Sunday: cream Louboutin lizard slingbacks

Most people would assume that I owe my passion for fashion to my mother. She was, after all, the woman who instilled in me the value of quality over quantity (though I must say once I got a credit card the latter caught up), the fashion catechism according to Chanel, and my entirely healthy obsession with couture. (Our joint goal in life: to put ourselves at the mercy of the petites mains at the House of Chanel.)

All true. And yet… I’ve got to give some props to my dad on this Father’s Day because (1) after living in a household of women most of his life, he knows the difference between a slide and a mule, (2) he never complained too much about feeling deserted when my mom, my sister and I would be gone all Saturday on our shopping excursions, and last but not least (3) in the immortal words of ZZ Top, every girl’s crazy about a sharp-dressed man.

For a bookish professor, Daddy knows his men’s haberdashery. As a young prof back in the day, he had the coeds cooing over his coif and his cologne. He even had a Yves Saint Laurent moment with his safari suits in the ’70s. More recently, he was wearing monochromatic shirt-and-tie combos long before Regis. He spends more time in front of the mirror working on his hair than my mom does. (Well, okay, let’s just say it’s a tie.) With his ties arranged in ROYGBIV order and his shoes meticulously polished–weekly–his closet is as organized as Cher’s in Clueless.

So here’s to my fashion-plate dad, who was metrosexual when metrosexual wasn’t cool. Daddy, the gift certificate to the spa is in the mail! Happy Father’s Day!

Link

What’s more disturbing than the brainwashing that Katie Holmes seems to have undergone in the name of love, Tom and Scientology? More even than the nasty cold sores around her mouth that she doesn’t always bother to cover with concealer?

Try her feet.

The girl needs help. (Does Scientology have a “technology” to cure bunions and hammer toes?) Ever since I saw some cruel — yet funny! — item in one of the tabs about the state of her feet, I’ve been obsessed with studying the lowest quadrant of every photo of her. Even from a distance you can see the contorted toes, seemingly frozen mid-death-grip onto some supportless heels, and what look like sixth toes jutting out of her insteps. Free Katie? Imprison those feet!

Now, I am hardly one to talk about podiatry — yes, reader, I know bunions — and so I would like very much to take something positive out of Katie’s foot faults. For one thing, no matter how much my high-heeled Chanel mules threaten to slip off in the middle of the street, I shall no longer grip onto them with my toes. I shall wear more close-toed shoes and heels with ankle straps. I shall stop buying shoes that don’t quite fit, no matter how pretty or what a bargain they are.

Who am I kidding? No, I won’t.

My mother long ago taught me that you sometimes have to suffer for beauty. But had she seen Katie’s feet, maybe she would have given me altogether different advice: Go North, young girl, where covered-up boots are de rigeur and strappy sandals are never in season.

Wednesday: Prada crocodile-trimmed straw wedges

Sometimes it just happens — I don’t even notice until it’s too late, when I’ve walked out the door. And horror of horrors, I realize that I’ve left the house wearing head-to-toe Prada.

Sure, it’s okay to be clad entirely in one designer — well, maybe if you’re the guest of honor at his fashion show. (And even when you’re being dressed by said designer… you’d try to wear one tiny thing of your own, if only your underwear.)

As much of a Prada girl as I may be, I would hate to look like too much of a victim. It’s too obsequious, too over-the-top, too easy. There’s no challenge in replicating, wholesale, what you saw in a magazine or on a mannequin in the window of the boutique. It may be challenging to your bank account, but not to your inner fashionista.

In fact, doesn’t it make you more of a fan if you spread the love? In my perfect world, I could wear a bit of Prada every day of the year without repeating. Hmm, come to think of it, I could probably go a week… a month… a season… Hey, do undergarments count?

Monday: black and white Louboutin slides

Long past midnight, a few days ago, I was trying to find an outfit for a black-tie event the following evening. I would be leaving directly from work, so I had to lay out my outfit the night before, just as I had done in elementary school (and truth be told, middle school and most of high school too, though without my mommy’s help). We’re in the midst of a hideous heat wave, so I decided from the get-go that I wouldn’t be wearing anything long. So I dug into my closet looking at all the little black dresses I own.

Which, as you can imagine, took a while.

There was the silk satin strapless Moschino, and the other silk satin strapless number. The basic Dolce & Gabbana sheath. The Emporio Armani dress with the jet-beaded straps. The Prada sheath with the velvet ribbon and grommets. And the…

I tried them on one after the other, and none of them passed muster. I mean, each dress fit, and was lovely in its own way… and yet, somehow just not right for that moment. How could this be?? Don’t I collect LBDs like other people collect those state-themed quarters?

On to the much dicier strategy two: separates. The number of permutations, of course, escalated. The flouncy silk chiffon Malandrino, the black Prada lace tiered skirt, the silk shantung… And on top, the white lace spaghetti strap top, the peach satin empire waist top, the cranberry-colored Matthew Williamson tank with beading, the YSL ruffled halter… Ten tops, ten bottoms = too many choices. And let’s not even start talking about the shoes and the earrings and the wrap…
In the wee hours I ended up packing one of the strapless dresses, the black lace skirt and a selection of four tops, in the hopes that I would be struck by inspiration the next day.

But of course at the last minute I had a moment of panic, thinking that none of my choices was quite formal enough. There’s black tie, and then there’s black tie. And this event was not taking place in my usual milieu – where you wear either jeans and stilettos and a fancy top or go full-on high fashion, nothing in between – so I had no context in which to deconstruct the dress code. For all I knew, there was plenty of in between. Did they really mean black tie – or creative black tie? Or the terribly open-ended “smart dress”?

The mental anguish! It was too late for me to go home – and god knows how long the whole trying-on-staring-in-the-full-length-mirror-yet-again process would take. I would just have to make do. Figuring that separates would seem less formal than a dress, I chose the strapless number, and as it turns out, my stress was for naught. If I may say so myself, I looked pretty darn good.

To think that for a moment I actually envied the lack of variety that men have, suit wise and shoe wise. Well, maybe for a second anyway. Deep in my heart I know the truth: I don’t need less, I need more!

Saturday: Prada geometric print flats

…that my favorite shoe salesman at Neiman’s is higher on my speed dial than my best friend?

…that I know the full history of Britney and Kevin’s courtship better that that of my parents? (Actually, yes. But that’s because my parents didn’t have a reality TV show.)

…that I promised my first born to the keeper of the Birkin bag waiting list at Hermes?

…that I am already consulting the laws on personal bankruptcy in anticipation of the day that my name finally rises to the top of said list?

…that I bought a chunky bead necklace because I saw Mary-Kate Olsen wearing one? (Yes! I can’t believe I admitted that.)

…that I could tell the Olsens apart even before Mary-Kate went brunette?

…that I have five pairs of green shoes because I keep forgetting that I already have something to match my favorite skirt?

…that my doorman thinks I must be doing something illegal because of the number of packages I get in the mail?

…that my photographic memory only extends to the inventory of Saks and Neiman’s?

…that the amount of money I’ve spent on clothes and shoes this year exceeds… Oh, God, don’t make me say it. Don’t make me calculate. I think I’m going to cry…