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.

Prowling and Pouncing on the New Year

Putting aside, for just a moment the still real possibility that the Mayans were right all along, and our whole loving world goes kaput some time or other this year, I am quite looking forward to 2012.

Amongst other things, I feel driven to expand my animal style menagerie to include Zebra prints. Yes friends, Leopard has been done to death, and I feel partly responsible. So, yes, the 2012 forecast is all about Zebra. Tiger too. Ocelot also I suppose. And more Snakeskin and other motifs Reptilian, ne c'est pas??

Oh, who am I fooling? There will be Leopard too.

(ed. Leopard, darling, I was only joking. Those other animals, they mean nothing to me. It’s always, only been you.)

As busy as things have been with work, family, holidays and the rest of the year end madness, I am happy to report that Petra has been shown some good loving care of late. There were three life giving outings in  December, our darkest, brightest month.

A few weeks back now, dear friend Gabrielle put together a social at Atlanta’s Club Chaparral, and I was delighted to see a beautiful brace of local luminaries and various Gendernauts all dolled up on a school night.

Gabrielle starts off at 6’ tall before the heels go on. And this evening she had the absolute nerve to fix her hair in an up-do. That’s a whole lotta girl. It was good to catch up with her not having chatted since Ramona’s memorial service. Managed as well happily to spend time with the inexhaustible Miss Edie, Phoebe Reece, Debbie Lynn and other friends old and new. Gabrielle plans to make a Thursday evening social a regular feature of life here in Atlanta. Drop me a line here if you are local and looking for more information.

Pastor Paul, leader of the epically open minded, liberal faith community at First Metropolitan Community Church was in attendance too, and tendered an invite to his Christmas service luncheon for the following Sunday. I ran a little late because honestly, I simply don’t know how to do Church appropriate eye make-up.

Loads of families, a wild palette of complexions, young and old and warm welcomes all around. Miss Edie brought along her Gretsch, a stack of amps and her sweet, sweet voice for musical entertainment. Real holiday season stuff. Nice to catch up with Barbara especially. My Lizard pumps were a big hit with the choir girls.

And with the curtain closing on 2011 last night, I slithered into a party frock and shimmied out into the night. CyndiLou and Joanne Purcell managed to organize cocktails, dinner and entertainment for twenty or so local ladies and loving partners. I had a prior obligation and so sadly could not stay for supper or the undoubtedly fun times had by all at Le Buzz. Do you know though, even a short few hours en Femme in great company really goes a long, long way.

Loads of gold(ish) bling, a clingy dress, powdered and perfumed surfaces, a genuine New Years Eve effort. I felt like a million dollars my dears. There is a vast wide river of confidence that flows from having a well put together look. The belief that you are wearing the nicest lingerie in the room doesn't hurt either.

It comes out in the walk, shaking the hair out, throwing the shoulders back and smiling as the doors slide open into the lobby of a nice hotel. Stop a moment, scan the room, meet all the eyes, spot the bar and stride on in, heels on tiles and that slightly breathless feeling that I still get, that feeling that I hope never goes away.

The feeling that I can summon up even the smallest fraction of power that women have. The power to make the world stand still. How dazzled I have always been by that power, and how privileged I feel to touch it as fleetingly as I do.

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I did mention prior obligations though, yes? They necessitated a fast drive home and transformation back into the more broadly known me for a most excellent celebration with Mrs. Bellejambes and the company of a lovely couple to usher 2012 in with.

We spoke briefly, Mrs. B and I about the possibility of ushering in the year in Petra-mode. It was a serious discussion and a real coin toss in my view. Ultimately, my beautiful wife came upon words that made it a no-brainer for me.

“I want to go into the new year as us”.

And so we did. It was good. Great in fact.

I still have a facility for trousers, cuff links and a smart blazer after all. Yet another Leopard that cannot change spots. 

Each of us, Mrs. B. and I, are accommodating “Petra” better here now than we did a year ago. I feel as though the year ahead holds even more promise of understanding, discovery and sharing than any year in the past. I most sincerely hope that you are feeling that way about your prospects too.

Happy New Year.

Chemistry

Excluding SCC, I have been out and about as Petra only thrice this year. Ouch. Well, four times now as of last weekend. I did then rather enjoy things seen through pink lenses, and wrote effusively about the whole pretty pageant here.

Time has been the principal thief of opportunity. Work stuff is planted to rails of my metaphorical farm. The fallow, clovered pastures that Petra did once flourish and frolic in are presently under plough, upturned and nitrogen fixed for commercial purposes. 

I have come to think that work, the way I spend my days has a pretty big impact on my “Petra-ness” beyond simply being a time soak. The impact is behavioral too. Like any job with grazzilions of dollars at stake, the day is composed of a fair amount of adversarial posturing, the odd volley of tactical aggression, and an always-present sense of wariness about things in general. You know, the generalized chest-beating, loud tree-top howling and Samsonite-hurling that corporate Great Apes conduct in the service of the business.

Women can and do succeed in my role, in my industry, so the exercise of masculine traits is not a pre-requisite of success. A little more project nurturing here, a dose of quiet collegial grooming there, terrific female Great Ape behaviors, these work too.

And ya know, dear friends, I am not proposing that one behavior or another is the exclusive domain of one gender or another. I am merely suggesting that having spent about 99% of my life expressing male, those are the behaviors I reflexively lay hand to under pressure. I call frequently on those traits in part because there is so much newness in the work that I need to rely on a lot of background processes, reflexive stuff to keep my higher mind available for the work.

And so “Petra” has been a little less available to the whole me just now.

Darling friend Janie, of CD Janie blog-fame touched on a related topic recently in a series of short, revealing posts starting with Inner Voice deliberating on the process of going rapidly from femme-space to drab-world and back again. Go read. Janie is a star. Do come back then, will you?

These posts struck a chord in me. It seems that while there is a certain amount of biology that manifests itself in the life of the gender-curious, there is a pretty big beaker of chemistry in the mix too. My brain chemistry, just now, is wired more for my familiar male life than it is for wonderful explorations of the less familiar, the more feminine.

I will tell you this though:

Getting out for a gorgeous evening really has the effect of shaking that beaker up and generally catalyzing and effervescing things. I have spent this past week more distracted by thoughts of a dreamy nature than I have been in a good long time. I popped into a shop in drab mode and snared another gorgeous new outfit at a shocking price (pictured Harvest Gold Ann Taylor skirt for a dumbfounding $7.00, 8% of original retail and a smart top too). Chatted with the (typically) gorgeous sales assistant at length. She was in a sad state having just found out that she was on duty at Midnight, Thanksgiving Day for the increasingly insane rigors of Black Friday.

I wanted to touch her hand and say it will be ok more than I wanted to throttle the throat of the insensitive, short sighted lemming at HQ who thought that an upmarket woman’s boutique should follow in Wal-Mart’s less than stylish footprints. I drove home closer to the speed limit, leaving more room between me and the next vehicle, weaving less and exercising patience more. I found a tiny tributary of pretty thought to paddle around in and express in a product review for my friends at Guilty Pleasures.

Lovely things, lovely feelings. I hope that as more and more of my work becomes a little more reflexive to me, that I will have more room in my higher mind, room for Petra. It feels good when this part of me has room to stretch out and touch things as surely and gracefully as she can. I suspect that, with time, I will be able to employ my fortunate access to wells of feminine strength and wile more easily, more purposefully in my everyday life. Better living through Chemistry indeed.

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.

Lasting beauty and beauty for the renting

Terribly butch couple of weeks here on the domestic front. Mrs. Bellejambes, self and our checkbook are making up for recent years of laxity in matters of home maintenance. We are pretty much recovered from recent rigors of the installation of new flooring, the annual autumn prune-a-thon (including another grizzly battle in our no-end-in-sight War on Wisteria^®), and a fair old whack of exterior and deck painting too. Much of the work that requires actual skill was staffed out, dear friends, but all of it required a certain amount of heaving, grunting and sweating on my part. Not a pretty sight.

And then, late Friday night, close on bed time we heard a sound dreaded by homeowners, the near ballistic explosion and the subsequent demented rattling, sizzling cacophony signally a massive failure of garage door springs. It is an odd thing, I had not actually heard the sound before, but the very instant I did, in my PJ’s and at the other end of our home the following thought coursed through my mind:

“... well, that’ll be the garage and I wager that my Saturday is well and truly fucked.”

And so it was. All is back in working order now, but my hands look a bit of crime scene, knuckles scraped and nicked, and not all of the gunk out from under the nails. Perhaps then, using those same hands to type out a note or two in Petra guise will help put a more feminine finish on things in general.

Back we go, therefore, a few weeks to my last outings.

Much of what one actually pays for at Southern Comfort are the seminars. Measured this way, I did not get great value from my conference fees because of my schedule and my propensity to hang around bars for the chit-chat. I did however ensure that I had a good seat for Monica Prata’s session “Looking Sexy in Age Appropriate Fashions & Successful Shopping on Any Budget!”

I met with Monica briefly last year at SCC, and developed an instant crush. Some women just have the whole woman thing knocked out so perfectly that one wavers between wordless adoration and wistful sorrow at how far away from that elite zip code one lives.  

Monica has it. And in a much more substantial way than all the glossy, shapely surfaces and finely tuned sense of style indicate. She is a Vesuvius of enthusiasm, really gorgeously alive, wired, colorful and compelling. And, O yeah, she works with special people, the likes of we. A tip of the pill box cap to the universe for this lovely gift.

In any event, Monica’s seminar was live audience participation “do this, and good god girl, do NOT ever under any circumstances do that" kind of material. A few brave and generous girls had dressed in some of the “don’t” looks to provide the packed room with living, breathing (gasping?) examples of fashion fails and fixes too. We spent time on shoes, and were cautioned against pointy toe pumps. You see, this sort of shoe, beloved of all, does make ones feet look a little larger than they actually are. Not the sort of feature the big boned Cross Dresser really wants emphasize, I think we will agree.

“Any girls in the room wearing pointy shoes?”

Guess whose hand shot proudly up? Come on down Petra! I scrambled up to the podium as Monica introduced me, asking me my shoe size.

“8 ½ darling”

“Well friends, Petra is a lousy example. Once you get above 9 you are into trouble territory and should really consider rounded peep toes or open sandals. Petra can actually wear these … and I love the way she rocks the Ombre skirt….’

My vanity was satisfied by the moment, but I did feel poorly about not providing full reinforcement of Ms. Prata’s curricula. Big hearted woman that she is, we remain friendly. For those of you who want to spend time with someone who will help you make what you have more wonderful than you have ever imagined, you could not do better. Look her up. She is based in San Fran, and has frequent travels to Chicago and New York in the service of making the world more beautiful, one curious person at a time. I can’t wait to see her again.

This is true in part because I do not think I will ever get my eyes looking so right as they did for Saturday nights gala dinner. I had high high hopes (and shoes to match) for the evening stemming in part from my shopping decisions. My own makeup skills were not going to rise to the occasion, and so I organized a little spa time with saintly Monica. Time well spent. Thanks darling, sincerely. I feel as though my peepers popped like never before. Beyond that, it is an entirely gorgeous experience just hanging around with you.

For the big evening, I had picked out a couple of party frocks from Rent the Runway (pictured on self at right, and on more poised models in prior posts here). RTR is a peak shopping experience. Loyal visitors here know that I do like a bit of shopping here and there, and this romp was a true topper.

The sapphire blue Christian Siriano color and feel was gorgeous, but felt to me just too simple a cut and finish for a gala night. I am glad to have slipped into it, and giddy that I peeled it off and tossed it dismissively on the bed, opting instead for the Christian Cota. A stretch silk blend in a shimmering copper tone, gathered and ruched in a thousand places, turning a tent worth of lifeless fiber into a clingy lighting rod of gorgeous sensation. Sweet merciful creation but I did feel a pang of loss when I put her back in the mailbox on Monday. Enjoy your life sweet, sweet dress, and know always that I love you more than all those other women that rent you.

I highly recommend the Rent the Runway experience if you are dressing for a special night out and if your finances are not precarious. The size range tends to stop at 12, so those of you possessed of a fuller figure may find yourselves thwarted at the checkout. With that said though, go ahead and sign up there for the email updates. It is worth it to spend a little time looking at what is current and beautiful. Lovely styles all around, interesting reviews (unflinchingly negative ones too in some cases… RTR really lets the reader participate in the business). Natural born journalist and consumer advocate that I am, of course I left a review. Spot the spelling error friends! I really must take better care. I do get a little gushy and rushed when writing about things I love.

Yes the dress fit like a glove, barely room for an impure thought beneath lustrous surfaces and my own ample padding. She is captured, in her natural environment, at a party in close proximity to a glass of wine and a smiling, happy womanly form. The scarf is a smart finishing touch borrowed from a dinner companion, Beatrice, who upon hearing of my fondness for savage animal prints insisted on an accessory fix and a quick snapshot.

When time allows, I will be back here to leave a note or two on the topic of some of the lovely people one can meet when dressed appropriately. Beyond the seminars, this is where the real value of Southern Comfort is.

Happy dressing and everything else in the meantime!