Wednesday: Prada crocodile mules

Shopping bulimia (shôp'pîng boo-lee'mee-uh):  The vicious cycle of binging (hello, Neiman’s Last Call sale!) and purging (those quarterly dropoffs at Goodwill and the occasional listing on eBay).

Shopping anorexia (shôp'pîng an'uh-rek'see-uh):  The end result when the cash register swallows up your credit card and spits it out in a million tiny pieces because you haven’t made even the minimum payment in months.

Shopping dysmorphia (shôp'pîng dis-mor'fee-uh):  That hopeless feeling that no matter how much you shop, you still don’t have enough shoes.

Compulsive shopping (kuhm-pul'siv shôp'pîng):  If you’re reading this, you don’t need a definition.

Monday: pink Prada mules

I’ve learned from my mistake.  No matter how busy it gets at work – testing moisturizers and meeting with publicists – I will never wait till the afternoon to read the papers.  Sure it’s good to know about the elections in Iran and the state of the housing bubble, but much more important:  You gotta be up-to-date on when the sales start!

The other day I foolishly failed to skim the papers before I went to run errands at lunch, and I completely missed the start of the second markdowns at Bergdorf’s.  It is really the only store in New York where you can buy Lainey, and while I passed on this season’s collection when it first arrived, complete with scary marked-up price tags, I figured my mind could surely be changed after a couple of markdowns.

Chained to my desk that afternoon, I frantically called my usual Lainey saleswoman, but she was too busy with other clients – those blasted clients in the store at that moment, no doubt pawing at what was rightfully mine – to chat.  She suggested I come by soon; after all, the second markdowns had just started.  And had she called me?  Noooooo. Note to self:  Find a new Lainey saleswoman!

Crap!  And there I was, still at my desk as the hands of the clock inched closer and closer to closing time.  The agony!  And because I didn’t have the foresight to not book a lunch the next day, I wouldn’t be able to go until after work.  At least Thursdays were their late nights.

At 6 p.m., I rushed over to the store and made my way straight to the sixth floor… hyperventilating (it was hot… and my heart was pounding), eyes focused like a laser, feet stumbling faster, faster, faster.  And thank god the luck of the Irish was with me.  Not only were there several pieces left, but they were all marked down.  My personal collection would grow by 3.  I did a little dance of joy…

P.S. My luck didn’t extend to my usual saleswoman, who wasn’t there that night to earn her commission (which of course she hadn’t).  Serves her right!

Saturday: black suede Prada flats

Random thoughts on reality shows I’d like to see. (And if I ever do, I’m gonna want royalties!)

Friday: lemon Manolo strappy sandals

In the pantheon of heartbreak — subset, fashion — there is a special place for the wrenching image of a brand new pair of suede strappy heels, splattered with mud on their very first outing. Or the sight of a stiletto heel collapsing mid-gait – even when you’ve done your damnedest to avoid the subway grates! Or the horrific discovery that the top of your Louis Vuitton boot – the one with the gold dice on the zippers, made of the softest calfskin – has been scraped by a jagged little piece of metal cruelly lurking unbeknownst to you underneath your desk… Take it from me: It feels like flesh being torn asunder.

These were, for the love of god, the boots that not a week earlier I had so scrupulously protected from even the hint of drizzle by taking them off, stashing them in my Herve Chapelier bag and making a male friend carry me from casino to casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk. (Don’t ask.)

It is, to quote Alanis, like rain on your wedding day. Only it ain’t ironic. Just tragic.

Tears in my eyes, I scooped up the dozen tiny flecks of leather into a Ziploc like some fashion CSI and took the boots straight to my most trustworthy shoe repairman. He frowned at me – chastised me even! – and warned that this would be a delicate operation, that they may never be the same again.

And no, they weren’t. While the scars on the surface were obvious only to me, the inner pain was too much to bear. Before long, those boots had gone from only-on-0%-humidity-days to my designated winter boots. I walk alone, I walk alone…

Tuesday: black Gucci snakeskin peeptoes

I’m more well-rounded than people think. I’m not just about shoes. I like handbags and sweaters too.

Case in point: my magnificent obsession with Irish cashmere designer Lainey Keogh.

Now, I’m no fashion newbie—I’ve covered the couture, I’ve dined with Donatella—and yet something about Lainey’s ultra-luxe, made-to-order cashmere designs makes me weak in the knees (and lighter in the wallet). I’ve spent hours at her Dublin studio, trying on samples and drowning in all the different patterns and colors from which I can order… And back at home, many a time have I poured over the look book, lovingly stroking the cashmere color swatches… As much as it breaks my heart to have to choose, I finally get up the courage to commit. I put in an order… and then I wait, wait, wait—for months!—while Lainey’s wooly women whip up my next prized possession.

I’m currently in the obsessively-studying-photos phase of the buying cycle. I can’t decide between an embroidered coat

or a brocade-patterned cardigan.

And in beige and white, or peach and cream? Gold embroidery, or another color? My sister and I have exchanged endless IMs debating the relative merits of each. In each photograph she took at the trunk show, we see more options hidden in the background! More styles we didn’t see before, hanging on a hidden rail, more fabulous colors! The indecision!

Of course, summer’s here and not even the iciest air conditioning can really justify wearing a cashmere anything. And yet I dream, I dream…