SC Part 3: Belle Curves, Outer Space and Inner Peace

Here we are friends with the weekend running away from me at the speed of light, can’t keep up with it all even in flats. Go, go, toujours go, now, now, and encore de now, Still mentally unpacking from SCC. The clothes and surface things are hung, slung and bunged into various chests, closets and tranny crannies Chez Bellejambes. And so with the surface things out of the way, time for a deeper dive within.

It is just so damned nice to hang out with great numbers of guys and dolls of a similar or sympathetic disposition for a few days. You can feel it just a couple of hours into the proceedings. Our non-normative narratives join a swelling chorus. Our deviations from the mean become the standard, our out-of-tolerance behaviors are not just tolerated, they are dominant. We statistical outliers move to the center of a societal bell curve.

Conference attendees constitute the majority population for a few short days. The hotel staff gets past our differences pretty quickly. The accidental tourists and stowaways from Drabistan camping out at the hotel kind of cling to the walls and shadows. Whatever they have in their wallet is not coin of the realm here this week, and we special people wear the crown.

And this feels good, dear friends, truly good.

I am not generally much of a "joiner", quite cautious and guarded about the company of Earthlings really. I get mellower with time, but still draw on pretty deep wells of what many regard as cynicism or snobbery. I am just a little awkward around “us”, not ever entirely certain about how we are supposed to behave, or fully proud of how we do, you know?

Against all logic, I still remain hopeful of a rescue mission from my distant home planet, The Council of Elders will of course shake their outsized, fragile, translucent heads in disbelief while reading my report. Said report will have much to do with just how replete with shit the proverbial fan gets when we Earthlings gather in great numbers around practically any theme.

One of your great thinkers, Kurt Vonnegut opined smartly on these matters, referring to groups of people affiliated through a shared identity or purpose as members of a Granfalloon.

Good old Kurt.

And for all that I enjoy practically every waking and dreaming moment of SCC, I feel within me cautions against uncritical Granfalloonery. I am a better loner than a team player, and always have been.

I tell you this now because while I am breathless in anticipation at for the start of SCC, it is not all a fairy tale fantasy for me. I see thorns amongst the roses. Back now to the roses.

I stand (with slightly pinched toes) in complete and utter shoulder-back, jaw-slack awe at the countless tall and short, thick and thin, dark and pale, blonde and brunette, demure and daring, alto and baritone, big city hicks and county crossroads aesthetes, gun nuts and peaceniks, drop-outs and post-Docs and everyone else who each uniquely found a path to SCC this year.

To each of you who paused for a few minutes on your path, and shared it with me, I am terribly grateful that you did. I may have said something nice about your outfit or your beautiful smile. Perhaps we got to talking about our home towns or sporting heroes long forgotten. We may have spoken a bit about the whole ball of gender wax that we got rolled up in years ago, or just how the pleasant the shade and birdsong in the back courtyard of the Crowne Plaza is.

Whatever we spoke about, it all seems now, and seemed then, pretty much normal. Normal with the highs a little higher, and the lows about the same. I very much enjoyed your company and hope I left a little something of value with you too.

Some weeks later, looking back, taking a few years of SCC experience in at a safe remove, I think the value of coming to such a conference is now clear. We get to be a majority for a few precious days. Being a priestess in this church makes it a little easier to be a heretic everywhere else. This company of friends and perfect strangers with a sympathetic perspective on the world fortifies me the rest of my Voyages en Rose, out in the bigger wider world, uncertain of the reception, hopeful of a smile here and there.

So, come to SCC next year would you? Or Keystone. Or Esprit. Or Be-All. Or Fantasia Fair. Or wherever. Whether you are completely private and closeted or loud and proud, newly on your way or long decades past trying, you owe yourself a few days in the majority, a few days of glittering normality. Does a guy or a gal good.

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.

Getting back to Petra. SCC Part 1

The Southern Comfort Conference finished up, dear friends, just last weekend, and your fickle Pen Pal was en scene, embedded, engaged, bedecked, bejeweled and altogether beguiled for two glorious days of full Petra immersion. This was my third visit, and SCC, is now pretty well established as where and how I wriggle out of the summer cocoon and spin myself up in slinky silky stuff for a new life, a new season.

Still shocking too how natural and easy the chrysalis is. Lasting too. Par example, I was in a drab social setting later that weekend, after my SCC time was over. There I was, unshaven, butch wallet, no spritz of perfume behind the knee, and I still had to absolutely bite my tongue when introducing myself to strangers. Having spent the prior couple of days with “Hi! My name is Petra …”, I was still quite in the habit. It took the full evening to comfortably find my way back home to my more commonly known given name, with some damn near misses along the way. I had to smile.

I had much to smile about.

This year, I chose to stay at the host property, the Perimeter Crowne Plaza. Mrs. Bellejambes, you see is quite concerned about Petra getting clocked making daylight dashes through our close knit neighborhood. I take her point quite well. Yes, there does lurk a silly adrenaline junky within who rather enjoys the thrill, the sound of the drum pounding away inside my amply padded chest cavity. That cheap thrill doesn’t tip the scale when measured against the value of my wife’s peace of mind though. And on the upside, a second or perhaps a third glass of wine would not be out of order if I was only a short elevator ride from my crib rather than even a shortish drive home. Virtue and necessity do accessorize perfectly from time to time.

And so I rose early Thursday morning, burned through the final thousand requirements of the work week, set auto-reply and phone messages for the long weekend, and stepped off the grid. I then took a deep breath, the first in a series as it happens.

After that moment of calm collection, I proceeded to pack like a refugee.

Ginger Grant wheeled 3 full seasons of glittering evening gowns aboard the S.S. Minnow for a 3 Hour Tour. Ginger Grant ain't got nothing (but looks) on me. I had been too damn busy to really have anything more than a sketch of a wardrobe plan, and this absence of forethought showed in the Sherpa-sized bail of gear that I schlepped across town. What really stands out though are the things forgotten. A decent facial soap for instance, or hey girl, would it kill you to bring a camera maybe?

No time for regrets on these matters though. It was time to change time, to slow time down, to anticipate the change and savor it. First things first, the room, Petra’s room. Not a place for either a chap or a chaperone. Petra’s room. Unpack first, populate the drawers, drape the closets and cover the counter tops with an orderly display of feminine occupation. The last vestiges of drab me folded away, given the dignity of a plastic bag burial and slid beneath the pillow array on the spare bed. 

Time for another deep breath.

Now for the body. Not the pressed and practical prep of the man day. The patient, purposeful pamper, the care of the skin that soaks in so much more than skin deep. The first autumn shave, all the shearing and plucking and gumming the plumbing required to achieve my undoubtedly preferred surface characteristic. Buffed, moisturized, painted and powdered, the body feels new and young again. 

Time then for the face. On with the wig cap and off with the glasses, the eyes another year worse for the wear, the hands and fingers months out of practice, but surely and slowly connecting with habits long gone but not forgotten. An afternoon palette for the eyes, nothing too dramatic, thin as they are, my own lashes with a few coats of lacquer will do. I am glad I cleaned my brushes before putting them to rest in the spring. A couple of false moves and uncertain strokes, nothing Q-Tips and Kleenex can’t obscure.

The foundation and powder shine up and smooth out things well enough, some cheek color and lip contour. I finish by reminding myself and a gentle reminder that I am a 50-something now, and didn’t have soft facial contours and bee sting lips for starters. I feel proud in a different way, a way unique to Petra-time.

Nails on now, and finally, the crescendo moment of the coronation, the hair. It never fails to feel awesome. I can believe myself fully now.

I know now that I am really only short minutes away from the world. Just the breath-catching moment as the dress hugs me in snugly. The shoes then, the jewelery, lovely big chunky things, the mist of fragrance, a check of the contents of clutch, a last look in the mirror, and the last deep breath of the day.

The one just before the door opens, and closes, clack, locked behind you.

More later on so many lovely people and moments.. Nice to be back.

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!

Cross Dressing Economics. Fashion Week Edition

Recently I was coursing the aisles and pawing the racks at a nearby Bloomingdales with a charming female companion who can afford to do more than just the coursing and pawing at Bloomingdales. In between patting myself on the back for resisting an unnecessary acquisition and acute pangs of regret for not resisting it I spoke a little about how I keep my shopping under control by painstakingly keeping track of purchases.

You see, I maintain a spreadsheet with garments classified by type, vendor, description, full retail price and actual price paid. Furthermore, I count the number of uses I get from each garment to arrive at a Cost per Wear (CPW) number that should, in the long term, help me optimize on future purchases. All very logical of course, and very much in keeping with my practice of over-engineering the protective rationales that keep my life perched barely on the rails. I hope too, at some deluded level, that this document will keep somebody in a well funded Gender Studies program busy for a post grad year or two sometime in the future.

My friend tut-tutted:

“Oh, no, no, never. That simply isn’t done. It’s just not on you know.”

Very English, my friend.

In any event, she opined that this was a distinctly male habit, and at complete odds with my appearance. We then went to Nordstrom’s to look at shoes and get past the slightly awkward moment. The moment passed. But now while she is not looking, I thought I would share some numbers with you.

The chart below (click to enlarge) contains all clothing on I had on display over the course of my week at SCC: shoes, hose, skirts, dresses, tops and outerwear, minus all the belts, bags and bling. As to the rest of the garments not on display, well some things a lady simply does not share.

I dressed Monday to Saturday, largely in items purchased late spring and summer that I had not worn before other than trying on for fit, and so my CPW numbers are not so low as they will get with time and multiple outings. Still, even with the newness of most of the modeled pieces, I think I deserve a Girl Scout Bargain Hunting merit badge.

The summary findings are these. It costs me $100 to present fully. Again this is the one time expense, from top to toe. My fully amortized cost (Lifetime Aggregate CPW) for complete ensembles ranged from a high of $100 for an outfit featuring one of my rare full retail purchases, (a snazzy Rachel Rachel Roy off the shoulder tunic), to a shockingly low $37 for the dramatic cocktail dress look I poured myself into for the final gala dinner. These numbers have nowhere to go but down as long as the universe is expanding and not doing something else unexpected.

The data further confirms a sense I have had that my blouse assortment is not broad enough. I had to repeat a top once in the week. Tut-tuts again.

There is a seemingly outsized cost contribution from shoes and hosiery in my typical ensemble (see Fig. 2). Almost 40% of a typical outfit investment clings to my toes. Allow me to make a case for this seemingly lavish and unfair distribution: The toes are worth it dear friends. They will tell you so in no uncertain terms after a few hours in poorly made and poor fitting shoes. As to my average $18.00 hosiery costs, well, nothing makes a so-so skirt look good, and nothing makes a terrific skirt look va-va-voom faster than quality legwear. The reverse effect is true too. Beyond that, the comfort provided by well made nylons adds immeasurably to your enjoyment of a long day dressed.

At the end of that long day, somebody should want to rip the pantyhose off of you, and that somebody should not be you. So there.

As to the rest of the ensembles, many of them are pictured in prior posts. Scroll away, or site search on SCC for more. Their average discount from retail is 70% (not counting hosiery). Being this mercenary on price has allowed me to shop in places that on the surface look a little pricey for the part-time gal on a budget. With this, the overall quality and effect of my appearances is better than it has been, or might be. Civilians and fellow travelers alike were generous enough in their complements to let me know that I am zeroing in on my style sweet spot nicely. Even without the kind words though, you know it yourself when things are correct. Suddenly, you are walking like you mean it. You just feel good. This feeling is worth the investment of time, care and the few dollars you can spare to get it.

Getting that feeling, and keeping it under control too is something to aim for. If you do not need a spreadsheet to achieve that effect, I bow in your general direction. Just now, I must sign off and go update mine with a couple of blouse purchases I made this past weekend in order to resolve the imbalance issue raised by the numbers.

Ah, the things we do in the service of science and beauty.

And you my dear. What do you do to keep the purse and closet both stuffed?