A new coat-inspired catwalk-to-sidewalk iMix

As I walked home last night from work, my first enshrouded in The Precious pictured above, I realized I hadn't a single selection in my cache of 22 iMixes befitting such a special, such an inaugural occasion.

Of my existing compilations, one was too workout-y, another too maudlin, 11 others way too maudlin, and the rest, well, either too Britney or too Amy focused.

When I wear my new Hanii Y, I want to feel strong and lovely, maybe even a little coquettish -- certainly not anything reminiscent of bloody spousal fighting, poop-filled pool areas and two pregnancies in two years.

Never one to just "deal," after the dog-walk and just before Brian's sad but justified dismissal from "The Biggest Loser," I sat down Indian-style on the beige wall-to-wall and carefully pieced together the perfect six-song serenade to the new thick-waled, decorative-buttoned love in my life.

And I think I did good. Real good.

If this morning's reaction was any indication - I swear, I could feel her I-can't-stop-thinking-about-you-in-me-edness pulsating in major chorded colors all around my body - I think I chose wisely.

Please to enjoy the following with whatever new purchase (or old favorite) holds a special place in your heart:

"Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac


"Feeling Good" by Nina Simone


"Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison


"Heaven on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle


"Crush" by Jennifer Paige


and one I haven't listened to in years...

"Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service


And because it really is the little things that make me smile, here is a close-up of the oversized buttons on my loverly Hanii Y:

A new coat-inspired catwalk-to-sidewalk iMix

As I walked home last night from work, my first enshrouded in The Precious pictured above, I realized I hadn't a single selection in my cache of 22 iMixes befitting such a special, such an inaugural occasion.

Of my existing compilations, one was too workout-y, another too maudlin, 11 others way too maudlin, and the rest, well, either too Britney or too Amy focused.

When I wear my new Hanii Y, I want to feel strong and lovely, maybe even a little coquettish -- certainly not anything reminiscent of bloody spousal fighting, poop-filled pool areas and two pregnancies in two years.

Never one to just "deal," after the dog-walk and just before Brian's sad but justified dismissal from "The Biggest Loser," I sat down Indian-style on the beige wall-to-wall and carefully pieced together the perfect six-song serenade to the new thick-waled, decorative-buttoned love in my life.

And I think I did good. Real good.

If this morning's reaction was any indication - I swear, I could feel her I-can't-stop-thinking-about-you-in-me-edness pulsating in major chorded colors all around my body - I think I chose wisely.

Please to enjoy the following with whatever new purchase (or old favorite) holds a special place in your heart:

"Everywhere" by Fleetwood Mac


"Feeling Good" by Nina Simone


"Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison


"Heaven on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle


"Crush" by Jennifer Paige


and one I haven't listened to in years...

"Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service


And because it really is the little things that make me smile, here is a close-up of the oversized buttons on my loverly Hanii Y:

Sometimes the stars *do* align

If there was one investment I was determined to make good on this year it was a new black Winter coat.

True, the knee-high almond-toed platform boots, the block-colored work sheath, the patent leather Mary Janes, the high-waisted tulip skirt, the replacement black leather daybag and the funnel-neck swing jacket were all on this same "what'll I do without it?" list, but you must understand, vital as each of these additions were to my poor, barren wardrobe, none of them, neither individually nor in sum, could compare to the need I felt for a suitable, can't-wait-to-put-it-on-every-morning black Winter coat.

Up until this past March (I've been relying on my olive trench since then), I had been wearing the same simple wool-cashmere blend overcoat for four straight years. My steady Betty has always hugged my body perfectly, a feat for which much props should be given considering the upsies and downsies in size my lady lumps have undergone between the point of sale and the present-day. Its collar pops up with a nice stiffness that blocks the wind and encases my neck on those frequent occasions when I absentmindedly leave my scarf at home. Its pockets so worn from the jagged edges of my house keys that unless I placed them just so in one of two back right-hand nooks, they - along with Monte's plastic sandwich bags and sometimes, my iPod or a handful of Ice Breakers Sours - would slip through and travel down, way down, only to be trapped inside the knee-length hem. In addition to lining deterioration, there was also the normal wear-and-tear dry cleaning chemicals and my own behaviors had taken on its of-mediocre-quality fabric and fasteners: some patches were blacker than others, some of the buttons were chipped or partially eroded, and though endearing and reminiscent of my Mother and Oma, the inside of the right hand sleeve was left threadbare from the constant friction against my seven gold bangles.

Until this Summer when I liberated from my coat closet the trusty piece of outerwear that had seen me through my second tour in China and my entire duration in this city and really took notice of its defeated state, the part of me that wanted to side with my Mother's "It'll last one more season" cautioning realized it could not, in fact, make it through one more Winter.

So from that early August day forward, the search for my new black topper has been in full-swing.

My requirements weren't outlandish. Sure, I wanted something a bit more stand-out than the traditional barn, pea and walking coats I see day in and day out at the foot of DC's cityscape, but I wasn't reaching for the Vidler & Nixon stars or anything. Preferably, I was hoping for a modern silhouette and something of the haircut-showcasing variety.

The first of my three disappointments was an impulsively purchased one. Essentially, I saw it, I liked it, and I ordered it. Because it is no longer available online, I'll send you here for a general idea of its aesthetic. I can't point to any one major flaw, but as we ladies are all too familiar with men, with coats there is the same kind of it-works-or-it-duhn't mentality. You know and you know right away. This selection, like so many men whose company I've endured in the past 11 months, was clearly not "the one."

The second disappointment, like the first, can be filed away in the "no shopping late at night while watching QVC's 'Gourmet Holiday' special" category. Against Monte's better judgment - a snubbing that would ultimately earn me three full days of silent treatment - I gave into the lure of 15%-off plus free shipping and "placed order" with this selection. There's no need to really get into the specifics of why the BR and I didn't work out, but let's just say that quality isn't BR's strong suit, especially with their larger ticket-priced items.

The third and final disappointment simply didn't fit, but unfortunately, it was not in an easily remedy-able should've-ordered-a-size-up/down kind of way. Too tight in the upper arms, too tight across the chest and far too loose in the waist, it took me half a twirl in the full-length before I was filling out the return form.

Jaded and sick of waiting in line at the Post Office on Saturday mornings, I just about gave up and gave into Monte's plan to permanently borrow without asking something from Hot Redhead's Lawyer's supersaturated outerwear collection.

But then something happened. Somethings, rather.

During my superficial attempt at cleaning before my trip to Michigan, I uncovered a piece of paper reminding me of a hefty credit at Bop I'd received after returning a pair of trouser jeans a shade - try 40 days - past the 30 day return window.

Then, while in Michigan and doing the research for my dress gloves post, I came across Bop's "getajump" promotional code.

And finally, to complete the tri-per-fecta, I found my dream coat, conveniently, also at Bop.

As Florentino well knows, if you wait long enough, those stars will align:

Sometimes the stars *do* align

If there was one investment I was determined to make good on this year it was a new black Winter coat.

True, the knee-high almond-toed platform boots, the block-colored work sheath, the patent leather Mary Janes, the high-waisted tulip skirt, the replacement black leather daybag and the funnel-neck swing jacket were all on this same "what'll I do without it?" list, but you must understand, vital as each of these additions were to my poor, barren wardrobe, none of them, neither individually nor in sum, could compare to the need I felt for a suitable, can't-wait-to-put-it-on-every-morning black Winter coat.

Up until this past March (I've been relying on my olive trench since then), I had been wearing the same simple wool-cashmere blend overcoat for four straight years. My steady Betty has always hugged my body perfectly, a feat for which much props should be given considering the upsies and downsies in size my lady lumps have undergone between the point of sale and the present-day. Its collar pops up with a nice stiffness that blocks the wind and encases my neck on those frequent occasions when I absentmindedly leave my scarf at home. Its pockets so worn from the jagged edges of my house keys that unless I placed them just so in one of two back right-hand nooks, they - along with Monte's plastic sandwich bags and sometimes, my iPod or a handful of Ice Breakers Sours - would slip through and travel down, way down, only to be trapped inside the knee-length hem. In addition to lining deterioration, there was also the normal wear-and-tear dry cleaning chemicals and my own behaviors had taken on its of-mediocre-quality fabric and fasteners: some patches were blacker than others, some of the buttons were chipped or partially eroded, and though endearing and reminiscent of my Mother and Oma, the inside of the right hand sleeve was left threadbare from the constant friction against my seven gold bangles.

Until this Summer when I liberated from my coat closet the trusty piece of outerwear that had seen me through my second tour in China and my entire duration in this city and really took notice of its defeated state, the part of me that wanted to side with my Mother's "It'll last one more season" cautioning realized it could not, in fact, make it through one more Winter.

So from that early August day forward, the search for my new black topper has been in full-swing.

My requirements weren't outlandish. Sure, I wanted something a bit more stand-out than the traditional barn, pea and walking coats I see day in and day out at the foot of DC's cityscape, but I wasn't reaching for the Vidler & Nixon stars or anything. Preferably, I was hoping for a modern silhouette and something of the haircut-showcasing variety.

The first of my three disappointments was an impulsively purchased one. Essentially, I saw it, I liked it, and I ordered it. Because it is no longer available online, I'll send you here for a general idea of its aesthetic. I can't point to any one major flaw, but as we ladies are all too familiar with men, with coats there is the same kind of it-works-or-it-duhn't mentality. You know and you know right away. This selection, like so many men whose company I've endured in the past 11 months, was clearly not "the one."

The second disappointment, like the first, can be filed away in the "no shopping late at night while watching QVC's 'Gourmet Holiday' special" category. Against Monte's better judgment - a snubbing that would ultimately earn me three full days of silent treatment - I gave into the lure of 15%-off plus free shipping and "placed order" with this selection. There's no need to really get into the specifics of why the BR and I didn't work out, but let's just say that quality isn't BR's strong suit, especially with their larger ticket-priced items.

The third and final disappointment simply didn't fit, but unfortunately, it was not in an easily remedy-able should've-ordered-a-size-up/down kind of way. Too tight in the upper arms, too tight across the chest and far too loose in the waist, it took me half a twirl in the full-length before I was filling out the return form.

Jaded and sick of waiting in line at the Post Office on Saturday mornings, I just about gave up and gave into Monte's plan to permanently borrow without asking something from Hot Redhead's Lawyer's supersaturated outerwear collection.

But then something happened. Somethings, rather.

During my superficial attempt at cleaning before my trip to Michigan, I uncovered a piece of paper reminding me of a hefty credit at Bop I'd received after returning a pair of trouser jeans a shade - try 40 days - past the 30 day return window.

Then, while in Michigan and doing the research for my dress gloves post, I came across Bop's "getajump" promotional code.

And finally, to complete the tri-per-fecta, I found my dream coat, conveniently, also at Bop.

As Florentino well knows, if you wait long enough, those stars will align:

A death in the wishlist (pt. II)

It was four months and two weeks ago when I first laid eyes on you.
And every day since, Lady Vita, often in the morning, afternoon and night, I have checked up on you, made sure you were still there, made sure you hadn't had a within-reach markdown -- in all honesty, sometimes I would click over just to look at you, just to marvel at your sleek gunmetal body, your demure, oval-shaped lead and yes, of course, that intricate over-the-toe detailing no Zara, no BCBGirls and no Steve Madden could ever replicate.
Last night you were there. This morning you were there. Just four hours ago, again, you were there. But as has happened before, in the blink - no, in the half blink - of an eye, someone who had the means, someone who didn't waste her funds on protein smoothies, throwaway iTunes and copious amounts of moisturizer, drop-down-menu-ed your last 37.5 and stole you away from me. Or rather, stole the idea of you away from me.

I thought we could pull through and make it to Christmas bonus season together. I really did.

As was the case the last time I experienced a major death in my wishlist, I now turn to my favorite fem-poet for solace and perspective.

And Enya. Lots and lots of Enya.

But Not Forgotten*
(Dorothy Parker)

I think, no matter where you stray,

That I shall go with you a way.

Though you may wander sweeter lands,

You will not soon forget my hands,

Nor yet the way I held my head,

Nor all the tremulous things I said.

You still will see me, small and white

And smiling, in the secret night,

And feel my arms about you when

The day comes fluttering back again.

I think, no matter where you be,

You'll hold me in your memory

And keep my image there without me,

By telling later loves about me.

*poem taken from Parker's second book of verse, Sunset Gun (1927)

A death in the wishlist (pt. II)

It was four months and two weeks ago when I first laid eyes on you.
And every day since, Lady Vita, often in the morning, afternoon and night, I have checked up on you, made sure you were still there, made sure you hadn't had a within-reach markdown -- in all honesty, sometimes I would click over just to look at you, just to marvel at your sleek gunmetal body, your demure, oval-shaped lead and yes, of course, that intricate over-the-toe detailing no Zara, no BCBGirls and no Steve Madden could ever replicate.
Last night you were there. This morning you were there. Just four hours ago, again, you were there. But as has happened before, in the blink - no, in the half blink - of an eye, someone who had the means, someone who didn't waste her funds on protein smoothies, throwaway iTunes and copious amounts of moisturizer, drop-down-menu-ed your last 37.5 and stole you away from me. Or rather, stole the idea of you away from me.

I thought we could pull through and make it to Christmas bonus season together. I really did.

As was the case the last time I experienced a major death in my wishlist, I now turn to my favorite fem-poet for solace and perspective.

And Enya. Lots and lots of Enya.

But Not Forgotten*
(Dorothy Parker)

I think, no matter where you stray,

That I shall go with you a way.

Though you may wander sweeter lands,

You will not soon forget my hands,

Nor yet the way I held my head,

Nor all the tremulous things I said.

You still will see me, small and white

And smiling, in the secret night,

And feel my arms about you when

The day comes fluttering back again.

I think, no matter where you be,

You'll hold me in your memory

And keep my image there without me,

By telling later loves about me.

*poem taken from Parker's second book of verse, Sunset Gun (1927)

Stop reaching for a rebound

Whatever the reason, whether it's them, whether it's you, whether it's timing or circumstances out of your control, when you can't have the one you want, the one you really want, the one you know deep down was put on this earth for you and you alone, the standard for what you'll allow to come after them is inextricably tied - and unavoidably lowered due - to the still-fresh memory of the one from which you were forced to walk away.

Put simply, you rebound.

And while this sort of relationship can work and has worked, for the most part, the allure of having something new and of being seen with something new, regardless of its inadequacy, will rapidly lose its lustre and thrust you head and heart first into one of those I'll-never-find-something-better phases.

That's presently where I am.

But it's not exactly what you may be thinking.

My heart is broken, yes, and I have been trying to move on with limited success due to both my unwillingness to accept the so-not-my-choice departure of "the one" and because of the string of vastly inferior replacements with which I've attempted (and patently failed) to fill this gaping void.

But you've got to understand, this one was special. Really special. I mean, how often does one find a perfect condition circa-1956 gold lamé cocktail dress with waist-cinch, pleated pencil skirt, and a gathered front and back deep v-neck plunge?

But the dress is gone. It's done. And I need to move on with the mindset that I'm no longer looking for another version of my perfect dress but rather opening my mind - and heart - to the possibility of falling for something completely different.

Maybe next time it'll be a silk burgundy sheath with cap-sleeves and a drop-waist. Maybe a backless gunmetal column gown. Who knows?

All I do know is that after having received in the mail yesterday my fifth nope-not-good-enough gold lamé vintage cocktail dress (very similar to this), I'm through looking for the perfect replica of the perfect past dress. In fact, I'm gonna stop looking altogether. Two episodes ago on Tell Me You Love Me, therapist May told recently single sex-addict Jamie that only when she stops actively trying to replace her former fiancé will she stop reaching for unhealthy, unsuccessful rebounds.

And they say you don't learn anything on TV...

Here below, exactly 13 months ago this Friday, my last evening with "the one." I can barely stand to look at it. Or my hair.

Stop reaching for a rebound

Whatever the reason, whether it's them, whether it's you, whether it's timing or circumstances out of your control, when you can't have the one you want, the one you really want, the one you know deep down was put on this earth for you and you alone, the standard for what you'll allow to come after them is inextricably tied - and unavoidably lowered due - to the still-fresh memory of the one from which you were forced to walk away.

Put simply, you rebound.

And while this sort of relationship can work and has worked, for the most part, the allure of having something new and of being seen with something new, regardless of its inadequacy, will rapidly lose its lustre and thrust you head and heart first into one of those I'll-never-find-something-better phases.

That's presently where I am.

But it's not exactly what you may be thinking.

My heart is broken, yes, and I have been trying to move on with limited success due to both my unwillingness to accept the so-not-my-choice departure of "the one" and because of the string of vastly inferior replacements with which I've attempted (and patently failed) to fill this gaping void.

But you've got to understand, this one was special. Really special. I mean, how often does one find a perfect condition circa-1956 gold lamé cocktail dress with waist-cinch, pleated pencil skirt, and a gathered front and back deep v-neck plunge?

But the dress is gone. It's done. And I need to move on with the mindset that I'm no longer looking for another version of my perfect dress but rather opening my mind - and heart - to the possibility of falling for something completely different.

Maybe next time it'll be a silk burgundy sheath with cap-sleeves and a drop-waist. Maybe a backless gunmetal column gown. Who knows?

All I do know is that after having received in the mail yesterday my fifth nope-not-good-enough gold lamé vintage cocktail dress (very similar to this), I'm through looking for the perfect replica of the perfect past dress. In fact, I'm gonna stop looking altogether. Two episodes ago on Tell Me You Love Me, therapist May told recently single sex-addict Jamie that only when she stops actively trying to replace her former fiancé will she stop reaching for unhealthy, unsuccessful rebounds.

And they say you don't learn anything on TV...

Here below, exactly 13 months ago this Friday, my last evening with "the one." I can barely stand to look at it. Or my hair.

When clothes you want to fit *don't* - a heartbreak in two parts

The successes from yesterday's trip to the new Zara in Penn Quarter/Metro Center to be celebrated in full, photographic glory on Monday. Get excited, too, because I took so many pictures in the two hours I was there that I even received my first concerned, "Um, Ma'am, is everything all right in there?"

Oh, and it was - "all right" and then some - but you'll have to wait a couple more days to see those treasures.

For now, let's focus on the tragedies, those two pieces that could have and would have added so much texture and additional-permutation potential to my Fall/Winter wardrobe had they just been a bit more...how shall I say, forgiving.

Heartbreak #1:

the ivory asymmetric, ruffle-front silk halter blouse ($39)

"So me. That's all I can think, this is so me. The neckline, the ruffling, the neutral color. I could wear it with my high-waisted wide-legged trousers, my high-waisted skirts, my...wait a minute, is that my nipple?"

"Unless I want to walk around hiding my bit's bit, not to mention show off a mid-section full of one-size-too-small wrinkle-age, I better put this in the 'no' pile."

Heartbreak #2:

brown tweed pencil sheath with front pocket-pouch ($99)

"Love love LOVE the rolled collar. And those half cap-sleeves - I don't have a single work dress with sleeves like these. The top half is snug, but once I wear a bra with less embellishment and less up-and-out push, it could totally work..."
"Okay, yeah, this is tight. Really tight. This is creeping up on KimKar-in-Hervé-Léger tight. It could still work, though, if I have Alicia let it out an inch and I wear my new Slim Cognito."
"This is not good. This reminds me of the time when _____ left me in Coach to sit by himself in First Class because it was 'more comfortable'. This is the point when I know I need to walk away."

When clothes you want to fit *don't* - a heartbreak in two parts

The successes from yesterday's trip to the new Zara in Penn Quarter/Metro Center to be celebrated in full, photographic glory on Monday. Get excited, too, because I took so many pictures in the two hours I was there that I even received my first concerned, "Um, Ma'am, is everything all right in there?"

Oh, and it was - "all right" and then some - but you'll have to wait a couple more days to see those treasures.

For now, let's focus on the tragedies, those two pieces that could have and would have added so much texture and additional-permutation potential to my Fall/Winter wardrobe had they just been a bit more...how shall I say, forgiving.

Heartbreak #1:

the ivory asymmetric, ruffle-front silk halter blouse ($39)

"So me. That's all I can think, this is so me. The neckline, the ruffling, the neutral color. I could wear it with my high-waisted wide-legged trousers, my high-waisted skirts, my...wait a minute, is that my nipple?"

"Unless I want to walk around hiding my bit's bit, not to mention show off a mid-section full of one-size-too-small wrinkle-age, I better put this in the 'no' pile."

Heartbreak #2:

brown tweed pencil sheath with front pocket-pouch ($99)

"Love love LOVE the rolled collar. And those half cap-sleeves - I don't have a single work dress with sleeves like these. The top half is snug, but once I wear a bra with less embellishment and less up-and-out push, it could totally work..."
"Okay, yeah, this is tight. Really tight. This is creeping up on KimKar-in-Hervé-Léger tight. It could still work, though, if I have Alicia let it out an inch and I wear my new Slim Cognito."
"This is not good. This reminds me of the time when _____ left me in Coach to sit by himself in First Class because it was 'more comfortable'. This is the point when I know I need to walk away."