Although I don’t always travel IN style I like to think I travel WITH style.

For example, I’m probably the only person at that particular rest area outside of El Paso who cuddled up in the backseat of her trusty automobile using two truck stop horse blankets and a blonde mink for a pillow.

For the majority of my adult life, I harbored some serious anti-suitcase sentiment. I traveled everywhere packing only what I could fit into my great grandmother’s snug 20″ x 16″ x 8″. red crocodile suitcase.  I’d had these newfangled cases with their wheelies and whatnot, and not a single one worked the way it ought. It was like I was trailing a drunken toddler behind me, and I gave up on modern suitcases for good. Sorta.

Unfortunately, when I realized I’d be staying a month or longer away from home and I’d have to cross international borders –who might not necessarily allow exotics like crocodile into, or out of their country– I bit the checked-baggage bullet and invested in the best suitcase I could reasonably afford.

Enter the Antler “Camden” 30″ hardside spinner.

Even if I’d paid the $420 retail for this bag –I didn’t, it’s on sale at Amazon for less than half that in a variety of colors, I got white– it would have been worth every penny.

This thing corners like a Lamborghini, survived particularly brutal treatment at the hands of TSA not to mention the guy who hauled it down the 72 steps to my villa, dropping it no fewer than six times, and the various abuses and humiliations involved in all commercial air travel these days. My white one did get a little scuffed up, but the marks came off with a Lysol cloth –what, you guys don’t disinfect your luggage after God Knows Who has been handling it?– and honestly, it’s a white suitcase. It comes with the territory.

From the ridiculous to the sublime, or at least the really, really bright, I give you theStanley HID0109 HID Spotlight.

I had no idea how badly I needed one of these things until my father gave me his used one last month. I’ve used it half a dozen times since then.

First of all, this thing is as bright as the sun.

Okay, maybe not the sun, but it is as bright as anything you could ever want.

When I was in Mexico, one of the lanterns in the single restaurant in my village caught fire and exploded (whee!) and they had to turn off the breaker. My trusty Stanley saved the day so they could work their electrical-repair magic and because boys will be boys, one of the fellas pointed the lamp across the ocean at one of the Islas Coronados and I swear the light shone onto land…13 km away.

More practically, I used it to help a family whose car had broken down somewhere in…hell I don’t remember. Let’s say Arizona and to “accidentally” shine directly in the face of a creepy trucker who kept circling closer and closer as I was gassing up along I-10 well after midnight.

Incidentally, do you know why the family with the butch guy with the camo truck and the huntin’ dog in the back of the bed needed to be rescued by a Birkin-totin’ babe like myself?

Because he didn’t carry jumper cables.

I swear I don’t understand what’s so hard about this. You buy a pair, you stick ‘em in the back of your car and you forget about them until you need ‘em, which you –or someone– will, eventually.

I get into more arguments with women about the importance of carrying cables than I care to relate. Yes, I know you have AAA. That’s great. I do too, and I LOVE them, but I also distinctly remember having to come to my grandmother’s rescue because AAA simply did not show up. Not even after I called several times. This wasn’t in the boonies either. They just didn’t come. Ever.

To me there’s no difference in not carrying jumper cables because “That’s what AAA is for” and not learning to drive because you have someone to chauffeur you around. It’s weak-on-purpose and antifeminist and okay, perhaps I’m a little too invested, but you can bet that big butch man will go to his grave with the shame that he had to be rescued by a girl because he failed Boy Scouts 101: He wasn’t prepared.

Granted it might not be the most romantic gift, but it could be a dead useful “gag gift” when paired with some sexy lingerie or a pair of beautiful earrings hidden inside.

HOW TO JUMP START A CAR

1) Clamp the red cable to the positive terminal on the dead battery

2) Clamp the other end of the red cable to the positive terminal on the good battery

3) Clamp the black cable to the negative terminal of the good battery

4) Clamp the other end of the black cable to a piece of solid, unpainted metal under the hood of the dead car (NOT the black terminal unless you want to reproduce the welding scenes from Flashdance)

5) Turn on the good car, let it run for a few minutes, then start the dead car. If it doesn’t work it might need a few minutes more. Once the stalled car is started let it run for at least 30 minutes.

Just remember, start with “Red Cross to Dead Cross” and work in a circle. You should only be turning one direction.

Okay, ready for something a little less butch?

There, you don’t get much girlier than Caudelie Beauty Elixir.

I love this stuff. Basically it’s a water-weight mist with extracts of rosemary, and other essential oils, plus benzoin that perks your face right up. I know my skin goes to absolute hell when I travel and I keep a little bottle of this, along with some natural tears, Five Hour Energy and some Yellow Stick in one of the cupholders when I drive. One little spritz makes me feel human again and refreshes my body and as much of my spirit as can be reached by atomized spray.

What, you don’t know what Yellow Stick is?

It’s only about the greatest thing a dollar and four cents can buy!

I first started using Yellow Stick, which is a solid tube of 100% pure cocoa butter, when I was a volunteer at the cold weather shelter and I needed something I could stick in my pocket without worrying about spillage or leakage. I needed to be able to use it on my hands, lips and any place that got dry, without it irritating my skin or smelling too strongly of anything I didn’t want on my face. Plus, it’s easy to disinfect with a Lysol wipe, which is always a plus in my borderline germaphobe book. I use it for everything now, especially my cuticles and lips, and it makes a great stocking stuffer…you know, in case the jumper cables don’t fit.

MAC Face and Body:

I love MAC Face and Body and wouldn’t be caught dead without my big bottle of White, which I use as a foundation in winter. Basically this is an extremely light, buildable, water-resistant foundation makeup artists use all over the face and body, thus the clever name. You get coverage by building up layers, so it’s much sheerer and more natural looking than face foundation applied to the legs. I’d use this if you’re gunshy about applying makeup to your body but want to even out the tone a little. Just goop some in your hands and rub into your legs, like lotion. Let it set a few minutes and go over it with a tissue to buff it a little. Then if you want more coverage, do it again.

Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs:

This is great stuff IF you can master the application. Theoretically you can just spray it onto your legs and buff it in. Uh huh, yeah. Good luck with that. It goes on like theatrical makeup so if that’s the look you want, great. If not, you’d be better served in putting a dime-sized blob of lotion in your hands and spraying the product onto the lotion, then rubbing it all over your legs. The lotion thins out the makeup and gives it more slip, plus time to buff it in. The downside is you have to wait for it to absorb, or else you’ll leave marks everywhere, so don’t do it if you’re in a rush. I’ve had luck covering up bruises and such by applying the spray to a cosmetic sponge and then buffing it in. When you’re done, scrub your hands with dish soap. Do NOT touch your eyes if you wear contacts. If a bit of the product gets on your lens, you might as well throw them away.

The Old Stripper Trick:

I don’t know why it’s called “The Old Stripper Trick” since it’s basically just highlighting your legs the way you’d highlight your face. Once your legs are tanned and moisturized and you’ve done whatever else you plan on doing to them for the evening and they’re nice and dry, take a bit of highlighting powder –NOT BRONZER– and starting just below your knee brush it straight down your shin bone. Easy does it on this one: you want a highlight, not a racing stripe.

I don’t use highlighting powder for my face –I don’t like shimmer– and I didn’t want to buy a fancy one just for this so I popped into drug store closest to Stately Chateau Gateau and picked up N.Y.C. Sparkle Eye Dust in Champagne and it worked like a charm. It’s a loose powder and comes with its own (admittedly pretty junky) applicator brush. I applied it with the (still junky) brush and then blended it out slightly with my fingers. I didn’t want to use one of my brushes because even though this is a shimmer and NOT a glitter, sparkly things have half-lives of plutonium and I had no desire to get any on my brushes and subsequently, my face.

Sweet Almond Oil:

Slightly glossy legs look fantastic but can be a pain in the neck to achieve for daily wear. There are all sorts of short-term tricks: petroleum jelly, baby oil, glycerin and water, even cooking spray, plus a hundred and one different shimmer lotions, but my favorite is just good old-fashioned Sweet Almond Oil. I discovered this completely by accident one morning. See, the night before, SoccerBoy had invited me over to watch Casablanca. People talk about seeing Casablanca on the big screen as if it’s the way it must be seen. False. The way to watch Casablanca is while getting a sweet almond oil massage from an eager to please soccer player FROM Casablanca who ranks your pasty and corpulent body just above Ryan Giggs’ left foot and just below Zinedine Zidane’s nutmeg skills on his personal list of Greatest Things Ever.

In the morning I still had no idea whether Ingrid Bergman got on that plane, but I did notice sweet almond oil, liberally and enthusiastically applied (seriously, rub it in) makes my legs look glossy and healthy without looking greasy. Here’s lookin’ at you, SoccerBoy (though that doesn’t mean you’re still invited to walk into my gin joint, if you know what I mean.)

A Note:

Without oversharing any more than I already have, if you’ve got a Special Friend who is especially enthusiastic about your legs, you might want to give a bit of thought to whether the products you use are visitor-friendly. Is it going to smudge, feel weird or taste weird? Skip it. Opt instead for pure cocoa butter or my beloved almond oil and invite them to stay a while.

Yesterday when I surveyed my wondrous gams in preparation for wearing some very short shorts indeed –I haven’t worn shorts since Clinton was in office– the outlook was Not Good. I needed to summerize my pins with a quickness, so I thought I’d offer you some tips and tricks on making your legs look long and shapely for summer.

Today it’s self-tanning.

I’m not gonna lie, my legs are really white. That doesn’t bother me, I don’t mind being more Snow White than Malibu Barbie (fun question: would you rather live with 7 really short dudes or have a closet case for a boyfriend?) but they look like those see-through lizards that hang around my door at night. You can see all the internal workings; hair follicles, the anterior and posterior tibial arteries, PLUS whatever bumps and bruises and random injuries I have done unto myself at any given moment. It’s less than ideal.

I don’t subscribe to the Everyone Must Be Bronzed At All Times theory of summer leggery, but since my wardrobe in Mexico is going to be all about my legs, especially since the other occupant of the bungalow thinks my gams are the greatest things since sliced vodka and I have every intention on keeping the illusion alive as long as I can.

If I’m going to be showing off vast tracts of leg, I want them to look their best and that means a bit of color for that healthy glow and evenness.

I’m not about to sit out in the sun to get a real tan, but what are the alternatives? I’ve had epic fails with every sunless tanner or spray I’ve tried and it stinks so bad I can barely stand it.

Until now.

Enter the L’Oreal Sublime Bronze ProPerfect Salon Airbrush Self-Tanning Mist in Medium Natural. Friends, Romans, fellow residents of Honky O’Sunburn’s Home for the Chronically White, this is good stuff. I mean REALLY good. Even I didn’t mess it up, which is saying something, plus it’s one of those gradual tanners where you add color over several days so there’s no way you’re going to go to bed alabaster and wake up Oompa Loompa.

Preparation is the most important part for sunless tanning.

You want to exfoliate as if your life depended on it.

I got a handy dandy loofah pad and scrubbed myself, then I shaved my legs with a new razor –if you’ve got extremely sensitive skin, I’d shave a day before– had another spin with the loofah, and then rubbed my legs down with a towel pretty vigorously. The goal was to make sure all the dead skin got gonesville. Then I hung out naked under a ceiling fan for a while until I was completely dry. No moisturizing yet.

Once dry, I rubbed a thick body butter all over my feet and put on a pair of very short socks –this ended up creating a bit of a tan line, but rather than orange feet– and with the remaining lotion on my hands, rubbed my knees and just below my knees. Your knees take color more easily than the rest of your legs, and rubbing a bit of lotion on them slows absorption, which makes for a more even-looking tan.

Then I sprayed.

This can sprays from all angles, so I could hold it upside down and get an even, steady mist. I started with my thigh and worked my way down, skipping my knees –I let the overspray get it– trying to make sure I didn’t go over any one area much more than others. I’m sure I did and the tan developed fine anyway, but it’s worth making the effort.

There’s no rubbing or massaging or anything like that so I moved on to the next leg, did the same thing and then stood under a fan for a few seconds until I felt good and dry. About 30 minutes later I dusted on some baby powder –sweat is the enemy and I wanted to be safe– all over my legs, especially behind my knees and between my thighs, took off my socks and went to bed.

The first thing I noticed was it didn’t smell. I am very sensitive to the sunless tanning smell and although there is still just barely a tiny hint, it’s completely tolerable, even for a big nelly like me. I knew it didn’t smell when I applied it, but the proof is in the newly-bronzed pudding because that’s when the DHA develops and the stench comes out. Since this is a gradual tanner –meaning you put it on several days in a row– it’s got less DHA, which means less stink. Plus there aren’t any gross heavy fragrances to make things worse.

Second thing I noticed was that my legs were indeed darker. Not a ton darker, but I’d say what I’d expect from a full afternoon in the sun. There are no streaks and absolutely no orange (phew!) and although there is a bit of a tanline from my socks, it’s natural looking. I did another application this morning since I knew I was going to be in the house for a few hours and could do the same naked lounging with baby powder thing, and this time I just moisturized my feet and then sprayed.

I’ll keep you updated on how the tan progresses, but so far so good, so get spraying!

Here goes:

Know what’s out there.

There is life outside Louboutin. In fact, I kind of feel that loubies are just a wee bit déclassé at the moment.

For every brand that gets namechecked and overexposed there are dozens of smaller houses making shoes just as interesting and luxurious, who have the talent and the quality, but not the advertising budget.  This is where you can find your best deals off-season.  You can mark down last season’s Dolce 20% and people will snatch them up as a bargain, but in order to move product of a lesser-known but every bit as talented shoe designer like Nicole Brundage, the retailer will cut deeper and faster just to get them out of the store.
Often you can bring home a $600 shoe –and worth every penny– for $150, maybe less.

Know what you like.
As you expose yourself to more designers (uh, as it were) you’ll also get a better feel for who and what you like.

Designers rarely change horses in the middle of a stream, so if you see a current shoe you love but can’t afford, look at the past season or two. Same thing goes for trends.  Odds are you’ll find similar themes or shapes in the sale section. This is particularly true if the house has any sort of signature look, like Valentino’s bows.

Speaking of Valentino, when you have a house that traditionally skews a bit older in clientele, the odds of finding an iconic shoe at a great price increases.  Valentino, even with the current chuckleheads trying to singlehandedly ruin Maestro Garavani’s house with their bid for the Chloe set (ptui ptui), will always always always release some iteration of  bow-embellished d’orsay.

Want some but don’t have one particular design etched on your heart? Give it time and keep your eyes on the sales racks. The right one will come down the pike sooner rather than later.

Patience Grasshopper.

Unless it is The One True Shoe (in which case you must buy it immediately regardless of price, lest you wake up in tears of regret every night for the rest of your sad, anticlimactic life) I don’t mind taking my chances and shopping the luxury clearance sales. Neither should you.

The Green Dior Anniversary is my One True Shoe and it got away. It haunts me in my dreams.

I’ve had particularly good luck at Neiman Marcus Last Call for a bricks and mortar experience and YOOX.com for online. YOOX lets you create a Dream Box. This is particularly handy because even if something is megabucks now, in six, nine, twelve months it might be a fraction of that. Plus every once in a while they’ll send an email with a coupon code for a percentage off everything currently in your Dream Box (no, you can’t go add things). If you still love it, buy it and rejoice. If you don’t still love it? You’ve saved a ton of cash avoiding a passing fancy you would’ve worn once.

Know what you won’t wear.
Every time I buy a pair of slingbacks I SWEAR I will never do it again.
In fact, I know as a gospel truth that somewhere floating around stately Chateau Gateau are at least two pairs of painfully fabulous slingbacks that have either been worn for less than an hour (I’m looking at you, magenta silk satin Brian Atwoods worn for half of midnight mass 2009) or not at all (iridescent mercury pebbled leather Guillaume Hinfrays) and even a pair of black croc house-brand slingbacks I bought at Saks several years ago rarely get worn now, and why? Because the damn sling always slips.

I’ve taken them to my shoe whisperer, I’ve done all the pads, everything.  The rise of my heel is simply too high for 99 out of 100 slingbacks.

A quick visit to Bluefly tells me the average Brian Atwood and Guillaume Hinfray both go for about $750 a pop and I seem to recall buying the black heels at Saks for retail, which I’m guessing was around $300.  So conservatively speaking, I have $1,850 worth of shoes that are just gathering dust, and those are just the ones I can remember right now. Granted I think I probably paid about $300 each for the Atwoods and Hinfrays, but that’s still close to a thousand bucks I could’ve saved if I’d remembered that I don’t wear slingbacks.

Never forget a name
We all have That Perfect Shoe. The one that fits like it was molded to your feet, makes your legs look like eight miles of heaven and miraculously works with everything in your closet? Find out the model name and set an eBay saved search. Don’t have the original box? Do some creative searching with Google Image or on department store sites you know carry that brand. Already found a shoe you want online but aren’t sure you’re getting the best price? Put the model name into any search engine with a shopping features and compare different sites on one screen. These are the Manolo Blahnik Caldos. If I find a Caldo in a size 41 I buy it. That’s it. Don’t care about the fabric, print, whatever. They fit my feet like a dream, I can walk a million miles in them and they can go from day to evening to formal evening like a song.

If you go for a trend you mark yourself as trendy. That’s fine, but trendy has a shelf life and you’d be wise to know when to jump off that band wagon before it drives itself into gas station and dollar store wasteland.

Let’s talk about over-sized sunglasses. The trend? She is over.

I have three problems with oversized sunglasses.  Four if you include they look dumb.

First and foremost they are played. out.

Way played out.

Way WAY played out, and have been for a good couple of years now.  They were fresh-looking in 2004 and stayed more or less on the right side of gauche (see what I did there?) until late 2007. It had a standard three year trend run. Fine and respectable. And I’m sure they’ll come back again in say, 2025 so if you bought an expensive pair, keep ‘em somewhere.

However:

It is now 2010.

The industry-standard two year trickle down grace period is well over. It’s time to put ‘em away.

Generally speaking, if you can buy a trend at the dollar store or a gas station, then chances are that particular trend has officially become saturated and is now followed only by People Who Don’t Know.

You are not People Who Don’t Know.

The other thing about big sunglasses is this:

They’re not glamorous.

They’re not going to make you glamorous or mysterious or interesting if you’re not glamorous or mysterious or interesting already, and if you ARE glamorous or mysterious or interesting already, you probably already know better than to make that sort of rookie mistake.  (For further reference please see fig. 142a in your texts, tit., Mathematical Odds of Women in Shirts Spelling “Classy” in Rhinestones Actually Being Classy.)

Also: You’re Not Famous (probably)

Most of us aren’t famous.  I’m the level of famous where I get recognized for who I actually am maaaaybe  once a month, and then get the “Hey! You’re! Uh! Somebody!” about every other week (we will not speak of the dark days as a 20 year-old big girl in our Nation’s Capital where I was constantly mistaken for Monica Lewinsky) and yet somehow I manage to avoid the papparazzi glare on a regular basis.

I’m not Jackie Onassis and this isn’t 1974.  I can get away with regular sized sunglasses. I’m pretty sure you can, to0.

The thing about a trend is you’ve got to know when to let go.  I’m not talking about the hyper-militant Fashionistas who wouldn’t be caught DEAD wearing last year’s Balmain military jackets. That’s dumb, but a good rule is if you’re playing the same card now that you were three years ago without a significant tweak in a modern direction then maybe you want to go ahead and give yourself a little revamp.

Hope this helps! Ask questions in the comments field

It was New Year’s Eve and rumor had it THE most fabulous miniature gay man on the face of the planet –I mean he out-Capotes Truman Capote– was having a little shindig and I’d heard so much about his legendary house I simply HAD to go or I would just DIE.

So I charmed, finagled, and finally begged my way into being someone’s plus one. The big night came, my ticket had to bail. Well. By that time I was already in sequined cocktail gown and white Dior tailcoat and by GOD I was going to this party, so I waltzed in with my lynx coat and hastily gift-wrapped box of Walker’s shortbread and I crashed that party like a pro.

I cannot even begin to describe to you this house, other than I accidentally knocked my handbag against one of the many Picasso harlequins on the walls that were tessellated floor-to-cathedral ceiling with art. Because why have ONE Modigliani when you can have three, plus some Dali etchings to fill in the spaces and a few Cecil Beaton photographs OF YOURSELF just for good measure.

Above the story-tall fireplace in the great room was a huge painting of our host as a young man, painted by his brother who apparently was something of a Big Deal back in the 30′s. My friend –who had also finagled his way into a plus one– commented:

“It takes a certain type of person to have their own portrait hanging in their living room.”

to which I replied, slightly hurt but for no good reason “Hey! I have my portrait hanging in my living room!”

“…Of course you do.”

And this is why I’m of two minds when it comes to the art of Les Toil, the artist behind the Toil Girls, a series of mostly individually-commissioned drawings of plus-size women in the pin-up style.

Francesca was a fan. I am definitely not.

On one hand, I totally get it.

I understand why women –maybe women who don’t necessarily get a lot of positive feedback about their desirability– would want to be transformed into a cheesecake cartoon.  Lord knows I’m all about the vanity and as far as vanities go, it’s a relatively cheap and harmless one. On par with those tack-o but inoffensive Glamour Shots you get in the mall.

On the other hand…sheesh. Low. Brow.  Now I understand that for some unknown reason you all aren’t required to share all my tastes YET (say what you will about Fascism, at least they had a unified aesthetic) but…sheesh.

BUT, all indications to the contrary, I’m not here to hate on Les Toil.

He seems like a decent enough fella. He certainly loves the big girls and, perhaps more importantly, is willing to monetize that love.  More power to him. It takes all kinds.

And who knows, maybe he’ll be the next Art Frahm and then someday you can entertain your grandkids with the photo the same way Frahm’s models (if indeed he used models) probably tell their grandkids about how they had to pose drop-knickered with a bag of celery for a five cents an hour.

However.

This whole thing just smacks of yet another case where instead of getting what they really want –say an oil portrait of your reclining nude self– big girls settle for what’s available and acceptable.

Funk

That

Noise

Houses settle, bets settle,  benches settle.

You? Don’t have to settle. Not about most things, and certainly not about this.

If your soul yearns to be a Toil Girl and only a Toil will do, by all means, get one. Get a dozen and make a freakin’ calendar and cherish the crap out of that hot kitschy mess.  BUT if what you want is a mixed media painting of yourself in the nude (and I firmly believe all women should sit for a nude painting or drawing at least once in her life) then kick the kitsch to the curb and get what you want.

“But what about the money?”

Mister Toil charges between $400 and $500  and to me that’s perfectly fair.  I know some women have this idea that if you sit for an artist you are being his muse and not only will he probably fall madly in love with your beauty, he will paint you for free.

These women are high.

BUT,  getting a fine art portrait (I view Mr Toil’s work as illustration, and there’s certainly no shame in the illustration game, but fine art it ain’t) doesn’t have to be that much more expensive. It just takes a little legwork.

If you want to drop a grand or more for a traditional oil portrait but don’t know where to start, you might try calling your city capitol building. Ask a docent who painted the portrait of the sitting governor. If he or she isn’t taking commissions, you might ask who they would recommend.

If you prefer a hipper more impressionist –though potentially less polished– portrait,  go to the coffee shops, teensy galleries, bars, wherever they display local artists. If there’s an artist you just loooove on Etsy, ask them if they’ll take a commission. Heck, even Craigslist works if you live in a relatively artsy town.

Meet with your potential artist, get a feel for the artist’s work and personality. I’ve found many if not most artists genuinely prefer to work with women with a more traditionally voluptuous build. If it clicks it clicks. If not, move on. It will help if you’ve got an idea of what you want and what you don’t want.

Just don’t settle.

In eighty years you (or your children or your great grandchildren) will love to see how gorgeous and vibrant you were in all your beautiful curving glory. Make it something you want them to see, especially above the fireplace.

It’s actually a fairly slow week for sales thanks to the swing back from Memorial Day, so we’re doing something a little different.   One of the things I hate hate HATE is when people I know copy my personal style –which is pretty specific– just a little too closely. It’s awkward for everyone involved. I’ll never forget that day years ago when I walked into church to find some sweet but terribly misguided Young Thing wearing what can only be described as a Plumcake costume.

In the parlance of my people, “I liketa died.”

That being said, I thought it might be fun –and I invite you all to play along in the comments– to actually CREATE a Plumcake costume using the sales this week.  Create your own costume in the comments field, just don’t worry if it takes a few minutes to post. It might get caught in the pending filter.

First up are these Original Ray Ban Wayfarers in dark tortoise shell, on sale at Lord and Taylor using code FRIENDS to take 25% off your entire purchase. I never leave my house without my torties, which are just as cool as the traditional black ones but a bit more sophisticated.

These are timeless timeless timeless and perfect for either sex, so if your father is still wearing those tragiculous Blu-Blockers, why not buy him a pair of Wayfarers?  He’ll look like  an Italian movie star (white loafers not included.)

And if I’m never without my Wayfarers I’m never ever without my Hermes scarf. In fact, you could probably execute a fairly reputable Plumcake costume with just the scarf and the sunnies, plus a pair of vintage clip ons.

Pictured here is my absolute favorite foulard from my not-inconsiderable collection. It’s called Les Rivieres de Babel and although I have it in the aqua, there is precisely ONE of these available for purchase  from Potero (on sale too, it is to weep), so get it quick. It’s the only scarf I’ve ever paid a premium for and the photos simply do NOT do it justice. So pretty. So SO pretty.  When a woman d’une certain age showed up fresh off the plane from Paris with it wrapped around her neck, I fell in love and proceeded to hairlip hell until I located one and purchased it with much whimpering of bank account and a month of meal planning that involved the phrase “beans and toast” more often that I typically find ideal.  And you know what? Worth. Every. Penny.

And of course one good turn of Hermes deserves another: the Hermes Bolide in brown box calf.  Again, there’s only one of them, but it’s at 63% off retail and in great condition. Of course as with all Hermes bags, it is entitled to the legendary spa, where loved bags are buffed, primped and polished back to new. Now in the spirit of full disclosure: I don’t own a Bolide, I have a Birkin which I received as a break up gift (sorta) and have used exactly once, but for all the folderol over the Birkin being il handbag di tutti handbags, I’d kinda rather have the Bolide.

Moving from the screamingly expensive to the cheap and cheerful, I mentioned earlier you could compose a pretty decent Plumcake costume with just the scarf, sunglasses and a pair of vintage clip on earrings.

I couldn’t tell you how many pairs of vintage earbobs I own. Hundreds probably. I might even know where a few of them are (I always carry some sparklies in my purse in case I need to put them on in a flash, and usually a few pair at the office, in the car…wherever)

It is a shameful truth that, like snails leave slime and skunks leave stink, I leave a trail of  earrings wherever I roam.  I’ve tried to fix it, but to no avail. I almost always find them again eventually, but in case I don’t, I really hate to invest too much.

I’m a sucker for figural earrings, or something with a little hint of whimsy, like these floral ear clips on clearance from La Vintage, which will set you back a measly 17 smackaroos.

These little darlings measure about 3/4″ and are just about exactly what I go for in an earring. Casual but still a little sparkly, charming but not cutesy and pretty enough to draw light but not so spectacular as to draw attention away from my face.

If you’re not in the habit of wearing earrings, give it a shot.  I have pierced ears but only wear clip-ons, so I can pull them off or put them on at a moment’s notice.  Also, you should always ALWAYS wear earrings when trying on clothing  (nothing dangly, please). You’ll be amazed on how much more put together you’ll look, just with a simple pair of bobs.

More fabulousness after the jump, clicky click!

Well let’s move from my ears to my neck.

We all know Miss Plumcake loves some perfume and Monday in the comments, faithful reader Lisa asked for some summer fragrance recommendations (she assures me her Rossy de Palma perfume from Etat Libre de Orange isn’t strong enough to stun a wild ox, but I’m not so sure, that’s some potent juice).

The problem is, most of the perfume I wear isn’t readily available online, or at least not conveniently.

An exception is my beloved Diptyque L’Ombre dans l’Eau, a lovely blackcurrent leaf bomb with a hint of early morning rose. It’s light and green enough for summer, but it’s not just some one-note cologne.  I keep a bottle of it in my glovebox (note: this is bad for your perfume, don’t do this at home) to spritz when I need a refresher.

It’s not overly complex, but you know, you don’t need a ballgown and furs every day, sometimes a linen dress will do.

SPEAKING of linen dresses, I love them. I’ll never know why people are so terrified of linen.

It doesn’t wrinkle nearly as badly as most people seem to think, and when it does crumple, it looks elegant, not messy. I’ve been positively living in this dress from J Jones New York for the past few weeks. If you wanted to come up with a standard Plumcake Dress, you couldn’t get much more perfect than this (okay, the neck would be a little deeper and there would be sleeves, but I wear a little white cardi and call it a day).

Most of my linen is lined, but this isn’t so I always wear a slip. Honestly I wear a slip most of the time anyway. It keeps me cooler in the summer and warm in the winter, plus I like knowing when The Archbishop of my Pants finally whisks me away to Canterbury at a moment’s notice, at least I’ll be dressed for entertaining.

I’m particularly liking this coral chemise from Torrid, which is a steal at $28. I think I’m going to go back and order a few more in black.

And while we’re on the subject of underthings, let me come clean once and for all: I wear granny panties.

Love ‘em.

You can keep your thongs and your creatively cut tangas, you will pry the granny pants off my cold dead backside, which will be challenging because I fully expect several beefy men to have thrown themselves on my dead but still lovely corpse in grief.

Besides, I think a nice nude or black full coverage brief in either a solid or lace is WAY sexier than those embarrassing striped and polkadotted novelty britches that look like granimals for grownups.  PLUS I spend most of my waking life (okay SOME of my waking life) suffering for the sake of beauty and I draw the line at walking around with something that uncomfortable lodged in my intimate person without at least getting dinner first.

These are by far my favorite undies on the planet.  The seamless brief from Lane Bryant, normally $15 each  they’re 3 for $29 right now.  I drove from Austin to the Grand Canyon in these (well, two pair, it took two days) and nary a chafe or wedge in sight. I always keep a spare pair in my car because, like the good scout I am, I’m always prepared.

Speaking of being prepared, here’s something you might not know about your pal Plumcake: I collect old umbrellas.

Umbrellas, like cars, just aren’t as cool now as they were way back when.

I’d picked up a few here and there for years, but it wasn’t until I was first in London tooling around the City that I realized how chic an umbrella could be. All these gorgeous silver foxes with their stiff upper lips and tightly wrapped umbrellas. It made the knees quiver.

Unfortunately, I’ve never had the expendable dosh to walk into James Smith and have a silver banded whangee cane fit-up made especially for me, or the legendary Brigg No. 92 with a flask in the handle that will set a girl back close to a grand, but I do require my bumbershoots to have at least a certain element of panache. A cheap and cheerful alternative is this charming lady’s umbrella. I’ll never understand why people don’t put a little more thought into their umbrellas. I mean, either they’re boring old Totes or embarrassingly cutesy. But when do you need a dash of charm more than when you’re walking in the rain? I particularly like a lighter colored parpluie for spring and summer showers. It can do double duty as a parasol for a picnic or when your beloved is rowing you across a limpid pool while you read Byron. People still do that, right?

FINALLY you can’t have a Plumcake costume without a truly fabulous pair of shoes, preferably with an almond toe, small platform, elegant heel, timelessly styled  and –if you want to tease me because I don’t own a single item of pink clothing and only two sets of black shoes but about 10 pairs of pink shoes– they ought to be pink.

I am crazy for these “Taro” heels from Brian Atwoods and while I didn’t pay the retail of $725 for them, I paid a heck of a lot more than what you’d pay for them now that they’re on major sale at Bluefly. NOT THAT I’M BITTER, BLUEFLY. But they matched my criteria: they had to be stylish in the 40′s, 70′s and today. These are “sixty year shoes” and

So that’s it, ten easy steps to the perfect Plumcake costume. I want to know what I would need to dress in YOUR costume, so be sure to tell me in the comments!

Would it be at all possible if, during shoe month, you could address proper expectations from better shoes? I ask because every time I buy a new pair of good shoes, no matter how well fitted they are for my feet (with experienced sales help at a better name store even!) or how long I test walk them in the store or how comfortable they feel there, I end up with blisters and hot spots when I wear them for real. While I don’t expect heels or dress shoes to be as comfortable as bedroom slippers or sneakers, I don’t expect to be in pain with broken skin after wearing them every time either.Or are all women at this level of pain at the end of every day and no one talks about it? Or do I just have unique feet that change shape after I leave the shoe store?

Solemmetellyou a little story about lasts.

This is a last:

A last is the mold on which shoes are made.  This last was most likely used to make this shoe:

Which, while not my favorite shoe in the world, is by no means the worst of the built-in-sock variety of shoe/sock/bootie (shockootie?)

Some lasts are more foot-shaped than others:

but they will not –and I cannot overemphasize this– be YOUR foot shape.

Your feet, like mine, have lumps and bumps and that weird little scar from the time you dropped a glass on your big toe and all sorts of things that make your tooties your own and that means there’s probably going to be some discomfort  and you and your shoes get to know each other.

See how I said “some discomfort” and not, I don’t know,  “gross oozing pustules of hurtiness“?

That’s because shoes should never do that.

So the first thing we need to do is abandon the idea that we can buy a fancy pair of shoes and wear them for eight hours straight for days on end without repercussions.  Which isn’t to say it hasn’t happened, but don’t place your bets that way.

Here are some handy tips and tricks to keep the blisters at bay:

–Go shoe shopping in the afternoon. This is handy because your feet will be about as swollen as they’re likely to get. Double bonus points if you go when you’ve got the ladybloat. I don’t really have medical science behind me on this one, but I like saying ladybloat and I don’t really want to be the one to tell PMSing women NOT to buy shoes.

–Don’t buy shoes that hurt and then be surprised that they do, in fact, hurt. If you find The Best Shoes Ever and they pinch or need to be stretched and you will really and truly have them stretched or fix the pinchy bit (I know some of you say you’ll do this and never do) then buy them, but generally speaking: if they hurt in the store, they’re going to be 10 times worse at home.

–Do not be fooled by the tyranny of footsocks. “But they were so comfortable in the store!” Odds are they were so comfortable in the store because you were wearing those little footies. Use them by all means, but a shoe that feels juuuust fine in a footie might feel sticky and grippy and pinchy without them. Just something to keep in mind.

–Stretch your shoes. Since I stretch almost all my shoes –I am exceedingly fat of foot and the shoes I admire are rarely offered in wide widths– I own my own set of shoe stretchers. For years I made do with the regular wooden ones (seriously, the plastic ones? Useless) and then finally invested a whopping $40 on two high-heeled shoe stretchers that get right down into the pointed nooks and crannies of a high heel. I’ll never go back.  Be sure to get ones with the little pressure nubs things so you can stretch out your problem points or open up the throat of the shoe.  Skip the stretch spray though. Just use rubbing alcohol. It works just as well.

–Practice, Practice, Practice. If you want to play Mozart, you don’t start out playing his 21st piano concerto. You start with “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and work UP to the 21st.  Wear your new shoes around the house –you can wear thick athletic socks to protect your baby feets and help get the leather shaped without hurting you.  Do an hour at a time, then two or three. Then meet a friend for coffee and wear them. If you need to stretch them out, rub isopropyl alcohol on your feet and the inside of the shoes (do a test area first to make sure the color doesn’t run) and wear them until dry.  The night before debuting my famous pink Dior anniversaries, I  slept in them, just to get them molded to my feet.

–Pad. I love the Foot Petals products. I’ve found the best value to be the Stiletto Survival Kit or whatever they’re calling it these days. The strappy strips have been dead handy to cut and place wherever I feel some potential pressure.  The only thing I DON’T care for is the Heavenly Heelz, which work fine for padding other places –the outside of my babytoe so I don’t get rubbed raw– but for actual back-of-heel slippage I swear by the ugly Stalinist gray bastards you get at Walgreens.

–Footglide Skin Protectant Foot Formula. Full disclosure: The fine folks at BodyGlide sent me some of this a few weeks ago after my chub rub article. I haven’t used the majority of the products yet so I haven’t reported back, but I DID use the Footglide last week when I had a long night out with a pair of blister-prone heels.  This stuff is A.MAZ.ING.  It looks and kind of felt like applying deodorant to my feet (which will do in a pinch) and although my feet still hurt, I was blister-free at the end of the night.  It definitely gets the Plumcake seal of approval. Go get you some.

What, never?

No, never.

What, never?

Hardly ever.

Let me paint you a little picture. Last night I was the guest at a excruciatingly swank benefit in support of Conspirare, a wonderful vocal ensemble based right here in the City of the Violet Crown and was doing the regular huggy kissy smoochy schmoozy thing you do when you’re at that sort of shindig and you’ve given up deflowering busboys for Lent. I was teetering around on my recently rediscovered pony hair and crocodile Zanottis, looking good and feeling gorgeous as one so often does and making the social rounds.

I bump into a familiar face. Now, this isn’t someone I know well, but he is a colleague and we’ve walked in and out of the same building roughly the same time for the past seven years. We’ve shared copy editors (not in the biblical sense) and had a conversation or two. I know, for example, we hail from the same hometown.

“Mike, how are you?!”

“Hi! I’m Mike Lastname, nice to meet you.”

See right there? That was a fail. Unless you know for a gospel truth there is no possible way you have never met this person anywhere before — not in college, not at the post office, not in a police lineup as a suspect for carving “Rowan Hearts Plumcake” on the great doors of Canterbury Cathedral EVEN THOUGH IT’S TOTALLY TRUE– you do NOT say “nice to meet you.”

Why?

Let’s return to our story:

“Hi! I’m Mike Lastname, nice to meet you.”

“Yes I know, I’m Plumcake, we’ve worked in the same building for seven years. You lived in Bethesda, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we talked about it.”

I found it hilarious and was having a big time busting his chops for not remembering me  — I mean how many shatteringly brilliant, immaculately dressed violet-haired* glamazons do you think work at your average daily newspaper?– but what if I’d actually been offended? There’s really no recovering from that.  At the very least you make an ass out of yourself, and at worst you suffer cold and stony silences followed by nothing but  Sad Single People frozen dinners with your cat for the duration of that social season while all your friends drink bad wine and pretend to enjoy it for charity.

Repeat after me:

“It’s so nice to see you.”

“How are you?”

“That  is a fabulous brooch/necklace/tie.”

(if you’re being introduced by a third party) And how do you know SoAndSo?

Or, my particular favorite:

“Weren’t we in prison together?”

(This can be deployed to great effect with the right delivery. If you HAVE met, it’ll feel like an inside joke. If you haven’t, it’s just a quirky opening line.)

Now what do you do when someone has made the unthinkable error of not remembering you?

Remind them.

“I believe we have met…weren’t you at the Kidneys for Kennedys fundraiser last year in Miami?”

“I c0uld have sworn we were introduced at Bitsy’s arraignment last March, or else she’s not the only who needs to stop drinking before noon.”

Don’t do what I did and state matter-of-factly that you have met.

Unless the delivery is right it can come across as hostile and although that’s tempting, it’ll make you seem like a boor instead of the gracious creature you are.

If the other person still doesn’t remember. Breezily reply that maybe it was just wishful thinking, make your excuses (unless you really want to talk to them) and move on.

Well, that concludes our five great finishing school lessons. I hope you liked them.  There were several I didn’t get to do: how to talk to strangers, how to sit down like a lady (trickier than you’d think), and advanced table manners for dinner parties.

*Yes, I have my own violet crown instead of my normal Superman blue. Yes, I still look fabulous. No, I am not yet emotionally prepared to discuss it although I WILL say that if one is not sure whether one has the correct color for one’s client, it might behoove one to check BEFORE YOU’VE BLEACHED HER HAIR.

“Oh thank you! You’ve just made my day!”

“Stop, stop.  I couldn’t listen to more than another hour of this.”

“Well, one tries.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Can you write that down? I want to send it to my mother.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

“Well, a girl’s gotta have a hobby.“

Those are just some of my tried-and-true ways of accepting a compliment, today’s finishing school lesson.  For some reason we are just not taught how to respond graciously to a compliment.

It

drives

me

INSANE.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve told a girlfriend she looked fantastic only to have her automatically touch her hair or make a face and respond “No, I look awful.”

It takes all my generations of breeding and counting to ten not to snatch her bald and say “Listen, I’ve got better taste than you do. I’ve ALWAYS had better taste than you do,  so when I say you look nice, shut up and say ‘thank you’ because people pay me a LOT of money for my approval and it doesn’t come easily.”

And while I understand women are conditioned to deflect any compliment because GOD FORBID a woman think highly of herself (or worse, actually be BETTER than someone else) denying a honestly-paid compliment is one thing and one thing only:

Rude.

Okay two things: rude and stupid.

Wait, three:  rude and stupid and annoying.

When you fail to accept a compliment graciously, it’s an insult to the person who paid it.

You wouldn’t go up to someone and say “Hi, you know your favorite green cardigan? It’s awful. Seriously. It looks like a tennis ball sexually assaulted your grandma.”  (well, I’d say that, but you all are nicer than I am) because obviously they LIKE the sweater and you don’t just go up to people and tell them they have bad taste, even if they really really deserve it.

This is doubly true in states with concealed handgun laws.

See, it doesn’t matter whether you believe the compliment or not. If someone says you have a lovely singing voice and you say you sound like a frog, what you’re telling this person is they have bad taste in music.

Rude.

So, next time, instead of making an ass of yourself, make  A ASS of yourself:

Acknowledge - body language, a nodded head or a hand to the chest (preferably your chest) conveying you heard what they said and it’s touched you.

Accept – the actual words you use, “Thank you” is a good start. Keep it brief.

Smile – a smile lets them know they’ve made you happy, even if you don’t believe them

Shut up – Don’t devalue the compliment or try to repay it. You don’t want them to feel like they were fishing for a compliment of their own.

That’s it.

Feel free to use some of my favorites, but you’ll want to be careful with using humor at first since it’s so easy to be self-deprecating. Do your best to just say “Thank you” until you feel more comfortable.

Good luck!