What a nice way to round out the old year. The Independent Fashion Bloggers network chose my post on whether you are a Saver or a Wearer as a top pick of last week. Suh-weet!

I would have posted about this accolade sooner but I was, um, well — okay, fine. I was at the mall. Along with just about every other member of the free world. Looking for bargains. I did so-so; the stock was pretty picked over. But, I will persevere. In the meantime, I will savor this nice honor.

Holiday Leftovers

Edited by Taylor Davies

I think you better just conk me upside the head with a Christmas tree, this holiday season has done a doozie on me! I’ve gone into total vacation mode, away from New York City, away from the office and deep into the mountains of Idaho. As far away as I am physically, I can’t escape our blogging community! (Not that I would want to, mind you.) I’m constantly reading, checking in, and scanning twitter to make sure I don’t miss anything good. I’m so impressed with all of our community members who are balancing their family holiday time with keeping their blogs up to date and sharing their posts on the Links a la Mode board. Here’s a sampling of the festive, fun and creative posts from this week.

THE IFB WEEKLY ROUNDUP: LINKS À LA MODE: DECEMBER 28TH

• Bespoke Baroque: Celebrating
• Coming Unstitched: Light Packing: A Mix & Match Extraveganza
• Crisis In Denim: Are You A Saver Or A Wearer?
• Little Miss Make Up: All That Glitters…
• Mrs. Woffy’s Place: Spats Are Back
• Nadalyn Margaret: Abroad Gift Guide
• Pippa Holiday: Messy Bow
• Style. Love. Repeat.: Events: Real Simple x L’Oreal Pop-Up Shop
• Synthetic Elegance: 10 Things I Learned About Shopping The Hard Way
• WoodstockWardrobe: Retro Round-Up

SPONSOR:

Party Dresses at Shopbop: Tucker Dresses, 10 Crosby, BE & D, Three Dots, James Perse, Peter Som, Elleryland, Alberta Ferretti, Michelle Mason, Just Cavalli, Marchesa, Casual & Sweater Dresses.

The world is divided into exactly two types of people.

Wearers and Savers.

Let me explain: Sometimes you buy something new, and you have to put it on within seconds of swiping your credit card. You in fact are so excited, that after paying for your new top you make a beeline for the changing room, rip off the shirt you’re already wearing (just barely managing to close the door first), and emerge wearing your just-made purchase. If you DO manage to make it home in your old clothes, there’s no question about what you’ll be putting on bright and early the next morning. If this sounds at all familiar, you’re a Wearer.

Then there’s the shopper who keeps her new purchase snug in its shopping bag for days, sometimes weeks. This person loves the having of something new as much as she likes the new thing itself. The Saver keeps the bag in the corner of a room, savoring (no pun intended) the sheer knowledge that she has something new to wear. Sometimes she might even try on her latest purchase a couple times before actually wearing it.

I’m a Saver. In fact, as I write this I have a little bundle in the corner of my bedroom containing a dress and shirt I bought in Canada, and a little brown bag with rope handles containing a ring I bought at the Bust Craftacular as my Hannukah gift to myself (no scoffing please, Hannukah is a PERFECT excuse for a little self-indulgence, as is Arbor Day, Guy Fawkes day, and myriad other holidays).

I've been keeping one of my latest purchases in its bag. I'm a Saver. If I were a Wearer the bag would be long gone.

Whether you’re a Saver or a Wearer might have something to do with how you’re raised, or even your genes, my (not at all extensive) research has shown. Dad is a Saver. He holds on to a new pair of shoes, or a sweater, for weeks before wearing them. Mom, on the other hand, is a Wearer. She claims this is because her own mother made her be a Saver when she was a girl. My friend Nurse V is the same way; I have in fact met her for shopping and dinner, when she’s worn one thing for shopping, and something entirely different for dinner.

Not to get too psychological, but to me, once you open the package, a little bit of the excitement of having something new ebbs away. Once you start wearing it, after all, it’s no longer new. No?

Anyway, I want to hear from you. Are you a Saver, or are you a Wearer?

Is there anything grander than going on vacation to a beautiful city and going to said city’s most raddest shopping district, and coming home with not one but two crisp new shopping bags with one store having been so cool the lovely saleswoman gave you a tote bag instead of a shopping bag; and by the way you would have had three crisp new shopping bags except you were trying to be all kind to the earth and save a bag so you put your last purchase in one of the bags you already had?

Lucky for me I had one such grand weekend over Thanksgiving, when I went to Toronto for my cousin Miles’s Bar Mitzvah. I know, Bar Mitzvah, you’re thinking, BOH-riiiing. Well, I for one haven’t had this much fun at a Bar Mitzvah since I was ACTUALLY 13 and I could get amped enough on Shirley Temples to flirt with the boys from Hebrew class.

The weekend was great from beginning to end. And it got off to an especially great start Friday morning with a walk along the Queen Street West shopping area, which is the perfect blend of pretty and gritty.

The day started with a stop at Joe Fresh. It’s a Canadian company so I felt like I was soaking in some local color. I didn’t find anything but Mom did, so we left happy. Then, a stop for fuel at Arepa Cafe gave us enough energy for Shopping Day Phase 2.

This person looks nothing like me. I'm not that cheerful. I do like the idea of red shoes or accessories, though. Photo courtesy of Fresh Collective.

Among the places we stopped was Comrags, which Cousin S swears by. I did better at Fresh Collective a couple doors down, where I got the most super black and white A-Line cotton dress for work.

Some stores were doing Black Friday sales which I thought was darling since Black Friday is really an American thing. Meg, which also has a store in my home borough, was doing 30% off for black items, so I bought a perfectly-draped basic black top since, can you really have too many black tops?

Courtesy of Meg, www.megshops.com.

Finally, I found a blouse that was the answer to my dilemma of wanting an oversized  blouse like the kind I wore circa 1985, but finding that the ones I try on make me look like a square. This one has drapey pockets that make the waist taper in just enough to give it some shape. I have already worn it two days in one week, which means I am in lovey love.

I learned a couple important things about shopping in Canada. One, is that people are SUPER nice. One girl offered to write out directions to the nearest subway; I expected her to jot down the name of the stations, she wrote an entire step-by-step instruction manual in full-on narrative to ensure I got home safely.  The other, is that Canadian salespeople call dressing rooms “change rooms.” Could anything be more charming? I think not.

All in all a successful shopping trip. O Canada!

When it is too warm for Brooklyn to stay a giant sheet of ice, the borough turns into a massive slush puddle. Step off the curb, and you’re ankle deep in gritty ice sludge mixed with — well, never mind. Suffice it to say, New Yorkers are super-into their dogs — and topped with a film of oil.

That’s why I’m glad that when I moved here exactly one year ago, one of the first sentences out of my mouth was  ”If I have to trudge to and from the subway in the rain and snow, I’m buying the Hunters.”

I had been having a debate with my Really Irritating Internal Voice for more than a year now. Yes, I jonesed for a pair of the knee high rubber rainboots, and even got so far as to ponder whether I’d buy them in a sleek black or a cheeky silver. I loved the fleece welly socks you could buy to line the boots, with red, striped, or even leopard-print cuffs. But still, $115 for rubber boots? Fine, you have warrants from the Duke of Edinburgh and the Queen of England for “keeping royal feet” dry for generations. That’s great, but I’ll just work on avoiding the puddles.

Wrong. Turns out that accidentally stepping in a murky puddle can really ruin your day. When your feet are wrapped in soggy trouser socks, you are suddenly a much less pleasant person to share an office with. Trust me on this.

That is why, ever since I caved and ordered these completely waterproof boots, I have been a much more reasonable person.

This winter, they have kept my feet completely dry; lined with the red welly socks, my feet have stayed warm too.

The day after the Christmas blizzard, I hiked around my now-infamously unplowed neighborhood. When I returned an hour later, having at some points walked through snow that reached to my knees, my feet were bone dry.

Now, halfway through winter, I spend what feels like huge chunks of my week slogging through snow piles or stepping in puddles that are ankle-deep. Whenever I get where I’m going, my feet are always dry. I wouldn’t say they are keeping my mood sunny– I am the cranky Ms. Crisis in Denim, after all. But my waterproof friends are doing a good job of keeping me from having a complete winter melt down.

Friends who live outside of New York often ask why I live in the city. For one, it’s expensive. For another, it’s a big honking hassle:  you find out mid-commute your subway is no longer going where you thought it was going; you have to stop at four different supermarkets to find the three ingredients you want for dinner.

But every once in awhile I have one of those “only in New York” shopping experiences that’s so good it keeps me going until the next time I find myself in line behind 10 people at a cafe with only one surly hipster manning the espresso machine.

One Tuesday night in early November I had just such an experience.

It was at a sample sale for the clothing label Lilla P. which makes elegant cotton basics, the kind of pieces I always say “if I could spend $100 on one long-sleeved t-shirt, it would be that one.” In fact, the first piece of clothing I purchased last summer once my lost shopping appetite returned, was a Lilla P. dress. It was a basict grey tank dress and I spent more on it than I would have liked to, but some pieces fit so well they’re worth the splurge.

I arrived at the Lilla P. sample sale a bit late, but the nice woman running the sale let me in anyway, with a smile, no less. She seemed so knowlegable about her stock that I wondered:

Was this Lilla P. herself?

She explained that she was indeed the company’s founder and owner, though her name is actually Pauline; Lilla was her grandmother.

I soon realized I was the only person still shopping, and apologized. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have to clean up anyway.” She even called her husband to put him on childcare duty.

As I was browsing the racks, Miss Lilla herself picked through the racks and bins for me, finding pieces she thought I would like, stopping her work each time I asked her opinion.

As the “definitely taking” pile grew larger and the “no’s” pile remained scanty, I realized I was having an “only in New York” experience: having items handpicked by the designer who also happens to live in the same building as her workspace. Outside of New York, I’ve realized with dismay, almost no one knows what a sample sale is.

When I finally picked my goodies, I realized I’d made a classic sample sale mistake. I didn’t have eough cash; sample sales are notorious for taking only cash. God, you’d think I was an amateur.

That turned out to be a boon, since it meant I got to accompany Pauline to her showroom and catch a glimpse of next season’s offerings while she set her alarm for the night, then I got a few more minutes of QT with this awesome designer while we walked to the nearest ATM.

My haul for the evening: a shawl-collar layering top with ruching at the wrists — so perfect I bought one in aubergine and one in an olive. A swingy black jacket. A blousey greyish tan top, perfect for casual Fridays. And, the best find of all, a crisp black cardigan for $10; it has become a wardrobe staple I wear at least twice a week. For all five pieces I paid $100.

The only downside– I’m now totally spoiled. I only want to shop at sample sales and have the designers themselves hand-pick my purchases.

Well then, despite everything, I guess I’m in the right place.

What can I say? Only in New York.

Just because it’s been a shamefully long time since my last post doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing them in my head. It just means there’s lots to share, so I’ll keep it snappy.

What follows in the next few posts is a “Reader’s Digest” version of the last two month’s of retail encounters.

October 21, 2010
I have to confess I’ve never been one for sloppy seconds, especially when it comes to clothes. I like my clothes to have that new-clothes smell and I love the snip of cutting off crisp tags.

But when my new friend Nurse V. invited me to the City Opera Thrift Shop‘s Fall Vintage Preview Sale, I decided to give secondhand clothes a second chance.   

Walking into the Chelsea shop, Nurse V. reviewed the rules. First, we’d start upstairs in the sale section. We’d pause to look briefly at housewares, then tackle the rest of the second floor. Clothes at City Opera are organized by color, so we’d go through the reds, pinks, whites, and blues, then hit the shoes and bags, before making our way down to the first floor.

I realized right away this would be no evening of pawing through bins of stained duds at Goodwill; City Opera Thrift Shop is well supplied by opera buffs donating their barely worn Chanels and Pradas for the good of keeping New York in Puccini and Verdi.

Here are the highlights: A Lanvin dress, never worn. We carried it with us while we shopped, hoping it would wind up being a good price (it wasn’t tagged, and we had to ask), and knowing it wouldn’t be, but excited even to be thinking about buying a Lanvin frock.

City Opera Thrift Shop also sells true vintage pieces, and at least one coat and one dress I looked at bore the elegant scripted labels from Bonwit Teller, a store my mom used to talk about shopping at when she first moved to Boston in the 1960′s.

A vintage Saks coat with rhinestone buttons each of which took a full minute to button. It was a coat, it seemed, from the days when women didn’t have to go places in a hurry.

My almost-find was a Nanette Lepore sweater dress. It made it all the way to the register with me, before I did a mental scan of my closet and realized I did NOT need another sweater dress, no matter how cute it would look with knee high boots.

Nurse V. came out the clear winner, scoring a gorgeous tea-length Calvin Klein party dress,with blue and gold flowers. Fifty bucks and– wait for it: The. tags. were. still. on.

Though, despite the lack of a shopping bag in my hand, I felt like I was a winner too. See, this was the first real evening Nurse V. and I had hung out, and I rarely meet people who have my shopping staying power; most people I know poop out after just an hour of rack-raiding. Nurse V. is a true shopping pro, and you know that is a high, high compliment coming from Miss CinD.

When is our next thrifting trip? I hope I can keep up.

It’s been about a year since I first heard tell of this new denim phenomenon of “jeggings.” The word is a hybrid of “jeans” and “leggings,” and is the stretchy style of jeans everyone is wearing these days, because their tapered legs and skin-tightness make them easy to tuck into boots.

But the moment, the very second, I heard the word “jeggings,” all I could think of, and really, I mean ALL I could think of, was the 1997 Will Smith hit “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It.”  To my ears, “jeggings” and “jiggy” sound remarkably similar.

Totally from the Gap website. Totally.

This is very unfortunate. Because Men in Black and Men in Black II are among my favorite movies, and I think Will Smith is hilarious and adorable in them. But “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” is just not the song you want to have stuck in your head every time you go shopping.

Sadly, I fear you will curse my name, because the next time you hear or see the word “jeggings” in a store or a magazine, you will want to bust out into a “na na na na na na…. gettin’ jiggy wit it” chorus. I promise.

Meantime, as long as we’re on the subject, I’ll just mention that I lucked out purchasing jeggings this season. All the A-list brands (read: more than $150) I always love so much, looked like crap on me. Where I scored, surprisingly, was at a place I almost never have luck, and that was at the Gap.

So I bought me two pair, for less than the price of one of the fancier brands.

But wait, the story gets better.

Because the day after I bought them, I was cruising down the I-84 between Boston and New York, when suddenly my friend texted me and told me that in the 22 hours since I’d bought the jeans everything in the Gap had suddenly gone on sale for 45% off.

Now, I don’t want to complain, but wouldn’t it have been nice if when I had bought the jeans the day before, 15 minutes before closing time , the saleswoman had said “pssst, why don’t you come back tomorrow morning because we’re doing a Columbus Day sale and everything will be almost HALF OFF?” Yes, that would have been nice.

But lucky for me, Ms. CinD has her sources on the ground. And just as I glanced at that text, I also happened to see a sign for a mall.

No joke.

So picture it like it happens on TV, when the heroine gets a text, reads it, gasps in shock, then turns her wheel sharply to the right, screeching off the highway at the next exit.

That was just about what I did.

A few minutes later I was at the register at the Gap, pestering the manager to let me return and buy back the same exact pairs I had bought just a day ago as the line stacked up behind me (“But if I’m going to buy them back anyway, why can I just keep the ones I already have that I know fit just right!?!”). Mere moments after that, I was cruising out of Connecticut with a $64 refund on my credit card.

I say that’s cause for celebration. Would someone turn on the music? Okay… all together now: “Na na na na na na na… Gettin’ jeggings wit it…”

My mother and I have a running joke about a purse we both saw in a store, both wanted, but which I ultimately got. But a few weeks ago, she got the last laugh.

I was the one who found the bag on one of our yearly shopping trips to the Wrentham outlets.  We were in the Fossil outlet store, looking at handbags and watches.

Mom had stopped to inspect a black leather bag she knew almost right away was only so-so. While she was doing that, I happened to spot the most perfect brown handbag imaginable.  Not too chocolate. Not too beige. Slouchy without being messy. Optimum number of pockets.

I held up the bag. “Oh,” my mom said. “I want it too!”

I said. “There’s only one.”

“I LOVE it,” she said.

“Well,” I said “what have I told you about not spending too much time trying to convince yourself that so-so things are worth it simply because the price is right? If you hadn’t been looking at that black bag, you’d have seen this awesome brown one.”

I am the educator in our shopping expeditions, having inherited a well-evolved shopping gene from my dad’s three sisters.

“You’re right,” she sighed. “Finders keepers.”

“That’s okay, I was joking. You take it.”

“No. You’ve been needing a brown bag and this one’s just perfect.”

We did the “you take it-no-you-take-it” for about half an hour. Then we decided I would buy the brown bag, and she would buy the black bucket purse we had both admired at the Barney’s outlet.

Fast forward about three years, to August, 2010:  I have moved to New York and discovered the Fossil bag, still a wardrobe staple, is also the perfect New York bag.  I have also had my heart stomped on, and adopted a cat I’ve named Eleanor.

Being a slightly neurotic new single cat mom, I take Eleanor for a full medical work-up. The vet sees something in El’s blood test and orders a urine test.

I won’t go into gory details, but the vet tells me to clean out Eleanor’s litter box, and not to refill it with cat litter. That way she’ll pee right onto the liner and I can collect the sample and bring it to the vet. Easy.   

Note the pink cat bed, to match the pink blog.

So one night I clean out the litterbox. In the morning, I let Eleanor out of my room and figure she’ll make a beeline for her box.

But she doesn’t.  I shower.  Still no litterbox action. I make coffee. Then, as I’m about to leave for work, I see her.

Eleanor, crouching on my favorite brown Fossil purse with the optimal number of pockets.  I’m so shocked I just stand there and watch as a small trickle spreads across the not-too-chocolate-not-too-beige leather.

Eleanor is usually so tidy she covers her food bowl with the corner of a towel when she’s done eating. But there she is peeing into my bag.

I spend the next half hour cleaning, disinfecting, or throwing away the contents of my bag. All the while Eleanor watches as though to say (and I realize I’m anthropomorphizing a bit here), “that’s what you get for messing with my toilette.”

To make matters grosser, I am determined to get this test over with, so I dump the liquid contents of the bag into a tupperware, and take it on the subway with me in a dainty Aveda bag as though I’ve stopped on my way to work to buy a $30 bottle of shampoo, instead of to drop off my cat’s urine at the vet’s office.

I call my mom, so we can share the laugh. (Can you really do much else but laugh when your cat squats and pees into your purse?)

The first thing my mom asks is: “It wasn’t by any chance your brown Fossil Bag, was it?”

“Yes, in fact it was.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh what?”

“Nothing. It’s just… hmmm… guess you didn’t end up with that nice Fossil bag after all.”

“Forget it mom,” I say. “I am still the owner of the most perfect brown leather bag ever made. This is New York. I’m going to find a leather cleaner who will make this bag as nice as the day I bought it. And it will still be all mine.”