The Greatest Accessory Ever

...is the eyebrow grooming.

I started a long time ago...and was very afraid. I was at my regular salon for a haircut, and decided to take advantage of the "complimentary makeup touchup" after I was done. Azi took care of me - made me look like me - only better...and then asked if I'd ever plucked my eyebrows.

"Uh uh," I said. She offered to do it for me. It wasn't expensive - $20, I think, so I went for it. Best thing I ever did. Amazing what a difference it makes. It really does. Opened up my whole face. Gave my face presence (I know it sounds silly, but it's true!) and purpose.

Long story short, Azi eventually left the salon, and I was lazy and didn't track her down. So I figured I'd maintain myself...uh huh. While I certainly kept them from being super fuzzy, I knew I wasn't the talented plucker.

And then a girlfriend found Erwin. Written up somewhere as "The Eyebrow Guru," she figured she'd give him a shot. Thank goodness she did. She came back with lovely brows and orders not to touch them - if she did, he wouldn't do them ever again. Now that's my kind of stylist. Take charge. No, you're doing it wrong, and don't ever do that again.

So I made my appointment, and in I went. Erwin's a doll. Sweet, smart, and the fastest wax in the District. Five minutes is a long appointment with him. But I always want to stay longer. I want to soak up his style. Impeccably dressed and groomed. Always. And unassuming. Not to mention kind.

Then, about a year after I discovered him, he passed me his card and told me he was opening his own place. First of all, it was the coolest card ever. Translucent, slim, simple. I emailed him, found out where he was seeing clients in between The Old Place and His New Place.

And now he's just about to open up Erwin Gomez Salon and Spa. I went in just yesterday (it had been just a little too long, but somehow I kept forgetting to pick up the phone). The space isn't done yet (they're working out of the upstairs right now), but it's all a bustle with activity. I felt like I was at a friend's house before a really cool party.

I can't help be a little perturbed (though happy for him, of course) that my grooming secret is out. Daily Candy found Erwin...so now the rest of the world will, too. It's kinda like that restaurant-that-you-love-so-you-want-to-tell-everyone-about-it-but-you-don't-wanna-because-then-if-too-many-people-know-you-won't-be-able-to-get-a-table dilemma.

But the secret's out, and it really is the best thing I've done for myself, appearance-wise. Doesn't take long, doesn't take much. And it only hurts a little. So go. It's worth it.

Just don't take my appointment.

And say hello to Chanel for me. She's the real star of the salon.

Washingtonian in the Village

Sleep on a terrible bed. Tight all over. Have a little bit of breakfast, drive through the Holland Tunnel and into The City (trivia tidbit: we stayed at the hotel in Jersey City where 50 Cent was shot). Park. Start wandering. A gallery here. A shop there. A contemporary furniture store. I'm just absorbing the feel of The Village. Didn't want to go in...just wanted to feel. (No, it wasn't the Fear in Italy Thing.) Just wanted to soak up the people on the street, the feel of the air, the energy. Rather calm, but very alive, energy. Wander, wander, wander. A little jewelry. A few shoes.

And then I see. Yellow banner, pink writing. Flapping in the Boxing Day wind. Catherine was waving at me. Beckoning me. So I responded. In a little bit of a daze, I walked across the street. Pretty yellow-green walls glowing. Off-white skirts, pants, shrugs, sweaters, wraps. She wasn't open, but really, it was just fine with me to see it. Made my day. Still makes me smile to think about it.

And that's what I get in The Village. But that's not why I'm moving to New York. I'm moving to New York because, like They say, it's just so alive.

New Favorite Thing

I like having my PT appointments in Friendship Heights. Today, since my appointment wasn't until 4:30, I didn't feel like a complete slacker leaving work quite so early. And after my PT workout (tough therapist - she makes me work really hard - amazing how hard it is to balance on one foot with your eyes closed), I figure I should probably look to replace my well-loved and well-worn Reaction mary janes. A mid-height heel, I'm supposed to find.

So I figure, I could look at Barney's CoOp. They have shoes. Pretty ones. My favorites are kelly green courdoroy-style suede mary janes. Marc Jacobs just has a way. The only problem with them? Not the price - they're not so bad. The problem is that the pretty brown heels are jeeeeest a leeeeetle higher than I'm supposed to wear. Maybe when I go visit them later this week, I'll check to see if they have my size. And if they do, we'll just have to see if I can't find room in my closet for them.

So checking in at Barney's CoOp is my New Favorite Thing.

I'm Moving to New York

I think it took me all of three hours to decide this. Lunch in SoHo on Christmas Day (yes, the restaurants were open). Wandering the streets a little. Driving uptown to the Upper East and West Sides - and we saw The Tree. It was pouring rain. I was soaking wet. My feet were freezing. But it didn't matter. I was in New York City.

And I'm moving there.

Watch This Space - Reporting in from NYC

Spent 3 days in NYC over Christmas. Sigh. Will spill as soon as I clear the work Inbox of VIEM (very important emails).

Well Done: Style in PT

One wouldn't necessarily expect high fashion in the PT office. But this morning, for the appointment I didn't mix up (thank goodness), I followed the woman in who was setting me up. She had a relaxed uptwist that just nestled at the nape of her neck, then fell to the side. I complimented her, and she was sweetly flustered - clearly she hadn't intended to do anything other than get it out of her face (isn't that when we are at our best, when we don't intend it?) And then I sat down on the table so she could wrap my foot up in heat, and I noticed her pants. She had on these athletic-style slacks. They were made of a fine, warm-up pant style fabric, but they were cut like trousers. And in a really cool slate brown. I asked her about them, and she confessed that they were her mother's, bought in Italy. Figures.

First Foray Into Barney's Co-Op

It's been a strange week. All week long I've been confused about what day it is. On Tuesday, I thought it was Wednesday. Wednesday, Thursday. I missed a physical therapy appointment on Monday because I had it written down for Tuesday.

So what does that have to do with Barney's?

Well, it means that I got to start my Christmas shopping a day early (I'm one of those purposefully late shoppers - I love walking outdoors in Friendship Heights during the week before Christmas). My PT appointment - the one I thought I had - was in FH, so after I left the office embarassed that I mixed it up, I cheered myself up with my first visit into Barney's Co-Op.

Sigh. It was lovely.

I pretended like I was shopping for Christmas presents. And honestly, I saw lots of things that would look lovely on my sister-in-law. And a great Paul Smith cordouroy scarf that would've been great on my brother (brown, blue, and green - in cordouroy - what a great idea). But what really happened is I fell in love with designers I hadn't seen in person before. Philip Lim 3.1. Marc Jacobs. In mags, I can appreciate the doll-like sweetness of some of his things. I see how the twists of sohpistication make his blouses perfect for an office warrior with style. But I never thought I'd want to wear his stuff - just too runway. Well, I was wrong. His skirts are gorgeous creations. They have this structure without being stuffy - and are fluid while they're strong. There was this one black taffeta, sorta 50s/80s poufy skirt that I couldn't do justice to in writing if I tried. So I won't. And never mind the colors - who woulda thunk that the primary colors could be so striking?

Now, 99% of pieces there were waaaaaaaaaaay outta my price range. But there were a few (ok, so they were "just" t-shirts or tanks, but hey, they were the coolest t-shirts and tanks I've seen) that were on sale such that I wouldn't cringe completely and be guilt-ridden if I even thought about purchasing.

So apart from just looking at the lovely things, I'll return. Sometimes just to look. And every once in a while, maybe, just maybe, I'll buy.

Well Done: Peep Toes on the Metro

Morning rush hour, freezing cold (I think I can still see my breath in the station, even). I'm bundled up in KORS coat and Russian-style scarf. And gloves, of course (the second it gets anywhere near chilly, out come the gloves - in my opinion, the best defense against winter hands). One train goes by, way too full to even try and get on. I wait. Read the Express. Next train comes, I board. Watching the floor so I don't trip over anyone as I stuff myself into the train car, I spot black velvet (or a rich suede - couldn't tell) peep-toe pumps. Trimmed in silver leather (could've been scalloped), nicely paired with black tights. They were just peeking out from underneath gently striped cream and brown wide-legged, wide-cuffed Hepburn-style trousers. Well done.

Spotted: Amusing Fauna

Georgetown. Trio of 20-somethings, all bleach blonde, in boutique. Discussion of haircuts and purchasing $300 shoes (OK, I'm not sure that's what they bought, I was trying not to look) for friend's Christmas present made me feel like I was a voyeur in a strange DC version of Laguna Beach.

The Most Important Thing in Style...

...is what the person in the style brings.

Many posts ago, I wrote about the consultant at Rizik's who told me that it's what the bride brings to the dress, not what the dress does to the bride. She's so right.

And as I sit here on minor rants about not looking like anyone else, or not wearing mass-produced things, well, I'm going against that, aren't I? I can put on the same exact thing as the woman next to me, and we'll look like completely different people, won't we?

Maybe I'm scarred by the time this woman (I usually use a different word when I'm telling this story - go ahead and use your imagination) showed up at a friend's wedding wearing MY DRESS. Yup, the exact same dress I was wearing. Shudder. Every girl's nightmare. Now, granted, there was no contest whatsoever, I worked it waaaaay better than she did, but even writing that now seems a little (OK, a lot) shallow. But, as my 9th & 12th grade (same person) English teacher used to say, feelings aren't good, feelings aren't bad, they're just feelings. And I was pissed she had on my new, what-I-thought-was-amazing-and-unique brilliant pink halter with Indian/Latin beading (BCBG - still wear it as much as I can - I love that dress). But even when I toss aside the "I looked better than she did and everyone agreed with me" thoughts, and dig into my thoughtful self, it's a wonderful example of just what I'm talking about. She and I were wearing the Exact Same Dress, but we wore it completely differently. She and I were totally different - hence the dress was.

Not that I'll strive now to wear the Exact Same Thing As Everyone Else, but I think I'm just going to remind myself on a daily basis that it's me that's important and that it's Who I Am that makes the outfit, not the outfit that makes me.

OK, jumping off the soapbox now.

The Leg Dilemma

I've discovered the answer to the Leg Dilemma. The "experts" have been preaching "no hose" for years, and I wholeheartedly support the non-support movement. Even if I wanted to wear hot, uncomfortable plastic on my legs whose waistband cuts me off, I'm so pale that I can't find a color that even remotely looks like it might actually be my legs. So I'm a huge fan of no-hose-at-all. Chastise folks (usually just in my head, but sometimes it sneaks out loud) for wearing hose with their skirt suits. And never understood why one would want to wear them with sandals or open toed shoes. Isn't the whole point of stockings to be natural, then you go and wear shoes that advertise you're not wearing your own legs? Just wrong.

Nevertheless, I'm also a big fan of skirts. I like being a lady. So up until last year, I went bare-legged. All year round. It gets mighty chilly in the DC winter. But if I wanted to wear a skirt, I wore a skirt. And no hose. Then, much to my pleasant surprise, tights showed up. I vividly remember one of the mags having this great "centerfold" with shoes and tights in all mixes of colors and patterns. It was about two years ago. And I was thrilled. (I wish I still had that spread - it was so cool.) Marched right out to find me some tights, and was totally enamored with my new best friends, the fish-nets. That was the best thing I could find in patterns last year. Everything else looked like old lady tights. So I proudly wore my fishnets - aqua, nude (my faves), small black, burgundy - and, needless to say, got quite a few comments. And not just from the boys - though they were definitely fans (especially since, if you've read earlier posts you know, I tend to wear Heels). Women all over - metro escalators, Starbucks lines - said how much they liked my tights. They kept my legs at least a little bit warmer, and I was happy that I could have a little bit of funk with my plain(er) suits.

And now it's a new winter. Fortunately, the mass production market has apparently caught up with runways, and I can now find more interesting patterns. Nordstrom, for example, has lots of great stuff in black - DKNY is a front runner - and some cool matte colors. But I'm so excited about this little Italian (I think) brand I found at the very bottom of the rack - they've got mod, sixties-esque patterns in complimentary (think color wheel) colors. I can't wait.

I'm thinkin' I might break out the Italian tights later this week with my black & white tweed Banana suit. Or maybe with a LBD I picked up at Ann Taylor 3 years ago. It's a v-necked shift with these adorable little pleats at the sides. I'm thinkin' I might be able to channel a little Twiggy with the tights & shift dress. I know, I know, I'm preachin' "no mass produced, don't wanna look like anyone else," but if I pair with something no one else has, well, then, I won't, will I?

Guess what? Chicken butt.

Yeah, I'm a chicken. And it was raining yesterday. And I got out of work later than I wanted to. And I just wanted to go home. So I didn't go to the Unsungdesigners.com benefit. I wasn't feeling my fashion best last night - tried, but wasn't feeling stylish enough (as if there is such a thing). So I wandered Pentagon City instead, and got a little standard Christmas shopping done.

Spotted: Fab Plaid Pants - I swear

Yeah, so "fab" is not the first word that comes to mind w/ "plaid pants." But yes, saw them last night in the Pentagon City Nordstrom Cafe. Light grey base color, violet, green, and something else in a large print plaid. Tailored not-high, not-low cut. Really well done.

Small victory in shoes

Happy Day! Physical therapist said I can go to a mid-level heel (see earlier post, "Forced Flats"). Since my standbys are falling apart (I was just searching for a new pair when I was injured - halts the shopping pretty quickly), I'm going to take that as a prescription for "go buy a good pair of shoes." Translation: mid-level heel that fits well & looks great.

Think I can find one?

Spotted: Gorgeous Weather-Appropriate Coat in Friendship Heights

Friendship Heights Mickey D's...woman in line in a lovely, elegant, warm coat. Fitted, just past her knees, big tweed in warm oranges, browns, creams, and pinks. Light brown fur collar. Can't think of a more stylish way to stay warm in this below-freezing weather.

Did I say warm?

The Fashion "10 Spot"

Don't forget - Project Runway tomorrow night @ 1000 on Bravo. No, they're not paying me, I just love the show - I love Heidi, love Michael, love Tim, and think it's one of the coolest shows on TV.

Forced Flats

There was a series of interviews in one of the mags a while back - interviews with designers. One of the questions was: What one thing will you never wear, even if it's The In Thing?

Catherine Malandrino's answer: flats.

I agree completely. I'm tall, but I'm lucky that I've never been afraid or ashamed of my height. I love heels - all heights. Invented by those men who wanted to show off their calves, they do just that. Legs always look better in heels. I wear them to work, to play, to shop...I love heels. I see no reason to wear flats. Clearly Catherine and I are soulmates.

Then my walk to the metro got longer. So I relented and bought a pair of "commuting flats," so I wouldn't be one of those (shudder) tennis-shoe-wearing commuters. Ugh. But I only wore them to & from work.

Then I hurt my foot. Hyperextended all the tendons on top of my foot. Yes, all of them. At the same time. I couldn't point my foot - had to keep it at a 90-degree angle. Heels put the foot at other-than-90-degree angles. No heels. At all. For at least six weeks. Ugh.

I miss them so much, my heels. They're part of what makes me happy in my work outfits. A plain black suit looks so much better with a colored heels (I like sky blue or patent red). The holiday season - where all I'd normally have to do to get dressed is throw on black slacks, a soft black sweater, and my favorite gold goddess sandals, and I'm happy. So what does a girl do with Forced Flats? She suffers the temporary loss of her heels, of course, and then succumbs and buys a pair of black patent leather flats for the office and a pair of little gold slippers for jeans and dress. They're my favorite - they look just like the pair of Daniel Green slippers my grandmother used to have. Perfect with jeans for a long day of shopping.

Fortunately, there are tons of adorable flats all over the stores right now - it's refreshing, I suppose. But I miss my heels. Somehow, the flats, as sophisticated and lovely as they are right now, still look like little girl shoes to me.

I start physical therapy tomorrow - and my first question will be: when can I get back into my heels?

Spotted: So Now Shoes

Metro exit, probably waiting for a friend. Winter white pumps with eyelet-like cutouts (just enough, but not too many - I had to squint to see them). Sweet rounded, but not round, toe. About 4" shapely stacked wooden heels. No hose (thank goodness). They must've been freezing, but the feet looked great.

I couldn't buy shoes in Italy. Really.

Did I mention Mecca in my last post? I think I have a lot of them. But really, I think you'd agree that Italy is at least one of the fashion Meccas. The thing I like about Italian fashion - at least what I understand about it - is that there aren't any pretentions about it. It's the ultimate cool. And it doesn't bother to tell us. It just knows.

So when we decided to drive through northern Italy one November, I was, well, excited. Italy. Italian design. Italian wine. Italian leather. The shoes. The food. Oooh! the shoes. Sigh.

We arrived via the Swiss-Italian Alps (we'd driven from Germany). We came in just east of Milan, so we didn't stop there. We stopped in some fabulous little towns - Bergamo, Verona - but by the time we settled in from the day's drive and took a decadent nap, the shops were all closed. I consoled myself with horsemeat ragu and the reds of the region.

Then we got to Venice. Alright, so it's not on the list of the Big Fashion Shows, like Paris, Milan, or NY, but tucked inbetween the canals and bridges were All of Them. Giovanni, Giorgio...the windows were full of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. Silk, leather, wool, draped over mannekins and artfully but lazily arranged.

"Let's go in," my fiancé urged.

It was all I could do to shake my head: No.

I was petrified. It was Fashion. With a capital "F." All the coolness and beauty I never had growing up were right there in my reach. All I had to do was walk in the door, take a look around, and pick out a Furla purse. It wasn't hard. And I had a man at my side urging me - one who wanted me to shop and spend a little money in Italy. He wanted me to have beautiful things. What more could a girl want?

How 'bout the courage to go in the store? I couldn't go in. I was absolutely petrified. In the face of such great beauty, I froze. Dead in my tracks. He was so upset with me. We wandered the paths of Venice, gazing in the windows, but I couldn't go in. Part of it was the size thing. I don't fit in Italian-cut clothes (I'm of Germanic stock), usually, and I didn't want the looks of derision I assumed I'd get from the salespeople. But I couldn't even go in to look at shoes or leather.

I still haven't heard the end of it. Whenever I lament an Italian-designed piece here (because they're waaaaaaaay out of my budget), he reminds me that I could've had several for the same price. He tells my friends the story. But in the end, he helped me. He went back to Verona on business and for Christmas that year, he presented me with something better than the Little Blue Box: A blue felt Furla bag. It didn't need any wrapping. Inside was the most beautiful black leather bag. Sigh. It's one of my most prized possessions.

And it's happened again. When my mommy, sis, and I went up to NYC to visit wedding dresses just off Madison Ave (I love saying that - I know, I know, it's so not "in" to be excited about that, but c'mon). We'd had a lovely afternoon of a private appointment and lunched in a bistro nearby (there's just something so "it" about sharing a mid-afternoon bottle of wine with your mom and baby sister). And then we wandered down Madison and over to 5th. Oscar de la Renta had opened up their showroom not terribly long before (I think I read about the opening in InStyle, maybe?). SUCH pretty windows. And the clothes hang perfectly spaced an inch apart on the racks. We were standing outside, looking in. Mom & Sis wanted to go in. I froze again. Couldn't do it. Couldn't go in. It took my mom (whom we've only recently brought into the world of style) just marching around the corner to the door. And walking in.

So I'm not really sure what's so scary about it. And I'm better than I used to be - at least I made it inside of Oscar. And it wasn't so scary. Uh huh.

Hot = Miniskirt and boots

"I forgot to tell you," he says, "about the girl I saw today. She was wearing a really short miniskirt and suede fur boots. It was hot."

Uh huh.

"Ugg boots?" I asked, ready to pounce on the Hot Girl for wearing something so winter 2004.

"No, not Uggs," he responded confidently. "Aren't you proud that I know what Uggs are?"

Uh huh.

"She was so hot."

The weather was not. This was, mind you, the day of the 20-degree evening in AdMo (see my earlier post - when I figure out how to link them, I'll do that, but for now, you'll just have to scroll).

So apparently she was wearing the New Ugg - those fur-topped sorta Alaskan things. But more importantly to my fashion-aware fiancé, she had paired them with a really short miniskirt. Black.

I wish I'd seen it. Something tells me it was well-executed, though poorly timed, based on the weather. I haven't decided how I feel about these new boots - part of me says - how cute - and warm! Then there's that aversion to Lemming Fashion. But the only details I could get were "really short miniskirt" and "fur boots." Not even her hair color.

Smile.

José's Disciple

I'll follow anything José Andrés does just about to the ends of the earth. Someone wrote, I think, that anything he touches turns to gold. I'm pretty sure that person's right.

He does food. He does restaurants. He does modern culture. Somehow, his restaurants are the smoothest, most personable, most thoughtful, and most contemporary. They speak to us, right now. At least to me.

I was working in Penn Quarter when the first Jaleo opened. It was a little oasis of Europe in a neighborhood that was pushing through puberty. My lunch break could take me back to the jamon my Spanish friend's dad shipped to us for Christmas in Bremen, Germany. And the sangria wasn't bad, either. Tapas had arrived in DC.

Then Café Atlantico. A little "cooler," a little more modern interior.

Then Jaleo spread to Bethesda. And to Crystal City. It's the most beautiful space of all three locations. Wide open and soaring. Mosaics with clean-cut warm wood. Windows to the sky make what's cozy and Old World in the other two locations very "now" and fresh. A victory against the black hole of good food in the underground world of Crystal City.

But in between all of this, quite possibly my favorite restaurant in the world opened up. Zaytinya - apparently a twist on the Turkish word for olive oil - takes tapas East - to Turkey, Lebanon, and Greece. First time I was there was for drinks with colleagues. I was so excited for the apricot organge blossom martini. Devine inspiration - with an apricot in the bottom of the glass (love the "new" martinis, but could they please find another glass? They look great, but I can't hold one sober, let alone after a few) and a mist of orange blossom essence on top...in my mind, pure, sophisticated, elegant heaven.

The martini is only the beginning. The place is just different. I wish I could live there. It's how I would design my house if I could start from scratch. Ceilings that don't stop, white, and blue all over. Warm wood floors, clean, open lines that make groups of tables intimate. The wall of candles is simply striking. It's the kind of place where everyone looks their best. Nevermind the food. Each dish is a twist on something classically Turkish, Greek, or Lebanese. Each dish is fantastic. Never had even a blah dish.

And I think I'm in love with Steve Klc, the pastry chef. Like José, he takes classic things to an absolutely new level, and pairs tastes us normal people couldn't imagine. Beets in a dessert? Uh huh. Haven't had it yet, but I trust him implicitly. I will. The man is a maestro of spuma.

Mecca for me right now is Minibar. If I'm reading the reviews right, it's the closest food can come to couture. 30 teeny courses for six people. Fois gras with cotton candy, they say. I can see it walking down a Paris runway. Fanciful, yet rooted in knowledge of the craft. The finest designers at work.

I can't wait.

Closer to the Edge

www.unsungdesigners.com. Thursday night, 15. December, 6-9. Happy Hour/Benefit at their AdMo showroom. If you can't make it, watch this space.

AdMo in 20 Degree Weather

Out last night for a friend's birthday drink, and woefully disappointed with the AdMo scene. The little blazer is a great piece, but please tell me how it's ok to wear that, and that alone, on a night where there's ice on the sidewalks. The snow from 3 days ago still hasn't melted, and DC-ites are stumbling and shivering down 18th Street in their adorable shrunken jackets. Without even a whimsical scarf thrown idly around their now blue necks. There are plenty of ways of layering that are still club-friendly - or - dare I suggest - don't go to a club if it's cold. Find a cozy bar and plunk your Seven-Jeansed-behind down in a chair with a pomegranate cosmo, and - I don't know - talk with your friends. But then you'd have to like them.

Never mind that they were all "in style" with the same exact thing.

Shudder. Not even a sassy shoe to be seen.

The Wedding Dress

I wish I'd had this blog when I started my search. Maybe writing about it would've helped me make up my mind. But I didn't, so I'll start now.

Just like with the guy, "they" say "you just know." There are supposed to be oohs and ahhs, and your mom is supposed to cry.

OK. So all of that has happened, several times over, but I still haven't decided on a dress. I've figured out that, at the end of the day (to quote a friend), the dress isn't that important to me. What has been important to me is spending time with my sister, mom, and MIL-to-be. What has been important is playing with all of the pretty dresses. And meeting the nice people in different stores. And gossiping about the not-so-nice ones afterwards.

My search started waaaaaaaaay back when, three weeks after The Big Engagement. My mom practically begged me to go shopping. I was feeling fat and ugly, and was in no mood to try on dresses that I knew would be 33 sizes too small for me. (For those who haven't gone through it, the first weeks after telling the world you're engaged are pure @#$%. Happy, of course, but @#$%. Trying on the trial dresses is certainly the last thing you want to do.)

I was about to write a whole lot more about my journey. Then I stopped. My fiancé's sitting right here. I'm not particularly traditional about this wedding thing, but for heaven's sake, he's not going to know about my dress - not even about what I didn't pick!

What I will say is that the journey has gone around and around in circles. I've tried on every possible type of dress. As I tried on more, I thought I could say what didn't work. Then, recently, I tried on some of those things, and they worked. I was totally confused for about two months. Then I realized that I'm loving the process. I loved going to NYC and having the LaraHelene experience. I'm loving Elizabeth at Promise...for the saavy bride, and I'm loving Reiko at Rizik's. Two opposite ends of the spectrum - in establishments, in people, and in dress. But what they have in common is that Elizabeth and Reiko have the patience of Job, and want me to feel wonderful, be happy, and have fun. Reiko was the one who said "it's what you bring to the dress, not what the dress is." She's right. I'm down to two choices, and I know that I shine in both of them. I stand up tall and strong, and I look like me. Not the 10th grade me (as a girlfriend said when she saw me in one of The Unchosen Dresses), but me now - who I am.

Now I'm going to get mushy. No matter which dress I'm wearing, I'll love it. But the most important thing, really, truly, is that I'll be standing at the side of the man (who'll be dashing in his navy suit) who's somehow decided he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. And if I searched Paris, Milan, and Lawrence, KS, I couldn't find a more "it" accessory than that.

The Cossacks Are Coming

Ok, so they're already here. The Russians have been marching across Vogue photo spreads since early summer, and now it's finally cold enough for us in the real world to catch up.

I'm so happy that luxe is back. I'm happy that I can put on some lace and fur (in discreet, tasteful amounts, of course - this is still DC, after all) and walk Wisconsin Avenue with my head held high. It doesn't hurt that I have an inside source - a Romanian mother-in-law-to-be who takes incredible care of the pieces she's gathered over the years. A handmade natural wool coat with stylized black and red embroidery. A closet full of "peasant blouses" stiched in Romania. Fur hats. These are the types of things that I'd wear no matter what was "in" - they're gorgeous.

And no one else has them.

Isn't that the key to fashion?

Next time you walk into a furrier ('cause we do that on a daily basis, I know), try on a fur hat. One of the old-lady-style Russian poofy ones. Then look at yourself in the mirror. Trust me. You'll look amazing. And you'll be warm. It's practical and decadent all at the same time. And did I mention you'll look amazing? I'm not sure what it is about the round puff of fur snuggled down over your head and around your face, but all of a sudden there's this fresh-faced glow you get. Apples on your cheeks - that afterwards glow - I swear. Put it together with your best coat and a simple pair of trim leather gloves (a lady should never be without her gloves as soon as there's a snap of cold - they're better than lotion against alligator hands), and you'll make quite the picture grabbing your after work groceries.

Apple green

I must say - I thought I'd never wear kelly green again. At least after I turned 12. Wore it all the time when I was little. It was one of the colors redheaded girls were allowed to wear. No pink, no red, no purple...those colors would (gasp!) clash with my strawberry blonde locks. (I finally wised up and wear colors relatively indiscriminately - including pink!) So I wore a lot of kelly green. It was my favorite color (until yellow turned into my favorite color - which is probably the one color I really shouldn't wear). And then I didn't wear it anymore. It didn't show up in the vintage shops (neé thrift stores) I frequented in my early teens. It wasn't a part of the pseudo-grunge thing I tried for a little while. Nor was it really the thing in Austria, when I lived there - circa 1991 Austrian teens were more into non-colors than colors. Honestly can't remember seeing anyone in anything stronger than a very respectable navy.

So the only place any green showed up in my wardrobe for a long while was in a scarf (which were my thing - ok, still are, but it's just too darn hot in the office to wear them regularly - somewhere between 1996-2000). Then I walked into a MAC store one day. I was bored with my routine, or maybe I was on my way to an event, who knows now?

Secret revealed - if you're feeling oily and icky after a long hard day of enduring the low levels of sanity and intelligence around you, and you still have to put your best face forward at a happy hour or dinner (why did you say you'd go to that fundraiser for the friend of a friend who's toying with a congressional run?), just swing by your favorite cosmetic counter and ask for a new look. A couple swishes of makeup remover, a white tea protectant, and a Q-tip of eyeshadow later, and you're all ready to go - with a professional's help. Just make sure you get your new friend to use one of those cute face papers to draw your new colors, ask when she (or he) will be working next, and say you'll be back. Sometimes I actually do go back...sure beats the heck outta dragging along all your brushes and makeup to "touch up" before going out...

...so I walk into MAC, explain to the nice lady that I need a new look for that season (for the life of me, I can't remember when it was - right when color was coming back onto our faces), and that I wasn't afraid of color. With absolute trust, I sat up in the high black chair, and she set to work. The next thing I knew, I had the coolest eyes ever...with one of those "limited edition" 4-packs - Brule, Pickle, Mystery, and Gleam. For the color-word challenged among us, that would be bone, pickle (yes, the crunchy ones the nice asian lady packs in with your deli sandwich with just a little sparkle), the deepest chocolate brown, and the most gorgeous soft, champagne-y, salmon-y, shimmery pink/gold. For a redhead with blue eyes, it worked out just peachily...I'm still in love with Pickle, and it reopened my eyes to green.

So now I'm drawn to All Things Green. An apple green cashmere shell shouts out a little with a grey pinstripe suit to wear to my fuddy office. A peek of green pops out in the swirls of my Pucci-esque halter dress. I keep Going to Green hanging in shops. I miss it this season - somehow greens didn't really make it into this cossack-inspired luxury we're experiencing (which I love, by the way).

But what made me write about Green today was my colleague's sweater . His casual Friday upper half was a Great Green ski-slope-style zip up sweater. For our less-than-daring world, it was a pleasantly bold choice. It wasn't bulky or slouchy. It was clean cut, punchy, and a refreshing splash of color in our normal khaki and short-sleeve logo polo Fridays. And it made me happy.

Remind me later that I have something to say about the logo polos.

Funereal Dress?

Props to the man people asked if he was going to a funeral. No, he wasn't. What he was was well-dressed. What he'd done is think about what he'd put on that morning. He was wearing a lovely dark suit, well cut - it fit him. He was wearing a tie that had a lovely red stripe in it - professional, elegant, and (said with an accent) decent (honest, it sounds much better if you're a European - couldn't say what the translation is).

So apparently the DC professional world sees a well-dressed man, and thinks "funeral."

The Company Christmas Party

The little black dress. The red twinset with sequins. The gold sequined top. The "Holiday Sweater." The nearly inappropriate cocktail dress that just can't quite decide what to be.

The attire is listed on the invite as "Business dress." It's not terribly hard. And honestly, most folks looked entirely appropriate and well-coordinated, if not boring. But appropriate is ok at the company party.

And I spotted the dark silver Banana Republic holiday dress. I love Banana (well-made clothes at almost affordable prices that always seem to fit), but I don't like to know that I'm seeing Banana. I suppose I have an aversion to other folks knowing where I bought something. It's not that I don't want good fashion (which this silver dress is) to be appreciated, but kinda like Jimmy Choo being in Chevy Chase, I'm just not sure I want it out there. I guess what it really is is an aversion to mass production. I know, I know, it makes it accessible - and I'm all for accessible - I need accessible. But there's something about walking down the street and seeing your outfit on another person that just doesn't sit right.

It was all driven home during our recent trip to Lawrence, Kansas. It's a great college town. Cafés, restaurants, a Main Street, shops, boutiques, a real department store, and a great spirit. People stroll down the street...and wear the same thing. I think every woman under the age of 25 was wearing a shrug. Granted, the weather was in that not-quite-warm, not-quite-cold phase, so they were practical, but lord! was I shocked. I'm not sure I've ever experienced that much homogeneity - and it's homogeneity of style - all by choice. And it is by choice. Lawrence happens to have some fantastic little shops filled with fabulous finds. There's an off-beat pseudo-punk/hippie place. There are Good Jeans. You can buy Paula Dorf and Cargo cosmetics. We're not talkin' a fashion black hole here - there are People Who Know.

So why did they all choose the same clothes? I just don't understand.

My theory

If they'd just stop making the ugly clothes, people would stop wearing them.

Who do I talk to? There must be someone out there I can write, campaign, have a petition signed for.

Isaac, Cynthia, Irene, Nicole...all of these folks have helped us less-than-millionaires by giving us their designs where we all (admit it - you do too!) shop. So I rationalize that, if we can get them into the stores, why can't we get the others out?

The world would be a much happier place - I promise.

Why is it...

...that DC guys can't seem to wear a decent outfit into the office? Business dress is the order, but why are they so proud of suits bought at Men's Warehouse, or that "the dude there just picked out all my shirts and ties for me?" One colleague started the new trend...order a whole bunch of the same socks online - that way you won't ever mix up socks in the dark. Now that's fashion sense.

I put out the call...why?! There are easy ways to look fantastic. You have accessories just like we do - and it's not "girly" to use them: shoes, socks, ties, cufflinks (I must report an increase in interesting cufflinks in our office - thank goodness). Shirts that are ironed, non-pleated pants. It's not that hard. I promise.

Now, I must say that I admire you for having to pick out a tie every day - I couldn't do it. They confuse me. But why do most of you continue to pick out poor ones - they're not awful, just blah. Isn't there better than blah?

On the edge

I feel like we're on the edge of something great in D.C. A shop here, a boutique there. A new spa, a new salon.

And then there's the new Chevy Chase. Pretty near apopleptic when I saw the Jimmy Choo signage.

But at the same time, it makes me sad. It somehow worked for me to be a little different in a city of conservative. But now that "they've" arrived, does it mean that Jimmy Choo is conservative? Now, really, I don't expect to see Hill staffers hobbling along in stilettos, but it all makes me a little nervous. Thrilled - but a little nervous. I like the hunt for "that which no one else had." Do you think it'll go away?

My First Time

Rene Russo in The Thomas Crown Affair. I stayed til the end of the credits just to see what she was wearing. And I guessed right. Celine by Michael Kors. It was the first time I recognized something other than Chanel on first sight. Won't ever forget it. Soft, structured, oatmeal-colored knits - and her auburn hair. Gorgeous. (Almost so memorable that I forgot to admire Pierce.)

My first name purchase turned out to be a KORS by Michael Kors coat. 3/4-length, bare sheen. I wear it everywhere. Treat it gently. Keep wearing it even though I haven't sewn the top button back on. Nor have I opened the pockets. Just never got around to it.