A new coat-inspired catwalk-to-sidewalk iMix

As I walked home last night from work, my first enshrouded in The Precious pictured above, I realized I hadn't a single selection in my cache of 22 iMixes befitting such a special, such an inaugural occasion.

Of my existing compilations, one was too workout-y, another too maudlin, 11 others way too maudlin, and the rest, well, either too Britney or too Amy focused.

When I wear my new Hanii Y, I want to feel strong and lovely, maybe even a little coquettish -- certainly not anything reminiscent of bloody spousal fighting, poop-filled pool areas and two pregnancies in two years.

Never one to just "deal," after the dog-walk and just before Brian's sad but justified dismissal from "The Biggest Loser," I sat down Indian-style on the beige wall-to-wall and carefully pieced together the perfect six-song serenade to the new thick-waled, decorative-buttoned love in my life.

And I think I did good. Real good.

If this morning's reaction was any indication - I swear, I could feel her I-can't-stop-thinking-about-you-in-me-edness pulsating in major chorded colors all around my body - I think I chose wisely.

Please to enjoy the following with whatever new purchase (or old favorite) holds a special place in your heart:

"Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac


"Feeling Good" by Nina Simone


"Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison


"Heaven on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle


"Crush" by Jennifer Paige


and one I haven't listened to in years...

"Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service


And because it really is the little things that make me smile, here is a close-up of the oversized buttons on my loverly Hanii Y:

Sometimes the stars *do* align

If there was one investment I was determined to make good on this year it was a new black Winter coat.

True, the knee-high almond-toed platform boots, the block-colored work sheath, the patent leather Mary Janes, the high-waisted tulip skirt, the replacement black leather daybag and the funnel-neck swing jacket were all on this same "what'll I do without it?" list, but you must understand, vital as each of these additions were to my poor, barren wardrobe, none of them, neither individually nor in sum, could compare to the need I felt for a suitable, can't-wait-to-put-it-on-every-morning black Winter coat.

Up until this past March (I've been relying on my olive trench since then), I had been wearing the same simple wool-cashmere blend overcoat for four straight years. My steady Betty has always hugged my body perfectly, a feat for which much props should be given considering the upsies and downsies in size my lady lumps have undergone between the point of sale and the present-day. Its collar pops up with a nice stiffness that blocks the wind and encases my neck on those frequent occasions when I absentmindedly leave my scarf at home. Its pockets so worn from the jagged edges of my house keys that unless I placed them just so in one of two back right-hand nooks, they - along with Monte's plastic sandwich bags and sometimes, my iPod or a handful of Ice Breakers Sours - would slip through and travel down, way down, only to be trapped inside the knee-length hem. In addition to lining deterioration, there was also the normal wear-and-tear dry cleaning chemicals and my own behaviors had taken on its of-mediocre-quality fabric and fasteners: some patches were blacker than others, some of the buttons were chipped or partially eroded, and though endearing and reminiscent of my Mother and Oma, the inside of the right hand sleeve was left threadbare from the constant friction against my seven gold bangles.

Until this Summer when I liberated from my coat closet the trusty piece of outerwear that had seen me through my second tour in China and my entire duration in this city and really took notice of its defeated state, the part of me that wanted to side with my Mother's "It'll last one more season" cautioning realized it could not, in fact, make it through one more Winter.

So from that early August day forward, the search for my new black topper has been in full-swing.

My requirements weren't outlandish. Sure, I wanted something a bit more stand-out than the traditional barn, pea and walking coats I see day in and day out at the foot of DC's cityscape, but I wasn't reaching for the Vidler & Nixon stars or anything. Preferably, I was hoping for a modern silhouette and something of the haircut-showcasing variety.

The first of my three disappointments was an impulsively purchased one. Essentially, I saw it, I liked it, and I ordered it. Because it is no longer available online, I'll send you here for a general idea of its aesthetic. I can't point to any one major flaw, but as we ladies are all too familiar with men, with coats there is the same kind of it-works-or-it-duhn't mentality. You know and you know right away. This selection, like so many men whose company I've endured in the past 11 months, was clearly not "the one."

The second disappointment, like the first, can be filed away in the "no shopping late at night while watching QVC's 'Gourmet Holiday' special" category. Against Monte's better judgment - a snubbing that would ultimately earn me three full days of silent treatment - I gave into the lure of 15%-off plus free shipping and "placed order" with this selection. There's no need to really get into the specifics of why the BR and I didn't work out, but let's just say that quality isn't BR's strong suit, especially with their larger ticket-priced items.

The third and final disappointment simply didn't fit, but unfortunately, it was not in an easily remedy-able should've-ordered-a-size-up/down kind of way. Too tight in the upper arms, too tight across the chest and far too loose in the waist, it took me half a twirl in the full-length before I was filling out the return form.

Jaded and sick of waiting in line at the Post Office on Saturday mornings, I just about gave up and gave into Monte's plan to permanently borrow without asking something from Hot Redhead's Lawyer's supersaturated outerwear collection.

But then something happened. Somethings, rather.

During my superficial attempt at cleaning before my trip to Michigan, I uncovered a piece of paper reminding me of a hefty credit at Bop I'd received after returning a pair of trouser jeans a shade - try 40 days - past the 30 day return window.

Then, while in Michigan and doing the research for my dress gloves post, I came across Bop's "getajump" promotional code.

And finally, to complete the tri-per-fecta, I found my dream coat, conveniently, also at Bop.

As Florentino well knows, if you wait long enough, those stars will align:

A death in the wishlist (pt. II)

It was four months and two weeks ago when I first laid eyes on you.
And every day since, Lady Vita, often in the morning, afternoon and night, I have checked up on you, made sure you were still there, made sure you hadn't had a within-reach markdown -- in all honesty, sometimes I would click over just to look at you, just to marvel at your sleek gunmetal body, your demure, oval-shaped lead and yes, of course, that intricate over-the-toe detailing no Zara, no BCBGirls and no Steve Madden could ever replicate.
Last night you were there. This morning you were there. Just four hours ago, again, you were there. But as has happened before, in the blink - no, in the half blink - of an eye, someone who had the means, someone who didn't waste her funds on protein smoothies, throwaway iTunes and copious amounts of moisturizer, drop-down-menu-ed your last 37.5 and stole you away from me. Or rather, stole the idea of you away from me.

I thought we could pull through and make it to Christmas bonus season together. I really did.

As was the case the last time I experienced a major death in my wishlist, I now turn to my favorite fem-poet for solace and perspective.

And Enya. Lots and lots of Enya.

But Not Forgotten*
(Dorothy Parker)

I think, no matter where you stray,

That I shall go with you a way.

Though you may wander sweeter lands,

You will not soon forget my hands,

Nor yet the way I held my head,

Nor all the tremulous things I said.

You still will see me, small and white

And smiling, in the secret night,

And feel my arms about you when

The day comes fluttering back again.

I think, no matter where you be,

You'll hold me in your memory

And keep my image there without me,

By telling later loves about me.

*poem taken from Parker's second book of verse, Sunset Gun (1927)

Stop reaching for a rebound

Whatever the reason, whether it's them, whether it's you, whether it's timing or circumstances out of your control, when you can't have the one you want, the one you really want, the one you know deep down was put on this earth for you and you alone, the standard for what you'll allow to come after them is inextricably tied - and unavoidably lowered due - to the still-fresh memory of the one from which you were forced to walk away.

Put simply, you rebound.

And while this sort of relationship can work and has worked, for the most part, the allure of having something new and of being seen with something new, regardless of its inadequacy, will rapidly lose its lustre and thrust you head and heart first into one of those I'll-never-find-something-better phases.

That's presently where I am.

But it's not exactly what you may be thinking.

My heart is broken, yes, and I have been trying to move on with limited success due to both my unwillingness to accept the so-not-my-choice departure of "the one" and because of the string of vastly inferior replacements with which I've attempted (and patently failed) to fill this gaping void.

But you've got to understand, this one was special. Really special. I mean, how often does one find a perfect condition circa-1956 gold lamé cocktail dress with waist-cinch, pleated pencil skirt, and a gathered front and back deep v-neck plunge?

But the dress is gone. It's done. And I need to move on with the mindset that I'm no longer looking for another version of my perfect dress but rather opening my mind - and heart - to the possibility of falling for something completely different.

Maybe next time it'll be a silk burgundy sheath with cap-sleeves and a drop-waist. Maybe a backless gunmetal column gown. Who knows?

All I do know is that after having received in the mail yesterday my fifth nope-not-good-enough gold lamé vintage cocktail dress (very similar to this), I'm through looking for the perfect replica of the perfect past dress. In fact, I'm gonna stop looking altogether. Two episodes ago on Tell Me You Love Me, therapist May told recently single sex-addict Jamie that only when she stops actively trying to replace her former fiancé will she stop reaching for unhealthy, unsuccessful rebounds.

And they say you don't learn anything on TV...

Here below, exactly 13 months ago this Friday, my last evening with "the one." I can barely stand to look at it. Or my hair.

When clothes you want to fit *don't* - a heartbreak in two parts

The successes from yesterday's trip to the new Zara in Penn Quarter/Metro Center to be celebrated in full, photographic glory on Monday. Get excited, too, because I took so many pictures in the two hours I was there that I even received my first concerned, "Um, Ma'am, is everything all right in there?"

Oh, and it was - "all right" and then some - but you'll have to wait a couple more days to see those treasures.

For now, let's focus on the tragedies, those two pieces that could have and would have added so much texture and additional-permutation potential to my Fall/Winter wardrobe had they just been a bit more...how shall I say, forgiving.

Heartbreak #1:

the ivory asymmetric, ruffle-front silk halter blouse ($39)

"So me. That's all I can think, this is so me. The neckline, the ruffling, the neutral color. I could wear it with my high-waisted wide-legged trousers, my high-waisted skirts, my...wait a minute, is that my nipple?"

"Unless I want to walk around hiding my bit's bit, not to mention show off a mid-section full of one-size-too-small wrinkle-age, I better put this in the 'no' pile."

Heartbreak #2:

brown tweed pencil sheath with front pocket-pouch ($99)

"Love love LOVE the rolled collar. And those half cap-sleeves - I don't have a single work dress with sleeves like these. The top half is snug, but once I wear a bra with less embellishment and less up-and-out push, it could totally work..."
"Okay, yeah, this is tight. Really tight. This is creeping up on KimKar-in-Hervé-Léger tight. It could still work, though, if I have Alicia let it out an inch and I wear my new Slim Cognito."
"This is not good. This reminds me of the time when _____ left me in Coach to sit by himself in First Class because it was 'more comfortable'. This is the point when I know I need to walk away."

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

Sharpening the traditional pencil skirt

I love searching for that perfect black mini dress.

I love looking high-and-low for that ideal pair of skinny jeans in a color I don't yet have.

I love hunting for another fantastic pair of simple back-strapped thongs.

But when I think about what makes a shopping trip really worth the "regrets only" decline to my most recent wedding invitation, it has to be the quest for that single item of clothing that when found - and found at an affordable price - has the ability to make my heart flutter more intensely, my lips part more breathlessly and my back arch with more Mmmhmmm pleasure than any other.

That's right, I'm talking about that one article of clothing that when draped just so makes almost any woman seem sleeker, smarter (in both the American and British senses) and more sophisticated than she probably is -- the fitted black pencil skirt.

But just as any dynamic has a tendency to grow stale if not regularly reinvented, the relationship between a woman and her favorite wardrobe essential - especially one that is a simple, neutral, traditionally-for-the-workplace piece - can and often takes an unfortunate turn toward indifference after only a few seasons of togetherness.

So my best advice in avoiding a premature breakup with the one, two or (ahem) nine black pencil skirts hanging neatly in the homage-to-Britney-speak "muh favoritest" section of your closet is to invest in a slightly less conventional version of the working-girl staple so as to give yourself a break from the simple and traditional and afford yourself an opportunity to once again genuinely look forward to slipping into the clean lines and slight back kick-pleat of your old standby.

Below I've assembled for you a collection of traditional black pencil skirt alternatives. Enjoy.

Bubble pleated pencil skirt by BCBG Max Azria ($78 at bluefly.com)
Kylie skirt by Antonio Melani ($99 at dillards.com)

Linen blend tulip skirt by 3.1 Phillip Lim ($315 at net-a-porter.com)*

Pleated skirt by Catherine Malandrino ($169.20 at fashionchateau.com)

Tyler skirt by Tory Burch ($265 at scoopynyc.com)

Ruffle waistband skirt by Ziji ($189 at couturecandy.com)

Manola pencil skirt by Diane von Furstenberg ($255 at saks.com)*

Preston strip skirt by Semantiks ($78 at nordstrom.com)

Katrina skirt by Elie Tahari ($248 at nordstrom.com)
Caroline high-waist skirt by Tart ($75 at pinkmascara.com)

*your editrix's favorites (though, admittedly, I love them all)

The *perfect* blouse: a work in progress

Tuesday night, I found her.

Wednesday morning, I ordered her.

Thursday, all day, I waited for her.

Friday, after work, I received her.

A *perfect* short-and-sweet timetable for a *perfect* blouse, right?

Not quite.

As is obvious in the picture above and in the two below, the blouse, aesthetically speaking, is beautiful: the silk hearty, the pleating well constructed, the cap sleeves meticulously stitched, and the color, oh my god, forget about it -- gunmetal at its most gorgeous.

But despite all that good, there was the all-important issue of fit, an area in which my new Banana Republic dress shell most definitely did not excel.

Not only does the blouse run quite large - I'm almost exclusively a size "S," but as you can see here, I'm shapelessly swimming in extra fabric from the sleeves down - but it's also uncompromisingly boxy, a shape with which the slim pencil skirt, high-waisted or otherwise, is completely incompatible.

Whilst slow-baking shoreside on Saturday, I realized I have two choices, the first of which is to send the "return" label back to Banana Republic HQ, collect my $80.32, and continue on my quest to find another silk cap-sleeved pleat-neck blouse.

The second option, a much more involved option, is to use the "exchange" label, wait for my "XS" to arrive, evaluate the up-top fit, and assuming all drapes well from the shoulders to the chest, take the blouse to my trusty seamstress Alicia and have her craft a much more tailored, contoured shape.

In any other situation, with any other wardrobe component, I'd go with the former, but given how long I've been looking for an affordable version of this exact design and given that its gunmetal color exceeded my unreasonably high expectations, I decided to follow my instincts and opt for the latter.

Normally, I wouldn't include you so intimately in my do-I-keep-it-or-return-it? inner dialogue, but in light of how much interest this blouse generated last week, I thought I'd warn potential buyers to (1) order a size smaller than you normally wear and (2) be prepared to invest another $15-$25 in tailoring if you're planning to rock the slim-tuck.

Two more snaps of the *perfect* blouse fitting my frame far from perfectly:

When half-off is *still* an impossibility, let the dream go

One day on my way to swim practice when I was seven years old, sitting in the passenger seat of the family Volvo mouthing the lyrics to Dion's "Runaround Sue" and looking but not really looking for the faded turquoise water tower that indicated we'd almost reached our destination, for whatever reason I decided to pose to my father what to most people would be a typical child-to-parent question: "If you could have any car in the world, which would you choose?"

Instead of indulging my still nascent imagination, my very practical, very I'm-going-to-treat-you-as-if-you-were-just-a-tiny-colleague paternal unit turned to me and said, "Johanna, that kind of question, not to mention the answer thereto, are immaterial to the financial world in which I currently live."

"So...you don't like cars?" I asked, head tilted, confused.

"No, I do, and there is a car that if I had all the money in the world I would surely buy, but what you need to understand is that dwelling on these kinds of unrealistic 'if I had all the money in the world' or 'if I could meet anyone' kind of hypothetical situations are simply unhelpful. Unhelpful and unhealthy."

(pause)

"You see what I mean?"

"Okay...I guess I'll see you after practice."

Up until today, that conversation remained one of a scant few between my father and me to which I could point and with confidence say he, the pragmatist, and I, the romantic, would always have divergent approaches to life. When I saw this afternoon that my precious Sergio Rossi Misha open-toe t-straps had been marked down from $743.95 to $394, however, and realized even with that steep, this-never-happens discount, that they were not only still too expensive but also still at a beyond-my-wildest-wishlist-level price point, I began to wonder if the divergence I'd always attributed to personality might actually be an issue of maturity.

Just like my father felt it easier to live life without actually saying aloud "1964 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud drophead coupe" (a fact I finally got out of him in a moment of too-much-Pinot weakness last year) perhaps I too would find life a bit less depressing if I abstained from emotionally investing - likely the only kind of investing of which I'll ever be capable - in the kinds of "If I had a Sugar Daddy..." fare I often do.

A girl can dream, yes, but a girl who wants to write for a living also has a duty to face the freelance-fee facts.

Good prices happen to those who wait

Oh, how I 've waited for you, Report Signature Sigourney pumps!

With your 4-inch stiletto prop, almond-toe lead, vintage-inspired buckle and realistic-looking croc embossing, it was nothing if not an unexpected love-at-first-sight when we initially met. I normally don't graze in the closed-toed pasture, I'm a predictable, show-off-my-black-polish-pedi peep toe girl, but as life has taught me in recent years, sometimes the best chances to take are those which we look back on and place in the "I would never have thought..." category.

More than a year ago, while in search of that ideal sexy-but-not-too-sexy office dress shoe, I drop-down menu-ed "7.5," "black," and "2-3/4" and up" on Zappos.com and found you sitting prettily two-thirds of the way down on page 17 of 56.

There you were and there you stayed for 14 straight months, viewable from six different angles (seven if you count the "closeup"), sale-free at the then prohibitive retail price of $143.95.

I went through countless episodes of "add to basket" therapy - the act of placing an item you know you won't buy in your virtual shopping cart so as to palliate that initial but-I-want-it-so-badly desire - each time more painful than the last to force my hand to the abort-mission red-and-white "X" in the right hand corner of my browser.

I know, I know, I'm the girl who plunked down $300 for her gold-foil Kate Spade Lovers in May 2006 and about that same amount for her pristinely-preserved vintage platform peep toes in February 2007, but $144 for what would be my 14th pair of office-only black pumps? Even with my ridiculously efficient justification-generating machine of a mind, I just couldn't do it.

Until last week.

During my regular round-robin of wishlist-item stalking, I came across the most unexpected discount of the year: my precious pair of Report Signatures had dropped in price by 10% to $129.56. While $144 had been just over that mental spending limit, $130 was well within the me-want-me-buy ballpark.

But just as I was about to reach that final "purchase now" Valhalla, I fortuitously remembered my Charles David Rosa experience from earlier this Winter, and with that on the brain, two words involuntarily tumbled off and out of my moisturized lips: "Internet comparisons."

Prepared for a long online haul, I settled into my couch with a snack of three strawberry Twizzlers and 28 fat-free Pringles (read: two carefully-counted-out servings), popped open a new Foxfire window, consulted "the Google," and low-and-freakin'-behold, what do I find in the very first result but this.

The princeling may not have cared how scorching hot his Mommy looked last night as she took her first steps in those beloved Sigourneys, but he'll certainly appreciate the $102 savings the next time they head to Doggiestyle to replenish his long-ago depleted stock of overpriced organic chicken jerky.

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...

Recognizing when to have the "we need to talk" talk

Having spent much of last night assembling another perfectly transitioned long-run iMix (think circa-2002 Shakira meets Billy Idol meets Wrecks-'n'-Effect), watching the second half of Live and Let Die, the first half of A View to a Kill, and giving the smuckerbug his bi-monthly deep-conditioning treatment, I was in no mood to tackle my usual Saturday night chore of re-hangering the two-foot-high pile of something-about-it-just-doesn't-look-right wardrobe components atop my dresser. You know what I'm talking about -- those skirts, city shorts and silk jersey shells that at some point during the previous week contended, even made it to the full-length mirror with shoes and earrings, maybe even made it through hair and makeup but ultimately failed to make the final outfit cut.

In direct contrast to the chaos of my office, kitchen and bathroom counter-top, I keep a pretty clean closet. And not just clean in the organized-by-color-and-venue sense (though it is) but clean in that there's nothing in there that isn't an integral part of one of my four primary - work, weekend casual, weekend temptress and special occasion - wardrobe rotations.

But as I look to my left at the intimidating size of this week's pile of rejects, I ashamedly realize I haven't been as tough on poor performers as I have been in seasons past. Even without glasses, I can identify among all those brown, ivory, red but predominately black items at least four I haven't worn in months and unless stretched-out, irreparably-shrunken and faded-to-grey makes a comeback next Fall, I won't wear in the months to come.

Just like when a romantic relationship takes a final turn for the worse you initiate the "we need to talk" talk, so should you with your out-of-rotation clothes.

They take up precious urban-apartment space, they tempt you with their previously impressive performances resulting in a departure delay every Monday through Friday morning, and most detrimental, they prohibit you from being able to make a clear assessment as to what your wardrobe inadequacies are.

Unlike a deteriorating romantic relationship, there are no consecutive months without oral sex, indifferent dinner conversations or at-work crushes to remind you how necessary a task it is to grab a trash bag and call up Good Will to schedule an impending donation. No, with clothes it's slightly different -- you hang on a bit longer than you should, you rationalize and make excuses and choose to overlook deficiencies because it's easier - not to mention less expensive - than the alternative of finding a replacement.

But here's my advice, advice which I too will follow after my poolside excursion this afternoon: anything more than two sizes too big or two sizes too small, anything whose color has faded to a sad reminder of its original vibrance, anything whose shape has been irretrievably lost either at the neck, sleeves, waist, legs or bah'um, and anything that smacks of memories too painfully good or too painfully I-can't-believe-I-dated-him to recall on a daily basis all get the automatic heave-ho.

Beloved vintage pieces, of course, are immune to this rule. We may have broken up with our quirky bisexual college boyfriend who loved gangsta rap and Julia Roberts movies for legitimate reasons (i.e. his refusal to give up comfort sandals and the four-foot water bong) but we certainly don't erase his number. One-of-a-kinds are just that -- one-of-a-kind.

Don't stay in a relationship simply because it's comfortable, familiar and proven its worth in outfits past -- reevaluate thoroughly and often, and never be afraid to replace something old with something new.

It's not like you'll ever have to face your decision with an unexpected and hostile run-in on ConnAve, after all.

Though with my recent sophistikitty haircut, already deep Summer glow and new leaf-print sheath, I won't lie, I pray every 11:11 for those run-ins.

I fell in love last night

Like last time, it was unexpected

Late afternoon on a Friday.

It was swift and final.

Strangers to lovers in the blink of a kohl-lined eye.

I wasn't looking for something serious.

I wasn't even looking for something minorly routine altering.

In fact, I was just looking for a pair of metallic flats at Wink, and if I had time, maybe a neutral lip gloss at Blue Mercury.

But it never works out that way. Not for me, anyway.

I'm perpetually tempted, which is a reflection of my love-to-be-in-love predisposition, or some might argue, my weakness for fast-and-furious infatuation.

Whatever it is and whatever the reason it decided to find me yesterday, falling felt good. It felt really, really good.

I'd almost forgotten how good that kind of good could feel.

It's a feeling I'd not experienced since June 16, 2006, when I met my last lover on a nondescript street between a Korean barbecue and an albums-only Jazz music store in Alphabet City.

I never would have thought falling in love in Summer could be as sweet as being swept away in Spring, but as you can see below, it is possible.

Love, for me, was just a gunmetal grey French Connection away...

Get your favorite designer dress for "free"

"Mom?"

"Yes, Johanna."

"Uh, remember how when I was younger you sewed all my dresses and Halloween costumes and oh, oh, you know how you're making those curtains right now for L and M?"

(silence)

"Mom? Are you th.."

"Yes, I'm here."

"Well, I was thinking about how you like to sew so much and how the sewing machine is already out and in your sewing room and how JoAnn Fabric is having that big sale you told me about on Sunday...and I thought you'd like to...I thought you might enjoy..."

"You thought I'd like to what, Johanna? I might enjoy doing what?"

"Um, well, I found this pattern of a really cute dress that looks just like a dress I've always loved - a dress you'll love, too - and since I'm trying to do that whole saving-over-spending thing you, Dad and I talked about over Christmas, I thought maybe you'd like to sew me the dress."

"Sew you the dress?"

"Yeah, so I don't have to buy it. If I could even find it, which is highly unlikely, because I've been looking for it forever, and I..."

"You want me to buy the fabric, buy the pattern, sew the dress and then mail it to you? Is that what you're saying?"

"Well yeah, so I don't have to buy it. If I bought it, it would be at least...I don't know, like $300. At least $300."

"And this way?"

"This way what?"

"And this way, having me sew it for you, costs how much?"

"Well, it costs me nothing."

(silence)

"Mom?"

"I'm still here."

"So, what do you think?"

"I think you're still seven years old."

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"(Sigh)...it is a cute dress, and the pattern doesn't look too complicated..."

"Oh my God, I love you, Mom!"

"Listen to me, Johanna, if I do this, you're buying the fabric and giving me honest measurements."

"Done and done."

And in that five-minute conversation, the classic Roland Mouret sheath dress made the unthinkable jump from my never-gonna-happen wishlist to my confirmed-for-Fall-2007 lineup.

Ladies, if your sewing-inclined parent, sibling, work colleague or even your trusted tailor owes you a favor, head on over to VoguePatterns (or Butterick or McCall), find that Badgley Mischka dress, that Alice + Olivia skirt or, if you're like I am and prefer the sexy housewife look, the 'Vogue Vintage' section, pay the $15 pattern price and strike that deal.

My Mom doesn't know it yet, but I'm already cobbling together quite the Christmas list for her: this dress in cranberry taffeta, this cape in ivory wool-cashmere, this skirt in grey herringbone...

And why not? They're practically free!

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."

The little-bit-of-sunshine blouse (pt. I)

It's the palest of pale yellow and covered in tiny hearts of all different Summer shades - sunset red, night-sky purple, Crystal Lake aqua, Bazooka Joe pink, among others.

It has a structured hourglass cut at the base of which is a scalloped-edge hem that dips slightly lower in the front and back - a feature that lends it a distinct corset-like silhouette - a pair of scalloped-edge cap-sleeves, an abbreviated Mandarin-style collar, and a not-even-the-width-of-two-sparklers plunge that sits flush above my favorite detail of all: a vertical row of seven carved daisy-shaped buttons in translucent grass-green.

I recognize it's not immediately me. I recognize it's probably not even after-10-minutes-of-looking-at-me-in-it me. In fact, each time I wear it, I duly expect to have a family member, a friend or a colleague make a point of telling me just how not me it is.

But I love it.

It's the first blouse I ever purchased on my own from Anthropologie - a milestone I still celebrate - and it's the one article of clothing to which I always turn when I need sunshine not just above my head, not just when I'm outside, but all around me, enveloping me from 8:15 in the morning to 8:15 at night. Put differently, it's that one blouse in my wardrobe that when I slip my arms through its prim sleeves and fasten those flowers makes me feel as weightless as I did at eight years old.

Every woman should have such a blouse in her closet, and not just for the cloudy days but for any day she feels the pangs of nostalgia for a time when life consisted of socially acceptable bralessness, guilt-free cans of regular soda and a Pink Lemonade Lip Smackers beauty routine.

A selection of little-bit-of-sunshine blouses to come later in the day. Until then, enjoy a selection of another kind of sunshine: Jack Johnson.

The perfect LWD

When I first saw Kate Winslet on the set of her new film Revolutionary Road in this '50s-era white tea-length silk shift with extended cap-sleeves, dainty-thin cinch and decorative shoulder buttons, I stopped short, tilted my head to the left and after about 20 seconds of breath-held awe, let out an audible sigh.

This is the dress. This is what I look for every time I enter Annie Creamcheese in Georgetown or Psyche's Tears in the East Village. The accentuation of the waist-to-hip contour, the conservative neckline and the dramatic sleeves all contribute to a silhouette that to me epitomizes prim, ladylike beauty. Instead of relying on a short hem or racy décolletage, the sexiness from this dress comes from its cut and slim fit. The skin that is showing is minimal but strategic in that what we see - the arms, the calves, the ankles and that which the neckline scoops out - is innocent flesh, flesh even the most modest woman would bare in public. Beyond the sheer sophistication of the way it looks, I think the main reason why I'm so drawn to this dress is that the woman wearing it is able to channel both the sultry siren and the church pastor's wife.

And really, isn't that every woman's objective when she stands before her closet each morning deciding what to wear?

This dress isn't something I would ever expect to see on that other British Kate or Giselle or Cameron, in part because I don't think they have the good taste to pick it out, but more so because they don't have the zaftig figures - more specifically, Hollywood's modern interpretation thereof - to make it look as the designer intented it to look.

In short, the way it looks on Ms. Winslet.

Mom, liberate your JoAnn Fabric card and sewing machine from storage -- Boefie wants a new dress and she wants it in white, black, red and gold lamé.

'Twas not meant to be.

I shouldn't have done it. There was no point, nothing to be gained other than an assured rejection of the most painful sort.

I knew before I picked up the phone and crafted in my head just the right way to ask that one question that doing so would only thrust my self-pity to the next level of since-when-do-I-not-get-what-I-want? depression.

But of course I did it, anyway. I called him. He answered on the second ring. He was friendly, but only mildly so and in a very because-I-have-no-choice kind of way. We both recognized it. The conversation lasted no more than a few minutes, the vast majority of which belonged to the various permutations of my knew-the-answers-but-asked-them-anyway questions delivered with a holding-back-tears shake of the voice.

"Over? Like totally over?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But last week everything was fine, we were together and it was...it was spiritual. It was beyond spiritual. There was this connection, and it..."

"Yes, but last week was last week, and this week is this week."

"But I love..."

"I know, and it was a perfect fit, but..."

"How often does a perfect fit happen? Tell me, how often?"

"Rarely, but that's not the issue now. You need to move on and find..."

"But I don't want to find another. I want th..."

"There'll always be another season, another chance to find..."

"Look, you don't understand. They were it for me. And now you're telling me they're gone and you're never getting another shipment? Never??"

"I'm sorry, but we work on a season by season basis, and once the line is sold-out, we..."

"I understand. I mean, I don't, but I...so you're telling me someone else has my shoes? My shoes? I...I can't even..."

"I do apologize. At least you have the pict..."

"A picture? You think a picture is going to fill the...look, I have to go. This is too upsetting for me to discuss right now."

(click)

And thus ended my one-sided love affair with the perfect shoe I knew from the moment it caught me eye - and I caught an eyeful of its almost-half-my-rent pricetag - could never be mine. I know, I know, I should have seen it coming. I should've taken more seriously the "Within the day, for sure" answer to my "Do you think these will go quickly?" question I posed to the salesman, but as I always do, I left Hu's Shoes last Sunday blindly convinced they'd show up one unexpected afternoon in a white stretch limo with a long-stemmed rose bunch poking out of the sunroof while an Italian aria beckoned me to my half-open window and proved true my belief in fateful meetings with an "I'm here! I love you! Let's go to Library and show ourselves off!" happily-ever-after pronouncement.

But in the end, I'm not a former prostitute and the Maison Martin Margiela ankle-bangle stilettos aren't Richard Gere. And like doomed love affairs of the human variety, sometimes woman-shoe love just 'twasn't meant to be. Yes, 'twasn't.

Sorry, E, I know you told me to turn off the weepy music and stop wasting my youth and sass on self-pity, but this is different. This isn't him, this is them.

And my heart is inconsolably broken, begging for Damien Rice:

"Johanna, there'll be others."

As I've mentioned here before, without fail, my father's first in-private reaction to meeting my new boyfriends has always consisted of the same four words: "Johanna, there'll be others."

Didn't matter if they were a still-hanging-out-with-high-school-kids community college burnout, an Ivy League educated World Champion rower, a kind-hearted bi-curious Hawaiian getting his Ph.D. in biophysics, a soap-opera-haired lobbyist two years my junior earning four times my salary, or the man over whom I'm still very much torn - the one who holds dear the Cherry Bowl, the one who properly introduced me to the glory of Manhattan (the seared foie gras at Picholine, in particular), the one who inspired me to finally pursue my two true passions: fashion and self-promotion.

All good men in their own rites, all thoughtfully dismissed by the one person whose opinion means more to me than even my own.

And so far, he's been right. Even on this last one, unfortunately.

This morning, during my familiar four block jaunt down M Street to work, listening to my freshly downloaded "The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore" (James Morrison), I saw yet another beautiful size-four with shiny hair, moisturized skin, runner's legs and an elegant heel-walk wearing the Diane von Furstenberg navy and white Gingko print 'Jessica' wrapdress that after three fruitless months of pining for its silk jersey softness and dress-it-up-or-down versatility, I still can't put out of my mind. I visit her often at nordstrom.com and Betsy Fisher, even wrapping her Japanese flowers around me when I'm feeling especially low, but inevitably the time comes when I have to accept the cold hard truth that $345-plus-tax is much more smartly spent on running shoes and under-eye concealer for me and untainted gourmet dog food and boutique health insurance for Montesquieu. That's the right thing to do, my friends and family tell me. Budget, necessities, and function, not excess, luxury and fashion. Most of the time I'm fine with this more mature, more responsible lifestyle, but when something's right there, when it's only a few budget cuts and twists of Sugar Daddy fate within reach, the pain compounds exponentially.

But just as it does with a man you meet unexpectedly at a red light intersection on a warm May afternoon, the most powerful and perfect love you feel for that one cocktail dress, that one pair of peeptoes or that one incredible twill coat can hit you so hard and so suddenly you'll never be able to satisfactorily explain the why or the how. It just is.

As I came to 17th and M, I smiled at the likely prospect every time I enter a vintage store for the rest of my life, I'll unconsciously search for those items that eluded me in my younger, more fiscally conservative years. It's the clothing equivalent of Google-ing the former boyfriend you now realize you should've held onto more tightly but didn't. With clothes, as opposed to lovers, you have a much higher probability of remedying past wrongs in ways that don't involve skulking around your own city and paying for expensive dinners with cash. And that's a very good thing.

As I passed another of my steadfast but more than slightly out-of-reach unrequited loves, the Burberry short trench, always there on the corner of ConnAve/M behind the shiny glass reminding me in its reflection, "Yes, your makeup, bangs and legs do look good today, but that doesn't change the fact you can't have me," I began to think about my Dad's theory on love.

"Johanna, there'll be others."

Crossing ConnAve and walking the twenty or so steps up to my building, I repeated those four words under my breath several times, unconvinced and confused, wondering why I've always been able to believe him when it comes to men - this last one, aside - but never to clothing.

By admitting a predisposition for forging deeper, longer-lasting attachments to fine leather, unique necklines and rosette-detailing than to human beings, I believe I've reached a new height, the zenith perhaps, of superficiality.

Either that, or I've yet to meet the available Ernest Hemingway to my Marlene Dietrich who'll rock my world and make me forget my insatiable desire for all things pretty, mini and DVF.

I'll consider both theories while I go now and grace ConnAve with my toned-calves-and-peeptoes presence...