Monday: maize Prada pumps

On any given Saturday night, you’ll see a lot of, um, interesting things on the streets of New York City. And when it’s two days before Halloween…

The guy in the ghoulishly white face makeup? Not even celebrating the holiday. The woman with the conservative navy blue suit and the cross around her neck? Dressed up as Harriet Miers.

I was invited to two Halloween parties on Saturday night, one a costume party and one not. Now that created a terrible conundrum that often paralyzes me even when wigs and prosthetics aren’t involved: Would you rather be underdressed or overdressed for an event? I always think I’d rather be overdressed, but really I’d rather be perfectly dressed, but that’s not always in the cards, now is it? And it’s one thing if you’re wearing a de la Renta gown when everyone else is in cocktail dresses; it’s quite another once you throw in wigs and prosthetics.

This Halloween I was a trick and treat — a VIP, if you will (Very Important Prisoner). I put on an orange prison jumpsuit, rolled up the pant legs (to better showcase the Prada boots with four-inch heels) — and put some pasties on (over the costume, please!). I wore a long pink wig and leopard-print press-on nails (I traded a pack of smokes for that manicure). I had on dark lipliner with light lipstick (ewwww). I drew on a mole above my upper lip. I cinched my waist with a leopard-print belt. I carried a fox-fur stole. Yes, that’s right, I was Lil’ Kim.

But I would need to make a quick change for the second, non-costume party, so I decided to wear jeans and a black sweater underneath my costume. Big mistake, because let me tell you, Lil’ Kim would not like how zaftig she looked in two layers of clothing: We’re talking Janet Jackson proportions minus the butt-slapping. So I had to come up with a new back story. Not only was I Lil’ Kim in prison — I was Lil’ Kim in prison while PMSing (another pack of smokes for a box of chocolates)!

Friday: chocolate brown Valentino slingbacks

You know, my life might have been different if Amy Allen’s This Little Piggy Went to Prada: Nursery Rhymes for the Blahnik Brigade was around when I was a child.

Actually, not really, but I think I would have had some really cool dreams had my mother told me these nursery rhymes at bedtime. Instead I heard some weird stories about a Kitchen God who made kids but gave me mismatched ears because she was interrupted by a bathroom emergency. I swear to God! (Also, I always got weirded out looking up at my mom while she talked because everything was upside down and there wasn’t a nose above her mouth, and it made me laugh. Am I making any sense at all?)

Anyhow, a sample of the brilliance.

There was a young woman who lived in her Choos,
Though she once had a house in a smart Chelsea Mews.
So much on Jimmy,
The house had to go,
And with it, her Amex and husband in tow!

I’m warning my procreating friends now: Ask Auntie Alex to babysit and I’ll create some monsters in my craven image!

Wednesday: tan Prada knee-high boots

Is it my fault? I never should have complained about needing a transitional wardrobe – you know, the stuff you wear in those fall months that run both warm and cool. Because here in New York, apparently we’ve gone straight into winter. I think I caught pneumonia just waiting for a cab last night; it almost made me forget to be shocked and appalled that there were already Christmas decorations up at Radio City. Christmas in October, I can almost live with. Bone-chilling weather in October? Not so much. (And let’s not even talk about my slum, um, I mean, landlord, who turns on the radiators depending on the calendar rather than the thermometer. What is this, England? Am I Oliver Twist?) Back in Texas, I always tell people, it doesn’t even start getting chilly till after Thanksgiving — and then I’m talking maybe 55°, which in Texas qualifies as fur weather.

Good thing my mom helped me organize my sweaters (I’d forgotten about so many of them!) but I still can’t force myself to pick which winter coat to wear this season. It’s not that I didn’t buy my coats months in advance – of course I did. It’s just that I’m not quite ready to break one in yet. Winters in New York City are long enough; who needs to start them in October? If I start wearing one now, I’ll surely be sick of it by December. On principle, I just won’t do it.

I know, I know. Just a month and a half ago I was whining about the oppressive heat and dreaming of cashmere and fur. The grass is always greener, you know – unless, of course, it’s covered with snow!

Monday: black Prada rosebud slingbacks

Though I mostly shop alone, I find that I’m never alone for long. Last week, I was by myself, trying on shoes at Bergdorf’s, when my solo mission suddenly became a group effort. The woman sitting across from me started eyeing the boots I was trying on and before long was chatting me up about which of her picks I liked best. And soon after that, she was telling me all about her life back in Canada and her former life as an immigration judge . . . Then I told her that I liked the black Louboutin pumps better than the Manolos. And after that I took a look at the suede Jimmy Choo boots she was trying on and decided to get me a pair too, thanks in part to a little peer pressure of the best possible kind.

The same thing happened a few days later, when I was at Saks. I was browsing in the Prada section when I saw a woman trying on these chocolate brown Valentino slingbacks with the furry flower on top — the very ones I’d had my heart broken over at Bergdorf’s because they didn’t have my size. I was so thrilled when the saleswoman found a pair for me too — and naturally I felt like I had my new friend to thank for that. Long story short, my BFF for a day ended up telling me all about her recent foot surgery and how she couldn’t wear high heels anymore — and she bought the pair of Prada pumps with floral appliqué that I had picked out.

There’s just something about shoe shopping that makes perfect strangers fast friends. I guess it’s because we belong to a secret sorority of sorts. We can recognize our common addiction at twenty paces, we have our moment together and then we walk away — usually in a swanky new pair of shoes!

Friday: Jimmy Choo suede boots

Let me just say one thing right off the bat: These are not Uggs!

Yes, they’re suede and they’re lined with fur and they’re super comfy, but they’re so much prettier, I’m not wearing them with a miniskirt, and besides that, I’m in Aspen, darnit!

That rather touchy defense of style and ethics was brought to you by Jimmy Choo. And now, back to our regularly scheduled blog entry.

I don’t know how to ski, but I can sure do l’après-ski. When you’ve got Chanel, Prada and Gucci making skiwear how can you go wrong?

So I won’t be hitting the slopes, but I will be snug by the fire in my Lainey sweaters. And should I venture outdoors, I will be protected from any snowflakes in my Prada ski jacket, which is also conveniently equipped with a Recco avalanche rescue system reflector, so that I can be found in case I get lost shopping in town. Genius! (Of course, that could be dangerous if my mom ever got hold of that tracking device!)