Covetworthy

It’s September 15 and I have finally gotten through all my September fashion mags. Heav. Ennnn. Advertising dollars are down so I expected them to be a little SlimFast this year. (Like the Sunday NY Times, which is damn near as skinny as US Weekly right now.) But to my joy and surprise, they were as swollen and voluptuous as ever, all the better for me to dive into one of my favorite autumn pasttimes!

See, I have this ritual. I stack all the magazines in order of reverse relevance. The top of this pile is the least of the bunch, the non-essentials, the take ‘ems or leave ‘ems. Kind of like the step-cousins you get seated next to at weddings. They offer mild amusement at best, but no substance. Once seen, quickly forgotten, never again referenced. Sorry, People Style Watch, that means YOU. (And, ummm, how did you get my address in the first place?)

Next up are the Fluffy but Fabulous mags, like a gaggle of giggly cousins that are always available for a good laugh and a good dish. Lucky, you make me nostalgic for when I spent Saturdays flitting from shop to shop and every nail hut, bookstore and Tasti D-Lite in between. Ah, InStyle, the hours I spent pilfering those sticky tabs from Lucky to adorn your pages. And, W, all rich bitch and insidery, bragging about your polo matches and Hamptons weekends. What-evah. I still love you, even though you try just a little too hard to make me like you.

Then the ubercool Big Sisters, the ones that serve up you-need-to-know-this journalism with you-know-you-want-this photo spreads. Essence. Vanity Fair. And I’m forgetting one… Oh, O.

And at long last, after I’ve devoured and tabbed and dog-eared and discarded, I have finally, blissfully, reached the bottom of the heap, which is actually the creme de la creme. Vogue, the well-meaning (and original Mean Girl) grand dame who sits so high and deigns to look so low. She doles out her advice, her suggestions, her proclamations, and yes, her withering disapproval. My loyalty to Vogue is rooted in tradition: I kiss La Dona’s ring because I always have. Sitting at her side are Elle and Harper’s BAZAAR, the benevolent favorite aunties to whom I am wholly besotted. They take Mama Vogue’s hardness and soften her edges, dispensing trade secrets with nods and winks, tongues firmly planted in cheeks; all the while, expecting, encouraging me even, to use my inner compass and direct my own style path.

I know this post probably bores the patterned leggings off some of you, and I’m fine with that. I’m too engrossed with the family to notice.

It’s not about the price of the dress. When you amortize (yes, children, that does say amortize) the cost over number of wears, that’s when you get the real value. And while I’ve used this formula many times to justify purchases in a price range way north of reasonable, it is with particular joy that I can do so with an item that needs no such vindication.

I have happily happened upon the Rachel Rachel Roy collection. I Besot You. Really.

Well done, Miss Roy, well done.

Let me describe what I love about the line: I’m thinking of every little cute dress / funky top / distressed pair of jeans / boyfriend blazer / jumpsuit / studded piece / younameit I’m feeling this fall.  Now I’m thinking of it available in sizes beyond 0, 2, 4. Now I’m thinking of it for less than HALF what I imagined. And finally I’m thinking, where the hell’s my Visa?

I find a new favorite every time I look at the site – and since most of the pieces aren’t available for another month, looking’s all I can do for now. Come October and the falling leaves, I want to ROCK this Transfourmer Coat in all four of its glorious manifestations – long coat, cropped jacket, cropped vest, long vest. And there’s a cross front LBD that also does double duty. I envision myself swathed in it by day with gladiators and aviators, by night with studs and Sergio Rossis.

See for yourself by clicking here, or by visiting Macys.com.

I had a fantastic dinner a while back that ended with the host showing us his latest purchase: a Ferrari. I’m no car girl but I had to admit it was breathtaking. (And what I do know is Husband looked at, and subsequently rubbed on, said vehicle in a way that made me avert my eyes.) A girlfriend there asked, so what’s the equivalent of a dream car for us? The dream closet. I readily agree.

Think about the parallels. The currency of the dream closet is not horsepower, but square footage. No need for speed here–I want space, preferably something with double zeros at the end. Oh, and I’ll take climate control over cruise control any day.

To me, the real value in the dream car or closet is being able to live out the Fantasy. It’s what offered behind the wheel, behind the door, albeit briefly. In my dream closet, all my once and future purchases reside, those items to adorn me while I fulfill every dream I ever had for myself. That book I’ve yet to write? Still a loose outline, but here’s the D&G skinny suit I’m wearing to the launch party. And while I patiently await that CFDA Awards invitation, I already chose my Choos.

I’ve been in this mode for a long time. Before “The Secret.” Before manifesting anything, I have been a firm believer in “in order to be it, you gotta see it.” So much of that Fantasy life is rooted in my Realife, just with more fantastical settings and ripped-from-the-headlines personalities mingling alongside my Real friends. Example? A quick grab-and-dash at Quizno’s becomes brunch with the girls at Cipriani’s, and by girlfriends, I mean my college bfs plus Diane von Furstenberg, Ms. O and Mrs. O.

Simply put, the dream closet serves a vital purpose in my life. It begets more dreams. I am limitless there. I’m never someone else, I’m always me, just more sure-footed and secure in all those fabulous threads. And sometimes, just sometimes, those outfits step out of my imagination and inspire ensembles that make appearances in my reality. And I’m the only one who knows they first started as a dream.

Surely, I’m not the only girl living the dream. Have you ever made the dream attire a reality? Share your story here. Names and identifying details will be altered to protect the innocent (most likely from 1980s fashion crimes…)

I have a little secret. I design women’s lingerie (www.lavande-swk.com) and yet my own top drawer has been woefully abandoned. My unmentionables have become just that. Not. Worth. Mentioning.

Admittedly, this isn’t something that’s important to most. Some people live by a mission statement. Or it might be crucial to make a final statement. For me, it’s all about the Understatement. (And right about now, mine is the sound of crickets chirping in overgrown fields.)

I never thought this would happen. But two babies in two years can wreak serious havoc on a girl’s mojo, ya know? So now, bottoms bounce around with no tops. Once-doted-upon lace frillies (pre-bump) nestle next to well-worn Hanky Pankys (mid-bump.) Spanx sidle up to Agent Provocateur. We recently had a weekend away from the kids and, whereas I used to plan my vacation boudoir ensembles in advance, this time I just stashed a couple fresh pairs in the bag and prayed that this would be a lights-off situation. Pathetic.

What I know is that keeping a tight lingerie wardrobe requires maintenance. (Just like missing a few days at the gym won’t hurt, but skip a year and see what happens to your ass. No, seriously, go to a mirror and look at your ass.)

So I’m airing the proverbial dirty drawers to make this promise: I am heretofore undergoing an aggressive underwear overhaul.

1. I PLEDGE to purge – anything that doesn’t inspire has got to go.
2. I PLEDGE to buy things that match. Seems redundant but some things just must be said. (And THAT goes without saying.)
3. I PLEDGE not to make purchases from catalogs – that’s cheating. I will summon up the ovarios to walk into a lingerie department or boutique, and engage the services of a sales chick to fetch what I need, regardless if she’s enviably fit or heartbreakingly geriatric.

And finally…,
4. I PLEDGE to wear everything that I buy. No saving and no second-guessing.

Stay tuned for the updates, uploads and the uplifting…

Today is Monday, August 10. Ummm, August…TENTH?!? What? Rewind – am I the only one wondering how/if/when I squandered June and July? To paraphrase Stevie, I never dreamed I’d LOSE a summer.

So with just four precious weeks left, I’m determined to eek out every last drip of the season’s bliss, and that’s got me all nostalgic on how I found joy in the simplicities of summers gone by:

Bare feet squishing through damp grass.

Sandals. Halters. Short shorts. Repeat.

Running, with no thought of cardio, body parts, empty calories from the night before or how many minutes before moving on to the elliptical. Just running because that’s how you get to Point B.

The breathless, giggly exhilaration upon arriving at Point B.

Enduring the pain and boredom of getting your hair braided, but giddy at the sight of the finished product, all tricked out with fly beads.

Learning (albeit, the hard way) how not to lose an eye while turning your head with the suddenly deadly new ‘do.

Jellies sandals. $5. No brand name required.

That perfect age: too old for dolls, too young for lip gloss. When it was all about hanging with your girls, jumping rope, riding on the handlebars and Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black.

Strawberry popsicles, the ORIGINAL lip stain. (Suck it, MAC.)

The days when stepping over cracks, not splitting poles and kissing dropped food up to the sky offered all the protection you would ever need.

Hours stretching on for days, weeks as long as months and a Labor Day that was practically in the next millennium.

Oh, summmmmmmer. 2 sweet + 2 last = 4 ever. Let’s make a pact to make the most of what’s left of it!

(What have I missed? Please share some of your summer simplicities with me…)