Hands-down, my favorite purchase of 2007

Tasked by a familial client to do some last-minute holiday shopping, I hiked it four-inch heels, thin trench and all up to Georgetown this evening after work to make one last pilgrimage to Club Monaco before my impatience with shove-happy crowds and women who walk six shopping bags across manifested itself in the form of a potentially violent, "As a matter of fact, ma'am, I do have a problem" confrontation.

After picking up a pair of elbow-length leather gloves, a slouchy oversized gunmetal clutch and a few of the gauziest, coziest turtlenecks in three lovely shades of black, blacker and blackest, instead of heading home, something compelled me to abandon my 45-minute target and instead make a quick stop down and around the WiscAve/M St. intersection to Zara.

I didn't need anything, of course, but as Oprah is always telling me, when you hear that inner-voice speak to you, honey child, you better prick up those ears and listen.

So listen I did.

And thank goodness, because had I not, I would never have found this, my hands-down favorite purchase of 2007. There's really not much else to say other than I can now die happy that I've found a way to literally wear my love for all the world to see.

"Oh Mum, it's splendid, just splendid. But honestly, couldn't you have tidied up the box-shelf a bit before we sat for the photo?"

*I do apologize, but I think you'll understand why this post took precedence over the dress-code follow-up. Be sure to keep an eye out for that post (I promise) at some point this weekend...

"I think I'll just order it online, thanks..."

Super cute, right?

That's what I thought, too, when I slipped into this 'Cappella' empire-waisted blouse in rich navy silk with delicate pleated mesh detailing, textured sweetheart neckline and keyhole back.

But the question at hand, the question that really mattered as I did my usual twirl-and-tilt at every angle in every mirror available to me was not whether this Nanette Lepore top was super cute but rather was it super cute enough to cancel Friday's grocery delivery, not buy that new pair of running shoes I desperately needed and to force myself to do the whole brownbag lunch thing for the next two weeks using only the non-perishables my Mother sent me in this month's care package so as to finance its hefty $215 price-tag?

As I weighed the pros (blouse = mine) and the cons (body = malnourished), did some additional posing and took some additional photos, my "I think I'll get it!" moment was suddenly interrupted by the extraordinarily rude salesgirl who not only had the audacity to stick her head through the sliver of unavoidable openness in the lime green curtain with nary a knock on the adjacent wall but who did so solely to determine if I "was done yet" so she could let another person who had "more than one item" use the dressing room I was oh-so-inconveniently occupying.

Once I made it clear to both Ms. More Than One Item and ______, the woman "helping" me, I'd be staying a few more minutes until I'd made a final decision, the latter proceeded to give me a very audible huff followed by a not so subtle don't-worry-she'll-be-gone-soon facial expression to the former.

I dig the industrial chic design they've created at Cusp, I've come to accept and even prefer the fact they've chosen to organize their wares by style and not designer, but frankly, because of the above-and-beyond poor service I've encountered on not one but five separate occasions, I made the decision on Saturday never to step foot in there again, free cookies or no free cookies. I'm not saying I have anything against Cusp the company - hardly - but I am saying the atmosphere in the Georgetown installation created by the overt, you're-no-one-unless-you're-someone attitudes held by the their salespeople is so pervasive and such a should-I-or-shouldn't-I-get-it? buzzkill that I'm better off just going straight from Zara to Barney's Co-op in the future. And since there's not a single item in Cusp's inventory I can't find on Bop, Active Endeavors, Pink Mascara or Saks' sites - and in some cases, for quite a bit less cash - I have no qualms about crossing Cusp off my Georgetown retail rotation.

Because frankly, I'd sooner head to Smith Point on a Saturday night than fork over a single dollar of my precious clothing budget toward the sales quotas on which the brats over at 3030 M St. seem to be so singularly focused.

More Nanette Lepore super-cuteness:

Something to get excited about...

Yesterday, after two plus years of tumultous love/hate-edness, I finally ditched my Treo 650 and in its place picked up the aptly named LG enV (in silver, people, not orange), thus making the jump from a 330K pixel camera to a still-not-great-but-much-improved 2M pixel one.

Evidence of this improvement:

Treo-taken

enV-taken

And yes, I did feel obligated this afternoon to test in various dressing rooms this higher pixelage with a little shoppy-shoppy excursion to Georgetown .

Check back Monday for the results...

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

Only she could make me rethink pink

It's embarrassing, it's regrettable, but it's true -- ask anyone who knew me between 1994 and 2002, and they would all say, without a whit of hesitation, that I had the market cornered when it came to wearing pink anything.

Pink velour track pants? Check.

Pink turtleneck sweater? Check.

Pink strapless cocktail shift? Check.

Pink tie-front bandeau bikini? Check.

Charlotte ringer tees in Easter pink, raspberry pink, electric pink and red-faded-into-Hawaiian-punch pink? Check, check, check aaaand check.

I wore so much pink so often during high school and college that literally, one day shortly after graduation, I woke up, looked at my two-thirds pink wardrobe arranged neatly from dark-to-light in my closet, turned away and said, "No more."

And since then, aside from my Georgetown University entrance ticket (i.e. the super-fitted, baby pink Izod polo), I haven't put a single dollar toward anything remotely resembling the color of fabulosity, according to Kimora Lee Simmons. Not an eyeshadow, not a nail polish, not a lip gloss, not even a pair of for-the-bedroom boyshorts.

After five solid years of living a pink-free lifestyle, I neither missed it nor honestly thought I'd ever wear it again.

But then, out of nowhere, came this:This serene scene of the lovely Katie in a rich berry, thick-knitted coat-dress and catch-your-breath beautiful black Giuseppi Zanotti knee-high stiletto boots carrying a sleeping Suri en route to a flower shop after a taxing two-hour private tour at the Louvre not only affirmed the sentiments I've shared with you in posts like this, this and this but also opened my eyes for the first time in years to the possibility of reintroducing pink to my wardrobe.

Naturally, it would be a different kind of pink. A grown-up pink. The kind of pink a woman would wear not to boldly assert her femininity but rather as an every-now-and-then alternative to classic black that would allow her to feel "brightened up" but still well within the confines of her hallmark prim, elegant aesthetic. I may not have reached Holmesian-level perfection with the rose-hued, funnel-necked, structured-twill trapeze dress I liberated from Zara after work last Friday - the exposed zipper, for example, would not have been my first choice - but considering the perfect fit, the coveted neckline, and of course, its palatable $99 price tag, I'm confident I came as close to her gold standard as a girl on a budget could.

The dress:

Whether I wear the new frock with my vintage croc-embossed pumps, my rosette-adorned satin peep toes, or, after I finally nail down a good time to take that two-week hiatus to have an egg harvested and earn that easy $25K for which I have only three more years of eligibility, these cognac almond-toed Alta Arielle Talon stiletto boots, I'm confident I'll feel just as sophisticated and sleek in pink as I do every other day in my signature all-black.

So, for the rest of you think-you-hate-pink people out there, I urge you to give this hue another chance. Not a nostalgic throwback-to-the-pep-rally chance, not a frilly feminine chance, but a thoughtful, adult chance. Go for deep mauves, clean and subtle ballets, rich matte magentas or, if you're not ready to take the full leap, at least indulge in a pop-of-pink item like this dress from Milly or this blouse from Harkham.

Before I go, I should also mention that what truly made acquiring this precious-'n'-pink dress so satisfying was that I found it shortly after leaving behind a different one, one I loved so much I actually seriously considered reallocating a quarter month's rent toward its purchase.

Where? At Cusp, of course, where everything - except these - is a wishlist item and nothing aside from Spanx, a few pairs of Sam Edelman flats and the judgmental, "Why should I give you a fitting room if you and I both know you're not going to buy anything?" eyerolls costs less than $295.

Which dress? This sweet, sequined-belted, bubble-hemmed tweed cocktail dress with keyhole back from Vera Wang's Lavender Label collection. Recognize the pleated neckline? Yeah, I did, too. I wanted so badly to give my two sateen-cotton girls a wool sister, but alas, sometimes finances force families to stay small.

"$430 isn't that much...I mean, I could totes class up my bralessness with pearls and clear gloss and make it office-appropriate, right?"

"The sequined belt isn't detachable? Fiddlesticks, I guess that would make it a bit too may-juh for behind a desk on a Tuesday."

One day, sweet overpriced dresses, one day we will be together...

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...

One other reason to love Georgetown

They may not raise their own children, they may treat waitresses and Kate Spade saleswomen like half-deaf servants out to steal their husbands, and they may have let their once-biting wit and knowledge of all things Thoreau, Emerson and Whitman - courtesy of Groton and Yale - lie fallow for decades while they planned their wedding, attended others, lunched, shopped and gossiped with "the girls," but yesterday afternoon, I realized one thing about Georgetown women that impressed me so much I may just have to give them a second chance:

Georgetown women are the queen bees of age-appropriate dress.

Let's be clear, when I say "Georgetown women," I'm not talking about the in-town-for-the-weekend bridge groupers in jean shorts and plaid bucket hats, the throngs of university chicks who walk four-across in matching Reef flip-flops and hold up everyone behind them while they decide whether to go to Urban Outfitters now or after they hit up the Body Shoppe, or even the Eurotrash contingent filing in and out of the neighborhood's Four Seasons and Ritz Carlton. No, when I refer to "Georgetown women," I'm talking about the elegant 40-and-up crowd who you know just by looking at them belong there. These women aren't carrying any shopping bags, they don't stop to peer into any store windows and they certainly aren't dressed in a function-over-fashion style.

But unlike so many aging women - Hollywood women, in particular (see 42 year old Teri Hatcher above woefully trying to look half her age at the Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End premiere yesterday in a skull-tank, skin-tight skinny jeans and platform slides) - who abide by an I-will-still-put-forth-effort attitude when it comes to daily dress, Georgetown women do so with the express understanding of the reality that there's fashion-over-function and then there's age-appropriate fashion-over-function.

The Georgetown women L and I took note of yesterday were all in heels - tall heels - but they were of a sleek, sophisticated ilk, not chunky-heeled Miu Miu resort pumps with buckles and raffia-trim or pink-and-red patent leather bow-adorned Marc Jacobs peeptoes. Their trousers were snug and exposed hints of hip and bottom contour. Their blouses were crisp, fitted and made of rich summer fabrics like cashmere-silk, high-thread-count Pima-soft cotton, seersucker and linen. Their dresses were tea-length and waist-cinched with nary a fabric-encased roll in sight. Tortoise-shell Jackie-O sunglasses, well-cared-for skin, both body and face, and animal-print-lined large totes with Laura Mercier compacts peeking out from within.

I'm aware most women my age and younger probably consider Georgetown women too conservative, too preppy and decidedly unsexy. That's fine with me. Those girls can have their Teri Hatchers, their Courtney Loves and their Sharon Stones.

In a word, Georgetown women are ladies, and I can only hope that one day I too will walk those cobblestone blocks in their fabulous heels.

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.

What inevitably happens when I go shopping for someone else

There is no other person for whom I would endure a Saturday afternoon battling the elements - and by "elements" I mean the kind of people who, when their cards are denied at Steve Madden, say things to tired, defeated salesgirls like, "Well, it's probably a fraud protection thing because I just dropped $2,800 at Intermix and $1,500 at Barney's, here try this other AmEx" - than my girl L.

Perhaps it's just that I'm particularly selfish, but when it comes to picking out a Christmas present for my Mother, a baby shower present for my sister-in-law, and today, a birthday present for my best friend, I always spend a good deal more time looking at that-would-look-so-cute-on-me than that-would-look-so-cute-on-her items.

Hence, this adorable deep scoopneck dress in shocking-red with ruffled neckline and criss-cross back from Zara that flattered my assets as perfectly as Vivian's red dress, in its own way, did hers.

In the end, of course, I found just the right 3.5-inch patent-leather way to tell L how much her friendship and acceptance of my judgmental unacceptance means to me.

And yes, guilty-as-charged, I also fed the beast that is my closet by indulging in this sweet summer frock -- it was $59 at Zara, after all, not "$2,800 at Intermix."

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.