"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:

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...

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.

Holy f**king leggings!

Yesterday, while watching a Frontline documentary on the unknown whereabouts and identity of that brave (ahem, dead) soul who stood defiantly in front of the tank queue mowing over demonstrators in Tiananmen Square in early June 1989, I learned something I probably should have known about the country to which I have devoted in one way or another the last nine years of my life.

In true fuzzy-soft communist fashion - with efficiency and practicality not only at the forefront but at the only front - the Chinese government has created cities in the far less prosperous central and western parts of the country whose livelihoods over the last 25 years have been entirely dependent on a single commodity. Footage was shown of Anhui province's bedding city, its toilet city, toothbrush city, sock city, and even though they didn't show it, after my visit to Georgetown's campus today, there isn't a doubt in my mind a leggings city exists and that it was the number one Spring Break destination for all Hoya female co-eds.

Leggings, dress, cropped jacket, heels - 'check'

Leggings, tee, miniskirt, Grecian-style sandals - 'check'

Leggings, Georgetown Final-Four long-sleeve, sneakers - 'check'

Leggings, tunic, bright flats, cigarette - 'check ad infinitum'

In the space of 20 minutes, I must have seen five or six dozen female students rocking one of the three lengths - knee, calf and ankle - of what are essentially, foot-less pantyhose. I'm not one to knock a leggings look, because in all honesty, when done right, I think they can be quite fetching, but I will say Georgetown proved to me even more today the dearth of originality when it comes to their style scene.

What perplexed me most as I forcibly cut through the sea of Us Weekly's "favorite trend of '06" with my vampy heels, Dior lip shine and disapproving attitude was just how many body types I saw stuffed into those skin tight things. Now, I'm not saying you need a wisp of a Sienna Miller frame to pull this off, but you know what, it kinda helps. And not just for you, the wearer, but for the rest of us who can't help but stare car-accident-style at the very visible jumbly-jibs your untoned thighs create when encased like sausages in the largest pair of light blue Primps you could find.

While I may not get the leggings craze or understand the thought process behind a size 14 thinking tights-as-pants is a good idea, one issue on which there was no confusion was where Georgetown girls are shopping these days. After I saw my third Milly eyelet mini with wide patent-leather belt, I knew every last girl on that campus had already taken Daddy's AmEx for a ride at Cusp.

Ah, Georgetown University. The 10 month hiatus was long but not long enough.

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.