Tuesday: black Prada rosebud slingbacks

Yes, we all know that haute couture is a dying art — as of this month’s fall collections, there are only ten designers officially designated haute couturiers, and what was once a week of shows has been condensed into three days. The ranks of the petites mains who make the couture clothes by hand are dwindling… so here I am praying that they will just hang on long enough until the day I can afford to become a client myself. It’s my one goal in life: to walk through the door of the Chanel maison, climb the stairs, and hand over $30,000 or so for the privilege of standing in my skivvies, being poked, prodded and measured for a made-to-order suit.

Now, let’s see: I don’t own real estate, and I haven’t exactly saved for my retirement. But thank goodness for personal bankruptcy laws! Nah… not really. I can imagine several scenarios for my ending up in couture: (1) I win the biggest Powerball jackpot in history and can dress myself in couture every day of the year; (2) I became a Hollywood star and get gifted with couture; (2) I marry a Hollywood star and get gifted with couture; or (4) I save my pennies and grow six inches or so, so that I could fit into the sample and thus get a bit of a break.

So. What are the personal bankruptcy laws again?

Worth bankrupting self:

Not so much:

Sunday: Gucci peach satin slides

What is it about Louis Vuitton bags? I love the new styles, and yet there is always something about the shape or the size or the length of the straps that’s just not ideal for me… I bought my first Louis years ago – a Bucket 23 bag — but it was soon relegated to the land of the hand-me-downs (my lucky mom) because it turned out to be too small, especially with the unwieldy yet impossible-to-fit-much-into-it cosmetics pouch that came with it.

Since then I’ve been occasionally tempted, and yet…

The Ellipse: Cute shape… but I hate that I can’t carry it on my shoulder.
The Soufflot: Comes with an adorable baby Soufflot… that may be used to carry prescription bottles but forget the compact.
The Multipli-cité: So cute… so big.
The Viva-cité: Not as big… and not as cute.
The Popincourt: If I pick up knitting again, this would come in handy.
The Stillwood Vertical: As if my makeup bag could ever fit into anything so flat!
The Sac Maple Drive: Not that I have man hands, but can I fit my hand through that opening?

I confess, I am a bag lady – I love carrying my life in my purse – but I don’t want to look like one. And at 5′5″ (in three-inch heels), that’s a challenge. It’s like I need a made-to-order service for the perfect bag. Hint, hint, ye LVMH gods!

Friday: Prada snakeskin slingbacks

There are some smells I can never forget: the soft waft of lily of the valley from my mom’s Diorissimo… the scent of burning wood that marks the beginning of winter… the sweet buttery aroma of a pain au chocolat fresh from a Paris boulangerie…

And then there are the smells I wish I could delete from my olfactory hard drive: the ones that rise from a seemingly innocent street corner and hang languidly in the stifling humidity… the odors of indeterminate, but likely rotting-vegetal, origin… those reeking smells that define New York City summers. Is there no deodorant for the armpit(s) of Manhattan? Some aerosol to mask the stench? Then again, perfume + sweat = still smelly. Hmm… does Prada make surgical masks?

Wednesday: Prada crocodile T straps

Atlantic City may not seem like a fashion capital of the world, but it can be when the casinos are paying out big-time! I found myself in A.C. over the weekend for a concert at the new House of Blues, and I couldn’t resist the siren call – ding!-ding!-ding!-ding!-ding! – of the slot machines in the casino. I sat down at a black jack table around midnight, and three hours later, I got up (yeah, like The Gambler, I’ve learned when to walk away) with a couple hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket. That’s, what, half a pair of Manolos? Maybe even a whole pair during Last Call, which starts this week… and at the Neiman’s at Short Hills in New Jersey, where there’s no sales tax on clothes and shoes! See, it all comes together in New Jersey, the new Fashion State. You’ve heard of losing your shirt at a casino, right? Well, how about earning your shoes? So if you start seeing a pack of fashionistas on the midnight bus from New York to A.C. every Friday, you’ll know whom to blame/thank!

Monday: Prada confetti slides

My passport expires soon, so I need to get new photos. Sure, it seems like the people who take photos for passports and driver’s licenses and work IDs all got their start at the local jail, but I have high hopes for this endeavor. At least, I figure, I have some choice in what I’ll look like.

So at lunch on Friday I go to the first one-hour photo shop near my office. They’ve got a fancy new digital camera that’s as big as the photographer’s face. And the photographer’s acting like he’s a stylist too. As I stand in front of the white screen practicing my smiles, he starts gesturing like he’s brushing hair from his face. I take the hint and start patting down the offending strays. I straighten my back and flash what I think is a not-big-enough-to-be-goofy, not-small-enough-to-be-too-come-hither smile.

“Oh, no miss,” he says sternly, “no teeth.”

“Excuse me?”

“No teeth. For passports, you can’t smile too big. You can’t show your teeth. It’s a rule.”

Well, that throws me off. I don’t remember reading that in the four-page-long instructions that came with the renewal form. I don’t remember being told that last time around — mind you, it was 10 years ago.

“Um, okay…” I say, frantically practicing the closed-mouth smile. I glance at my watch. I’ve really got to get back to work. I grin grimly and try to joke that it must be because you’re usually looking unhappy when you get off a long flight, so they want to make sure they can recognize you. He doesn’t laugh.

I look at the huge camera, my lips closed… and can’t figure out where I’m supposed to look. There’s something that looks like a flash, then something that may or may not be a lens, and something…

Click.

The guy lets me look at the shot on his LCD screen for all of two seconds, so I shrug and say OK. Two minutes later he hands me the pictures, and I walk out, a bit dazed.

Suffice it to say, I look horrible. Surly. Looking above eye level. Bad hair color to boot. But I’m too embarrassed, or maybe terrified, to go back and have a do-over. So I go back to work and stare at my hideous photos all afternoon, wondering if I am vain enough to go somewhere else to get a new photo — a second opionion, as it were.

Of course I do! And a third time, and a fourth… The last time, it’s at a tiny, no-frills photo shop (no one-hour here) near my apartment. It’s pouring rain, but I figure even when I’m drenched I can’t look as bad as I did before. And there’s no fancy digital camera — it’s a Polaroid: One take and that’s that.

The white backdrop is a piece of cardboard that’s attached to the wall and flipped out for the shots. I sit down on the bar chair and straighten my back. Here goes noth — Click.

No idea if my eyes are closed, if I had hair in my face. Five minutes later, the guy hands the pictures to me. I’m almost afraid to look. I squint… I wrinkle up my nose… I finally dare look. I stare. And… I guess I look okay. I do know that the instructions say no retouching, so I suppose calling Annie Leibovitz is out of the question.

As pathetic as my tour of photo development places was, it was well worth it. After all, I’m going to have to look at this photo for ten years! Unless, of course, I just can’t bear it anymore and feel compelled to pretend I lost my passport and do this all over again…