Wednesday: black Prada floral pumps

Today, I purchased my third pair of slingbacks — of this season.

(You know what I said about not buying anything else for myself while I Christmas shop? Yeah, well, forget that.)

There’s just something about a slingback that I can’t resist. It’s less stodgy than a pump, but more formal than strappy sandals. It’s like the mullet of shoes — business in the front, party in the back!

In any case, first there was the black Guccissima pair from Saks.

Then came the chocolate Valentinos with the mink/crocodile flower (to be honest, from the same trip to Saks).

And now there’s this pair of Bottega Veneta woven dark brown kiltie slings from Bergdorf’s.

As I sat here admiring my beautiful new slingbacks, I started to think: If only I had bought the Valentinos in camel instead… then I wouldn’t suddenly have two pairs of dark brown slingbacks with a 2″ heel. Though, I suppose, they are pretty different. And it’s not too late — the camel ones are on sale at Neiman’s, and my sister might want my brown ones, so maybe I should go ahead and order the camel ones… But wait, I already have those 3″ camel-and-brown Manolo slingbacks… Oh god, I think my head is going to explode.

Now this isn’t even taking into account the four pairs of black Prada slingbacks I already had before this season: the 2 1/2″ heels with the gold toggle; the 2″ heels with the detachable rosebuds; the wingtips with the low heels; the crocs with the 4″ heels. Oh yeah, and there was that pair of Marc Jacobs mouse slingbacks, which I wore to death fall/winter ‘98-’99 — I had to get them resoled and reheeled multiple times — but still keep in my closet because they are just so darn cute. (I certainly don’t dare wear them out — so fragile.) And then there’s the ponyskin Bottega slings… the brown Louboutin slings… the cream Louboutin slings… the gray snakeskin Prada slings… the mauve Prada slings…

So apparently, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sling. (Sorry, couldn’t resist!)

Monday: tan Prada knee-high boots

It started innocently enough — a sample of Crème de la Mer, given out during a beauty event at Neimans. I tried it out for a few days. Someone remarked that my skin looked great, so of course I was hooked.

While buying my second 2-ounce jar, I was introduced to the The Cleansing Lotion, which I began to use religiously — until, of course, the summer, when my T-zone took over and I felt the need to switch to the The Cleansing Gel. Soon after that I picked up The Lifting Face Serum and The Lifting Intensifier set. Okay, I know I’m not even pushing 40 but you can never start too soon.

Now “my” La Mer saleswomen at Saks calls me whenever there’s a triple points promotion or gift with purchase — or best of all, both. Last time her siren song lured me in, I added The Cleansing Foam to my repertoire, because, well, uh, there are those days when neither The Gel nor The Lotion will do? And she threw in a sample of The Concentrate to try out. Don’t even ask me how The Concentrate is different from The Lifting Intensifier or even The Intensifier (I’m not even sure if my saleswoman could tell me, actually) but let me tell you this: Just a day in, I noticed that my cheeks felt softer and looked less red. My God, it is a Miracle Broth!

And, naturally, no miracle comes for free, and certainly not for less than $300. In fact, The Concentrate comes in a 1.7-oz. bottle costing $325. Well, when you start paying $195 for a 2-oz. jar of the Crème, I suppose you shouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s a slippery skincare slope. I’m drowning in a sea of La Mer — but hey, my skin has never looked better!

Friday: Tods snakeskin loafers

So despite my faith in the tryptophan shopping blocker theory, I ended up undermining myself by doing some quick online shopping at Saks.com before I had any turkey yesterday. I ordered a couple of Tory tops, a Prada belt, and some Marc by Marc Jacobs jeans.

Can I just make a quick aside here to say how great it is that e-commerce means never having to say you’re bored? After-Christmas and After-Thanksgiving (let’s call them shopping holidays, observed) can come early. Whooo hoo! I remember the dark days of my childhood when Sundays — never mind major holidays — were non-shopping days. Then once the blue laws were lifted there were some stores open in the afternoon (so ostensibly you could go to church before you went to worship at the garish temple of consumerism, a.k.a. the mall). Oh you lucky children of today, you will never know the horrors of not being able to buy anything at any time on any day.

But back to the present. Realizing it’s going to be a battle royal today, I took half an Ambien and dozed off with visions of Saks in my head…

600 hours, sharp: Reveille. Quick stretching exercises. First dose of caffeine. (You think that’s bad? My sister got up at 4 to go to Fry’s by 5, so her husband could get his stuff and then she could take the car and get on her way to Saks by 7:15. Precision, ladies!)
615 hours to 645 hours: Shower. Dress in tank top and jeans and comfy Tods loafers for maximum ease of trying on clothes. Tie hair into sleek ponytail so no one gets hurt.
645 to 700: Get in car and brave pre-dawn traffic. (Hmm. What traffic? Guess everyone’s already at the mall…)
700 to 745: Quick stop in Sears — yes, Sears! — to pick up a $79 gold link chain for a jewelry project.
745 to 800: Look longingly at the salespeople inside Saks until they finally relent and let us in. Another woman there told us she drove by Wal-Mart and people were parking on the grass. Not so much a problem here. We got a plum parking space.
800 to 830: I’m all ready for the mass hysteria… and all I see are a few other shoppers — browsers, really, by the looks of it. No biting or hair-pulling necessary. No wait at the register either! What on earth is going on? I am, after all, in the mall mecca of Dallas. How can this be? I’m completely perplexed.
830 to 900: Guess I’ve been spoiled by the Saks in New York, because all there is for me to do here is get price adjustments on some M Missoni stuff I’d bought before. There’s no need to go to Neiman’s — I stopped by on Wednesday and nothing caught my fancy. The designer merch isn’t going on sale until next week anyway.

Wow, 9 a.m. and I’m already heading home, ready for a nap. Black Friday? Bah. What a turkey!

Wednesday: brown suede Prada mules

So after confessing that I’ve done plenty of Christmas shopping for myself and none, zippo, nada for anyone else, I’ve had an epiphany. Thanksgiving couldn’t come at a better time, because on Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year, I will be so stuffed with turkey and pumpkin pie that there’s no way I’ll be buying any clothes for myself that day — I won’t fit into anything! Who wants to shop for fat pants? And after being on my feet braving the crowds all day, I’ll hardly want to try on shoes, much less buy them.

Right? Don’t I sound convincing?? Well, I did some googling, and I may be on to something: There has actually been research into the use of tryptophan to treat compulsive and addictive behavior. So there — pass the turkey!

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. And happy shopping on Friday!

P.S. Okay, I couldn’t help myself. I made one last purchase… I’d ordered this Tory tunic from Neiman’s a few months ago and after weeks and weeks of waiting, and even getting a Fedex tracking number, I finally heard from them that the item had sold out in my size so my order couldn’t be fulfilled! After going through that Neiman’s-giveth-Neiman’s-taketh-away ordeal, I was bereft. Well, it turns out patience is a virtue after all. I just found it for less — and in a better color to boot! — at Scoop. But this purchase shouldn’t really count against me, since I had already thought I’d bought it, so it was practically already a part of my wardrobe, and so this isn’t even new at all…

Monday: taupe Hermes boots

I was in the audience at the Country Music Association Awards in New York City last week when Lee Ann Womack went onstage to accept the single of the year award (for her song “I May Hate Myself in the Morning,” which only I could interpret as a ballad about buyer’s remorse). And I felt this frisson of recognition when my eyes instantly went to the red soles of her black Christian Louboutin d’Orsay pumps. The next emotion I felt was pride, as the non-fashionista friend sitting next to me said, “Hey, aren’t those the shoes you love with the red soles?”

Oh, I’ve taught her well. She may never know (or more to the point, care to know) the difference between Marni and Missoni, but she’ll never forget a red sole.

It was a stroke of marketing genius when Christian Louboutin decided to make his soles red. (It sure beats having to incorporate a big ol’ logo into every design.) There’s a male editor at work who never fails to comment when he sees my red soles. Of course, he’s a clothes horse — but even fashion-phobes can appreciate the simple brilliance of making people see red as you turn on your heels and stomp away from them. As Tyra Banks would say, That’s fierce, girl.

Call me crazy, but I find that I’m, oh, let’s say, 39% more likely to buy a pair of Louboutins, simply because of the red soles. Of course, I’m then caught in the quandary of how I can possibly wear the shoes when every step scrapes a few microns of red off the sole. I walk a little more lightly, more gingerly in these shoes — heck, I practically float. So when you think of it, Louboutins are worth the investment: They even help your posture!