Crisis in Denim

Okay, don’t die of shock, but I didn’t make the The Boston Globe’s list of the 25 Most Stylish Bostonians of 2009. It’s fine. Really. I wasn’t expecting to. I mean, I was already passed over for the Fashion Boston list of the City’s 100 Best Dressers. I’ve grown used to disappointment.

However, I remain optimistic.

First,  The Boston Globe promises to pick 25 NEW people each year. Plus, the Globe and Fashion Boston lists don’t appear to include the same fashionistas (despite the fact that Globe Media publishes Fashion Boston) though I haven’t scrutinized them as carefully as perhaps I should, mostly because they make me feel so inadequate I can’t bear it.  So that’s 125 new “Most Fashionables” launched into stardom each year.

In addition, census figures show the state’s population growing only slightly, even registering a year-over-year decline not too long ago. There are also reports that young professionals are leaving Massachusetts, probably because they’re sick of shoveling their cars out of the snow piled in front of their overpriced houses. Fewer competitors means more room for yours truly among the ranks of the stylish.

Finally, and here’s really the key, I’m betting in the next year some new “Best Dressed” or “Most Fashionable” or “Greatest Dresser” or “All Around Most Awesome” lists will crop up. This is the DIY era, after all. So the more “Best Dressed” slots there are available in the city, the more likely I am to land on one of the lists.

Even if the list was created by some little blog no one reads….

Hmmmmmm…..

Signs like this are all up and down Newbury Street in Boston these days.

Permit me a moment of indulgence, if you will.

See, ever since the economy tanked, I’ve been noticing a lot of empty storefronts. And sometimes, I can’t help but think how much nicer they would look as my own little boutiques.

Okay, never mind that the last time I worked in a clothing store was almost 20 years ago, just after high school, at the Express at Quincy Market (that Express is long gone now, that floor of the building empty, the last time I passed by). I never quite got that folding thing down with the Stalin-esque precision I was supposed to,  although I was darn good at putting together outfits for customers.

And never mind the fact that the sole cash I have to invest in a business is about $450, which it now looks like I will have to tap for a paint job, since some goober keyed the word Ass into the hood of my car.

Also, I know nothing about inventory, buying, supply chain management, accounting, or hiring salespeople.

What should we call my fashion mecca?

It’s a fantasy here, people, work with me.

This vacant space in the chic Meatpacking District of New York City. It beckons me.

As long as I’m sharing, I’ll have you know that I’ve especially fantasized about a particular space about in a town called Natick, about 40 minutes west of Boston. Until a few months ago it was a kind of one-floor mini-department store called Barber’s.

A long ranch-style building, Barber’s had room after room of scented candles, fancy bath gels, Vera Bradley floral luggage and Brighton jewelry– just to name a few examples. I used to call it the suburban mom emporium, and most of the stuff wasn’t quite my style ,but that’s not to say I don’t have a few choice finds from there in my jewelry box or my, ahem, handbag collection.

One of the things that always impressed me about Barber’s was that  even though there was no other shopping around it — it was mostly surrounded by offices and trees —  the folks at Barber’s sold enough good stuff that they were a draw in their own right. That place was always busy.

Thing is, Barber’s has been sitting empty for months now. And sometimes I think, if they can do it, I can do it.

The only time I could get there to take a picture was at night. I see this as a clothing mecca by day, though. No?

In my mind I’ve turned the room that used to be the Yankee Candle collection into the shoe section, full of slouchy boots and adorable ballet flats.

The room that sold the quilted floral handbags and wallets –well, those shelves could be filled with gorgeous sweaters– some chunky cardigans, some cashmere crewnecks, as well as soft cotton t-shirts of the Splended and LA Made variety.

When I’m meandering this way around Fantasy Island (minus Tatoo and the Boss, thank you very much, that show scared the crap out of me when I was a kid), I like to think about what my price point would be (okay, I’ve just exhuasted the one retail term I know).

I think I would have a mix of well-priced lines; some Kensie, perhaps, with sweaters running about $70, and then more high-end pieces by Marc Jacobs or Nanette Lepore.

I’d also, of course, feature plenty of local Boston-area indie designers, especially in the jewelry, bag and shoe departments.

I’d stock plenty of basics and have multiples of all sizes. And there would be a glorious section dedicated to, of course, denim, with yours truly making sure every jean-related shopping experience was crisis-free.

My fabulous shop would be a one-stop shopping for all– young and old, rich and poor (okay, not too poor, I’ve got to make a meager profit here, people), and the world would be a better place because I’d be in charge of outfitting it.

Anyone interested in making an investment in my own personal fantasy island?

Pardon me, I need to go on a mini-rant.

I’ve recently been noticing the word “style” being used as a verb, and not just in relation to hair. It could be that I’m more aware of it, since I launched Crisis in Denim and so began reading more fashion magazines and websites.

However, I’ve been reading, and even occasionally hearing, the word “style” used in relation to clothes, as in “How would you style this black cardigan?” or “What nice boots. I have some ideas as to how I might style those.”

I hate to sound like an old fogey, but in my day putting a jacket together with a skirt and some nice jewelry and shoes was just called GETTING DRESSED.

It makes me think of something I read in the New York Times not too long ago about how “curating” isn’t just for museum professionals anymore. No one hosts parties anymore, they “curate” them. No one puts together an outfit anymore; no she “styles” it.

I guess the world is getting fancier. Crisis in Denim must keep up.

Ah well… you know what they say about the best laid plans.

I was in New York this weekend, and before my arrival, I had been very much looking forward to doing me a little shopping at Brooklyn Flea.

Brooklyn Flea is not so much a flea market (I’m kind of squeamish about second-hand clothes, and I’m not much into antique-shopping), as a place for Brooklyn artists to sell their crafts. The Saturday Flea takes place in Fort Greene just around the corner from my bf’s apartment.  There’s also a Sunday one, but it’s in a different neighborhood, and we had plans all day Sunday.

But Saturday. That would be Brooklyn Flea Day.

Oh, I was so excited. I’d been trying to get to Flea for ages, but pesky brunch dates with friends and other New York- type distractions always got in the way.

This time, we were going to make it! We’d set aside the whole glorious day.*

*Our day started with brunch at Rice, where we had this yummy (and gorgeous) black rice and veggie curry dish. I know this isn't a food blog. I couldn't resist.

Visions of handmade earrings and beaded necklaces danced through my head! I counted down the days! (Oh yeah, I was also excited to see my bf.)

But, as the day grew near things started to look bleak. First of all, it was supposed to rain. Hard. Second, Martha Stewart had announced she was going to make an appearance at the Sunday Flea, so many of the vendors decided to ditch the Saturday one.

The Brooklyn Flea website all but said only losers would be hitting the Saturday flea, that everyone who was anyone would be going Sunday.

Now, my bf and I had plans upon plans  on Sunday.  Contrary to popular belief I do prize people above shopping, and was not about to cancel our Sunday plans (okay, so I thought about it, but only for like a fraction of a nanosecond).

So I decided that  true shoppers are not deterred by a little rain and celebrity worship. Off to Flea we went, rain dripping off our hoods and puddles soaking our feet.

I admit, the Fort Greene Flea was empty. What few designers there were huddled under their tarps. Still, you know me! I managed some good finds anyway.

First stop: Wreckords by Monkey, where I bought two cuff bracelets made out of old records. The artist, Patrick, sold me two for $20, a discount earned because A is gregarious and he and Patrick got to talking about healthcare reform (with me interjecting every once in awhile: “Public option? Whatever. What I really want to know is– which bracelet looks better on me?)

I then spent some time keeping dry under the tent run by Birdhouse Jewelry, where I, ahem, tried on almost every piece of gorgeous (and well-priced) jewelry, while my bf patiently helped out the designer by untangling some of the necklaces in her display. After much debate, I found me this lovely double-stranded black-beaded necklace that I plan to wear with, well, everything this winter.

However, looking at the pics of the Sunday Flea, complete with sunshine and Martha Stewart, I am a bit jealous. A sunny day, the market chock full of vendors, and Martha Stewart (I’m not a Martha Stewart worshipper, but I do like celebrity sightings.)

Still there was certainly a bright side to the rainy day. Fewer vendors meant fewer temptations…

So a warning: If you aren’t interested in attending my pity party, I recommend you stop reading. Because I’m about to get deep into some serious feeling sorry for myself, and if that’s not your thing, I recommend you open another tab and start browsing Zappos immediately. I won’t be offended.

Otherwise, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So here it is:  I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m actually cut out to be a fashion blogger. You see, not too long ago I entered a contest to become America’s Most Stylish Blogger. Now, I’ve said before, I never win anything. Plus, I tend not to put a lot of stock in contests as a general rule anyway, because, well, it’s better not to.

But in reading over the winning entries I realized a few things. First, they were ALL about the pictures. Now, I know I need to learn to think more visually if I’m going to blog. But it’s not something that comes naturally to me. In fact, I almost never remember to take pictures when I’m shopping. What self-respecting fashion blogger doesn’t take pictures of outfits?!

Now, Crisis in Denim focuses a lot on writing. Perhaps too much. Contrast this to most of the winning entrants, who include very little text on their blogs. In fact one had several posts that, well, let’s say just say were so reminiscent of Ulysses that I couldn’t quite catch their meaning. Plus, the writer mixed up “there” and “their.” True, that makes the editor in me cringe. But honestly, if I were a fashion designer, or a model or a stylist– well, I don’t think I would care whether I knew the difference between “there” and “their” either.

Which brings me to my next point:  everyone who won appears to work in the fashion industry, be in her 20’s and be a model. A model! As part of this contest you were supposed to submit a picture of yourself in your favorite outfit. Looking at the winning entries I could DIE of shame, literally DIE, when I look at the picture I submitted.

Me standing in my living room in what I once thought is the most stylish thing I own, which in comparison to the winning contestants’ magazine-quality photos, is not stylish at all. Plus, I am sucking in my stomach within an inch of its life, and I STILL look as though I actually swallowed one of the WINNING contestants.

And now, because I have vowed to think more visually when working on my blog, I shall share these pictures with you.

Now, this is not to diss on the winners. I want to make this clear. This is to diss on me, ME!, because I am not sure that I really belong in the fashionista crowd.

Now, for the positive:  I have learned a lot from entering this contest, and have read a lot of great blogs and seen lots of super-cute clothes. I’ve also generated an idea or two from my own blog… since, as they say, I’m not dead yet.

Okay, the pity party is over. Please go home. Just promise you’ll come back another day. I promise my next party will be much more fun.

Do you ever read something so perfect, just so spot on, you say  ”Why didn’t I write that?”

Well, this New York Times piece inspired just such a reaction in me.

Read. It. Now. It’ll make you seethe over all the insolence and incompetence in the world. It’ll bring up all the times you’ve stood in line listening to two clerks complain to each other instead of ringing up your new shoes, or the time that (as happened to me just days ago) a saleswoman literally turned on her heel and walked away before you’d even gotten out the words “do you have this in another size?”

Most of all, this piece will make you laugh.

Now, a very select few close friends know that every once in awhile, and I mean very infrequently, once in a blue moon, hardly ever, ahem, I feel the need to throw a tantrum when I’m treated badly in a store.

Usually these are not so much tantrums per se, than silent-but-deadly glares, followed up with a phone call to a district manager.

Occasionally, these even net me some swag. I think back fondly on the Stila Cosmetics Crisis of 2004, and the Great Macy’s Coupon Confusion of 2007  (in which the clerk was so confused he didn’t realize he’d be sorry he didn’t honor my coupon, and I, well, cleared up the confusion and found myself with extra coupons and a Guess coat for $83. Okay. So that was an actual tantrum. Anyway.)

My point is, I take being treated well when and where I spend my money, very very seriously.

This writer is my new hero.