SCC Part 2: Girl (Politely) Interrupted

My minutely considered editorial calendar, beautiful friends, was torn entirely asunder upon receipt of a loving and welcomed comment just this morning. You know who you are, my Dear Anonymous pen pal. You moved me greatly today. Thank you.

I do not know the why behind Petra. I have looked long and have not cornered the prey. This Golden Fleece is on the protected species list, never to be pursued with vigor, and left to roam peaceful, unperturbed by my clumsy footfalls.

I do know precisely why I write though. Much of that why comes down to the periodic payoff of a nice word from a reader. Terribly shallow of me I know. The work itself should be sufficient dividend, yes? Hmmm. Well theoretically, yes. But while I have over the decades attained a few precious and sometimes pharmaceutically aided moments of clarity, I simply do not live on a very high plateau of self-actualization. Periodic roses tossed in the path go an awful long way with me.

And so, thanks again, Anon the Third. Especially for the pleasant reminder of my encounter with Leisl in the Belk bargain shoe racks way back in springtime ’09. A very special day for me. I had a happy return to this same sort of unexpected intimacy while out in the Vanilla world all Tuti Fruti’d up a couple of Fridays ago. I’ll tell the tale here today and come back to bigger picture observations about the Southern Comfort Conference the next time that time allows. 

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It was a sunny Friday, my Day 2 of SCC, after a perfect makeup session with Monica Prata of Nouveau She, and a smart luncheon of grilled chicken salad. Ashley and others of the pretty Minnesota cohort jumped a ride with me to Perimeter Mall for a little shopping therapy. I got a too hung up in Ann Taylor for my friends, and so we parted ways in part so that I could continue to rifle racks and fondle frocks.

I recognized the woman who was helping me. I had a particular thing in mind, and asked her where I might find it.

“Where o where … forgive me, I am just here today from my home store at Northpoint, not sure I know where things are quite yet…”

“No worries, take your time”, says I, “ you have helped me out on a couple of occasions there and I love your style”.

This earned me a double take as she tried to match the present woman with the past man. We found a couple of items together, she prepared a fitting room in that courtly AT manner, and then more or less vanished to help a few other shoppers out.

I have written before how the private sanctuary and world of wonderful mirrors is a place of near religious revelation for me. Honest, open, and intimate moments happen here amongst the girls. Moments that chaps cannot buy for money. Very enlivening moments on a good day. Did I mention I was having a great day?

Bag dumped on the booth bench, booties kicked off, side-zip slacks peeled down, the flowing lace overlay skirt pulled up, zipped up, and door swung open for the short toddle over to the fiercely opinionated 3 way. An interrupted toddle as it happened.

“What do you think? ...” the stranger posed of me, indicating the plum pencil skirt she had shimmied on.

“I like it. I do. What’s the occasion, Oooh, and turn for me would you?”

Her skirt hit a couple of inches north of beautiful, dark complexioned knee, The blouse threw off complementary floral sparks of pink. Fit and curved, lovely altogether from bare foot to popping smile, bright eyes and swept hair.

She pirouetted and seemed not to mind my rather baritone register.

“First date. And he is younger, only by a few years, but you know how men are, I just don’t want to be … too old. I just don’t know if this does it…”

“You’ll be fine. For starters you are beautiful, honestly, and if he doesn’t get that, he shouldn’t get past a first date. Show again? How did you meet him?”

“Oh, friends hooked us up, they always worry about me, I have been out of the dating game so long and you know I don’t mind really, but it all tugs at me you know?”

Honestly darlings, I do not know. I perceive that dating is mostly pure and utter awkwardness, dashed hopes, dropped standards and disappointments, and I thank the cosmos daily that I have been sidelined for 17 years. But that leap into the unknown, the need for optimism, the hope for Prince or Princess Charming, I can still summon up electric memories and a bellyful of butterflies at the thought.

“OK. Listen up: forget your age, you are a stunner. What about the guy? What do you know about him? Will he want to talk football?”

“Golf. I think. Yeah, he is supposed to be a golfer.”

“OK, quick primer. The Tour Championship is in town this weekend over at Eastlake. It is a cliffhanger. Tiger Woods has a shot at the win, but he is in tough against Brant Snedeker and Rory Mcilroy. Eastlake is where Bobby Jones learned to play, legendary place. Ask him if he is watching the tournament and that should wind him up for at least a few minutes.”

The saleslady came back with another armload of gear for her, and I padded off with my too big skirt into the shop to find the skinnier version, and O, while I am at it, that blue half-sleeved just-above-the knee shift dress in pretty jewel blue looks tasty...

Chit chat continued in open volleys over the walls of our adjoining confession booths on this that and the other thing. The lady who was helping her out was not really hitting the fashion mark. Wrong sizes and colors and out of the who-knows-where suggestions where being pried in the door and I could just feel the tension building. We stepped out to the mirror together again with the area to ourselves.

“She just doesn’t get it. Honestly is she listening ?... "she said helping me up with my zip “ Oh but I like that. You like?”

I only nearly liked the dress, just a little drapey for me. I am slender at the waist and hate to give up this pleasant inheritance simply for the sake of an of-the-moment silhouette (ed. Vanity, thy name is Petra…).

And so it continued. We talked. Zipped. Unzipped. She talked me out of the strappy sandals, and she was right. Too high a tone and too low a heel for my liking but tempting still. It is lovely and necessary sometimes to have a suspicion confirmed by a woman with an admitted shoe addiction. She got the skirt. I talked her down a size, a size she didn’t believe in, but one that worked a charm on her.

She was bright, alert, and absolutely paying attention. It was plain to see, and plainer to hear, that I was equipped with a non-standard solitary X chromosome, not a fully pledged member of the Sorority, plain as day that I am not, in the broadly accepted way, a woman.

And it just did not matter, did it?

Maybe my difference did matter to her. Perhaps she was spinning the karmic wheel, whispering goodness to the universe and paying forward a small measure of acceptance. A measure of acceptance that I am sure she has been denied by people with a pale complexion as she stood hopefully at one crossroads or another needing only a smile and an encouraging word.

Maybe my difference didn’t matter. Perhaps the fitting room warren is very much like a train minus the jostling and unsettling aromas, with a destination and separate paths bought and paid for and soon, complete with virtual bungee cords that save us all the effort and hurt of the endured commitment to kindness.

And maybe goodness and openness is just good and open. Free and priceless when a moment presents and the spirits conspire.

We parted with a hug. I did not ask her name, and I did not volunteer mine. She won’t read this blog post. And we are likely not to see or recognize each other again. But I am hopeful of a couple of things:

I hope her date did not talk golf. I hope he asked her about a favorite meal, the best smell ever, or a sunset that she would not trade for gold. I hope he told her about a terribly embarrassing moment in his life, one where he prayed the ground would swallow him whole but that he can laugh about now. I hope he held the door. I hope he lost track of time. I hope he wanted the privilege of more of her company, and asked for it like he meant it.

I hope she said no when he pressed for yes. I hope she did not need to look over her shoulder when her key hit the door to know that he was watching every gorgeous, womanly step she took walking away from him, desirable as all hell get out as she no doubt looked.

Yes, I do know how men are. 

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Postscript. An open letter to Anonymous 3.

I did intend to write today. At the start of the day I had not picked the lock on a theme or approach to the labor. Your comment cleared a path and cheered me up.

I did not intend to dress today. This is an anniversary weekend for Mrs. Bellejambes and I. On such a weekend, well, we really don’t want Petra stepping out of the Sleek Chorus singing unsettling verse. As is happens though, Mrs. B had a few beautiful hours scheduled with friends this afternoon, and so prior to writing I did dress, for just a couple of loving hours. Favorite shades, purples and pinks like my friend. Minus the makeup, nails and fragrance, but nearly fully the Petra I so love to become from time to time.

I have thought of you today, and projected myself into your life a little. Five years, cold turkey as you say, is a daunting thing. I reckon though that there will be such a time for me. A time when the clothes do not fit, where the outer surfaces do not meet the inner dreams sufficiently, a time when this appetite diminishes as many other appetites have in my life.

I do not know you from Eve. But I believe that you have access to a beautiful measure of your inner Eve. I want to live my whole life hanging on to mine for dear life. She makes the outer Adam much more agreeable whatever he is wearing, doesn’t she?

Sincere thanks for your visit.

Much love to you all.

January seen from February.

Shamed I am, by my lack of attention to this old house, Voyages en Rose. Much to chat about after all, just precious little time available to your humble hack with which to tumble thoughts into keystrokes. I did get a post out in January, and with today’s effort, will be able to count one for February too. A streak of sorts I suppose.

This evidence to the contrary, I have been pretty well steeped in the life of Petra year to date. With my pal Ally on an extended tropical retreat, editorial responsibilities with Guilty Pleasures have taken on a life of their own. Samples from lovely vendors have been piling up here at home. For those of you with an interest in largely favorable and hopefully witty reviews of pretty intimates, do take a moment or two to visit.

Mrs. Bellejambes and the UPS man have both become accustomed to parcels addressed to this mystery woman. Not so concerned with the UPS man of course, but happy to report that my admittedly non-normative fascination with the life of women is, well, normalizing here at home. Mrs. B. does rather wish that we shared more sizes and is wondering when my wardrobe will squeeze us out of our home, but Petra is, on the whole, not a troubling tenant.

So, where was I? I did have a great January. The first planning session for the not-to-be-missed Southern Comfort Conference happened one sunny Saturday. SCC has a new-look, new-function web-site, and a massive crew of volunteers laying into the epic effort of staging a big, complex function for complex people. Wonderful stuff. Your attendance will add considerably. Please mark your calendars for Sept 21 – 25. Friends of Petra will reliably find her perched on a tall stool cradling a chilled glass.

I dressed on this day for the fitting room and was mission driven to find a great pair of wide lined black pants. This wardrobe staple was absent from my closet. Bulls eye on first pick with the always reliable I.N.C. line. Guy mode me has not worn flared pants since Frampton Came Alive and will not even long after he is dead, but Petra delights in the look. Shopping for slacks is, by reliable reports, a typically traumatic day for many women. I remain blessed by good fortune, and love the look and feel being the woman in perfect pants.

Next stop Ann Taylor where I scored a gorgeous new skirt (pictured above) for a song, and again enjoyed fashion chit-chat in the fitting room warren with other enthusiastic fashionistas. This skirt is by the way, still available in a great assortment of sizes and can be yours for a mere $15.00 for the next few days. Go click.

Last stop, the lamentably soon to be shuttered Bloomingdale's Perimeter store for a romp through their store closing clearance event. My finds from TC Intimates found their way up and over my hips and into the pages of Guilty Pleasures in the form of a loving review. The ravages of time and a general lack of exercise have contributed to a little weight gain about the waist friends. You know my vanity well by now, and so should not be surprised to see me singing praises about foundation garments that help order ones shape about. If you do not have a seriously smoothing slip in your wardrobe, you should, and could do much worse than the TC Torsette, seen below. The pull-on Nipper too helps provide a little waist to hip relief.

I spent a couple of hours wandering about, bags slung from shoulder and honestly enjoying what amounted to a spa day for my soul. Never an unkind glance or unwelcoming word from any of the civilians and staffers I chatted with, and this in broad daylight at the busiest time of the week in a thriving suburban setting mall. I have said it before, and reinforce it here: Even just a few hours out and about with the world from time to time does the rest of me a power of goodness. Lovely memories to carry about long after the bags are emptied, and the wig and the rest of it all folded away until next time.

Next time did not wait all too long either, and I claim a personal first on this recent Voyage en Rose. I packed a second bag for a business trip to the sunny west coast and saved myself a gruesome red-eye flight home by allowing for a little LA time en Femme. I had a theme of holy pilgrimage in mind as I begged off Friday evening invites, swapped identities and strode out of my hotel for a drive up to Studio City and a visit with the famous and fabulous Alison of Faire Frou Frou fame.

Faire Frou Frou is the epicenter of intimate wardrobe luxury, and I have enjoyed a friendly on-line relationship with Alison and her equally darling mom Gail for some years now. Nothing will get you past the rigors of LA Friday traffic more quickly than a little visit and modest shopping splurge in this Oasis of Underwear. Entirely refreshing and luxurious for the blogger to meet, in the smiling flesh, someone you really admire. Loads of girl talk ranging from fashion, knickers, relationships and even business of all topics. Wonderful shopping too, bien sur, and precious moments in the prettiest fitting room in the inner solar system. Read about the whole intimate idyll over here.

From there, the sublime, and slowly into the tawdry heart of Hollywood for something closer to ridiculous. We have to give credit to Fredericks of Hollywood for romanticizing lingerie and bringing sexy to market. Their flagship store is right on the Walk of Fame, vogueing vainly for attention amongst the dispirited tourists and busking Peruvian Pan-flute bands (yes, two of them) thronging the broad sidewalks. I executed a near-perfect Carrie Bradshaw stiletto-heel, gazelle-leap, hair blowing and bag flailing, darting through the vehicular mosh pit, and burst quite delightedly into Shrine # 2 of my evening.

Fredericks is too brightly lit for my liking, and the lingerie is of suspect quality for the most part. But still, I was nearby and dressed, so a polite genuflection was certainly called for. I did genuflect around the shoe department, and could not find a comfy fit amongst the towering platforms and over-the-knee boots on display. The prices were right yes, but the costs of pinched toes and aching tendons are to be weighed more heavily in my view. Out into the night empty handed therefore, one more swan dive into and through the Hollywood Boulevard chaos, and back to my hotel for a little end of day supper and perhaps a glass of wine.

Now, the Cross Dresser is accustomed, when out and about, to feeling like the most conspicuous person in most settings. This was not the case upon my return to the LAX Westin. I popped up to my room first for a quick refresh of the maquillage, and met fascinating company in the elevator back down. You see, there was a Wrestling Convention of some sort in my hotel. I shared the ride with three entirely cute and menacing young bustier-fishnet-and-boot clad Gladiatrixes who were practicing well choreographed moves in the tight elevator confines.

Awesome physicality, youthful beauty and an outrageous sense of fun was the general vibe. I share at least the outrageous sense of fun, and so we paused in the lobby for a while together. I was introduced to a handful of their male counterparts, massive hulking presences, neon tights, cowboy hats, evil Ninjas, hillbilly bullies, you name it the whole crazy assortment of personae that populate the squared circle.

And me.

Proper in Ann Taylor, dripping in faux pearl, shining in Donna Karan sheers, and clearly the least remarkable presence in the whole damned hotel. Top that, dear friends. There was absolutely nothing I could do to scandalize the setting. Time for hugs with the new girlfriends and retreat to a smallish booth in a dimly lit restaurant. My waitress was a complete sweetie, ready with the black table linen and a warm welcome. A super evening altogether, and one I will long remember.

My senses are always a little more lit when traveling, and seeing a place less well known. These feeling are magnified magnificently when traveling en Femme. I will have occasion to do this again this year, and the thought, amongst others, helps time click happily along. Perhaps I will have another tale of this variety for you in March.

Thanks as always for your visit, for your stamina, and for your curious appetite for my odd tales.

Happy dressing and everything else too.

A Cross Dresser's Exciting Three Way

Shameful really, what some bloggers will put in a headline to juice traffic a little. For those of you expecting a salacious tale of bedroom acrobatics, well I am not that kind of girl. Take heart though, the internet was practically invented for you.

For the rest of you, dear friends all, the 3 Way refers to the mirror, or rather I should say The Mirror. A topic worthy of a long post, long even by my lax standards. Perhaps a pee break would be indicated now before you settle in for a read. You see, yesterday, Petra curled her index finger and cast the rest of me a come-hither look that I had not the strength to ignore. So I (we???) went out last night and got in front of a few of them. Mirrors, that is.

I have blathered on here about how much of a high it is for me to be accepted in exclusively female environments – wig salons, shoe sale racks, the aestheticians counter at Macy’s, Nordstrom’s or what have you. Wonderful places where, freed from the presence of guys, women find their natural, unguarded selves, their truest voice. This is the voice I love best.

That voice can be found in the hushed, hopeful hall at the back of the shop, that well-lit warren of far-from-the-Office cubes, the runway of runaway shopping impulses, the Fitting Room area. First stop, Dillard’s at Atlantic Station for a quick run through their BCBG Max Azaria boutique. I have been lusting for some months now after a beguiling skirt of the clingy, flashy variety pictured here. The gorgeous sales assistant pulled the last one from an off the beaten track rack when I described what I hadn’t found.

“Oh yes! The foil skirt … we have one, hang on… yup, your size too!”

And then disappointment as she toddled the trophy back to me …

“O no! there is a tear in the waistband …”

I suggested that I should at least try it on for size, and think then about picking it up online.

“Oh yes, you will love it, cute, cute cute…”

There is an invisible membrane between public shopping spaces and private changing places, a membrane that repels the fellows. I love passing through it.

The door closes, the bag is hung, the jacket draped, something is peeled off and something new is pulled on. And if that something is not a total disaster, the 3 way calls. The Big Mirror down the hall. You see yourself walking towards it, running all the calculus, does it fit, what would I wear with it, is this really my silhouette, don’t I already own this ….?

You will have quietly resolved the thousand questions by the time you step up on the small riser, strike a pose, look left and right, up and down, front and back with the one question left … is this my skirt (dress, blouse, jacket, etc…)?

“Oh my God but you rock that skirt … you like?”

“Like? I love it (hands smoothing skirt, a little shimmy, knees together…), shame about the tear…”

“You know that must have come from some girl who had no chance of getting it past her knees. Honestly you would not believe what gets ruined before it even leaves the store”

“Really? ,,, ouch ( reset the waistband, turn 90°, regard ass over right shoulder) … too too bad”

The second shop assistant walked in ..

“Uh huh, you like? … I thought it was too stiff for me….”

“Yes, o yes … ( hands on hips, standard female comic superhero stance)… Love it.”

More conversation of a similar ilk followed, I continued to flirt with the wounded skirt I knew I would leave behind, stripped down and dressed up again, waving so long. It wouldn’t be fishing if you struck every time you dropped a line I suppose…

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I went to drop a line down the road at Ann Taylor. The Friends and Family 40% off every loving stitch in the place sale was on last night. AT is always a top shopping experience for me. Quality, current, and classic, I believe that AT has the pulse of the maturing contemporary woman better than any other major retailer, at least in this part of the world. You would be mad to not be signed up for the email specials.

Love the shops too, wide open eye-lines, loads of space between the fixtures, none of that awkward butt-brushing, shoulder-to-shoulder rack rifling typical of most shops. Ann Taylor is just a stately place. And the fitting rooms? Bigger than many New York studio apartments. Yummm.

After the usual “Welcome to Ann Taylor” salute from the staff and a slow wander / ponder about, the nice assistant asked if she could set a fitting room for me, relieving me of the rapidly building pile folded over my arm.

“Thanks, of course. Let me see grab a couple of other things … see you there in a tick.”

“Take your time … I’ll just leave the twill slacks on your rooms door, ok?...”

OK, indeed. I grabbed one more pair of slacks, asked for the stacked platform giraffe print bootie and retired to my private space. While changing the tap-tap-tap on the door heralded the arrival of my shoes, but you know it is ok to pull the door open in a half-dressed state here.

“Here are the 8 ½’s, hope you like them!”

Out to the long hall, prowling, dead center the length of the walk up to the riser, pretty much convinced that the pants were not for me and my fellow shopper hailed me with a nice smile …

“Give me a zip up please, would you?”

A dark complexioned woman, nearly dressed, early 30’s with stunning grey/blue eyes, a rare sighting of one of the universes most extravagant displays of beauty, gestured towards her back. The royal blue knit dress with the dropped waist was a little full on her to my eye as I fastened her in, but she was more concerned about the short hem.

“O no, the length is great. Opaque tights and you are fine. And the blue, o my god it makes your eyes just pop! I think it looks great, but you … you not convinced are you?

“I just don’t know. It is my color, but…. I don’t know….”

“I like the cut … it’s not for me though, I like a higher waist line..”

I helped her then with the unzipping, and we each retired to our private reserves. The style chit chat continued over the tall walls, and we both made a few forays back out to the racks trading views all the while. There were a couple of men there, attending their wives, fidgeting uncomfortably, privately wishing the Mayans would move the end of the world up a couple of months and just end it all, now. Not us girls.

I saw the skirt at the cash desk, opined that I liked it, hadn’t seen it in my size and asked did they have one for me? Yes they did, and I settled into the work of imagining a top for it. My new friend pointed at the ruffled cami and said that would work. That was not available in Petra dimension, but I did spot the glitter, metallic thread long sleeve crew neck that I thought might just work.

I was completely on the scent now, arms and legs moving like a veggie dicer, off with old, on with the new, cinch the belt back on, and now triumphantly back to The Mirror. Perfect.

She did not have to say a word, just smiled and nodded. She was in fact trying the same skirt on, truthfully to lesser effect. I felt it was simply too big on her.

“What size is it?” I asked.

“Two”

“Petite right?” (She is about 5’ 2” tops, and the skirt hit at knee where mine was right where I like, about three above the knee.)

“It has a lot of stretch to it dear (hands circling rump) Try the zero, it will work and you will feel soooo good about wearing a zero, admit it…”

“O god, you know me too too well… and that top, I would not have picked that … great outfit”

I was finished by now, and glowing even before I realized the bargains I had won. The $130.00 skirt and the $80 top for a mere $58 after all the markdowns.

I waved goodbye to my stylish sister, and waded back out into the evening air, into the wider unsuspecting and mostly uncaring world. I was armed against worry in part by the bag hanging from my shoulder, striding happily along the busy sidewalks, happy couples and lurking lads, everyone looking everyone else up and down, top to toe. Atlantic Station on a Saturday night is very much a place for people watching, and some did watch me.

I was particularly charmed by the young woman who dropped her boyfriend’s hand for a moment to touch my hot pink flared-waist jacket and tell me she loved it. I told her she was sweet and that I loved her hair. She gave me a quick hug and a wink and carried on down the road with her flummoxed fellow.

A short drive home, a glass of wine, the slow disrobing, the long shower, the many layers of exterior washed off, folded away, leaving the more familiar exterior surfaces of the guy visible. The interior things have a longer, deeper impact though, feeling it very much this morning. I revel in my privileges, and feel tuned up, in touch, at peace.

Simply had to share that with you today. Thanks for staying with me.

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For those of you who are curious to read a little more about what is going in my fashion life, I have been busy as a beaver over at Guilty Pleasures. The audience there is a tad more … mainstream than you dear friends, but we all share an interest in the looks beneath that flatter the rest of the ensemble, and help us all feel as beautiful as we can.

I encourage you to visit often, and especially encourage you to check out the many fine vendors I have been delighted to work with. For the complete body of Petra Guilty Pleasures essays, simply click here. Recent posts include some terrific hosiery finds (including the wonderful Cecilia de Raphael’s, pictured at right), and a wild, happy variety of all the pretty things a woman needs.

Happy shopping friends.

Those who can, Do. Those who cannot, Shop.

It may be the withering Georgia heat, or perhaps just a little seasonal funk. Alternatively, a spell of delirium engendered by my long summer Drabbatical. Symptoms of whatever the hell it is have shown up in recent blog posts here, here and here. I have been pondering ponderous things. Weighing weighty issues. Reaching for the stars and herniating. More Debbie Downer and less Chatty Cathy. Wrinkle lines are showing on my bedewed forehead.

It is all well and good to try to figure out things. Sometimes however, one simply cannot figure some things out.

Those are good times to go shopping. And so I did. It helped to snap me out of my funk. Or at the very least it goosed the economy a scootch and gave me something a little more lightweight to write about.

Here. Let me show you what is in the bag. Long time readers will know that I hold a flame high for Ann Taylor. Quality fabrics, well finished garments, grown up silhouettes with classic lines and fresh contemporary flourishes. Confidently attractive stuff well in my style sweet spot. Very much in my budget too with the summer sales on.

Nestled away in the clearance racks were a couple of treats with my name on them. First up, the lustworthy Iconic Animal print skirt. Silk that stretches. We live in an age of miracles, yes? I picked up a Petite and so it rests a few more brazen inches about the knee than pictured at left, modestly slitted at the back and with an exposed chunky zip detail providing a little more visual interest. It feels like a million bucks. $30.00 down from $98.

I pressed my good luck a little further then, and lo, found this silk, shirred ribbon-front number. I need another black skirt like I need the proverbial hole in the head, but really friends, at $9.99 what precisely was I to do? Down from $90.00. One of them was left on the planet, and it was in my size. The defense rests.

My purse however does not rest. Wolford is marking down here and there. If you live in a city with a Wolford boutique, and if you have a thing for hosiery, well you must go visit. If not, take a look at Bare Necessities for a fair online assortment. Wolford is without question the worlds leading leg weaponizer, a sheer super power without rival. My new Satin Touch 20’s in a rich and versatile pewterish shade were marked down by 40% to a mere $20.00. Spending time in a Wolford shop with knowledgeable, courteous and freakishly beautiful shop assistants is a nice treat. Spending time with ones legs clad in these most carefully made garments is more than a treat. Put those things together, add nice discounts and I am defenseless.

Having saved a few shekels I loosened up a little a picked up a cute tunic just out of pure love and at full retail. Rachel Roy does a nice line of stylish value priced gear for fit young things for Macy’s and a handful of other shops. I confess a fondness for garments with gathers, shirring and extravagant details at wrist, neck and hips, and these style elements are very much Rachel Roy signatures. This little tunic has all of that, and as well is my first trip into the entirely feminine land of asymmetry. Guys clothing is always symmetrical, and so picking up a piece that is not is to me a nice moment. A first, a small first, but a first nonetheless.

It sits well on my hips on top of a skirt, but with a little tug, it slides nicely down over my amply padded rump for a different look. It will be paired with some leggings when the weather cools off very much in the way our hip-free model here is sporting it. Shameful behavior I know to buy something at full retail, but I remind you that I was working my way out of a funk.

Almost there too. I was left with one existential riddle. Am I the sort of person who purposely shows a bra strap on my one bare shoulder? This is just another one of those questions you do not know you will have to answer once you let the Cross Dressing genie out of the bottle. After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that I am not that kind of brazen careless woman. Again, age of miracles, you can actually buy clear bra straps and avoid the whole lingerie on the outside/tramp on the inside problem. Fredericks of Hollywood has a shop near you and stocks for a mere $9.00 a set of 3 translucent straps that hook into standard issue modular bras and are practically invisible. The allure of the bare shoulder without the aggressive come-hither glare of the strap. The little things do please me.

I am within 5 weeks now of my first Autumn trips out and about en Femme. The wardrobe is more or less in place. I am busier than I like with work just now but happier with the high levels of engagement than with thumb twiddling. The busy-ness leaves me less time to get my knickers in a wad about practically insoluble problems like the essence of gender and how it reveals itself within me, let alone anyone else.

I feel now well enough fortified to remain funk-free until September. If you are looking for a jolt of lightweight, carefree ease, I encourage you to venture out into the air conditioned comfort of a nearby mall for a quick fix for your own existential funks.

Petra’s Pantyhose Parade – High Waisted Wrap Up

The Pantyhose Parade has been a regular feature of these Voyages en Rose from the very beginnings of this blog, upon my realization that my hosiery crush was a lasting thing, not just two hips that dress up in tights. I have done a fair old whack of shopping in my attempts to accurately map these sheer seas and have, for my labors, full drawers groaning under the weight of several lifetimes of pretty leg wear. Now, not only am I running out of storage space, I think that I have practically tapped out my well of metaphor. Therefore here today, I conclude this series with wrap up notes on my recent chaotic and quixotic romp through the world of high-waisted, super-slimming pantyhose.

I have no doubt, dear friends, that I will offer up unsolicited opinions about tights here from time to time. You may have need of more regular and passionate discourses on this topic though, so I direct your attention to the passionate and shockingly knowledgeable Treacle, proprietress of the Stocking and Lingerie Addict Blog for your daily fixes. She really knows her stuff, and looks far, far better than I.

And so, on with the show, such as it is. I will start with the tournament results, present the relative rankings, and then finish up with some off-color commentary.

Our Winner, with 225.6 Petra's Pantyhose Points, is the L’eggs Profiles Waist Smoother Toner. Remarkable comfort, appearance and durability for a smallish investment of $8.00. I did not place as high a scoring value on price within this ranking exercise, but the pennies do add up my dears, do they not? The pennies in fact seemed to have decided things for us here, and both of the value priced L’eggs entries ascended to the Medal podium, sharing honors with a stellar contestant from Donna Karan. The scoring table is presented below (ed.click images for a better view, I hate to think of you squinting)

With money taken out of the equation, the DK’s would handily tromp the rest of the field. A truly gorgeous garment, luxurious to the touch and to the eye. As dressy as you would ever need for a big night on the town. The Spanx efforts, well made as they are, simply lack a little magic in the leg. I would love to be able to say nicer things about the Ann Taylors', fond as I am of the shop, but I simply cannot. Premium price for a run of the mill product is never a recipe for success. Ann m’dear, if your hosiery mill pulls ups their game a bit, I will pull your hose up my gams once again.

Now after all of this effort, if you are feeling an urge to shop, stow it for a moment. Aunty Petra wants a few words with you here. Shapewear is a godsend. Beautiful, fashionable sheers are too. But one simply cannot ask one garment to effectively do the job of two. For starters, the economics are not there. A terrific waist whittling shaping brief can be had for $20-30, and with care will last 30-50 wearings. There is absolutely no way to get 30 days of wear out of a pair of sheers. If you ladder a pair of everyday sheers, and you are out of pocket for a little. Ladder a pair of high waist pantyhose, and you have in effect thrown away a perfectly good girdle. You will be better off hedging your bets and buying things separately.

There is a pretty big functional problem associated with these tights too. Functions of nature specifically. Unless you have the constitution of a camel, there is a likely requirement for relief at some point in your day. Pulling a dress up, pulling these down, and reverse repeating the process requires Houdini like flexibility, and the athletic grace of a Nureyev. If you have that, jolly good for you, but you will have probably worked up a little facial glow by the conclusions of your struggles that may require a reapplication of setting powder.

The all-in-ones are simply not there from a other functional perspectives either. All of our contenders to one degree or another, pooled at the waistband, thereby mooting the promised smoothing benefits of the garment. Right tool for the job is a good rule to live by, and rare is the case that a multi-function tool is the right tool. This is not one of those rare cases.

If you are looking to slim the silhouette, smooth various bits out, and help make a hot dress look red hot, the options are endless. Have a look around you and you may notice that overweight and out of shape is the norm (at least here in America and to a large extent, the UK). The size of the problem, so to speak, assures a rich variety of solutions on the shelves. So go shopping, with a friend who knows her way around if you can. Failing that, trust the nice lady in the lingerie department at a Macy’s or Sears nearby. Believe me, you will not be their first client with special needs.

With all of that said then, beyond catering to my own borderline obsession with legwear in general, I cannot find a single reason for enduring a day in a pair of high waisted sheers. But I started this damned-fools errand, and so am relieved now that it is finished. Your suggestions on shapewear and sheers, as always, welcomed here. Comment freely friends.

Happy dressing, and everything else…

After the M.A.C. Attack

I do hope readers will forgive me. Here I am, a busy week later recollecting events at a too slothful pace. Undoubtedly the contents of my mental purse will topple out crazily, and I will lose some of the pretty details. Too busy with the rest of life I suppose. Nevertheless, when I hit the pause button on last weeks trip out for a little facial treatment, I was just strolling out into Lennox Square, looking pretty well in my estimation. At the very least I was feeling well. Lets rejoin the moment here now.

Shoes are all important, and while I do have a penchant for a perilously perched pair 4 inchers (love what they do for the calves you know) I had my mall-ready 3” closed foot pumps, easy on the hard tile floors and for the long distances ahead. The rest of the ensemble, DK sheers, a very high waist stretch lace skirt, and my old favorite Danskin body suit, back-zip turtleneck top. Clingy would be the correct adjective.

Toute l’ensemble is pictured below. Please be kind. I am not much of a photographer, for starters. Take that truth, add a new camera with a flash with a mind of its own, a moody timer mechanism, impossibly small operating buttons, me hampered by false nails, and the results are predictable. I even managed to make myself look like I have a belly, which friends would tell you is simply not the case. And the smile, someday I will learn, I promise.

First stop, Neiman Marcus. Now don’t think for a moment that I am on this kind of a budget, but I must say the aisles here are wide, and the shop is never too, too crowded. This is a great setting to get into the moment, and really fully occupy your best feminine mind-space before really wading out into the busy world. Plus, they do have very nice things there, and not all of them requiring a 2nd or 3rd mortgage.

For instance, the highly desirable Wolford Flora Tights (pictured right), which typically retail at $55.00. I managed to pinch a pair for a mere $19.00, and had a nice chat with sales assistant about leg wear and maintaining ones appearance in the midst of a sad economic decline. Courage my dears.

Now friends there is a lesson – do pay attention here: If you want a little more comfort and ease swanning around in a mall en femme, I can tell you from personal experience that having a needlessly big Neiman Marcus bag slung over your shoulder goes a good long way. This is the shopping equivalent of spinning up to the valet station in a Bentley I suppose. I felt good before. Now, I felt bulletproof.

A little scour of Ann Taylor yielded nothing from the racks, but pure gold from a human interaction perspective. The unfairly beautiful sales assistant, six feet tall in socks at least, and happily perched on the 4” pumps I referred to earlier, as I was nearing the door on the way out hailed me:

“psssst … your outfit, is that a dress or a skirt”

“skirt, the top is a separate”

“gorgeous. I love it!”.

Well, we simply had to chat. She was surprised to learn that the skirt came from JC Penney, which I took to be a complement, even if the folks at JCP don’t. She was happy to report that the AT spring line was going to be just stuffed with things that she thought I would love and that would look beautiful on me. Just a nice, genuine, warm welcome, which seems the norm at this lovely shop, however I am dressed.

I am not sure though that I could have had an equally easy and natural chat with her in guy mode. This towering African beauty was an absolute stunner. A traffic stopper. "Drab" me would have stammered or perhaps gaped in a daft and offputting way. New discoveries about this cross dressing life it seems are always just around the corner.

The much vaunted Victoria’s Secret Semi Annual sale was either fully picked over, or fully stocked with unwearable, unattractive dreck. Moving quickly on, and towards the exit out of Macy’s. I paused to pull my coat back on." Thanks for visiting Ma’am", in a very friendly way from the Macy’s staffer. My first Ma’am! A milestone of sorts, and one that I think I wish upon you all. It was high time for a glass of wine.

Paris in Decatur is a little bar not too far off from home that, until recently catered to the Lesbian set but, unknown to me, had recently switched current and been reborn as a Gay bar. Welcoming of thirsty and sociable people of all denominations of course, but pretty uniformly male on the evening I dropped in.

Travis, the operator of this fine establishment lamented a little about how difficult it is to create a setting where all the different tribes just get along. It is a shame. I tend to like rooms with variety, but here at least there was entertainment.

A regular Paris Thursday fixture is live karaoke, featuring a super-skilled pianist with an inexhaustible inventory of Great American Songbook standards at the tip of his fingers. Of the half dozen songs I stayed for, at least 4 were performed by guys who really knew how to belt out Gershwin, Rogers and Sondheim, and other personal favorites. No cover charge, just a tip jar for the Piano Man. Superb value.

One of the hosts of the evening was an Elton John impersonator whose voice ran to more octaves than I have shoes. He actually makes a living doing Elton, perhaps not in the way he dreams, but doing Elton nonetheless. We traded notes on music in general and chatted between sets. It was one of those encounters you really can’t plan to put in your life, a little surreal and weirdly natural all at the same time. A professional impersonator chatting with an amateur one.

I am going to make Paris an occasional stop – you simply cannot beat live music, and anyone looking for tips on skin care could do worse than taking notes from a well preserved fellow at an upmarket gay bar. Really, I need all the help I can get. If you do live in Atlanta, go visit. You will feel welcomed. Work on getting a song down well, and some nice man will buy you a drink.

More nice stuff soon.

Happy dressing and everything else…

Petra’s Pantyhose Parade – New Heights

Over the course of the last year I have made a regular passion of reviewing and ranking standard issue, natural-waist, sheer tights. I am at a bit of an impasse though you see. I have started to run out of new product to review. O, I know, I am missing Falke, and Mantoux and Fogal and too many to mention, but these delights are simply not falling off the shelves here locally. Come the new year, I mean to do a little more shopping online. Just for now though, little brown packages tied up with string are not amongst my favorite things.

I have accumulated a fair number of tights of a different class in my many shopping sorties this year. High-Waisted Super Slimming Pantyhose. Not your standard issue control top sheers, no ma’am. They might be better described this way:

Two garments, dear to the hearts of lingerie enthusiasts everywhere, girdle and stockings, have been shot at each other, as though from opposite ends of a lycra-rich super-collider, super-conductor. The hybrid that survived and glows in the still steaming wreckage is, to me, the peanut butter and chocolate, the champagne and popcorn (ed. no fooling, a great match, try it) of modern era, non-retro foundation garments.

When I run these rib-cage ticklers through the Petra’s Pantyhose Parade scoring algorithm though, something simply does not work. I suppose that like anything shot through a super-conducting super-collider, they elude the generally agreed upon laws of physics. At the same time, they do though have an enormous impact on the known laws of physiques,and that piques my interest, meriting the creation of a new class of hosiery, and a new math to evaluate them with. Some opening notes on this planned series are tendered here today.

What qualifies them in? Quite simple really: If you can pull them up to your bra-line without voiding the manufacturers warranty, they are in!

Why wear them? Well, for starters, admire the picture on the right. I simply could not understand the person who would not want at least to try them on. Male, female, straight, not, soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, I mean, people, please…

Why else? Because, like Everest, they are there.

For those of you not yet convinced, would a handful of feature, advantage, benefit statements work? Let us try.

Slimming is good.
Smooth surfaces beneath clingy garments are good, and
If quality hosiery feels good, then more of it must feel better, no?

The defense rests.

The prosecution will of course point out the following:

More hosiery means more money.
When nature calls, you must be prepared for a little grappling, and
Gravity always gets its way. Anything not nailed or glued in place will slide down a tad.

Well, no pain, no gain says I, so its time for a high stepping parade. Here are the contestants, in no particular order: the L’eggs Silken Mist Waist Cinching Shaper, the L’eggs Profiles Waist Smoother Toner, the Assets by Sara Blakely Perfect Pantyhose High Waist, the Spanx All The Way Up! High-Waisted Full-Length Pantyhose, the Ann Taylor Sheer High Waist Control Top Tights (pictured at left), and the Donna Karan Body Perfect Waist Embrace Sheer Pantyhose. I may stumble upon one or two more of this class on my travels. If I am missing any obvious candidates that you, esteemed reader, believe should be under this lasses glasses, just drop me a line. Can’t find the Wolfords anywhere, and lord I have tried. If you know where I can find a medium in black, I am willing to trade my collection of rare Barbara Feldon memorabilia for them. A second mortgage is not absolutley out of the question either I suppose.

The criteria that they will be judged on goes as follows. Price will be a factor, yes, but less of a factor than in my standard sheers formula. Compression and smoothing is what these garments promise, and so I will hold them to their own standards (do they preen and prune and nip and tuck us well?). Gravity fighting (do they stay up or do they go inner tube at the waist?). Feel, to the leg, the body, and the hand (do you want to wear them?). Beauty on the leg (naturallement, would you be proud of their appearance, and look like a slimmed down million dollars?). And finally, judges prerogative – a random Petra Value that will express my delight or consternation about …. well I don’t know quite yet. We both will soon though.

Back next week with the first edition

The Return of the Things

Even after all the bumping and bruising of my recent Black Friday shopping, I still had some snap in my garter. I had hauled in some terrific trophies from the frothy retail sea last week, and beautiful as they all are, I chose to exercise a woman’s prerogative on a couple of the glittering catches snared in the net. The Ann Taylors’, after some consideration, simply did not ring true. Yes, the pencil skirt is gorgeous. 2 issues though, and neither have to do with the skirt:

a) I already have her twin, and b), at 22” it is just a tad demure.

Much to like about a perfect skirt though, and not only for the admirer outside of its tight, sleek confines. There are joys for the bearer of such glad fashion tidings. The graceful limits of ones strides are so exactly pressed with each step. The compression of the thigh, the flattening of skirt front, the slight bias pull of sleek lining shifting and swishing around ones derriere, the cheeky opening of the back-slit. Ahh, be still my heart. Wonderful sensations. Mirrors not required. But again, we live in austere times dear friends, and so with heart hardened back to the shops I went.

I took with me the polished cotton tuxedo blouse too. Great look, really, but I already have a full male wardrobe of butchy enough things. I will henceforth leave this class of blouse to the genetic girl set, and admire the look from afar, or from as close as civil society allows. Live and learn. But be sure to hang on to your receipts always.

And a good thing I did too, because Black Friday is followed surely by Cyber Monday. A completely spurious invention of online retailers needing to gin up another belch of ill-considered consumption, Cyber Monday is celebrated with online door crasher specials, free shipping and other purse-prying premiums.

Smart retailers have learned in recent years that what is good for the online goose is good for the offline gander, and so most web deals are offered at parity in the stores these days. I prefer shopping live for a whole host of reasons, one amongst them that I move faster than UPS when the urge hits. My favorite smart retailer, Ann Taylor went 40% off everything again for Cyber Monday, and so I figured a nice swap out would be in order.

I dressed a tad differently than my lovely visit a couple of weeks ago when I had the leopard print dress on. Work boots, ratty jeans, indifferent jersey top with a corporate logo and paint stains on it, a ball cap to cover my unkempt hair and a Miami Vice class stubble-field on my unmoisturized face. There is a little construction going on Chez Bellejambes, you see. Drab to the fullest extent possible. Still, I was clocked by one clever sales assistant who had rutted the racks with me recently. With a warm return hello, and knowing smiles tendered, I dove in with renewed vigor and emerged with unarguably prettier, flouncier, and more feminine things.

The Top – A Cascading Ruffle Blouse, found in a terrific pewter shade, all delicate silk georgette, ruched shoulders and buttoned cuff, puffed sleeves, a blouse from the far reaches of Planet Girly. It will work terrifically with the new skirt (notes below) as well as recent finds from JC Penney. Knocked down from ~ $100 to just a touch over $25 US. <insert choir of angels sound here>.

The Skirt. Diagonal Tiers of very pretty chiffon pennantry draped across the stretch jersey front of this slightly more body conscious, thigh baring, 19” not-for-every-day-wear side-zipped flirt. The grim retail reaper had undressed this beauty from a lofty $90.00 all the way down to $30.00 by the time I found my grubby paint-splattered hands on it. Patience and compulsion rewarded at the same time. The universe is kind yes, and O so pretty.

I must tell quickly of the check out experience. My finds were being gently dressed in tissue paper by a statuesque beauty who had not been in the shop when I was there en femme, and who assumed I was in the gift market for a shapelier girl.

“Nice! What’s the occasion?”

“The occasion is beautiful cloths”, said I.

“O, that is sweet. I love sensitive men…”.

Damn, but I am glad I am married. I remember being prone to making a complete fool of myself with the slightest encouragement in younger years, and you know that a nice new outfit does make me feel so, so young.

After the taxes were figured in, I had an outfit I feel absolutely certain about, and a crisp $20.00 bill slipped back into my purse. That unexpected windfall is poised for the next, absolutely, positively required thing. If I know me, updates will not be too far off my friends.

Happy dressing, and happy everything else