dawn patrol, armed with discount codes, hot coffee, and a dwindling attention span

Within the last 24 hours:
my lavender houndstooth herringbone blazer arrived 
it was a deranged magic hour grab 
during a recent 60% off sale.

It was not lavender.  It was a faded mauve. 
The difference between the website photo (below) and the reality 
was too great to be blamed on screens or pixels.
It was also not houndstooth  herringbone
Here are some pictures of houndstooth herringbone jackets, all J.Crew.

observe the little woven-in chevrons. 
they are what make herringbone, herringbone.  
There were no little “teeth” on the jacket that arrived.
My best guess is that someone mis-set the computer-governed specs in the fabric mills,
and the mill shipped out the resulting bolts to the cut-and-sew operations anyway. 

Nobody's perfect.

so: not lavender, not houndstooth, not herringbone either.
But fortunately, not final sale. 

Among other items, I ordered a 2019 diary very early this morning. 
Used the “flash sale” promo plus the “apology” discount. 
I’d probably get a better price if I waited until this coming November 
but what the #*&$.
I might have to go out to dinner or catch a plane between now and then.

I admired but didn’t order a pair of multi-colored make-believe snakeskin sandals. 
I never know what size J.Crew thinks my feet are, and I still have Christmas stuff to return
so I didn't bite.
Later today, I passed one of the remaining J.Crew stores, 
and there were the sandals, with 25% off. They were sooo cute. 
A favorite look: multi-colored shoes with an otherwise monochrome outfit.


Before I tried them on, I had to remove packing stuff. 
The shoes fit a lot better without all that. 
There are holes on the straps to make adjustments. 
They get lost in the snakeskin - persevere. 

Worst event of the day - 
LinkedIn has found the perfect job for me. 
At Goop.
I’m trying to close my account at LinkedIn - before they send me puppies.
Seems to be the same algorithm that tells me men's hiking boots are in my shopping bag.
Yeah, right.



what did Warren Zevon know and when did he know it?




I went home with the waitress the way I always do How was I to know she was with the Russians too? I was gambling in Havana I took a little risk Send lawyers, guns and money Dad, get me out of this, hah! I'm the innocent bystander Somehow I got stuck between the rock and a hard place and I'm down on my luck Yes I'm down on my luck Well I'm down on my luck I'm hiding in Honduras I'm a desperate man Send lawyers, guns and money the shit has hit the fan All right Send lawyers, guns and money Huh! Uhh! Send lawyers, guns and money ....

the meaning of Boxing Day in a post-1776 world

dear readers, I wish all of you 
a Merry Christmas 
and a very happy New Year
 
and of course a swiftly and efficiently accomplished Boxing Day!
Boxing Day is the day after Christmas
when we put all the mis-presents
back into their boxes
and bring or send them back to the stores
thereby keeping the economy in motion.


....

another post about scarves

Although our travel has been curtailed recently (stupid health issues), I'm still planning the trips we will take when all this nonsense is settled. Reporting the opinion of Specialist B to Specialist A should not be the task of the patient, because the patient, while intelligent and well-educated, is not a doctor. Most recently I complained about side effects from a particular medication, and Brilliant Specialist suggested "we" try another medication which doesn't have those side effects. Although it has its own. I asked how this med is different from the first one, other than the side effects, which sounded exactly the same to me. I was told, it's not, it's exactly the same. So then, what is the point of trying it, I cheerfully inquired. Because, she said, it’s different. Further discussion was frustrating and pointless - the two meds are made of the same ingredients, but they're different. Like Coke and Pepsi, she said. "Um,"said I, "do you mean one contains more sodium than the other and is more heavily marketed in predominantly minority communities?"

I left shaking my head and on the way home it occurred to me that she might have been trying, in an inarticulate kind of way, to tell me that the two substances were isomers.

I’m all for not waiting for rewards for my infrequent episodes of saintly patience - I feel I am entitled to a trip and I am entitled to another scarf.

At the time Himself and I started traveling together, I knew a lot of people who had collections of memorabilia from their travels, which I considered dust-catchers. I would have liked to load up the car trunk with a complete service for 8 (or even 12, that’s how nice girls once bought dishes) from our spur-of-the-moment visit to the Quimper factory but coming home with with a bunch of chipped and shattered dishes didn't appeal. Nor did the cost of the professional shipping recommended by the nice lady at the factory, nor did buying piece by piece of Quimper at New York prices!

So my entire collection of travel souvenirs from that first starry-eyed trip: one Liberty scarf (London), one Hermès scarf (Paris), one box of lovely chocolates which we ate on the plane (Brussels). I bought no dust-catchers, nothing the shipping costs of which were exponentially greater than the cost of a the purchase, nothing that outweighed the luggage ... and nothing that was going to be charged punitive duty. I've stuck with these principles over time, although in the days before iPhones I was not embarrassed to ask a maître d’ for a menu.

Here are my rules for picking a scarf:

1. You must be able to wear it. Are the colors becoming to you? Will it go with at least a few things you already own?
2.  No matter how tempted I am, I never buy a scarf with a design that will put white or cream silk against my skin (face, front of neck, back of neck). I don't want stains of makeup or sunblock or perspiration on an investment. If I love the design, I ask if I may see it in another colorway.


3.  A scarf is a really good place to express the Inner You without showing too much skin or wearing head to toe black leather. The Inner Me is an obnoxious little girl who had to learn lots of proverbs and phrases and awkward idiomatic expressions in foreign languages because they would be on exams. Now I'm trying to unlearn them, have been for the past several decades, because they are useless in everyday conversation. You try telling a Frenchman who is getting digressive, "let us return to our sheep." ("Revenons à nos moutons.") Apparently the 17th century comedy from which this adorable expression derives is no longer on the national academic syllabus. But a scarf with little chubby sheep wandering up a mountainside? That speaks to my obnoxious teenage self,
 as does a scarf showing a "Roman" mosaic of a cat and the warning "Cave felem" ("Beware of the cat."). So if you have a thing for monkeys or parrots, have a scarf or two depiecting these creatures.

4.  Beware of counterfeiting. You can find wonderful buys on designer scarves on eBay, but examine the pictures carefully, and be very careful to look at all the pictures. If there’s only one picture, think twice. EBay also has some interesting essays on verification.



new dimensions in street style and workwear

 Back in the day, a neighbor bragged to me that a very very very well-known interior designer was going to re-do his living room and dining room. I was appropriately impressed, my living room still held a toy box and a doggie blanket. So a month or so later, I  followed up with him, hoping to poach an idea or two. He and his wife had dismissed the vvvwk designer because he had not made any creative suggestions or proposed any original work. All the poor man had come up with was tables, chairs, couches.

A recent email directed me to a website where I was advised that the best thing to wear to work with pants is a shirt of some kind.

I'm not in the demographic that goes to work, or indeed anywhere, topless, so I dismissed this advice as old news.

This morning an email from an unrelated source suggested I wear a shirt and possibly a sweater or jacket with jeans.

Really?

In most respects other than fashion I believe I qualify as an adult. In fact, family pictures indicate that the last time I was simultaneously vertical and topless, I was 2 years old and building a sand castle. Something about getting Vitamin D from the sun, I believe, although in the bad old days many topics, including health, were simply not discussed with toddlers.

In fashion, I'm still treated like a child, sometimes even to the point of being made to feel that I'm being offered free time with Nana's dress-up box.

So now that I'm a grownup lady and take my Vitamin D in capsules like a big girl, and remember to bring an extra layer so I won't give myself a whiplash injury from shivering in air conditioned environments, I conclude that these emails and a host of others bearing similar messages, constitute an example of demographic list-building gone hopelessly wrong.

Hence the question: who is their proper target?

A five-year-old with her own clothing allowance?

Escapees from cults who have never worn clothing made in this century?

Recently released parolees?

Or visitors from another galaxy who have mistaken an old issue of Playboy for an up-to-date guidebook?

I'm guessing our former neighbors were expecting proposals like putting a lap pool in the living room, hanging hammocks in the kitchen, and mounting a big screen television in the downstairs powder room.

When those principles are applied to fashion, we are shown silk shorts with a shearling jacket for winter, or leather shorts, high-top sneakers, and a bra top for summer. Now I don’t think fashion choices should be limited to the practical and the synthetic. If I did, I’d shop at the nearest factory outlet of a Pentagon contractor. I appreciate variety, I even appreciate imagination. I appreciate quality and workmanship. But even my Very Little Brain doesn’t like having its intelligence insulted.






the outfit that wasn't meant to be

I wanted to look casual but coordinated, but not like I'd fallen into the hands of a stylist who'd untucked my shirt and done up my sleeves like the Flying Nun's coif. And of course I didn't want to look studied. I wanted to look as though I had many better things to do than fuss about getting dressed, and and I wanted to look as if my air of offhand sophistication was purely accidental.


First I ordered the sweaters - sizes appeared and disappeared from a few stores I ran past, and finally there was a 30% off promo on a day when I had returned so much other stuff - mainly chair cushions for the dining room in Flintstone Manor, where seat cushions tend to be short lived - anyway with all these returns credited back, I felt flush, and decided to take a flyer and order shell and cardigan. I thought the colors, mainly a brownish green or greenish brown, would work with some pants from last winter or the winter before. The name of the pants eludes me, but I'm pretty sure the name of their color included the word "elm."

I also thought perhaps a skirt, to be worn with those sweaters and navy tights? I had in mind a particular skirt, which had also been coming and going and disappearing from the merchant's website and then reappeared dramatically in a full run of sizes for one day. I bought it. Thenext day I had the price adjusted. The fabric looked to be a plaid with lines of black (navy?) and wine on a lighter shade of "breen." Packages arrived. Somehow the Merchant Prince had shipped two shells from two different stores and no cardigan. I ordered a cardigan again.


The skirt arrived the next day. For something that has been selling out like crazy, I gotta tell youse, this is some fugly skirt. If you ignore the fussy niceties of sizing, the skirt was nicely made, it was lined, it had an invisible zipper, it had a hem and a waistband. But the fabric. Heavy. Hairy. Shaggy. The itch factor came through the lining. Trying not to scratch the back of one's thighs isn't a good look for me. Fabric colors - total misrepresentation. The line of "blue" was in fact a funny light gray. I had hoped the presence of some light blue might encourage the skirt to coordinate with a "French Blue" cashmere tee from last spring, but no. That sweater had matched up with some full-legged linen pants and its work in my closet was done. The "breen" of the skirt clashed with the breen of the shell. The navy and wine-colored lines were almost indistinguishable from one another. Standing outside on the terrace (sun! For five whole minutes!) made the colors a little more distinguishable, but to no good end.


What could be the purpose of that fabric? It was suitable for wear with heavy corduroy trousers by a distinguished British public figure impersonating a colorblind poet-in-residence. It was miscast as a skirt. Time to waste a morning returning things.

Of course the next morning the cardigan arrived. In a flash of desperate hope, I held it up to navy wool pants. Beyond depressing. Lugubrious. And so I have re-named the color of the sweaters. They are and shall be henceforth -- Mournful Elm.