Why You Are Jealous of Me

I have new fall clothes. In the past few weeks, I have purchased:

1) One new pair of black boots with ridiculously high heels. Matthew, avowed feminist that he is, is confused by them. (Attracted. Repelled. Attracted. Repelled.)
2) One pair of brown slip-on Chuck Taylors.
3) One pair of the new wide pants. They make me look like a very small hobo. I may get a bindle and stick to go with them.
4) One pair of the old skinny jeans.
5) One pair of the ol' stand-by, brown corderoys.
6) Shirts, various, all black.
7) The entire stock of Kiehls.com. (It's going to be dry soon.)

Meanwhile, if anyone has any leads on a pick-up clothes donation service in Brooklyn, I would be so grateful. I have all these old pants lying around. Funny.

Help This

I went to Sephora at lunch today, to buy many things that I don't need. This often happens at the tail end of winter, when I'm feeling as pasty and vitamin deficient as I will all year. I wind up buying a hundred dollars worth of sugar scrubs and sparkle lotions, trying to wake up my face.

So OK. All well and good. Here's the real problem: The women at Sephora, the salespeople, will not leave you alone.

In my 20 minute trip through the store, no fewer than SIX different women asked me if I needed anything. One of them asked me three times. Through an effort of will, I managed to keep repeating, through gritted teeth, "I'm fine, thanks."

What I really wanted to say was: "Look, I'm trying to figure out if I need a $70 microdermabrasion kit. So can you just fuck off?"

Gawd.

Fashion Week Rolls Round Again

Hello, my pals. It's the most wonderful time of the year once again. Please direct your attention and your browsers to About.com's coverage of New York Fashion Week. I am blogging it, and I am desperate for your love and approval.