Crisis in Denim

Mom and I do a big outlet trip every year in the fall. It’s sort of become our thing.

And the way we plan for it and coordinate and juggle our work schedules and even pack for it (I like to make sure I have tights in case I want to try on skirts, boots to try on with jeans, jeans to try on with sweaters– you get the picture)  you’d think we were setting out for the Galapagos Islands to see some giant turtles, instead of for the outlet mall some 40 minutes south of Boston.

The trip usually generates some good stories (one day I’ll tell you the leaving-my-car-keys-in-a-random-bag-I-tried-on-at-Banana Republic-then-didn’t-buy-story). And there’s something about the anticipation of dozens of potential fabulous finds waiting to be found, that gets us really excited.

Navigating the outlets is no easy feat. There’s a lot of wheat to be separated from chaff.

This year we were also distracted by a family illness and almost didn’t make it. Still, we re-worked and rescheduled yet again and managed to keep our annual retail appointment. It’s sort of our thing now, and we didn’t want to miss it.

A lot of trying on takes place. A lot.  Thank goodness the Saks outlet provides actual supermarket-size grocery carts.

A grocery cart! Full of clothes! Way better than a grocery cart full of paper towels and Diet Coke and baby carrots. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I had the patience to fill a grocery cart this full in an ACTUAL grocery store.

Oh, and because I know you were wondering, we totally scored, though the number of purchases we made at the Saks outlet paled in comparison to the number of things jammed into that cart.

My mom bought two Saks brand long-sleeved waffle weave t-shirts for about $15 each. I bought a pair of skinny blue JBrands and a black and white-checked blouse.

We celebrated our purchases at the Lindt chocolate outlet, of course. It’s part of the tradition, after all.

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?

I never win anything.

Well, technically that’s not true. In fourth grade I won a jelly-bean counting contest, after my parents reminded me not to forget to count all the little beans I couldn’t see in the middle of the jar. (After we finished the jelly beans, my mom took me to the candy store to re-fill the jar, so it would keep on feeling like I had just won, for a little longer.)

But aside from that, I never win raffles or random drawings. Come to think of it, I never win competitions that call for any skill either.

Still, it stings a teeny bit that I didn’t make it onto Fashion Boston’s list of the City’s 100 Best Dressers.

I know what you’re thinking. Those types of lists are UTTERLY SHALLOW. They’re only about appearances. They have nothing to do with who you really are on the inside.

Whatever. I LIKE shallow. I mean, don’t the people who write these lists know how absolutely carefully, no, how lovingly, I put together every single outfit? Don’t they know the time I build into my morning routine just to accessorize? I mean, haven’t they seen my Marc Jacobs skirt (okay, I only have one. But still)? Haven’t they seen my stack of Paige and AG jeans? Don’t they know WHO I AM?

Besides, there must be more than just 100 fabulously-dressed people in the entire city of Boston. Why cut it off at just 100? 125 is a perfectly nice round number too. Even if they’d only crowned the city’s 101 Best Dressers,  I’m pretty sure I would have made the list. Positive, in fact.

That’s my story. I’m sticking to it.

*A Postscript. I just discovered there actually exist instructions for how to nominate someone for the top 100 list. These are taken from the 2008 issue; they didn’t seem to be included in the 2009 issue, so it’s possible the directions have changed. Still, if anyone wants to start a letter-writing campaign in my favor, well, thanks. And good luck with that.

So let me start by saying that using the word ‘boyfriend’ now that I actually have one (as in, “my boyfriend and I had us some fabulous sushi last night”) never, ever gets old. 

However, when you find the right one, One is really all you need.

That’s why I find it irritating that so many of the styles this fall are called the ‘boyfriend-something-or-other.’

There’s the long 80’s-style blazer a la Lisa Bonet in A Different World circa 1988. It’s no longer a jacket. No. It’s a Boyfriend Blazer.

(L to R: Boyfriend T-Shirt, Boyfriend jeans, Boyfriend shirt, Boyfriend blazer)

I’m seeing tons of baggy, beat-up, too-long jeans. Those are the Boyfriend Jeans.

Then, there’s the long, Oxford-style pinstripe shirt i’m jonesing for called The Boyfriend Shirt. This one is super sheer, and sexy.  I suppose the idea is that you’re supposed to look like you just rolled out of bed and threw on your boyfriend’s shirt and now you’re lazing around your apartment looking all cute and rumpled.  

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a look that’s near and dear to my heart. But can you for one moment see menswear designers debuting the Girlfriend Suit at Fashion Week?  Would it be pink? What about the Girlfriend Tie?  

I guess there are wife-beaters. Somehow, that isn’t the same.

Believe me, I am not trying to embark on any Post-Feminist rant or anything. I’m just saying– whatever happened to using terms that are more descriptive of the actual clothes?

I, for one, am a big fan of ’slouchy’ for the jeans, and ‘boxy’ for the jacket. I haven’t figured out another adjective for the shirt but I plan to gaze at a similar one on Etsy for awhile , so I’ll get back to you on that.  (The one in the pic above is Rag and Bone, $275. So that’s not happening.)

Okay, Feminist rant over. Thanks for letting me channel you, Virginia Woolf. I’m off to shop for a Boyfriend Shirt.

A couple weekends ago, I conscripted D, aka Limeduck, into doing a little shopping tour of Somerville. I had been interested in checking out a boutique I’d read about called Suneri, which featured an Israeli designer Ronen Chen (don’t confuse him with Yigal Azrouel, also Israeli, who is in a different price-league altogether).

Suneri was interesting, with a range of styles– from flouncy prairie skirts to architecturally-inspired pieces– and prices (natch, my favorite stuff was on the upper end of the price range).

Anyway, the saleswoman was very nice, and helpful– but it occurred to me that she just didn’t have the flattery thing down.

So I’m trying on this Ronen Chen black dress, and it’s more on the architectural spectrum, straight through the waist with a criss-crossed front. And it just doesn’t look that good. It’s a little, um, snug.  The saleswoman pulls another dress off the rack and hands it to me.

“Here. This will be better. Because you are pear-shaped.”

Hmmm. Need she remind me?

Now, in all fairness, English was not her first language.

Still, in any language, if I were the saleswoman, I might have said …. Read the rest of this entry »