-free clear plastic hanger associates at Bloomingdale's reserve for the oh-so-last-season leftovers was my sweet little Catherine Malandrino flower cut-out sun dress.

As you can see in the pictures below - their poor quality a testament to the overwhelming range of emotions I underwent in that bitty box of a fitting room - the dress I nearly flipped past Monday afternoon was and wasn't the coveted wishlist dress I'd first discovered at the Nordstrom in Pentagon City last St. Patrick's Day.

Even though the eyelet before me wasn't white and the neckline had the kind of unsavory wear-and-tear one expects to find caked onto a slip-over-the-head clearance item at Charlotte Russe, not Bloomingdale's, I looked at it and its 40%-off pricetag and thought to myself, "Black, white, streaky orange foundation stains -- it's almost the same. I'll try it."

And try it, I did.

"That is so stunning on you. Decision made," S stated as she exited her stall in a so-so t-shirt mini, not a whit of uncertainty in her voice.

"I don't know...I mean, I like it but it's just not..."

"Not what? Not perfect? Yes it is. Seriously, Johanna, look at your cleavage (we both look and nod knowingly) you've got to get this dress."

Considering that these statements were coming from the same individual who earlier in the day without provocation handed me a tissue and said, "Do you always over-bronze?" and at the previous store told me a red boucle shift I'd tried on gave me "gumdrop hips," I knew in this case, with this dress, S was not just playing a Gretchen Wieners to my Regina George. When she said it was fabulous, she meant it.

I clicked shut the thin-planked wooden door, airily replied, "No, that dress you're wearing isn't worth $265," took a few more looks from all the angles the floor-to-ceiling three-way afforded me, and just as I was about to set aside my misgivings and dive head first into S's cool pool of resolute confidence, something hit me.

S never saw the white dress. She only saw this one, which despite its unarguably flattering fit wasn't even in the same realm of sigh-worthiness as the original wishlist dress. Buying the black dress against my it's-not-quite-"the-one" instincts just because it was possible, just because with the final markdown it was now within my financial grasp and just because I had the recommendation of someone who didn't have the benefit of comparison would have been tantamount to that which I long ago vowed never to do.

To settle.

So no, I did not tick the Catherine Malandrino box on my ever-lengthening wishlist to entertain a burst of short-lived, half-hearted, clouded-by-Manhattan-awe shopping satisfaction. Instead, I decided to do as I always do: sit pretty in any one of my many other dresses and wait for "the one" to cross my path again one day on another website, on another sale rack, in another vintage store, or more likely than not, as the result of a college friend's charity when she decides on a whim she no longer does eyelet.

The pictures and warped inner-dialogue of me trying to convince myself I could make this dress work-appropriate:

"I mean, the back is conservative enough..."
"A cute bolero will compensate for the bralessness."
"Just wear pearls," S suggested, "with the cut-outs at the hem, no one will even notice the boob factor."

If I had a sugar daddy...

Button-down halter blouse by Catherine Malandrino
$195 at activeendeavors.com

What will they expect at my age?

Cusp is a new, very high-end, very fashion-forward boutique that opened two weekends ago in the heart of Georgetown's uppermost upper-crust.

Though I went through a significant amount of trouble to wrangle an invitation to attend its champagne opening, I decided at the last minute, Bay Dayliner performance notwithstanding, to go for a run and watch a documentary on the rather creepy phenomenon of Purity Balls instead.

Why, you ask, would I so easily pass up this opportunity to mingle with women who love fabrics, cuts and Marc Jacobs tops as much as I do? Well, to be frank, I really wanted to see this documentary, and since my Tivo was already committed to another program, I had to be home to see it. Also, it would have been too painful in light of my new resolution to differentiate between that's-cute-and-I-want-it and that's-cute-and-I-need-it. Apparently, making that distinction and acting accordingly - i.e. only buying that which falls into the latter category - is something someone in my financial position should have learned years ago.

Cusp, unfortunately, doesn't carry a single item of clothing, accessory or beauty product, from their Milly eyelet mini to their Christian Louboutin patent-leather t-strap stilettos to their fast-dwindling collection of Chanel Vernis 'Black Ceramic' nail lacquer that isn't (a) cute (b) something I want and (c) not something I need. In fact, if you visit their blog, you'll see that for even the most casual outfits, following their recommendations will set you back $1300.

It's one thing to look longingly at these items in Harper's Bazaar or to covet them online, enlarging their pictures, gazing at them from every possible angle and in every available color, but it is quite another to physically enter through those two-story glass doors and surround yourself not only with every top, bottom, coat and shoe you could ever want but with people who can afford to just drop $444 on a black and blue Alice + Olivia sequined tank mini for no other reason than they saw Sarah Jessica Parker wear it to a charity event last week and the sparkles somehow made her pony-face look less pony-like.

Despite my reservations, I decided today, while I was in the neighborhood helping L find an ensemble fit for a Kennedy Center ballet opening, I would face my demons and just go inside.

So I did. And it was even better and even worse than I knew it would be.

Better was the selection and the spectacular quality of the DVF wrap dress collection, the Rebecca Taylor blouses with perfectly constructed sleeves and unique necklines and the bounty of Kiehl's products resting in what looked more like an armoire you'd find in a French castle than a toiletry display-case.

Worse was the clientele. Way worse.

Like a starstruck Midwesterner walking up Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills, I wove through the by-designer sections recognizing celebrity after "Sugar Daddy" celebrity. Everything was so beautiful, so well-crafted, so elegantly displayed. There were definitely items I didn't like, many I couldn't imagine wearing much less paying an entire month's rent for, but I still appreciated the aesthetic layout and loft-esque feel of the space. Had I not overheard the following conversation, I probably would've stayed a few minutes longer, shot a maybe-we'll-meet-again smile at my Catherine Malandrino wishlist dress and been on my way.

"Those are super cute. Super you, you know? You should get them."

"Yeah, I know, but they're like, not the ideal shade of pink for my dress, and I didn't get a Cavalli for nothing, you know? I have to get the right shoes or else it's not even worth going."

"How about these?" another girl, this one wearing a Sidwell Friends Crew jacket (a prominent private DC high school), asked her friend.

"Shut up, Lauren, those are hideous," the Cavalli-girl said in a shrill tone, "what are they, Nine West? This is prom, not a graduation party." And with that, she tossed the gold python Manolo Blahnik 'Ayers' strap sandals ($745 at neimanmarcus.com) to the hardwood floor as carelessly as she would a dirty tissue.

As soon as I shook the shock that anyone - especially someone so many years younger than I was - would treat such a lovely not to mention expensive pair of shoes so shabbily, something else hit me. Did she say "prom?" These girls were shopping at my fashion Mecca trying on and nonchalantly dismissing Manolos for prom? I looked around for an adult, some sort of parental figure, an immigrant nanny, anyone, but came up empty. These girls were alone, I realized, which meant they would be the ones signing the four-figure dotted lines. I looked at each one, there were five or six, and all of them had on premium jeans and designer shoes, and a couple of them even carried this butter-soft Kooba handbag ($635 at pinkmascara.com).

"Whatever, I'm just gonna go with these (picking up the first pair, ironically, also Manolos), try them on with my dress at home, and if I don't like the way they look, I'll just wear 'em with jeans and a cute top or something."

"That's totally what I would do," the insufferable sycophant on her left said, nodding vigorously, "Totally."

The two got up and started to walk to the front to charge their wares - which, in addition to these Manolos , included a pile of DVF, Twinkle and Milly that had been sitting next to them on the floor - when they realized they'd left their other shopping bags behind on the for-trying-on-shoes-only divan.

"We are such retards. We like, always forget, don't we?" one giggled to the other as they each snatched up their sizable Barney's Co-op, Kate Spade, Ralph Lauren and Intermix bags. "You're the retard," the Cavalli-girl whipped back in a tone I would never use with a friend, "you got your dress in DC."

As I walked instead of cabbing the 14 blocks back to my apartment in the grazing rain - a tidy savings of $8.80 plus tip - I couldn't decide for whom I felt more pity -- the girls themselves for having been raised with Black AmEx expectations, or the future husbands who would likely have to explain to them the concept of a lifestyle downgrade.

Wishlist addition.

En route to finding L the wardrobe staple no other DC woman is more qualified to sniff out - a for-work black pencil skirt - I happened to fall straight into the soft cotton arms of this absolutely stunning plunge-neck Catherine Malandrino eyelet dress with floral-appliquéd bust and embroidered, cutout hem.

Even though on a good day it's still $150 out of my price range, even though it would cost me another $30 to have Alecia let out the bustline a half-inch, and even though it would require me to find an occasion worthy of its debut, I am seriously considering offering this let's-take-the-train-to-Penn-Station-on-a-summer-whim confection a place not on my wishlist wishlist but on the much more exclusive it-might-actually-happen wishlist.

What is it about this dress that makes me seriously consider cutting out groceries, not buying a much-needed new pair of running shoes and swearing off any iTunes downloads until 2008?

To start, it's the personification of summer. As soon as I slipped it on and L zipped me up as best she could - the "ladies" wouldn't allow a perfect fit - I felt a series of simultaneous transformations take place.

I felt like a woman who had nothing better to do than find the perfect summer sandals to go with her perfect summer dress.

I felt like a spoiled rich princess who, in celebration of finishing her Ivy League education and thus activating her windfall of a trust-fund, decided she would fly her three best girlfriends, her dog and herself to the Amalfi Coast for a long weekend of "earned" vacation.

I felt like I should be walking down a warm, breezy sidewalk opposite the Park on the Upper West Side, soaking up the be-freckling sunshine and counting the hours until my lov-ah would leave his office and meet me for pre-dinner antipasti and pints of Stella at Fiorello's.

Basically, I felt like this but tanner and with a much better dress: