Friday: black Roger Vivier heels

… in nobody’s eyes but yours. Apologies to the Killers, but watching Janice “I’m the world’s first supermodel” Dickinson on The Surreal Life has completely changed my mind about her. I used to think that she was funny on America’s Next Top Model, the way she let the cutdowns rip like a cheap tight skirt, but now… she’s sort of pathetic. I guess the genius of ANTM was that you got her in small doses. Enough to entertain, not enough to grate.

But on Surreal Life, she’s sort of inescapable. And she’s really taking herself far too seriously. On the last episode, she actually said she didn’t want to participate in a burlesque show because she didn’t, as a parent, want to be associated with something so sordid. Puh-leeze! This is the same woman who bared all about her sex and drug exploits in not one but two books… which her kids could easily check out from the local library (not to mention the naked pictures on the internet).

And perhaps now we know why she’s not going to be on ANTM anymore. When she says things like “I’m an international superstar,” you just have to laugh at the level of her self-delusion. She looks so bad that you almost, just almost, feel sorry for Omarosa when she says “That bitch is cuh-razy!” And you gotta admit, Omarosa’s one woman who knows crazy.

Wednesday: brown Louboutin anklestraps

Okay, so who isn’t talking about Jude and Sienna and the Nanny? I gotta say, I always thought he was too pretty for his own good. Can’t trust a man who wears ascots, either. But that’s another story.

Meanwhile, it’s amazing what public humiliation can do for your figure. Sienna’s probably dropped to a size -2 since the news came out… and just think of all the sympathy clothes she’s probably getting from her good pal Matthew Williamson. (Sidetracking for one self-absorbed moment, I must confess that ever since I saw a photo of Sienna wearing that yellow signature-flower-power-print Missoni poncho from the fall ‘04 collection, maybe a week after the show last spring, I have harbored many evil thoughts about her. Oh well, I ended up buying a jacket in that print, in pink, so I felt better — a good six months later! But I digress from my digression. Bottom line, it’s just not fair, not being a muse. Anyone in the market for a muse? Anyone? Will work for samples…)

But back to the point. So thanks to some pretty bad stuff happening, our girl is set for life in terms of her designer wardrobe, and like Nicole Kidman (post-dumped-by-Tom) before her, she will probably find that her career has no bounds. Pencil her in for an Oscar in 2007! Ummm… on second thought, did you ever see her in Keen Eddie? Okay, so at least she’ll have the clothes. And maybe she’ll start dating Steve Bing next. (Someone please explain his appeal to me… aside from that whole billionaire thing.)

Monday: gold and pink Prada T-straps

Have you ever wished that your significant other dressed more fashionably, had more personal style and better grooming, wouldn’t mind — nay, would actually enjoy — shopping with you?

In other words, did you ever wish you had a gay boyfriend?

I mean, not the kind who might break your heart by leaving you for Brad Pitt (though who could blame him?) — not a boyfriend who’s living on the Down Low. I don’t know about you, but as much as I complain about guys who don’t appreciate the finer points of fashion (i.e. all that I do to make myself look good for… well, not really him, but for other women who notice these things. Which is my point exactly!), I don’t really want to be romantically involved with a guy who would need more closet space than I do. That would be wrong. Some women don’t like guys who weigh less than they do; I don’t like guys who accessorize more than I do.

What I really mean is it would be great to have a gay guy who’s your platonic boyfriend — someone with whom you can while away your Sunday mornings reading the Times, plan your fall wardrobes, wake up early to hit the sales, talk about boys… And though he may be just as catty as a female BFF, he won’t likely be competing for the same guys. See the beauty of this?

Saturday: black beaded Prada thongs

Well, it’s the morning after, and there’s something I need to get off my chest.

I had a one-night stand… with “Farinelli,” the hottest, sexiest, most exotic… pair of Manolo Blahnik peridot green alligator open-toe pumps. Oh yes, all three thousand and fifty dollars worth (yeah, three grand and they couldn’t spot me the fifty bucks!). I’m ashamed. I feel… dirty. But for one night, I could call it paradise.

Rewind to yesterday: I saw it standing by the wall, corner of the Barneys. I was just killing some time, waiting out an afternoon thunderstorm. Boredom shopping: dangerous, very dangerous! And the lightning was flashing on the window sill. All alone ain’t much fun, but I wasn’t looking for a thrill. I just knew just what it takes and where to go. And that’s how I found myself stealing a glance at the most breathtakingly beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I stared, then looked away. I circled it, walked away, then came back. It was like the forbidden dance — the lambada. I finally got the nerve to approach. I didn’t know the name — I wouldn’t until later — but I knew I had to have it. Before I could think twice, I impulsively handed over some plastic and walked out the door, no longer alone and lonely.

I jumped in a taxi and hurried home. The minute the door shut behind me, I tore off the shoe box lid, unwrapped the tissue paper and caressed the left, then the right shoe. I slipped them on and danced circles around my living room (carpeted, for my comfort).

I fell asleep spooning them. When dawn broke, and I looked down at them, I was overcome with remorse. Fear was in my soul. It was just… so wrong. A forbidden love that I would never even be able to take out in public, so afraid I would be of exposing them to the elements. A tear welling up in my eye, I packed them up, put them in their box, and took them back where they belonged: on a pedestal, at Barneys, for all to admire but not touch.

Now, all I have is a beautiful, golden memory, one that won’t soon fade. My lesson, as Simon LeBon might say: You don’t have to dream it all, just live a day…

A moment of silence, please, for my fleeting love.
But — save a prayer.

Thursday: camel Manolo slingbacks

On my way home from a party late the other night, I found myself walking by the Prada boutique long after it had closed. The streets were deserted, and feeling a little like Holly Golightly (minus the $50 bill for the powder room), I felt like I just had to peer in the window and get a sneak preview of the fall season to come.

And what do I see, perfectly lit, front and center in the window? Something like this:

Who would buy this bag? Someone who really feels the need to advertise where she shopped? Now I’m old enough to remember the (short-lived and thankfully limited) fad of wearing clothes with the tags still hanging on them, or wearing clothes inside out for the same reason. And yes, I may have even been guilty of wearing a Gucci blouse entirely covered with the intertwined G’s once… or twice. But this is beyond the pale. In fact, it looks like something you might find in Chinatown — a bag so blatantly branded with the Prada logo and name, the black triangles and embossed zipper pulls, that it must be fake. I used to pride myself in being able to spot a fake at 100 meters. Now I’m not so sure!