National holiday? No, just the Barneys Warehouse Sale!

Happy Barneys Warehouse Sale!

Can you hear the frenzy beginning?

I may not know my Social Security number, my zip code or even my birthday (I keep forgetting the year), but I can tell you within a day or two when the Barneys Warehouse Sale will begin in February and August. Sure, there are all the arguments that the first few days, everything is sold at the same discounted price that it was when it was hanging in Barneys a few days earlier, but that's just not the point. It's like being at a Broadway show on opening night, versus watching a PBS broadcast of the show a few weeks later.

Which is not to say that it takes a certain amount of fortitude to stomach the crowds, all elbowing, shoving and bumping their way to get to that silver beaded Balenciaga wedge in size 37.5 before you do. For a woman of my stature (a stately 5'7"), I have unusually small feet, proportion-wise. I used to wear a size 6 1/2 -- 7 but gravity has pushed me into a 7 1/2 and an occasional 8, depending on how the shoe is cut. I say my legs look like funnels, and it's no wonder I've sprained my ankles countless times, carrying around this big tall body on these itsy bitsy feet. (Put them in high heels and there's even less on the ground-- "Timber!")

My feet, actual size.

Now, for you novices, let me explain the layout of the Barneys Warehouse Sale. The shoes are the first stop, crammed into tall metal bookcases by size. So my diminutive feet mean I'm in the same aisle as doll-size Asian women and Upper East Side private school girls. In a sense, this means I have a clear shot at the top shelves, however these are the domain of boots and for some reason, boot designers assume that if you have a tiny size 7 foot you must then have the matching slim calf. After spending my formative years riding horses, taking ballet classes and spending more time trying out for cheerleading than I ever did on the squad, I have a solid, muscular calf that puts one in mind of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. So unless they're as stretchy as a month-old pair of Spanx, tall boots are not my thing.

Okay, now imagine that these racks are three feet apart and fill those aisles with at least 100 well-clad but ruthless women, at least 60% who don't speak English and thus don't understand "excuse me" and for fun, toss in about four rambunctious toddlers crawling between your legs and playing hide and seek on the lower shelf. Fun!

Which leaves me battling the ruthless munchkins for the few shoes that won't make me look like a hooker on stilts. Got the picture? Good! So once you've snagged a shoe or two, you step over to the side where a Barneys employee will go deep into the bowels of the backroom and try to find the mate to your shoe. Now, maybe this is true in love as it is in discount shoe shopping, but it seems like the longer you have to wait for your mate, the greater your desire for it. Even if you were on the fence before about the teal leather ankle strap with the wonky buckle. And inevitably, as with life and love, that mate cannot be found. At this point, your craving for the shoe implodes and you go off scouring the rack for another size, convincing yourself that the size 10 is just a wee bit big but you can live with it.

No time to deliberate on your shoe-buying decision while you meander through the rest of the sale, as your shoes must now be trussed up in their boxes like your granny's Thanksgiving turkey. Thus armed, and knowing you have popped your Warehouse Sale cherry, you can now proceed to the clothing...

Truly this is a case of separating the wheat from the chaff.

Like a high school reunion, some items are vaguely familiar, old acquaintances that you've bumped into on these racks in seasons past. Some are like poor one-eyed dogs at the pound, you just sense they want to find a home but the odds are not in their favor. There are concoctions of sequins and chiffon, dangling precauriously off their plastic hangers. I'm sorry, but it absolutely KILLS me to see women carelessly tossing extremely expensive clothing over rails and on the floor. There's enough metallic for Ziggy Stardust and Liberace. Oddly cut dresses by Belgian designers that are puzzles in themselves - "is this a sleeve or a neckhole and if it is the sleeve, where's the other one?" But in between the smudged white blouses and faux leather jeggings, you'll find a jem—a Lanvin dress, a YSL winter coat, a Dries jacket—and your heart soars. You hold your breath, flip the price tag over and chortle in delight! What was once $2,000 is now $250. And while you may think twice about spending that much on a brand new, bandbox fresh cashmere sweater at Bendels, it feels like you've just scored the greatest bargain since Manhattan was purchased for a handful of trinkets.

And that's why you have to be there the very first day of the Barneys Warehouse Sale. Oh, you'll be back, and you'll probably find even more treasures as the sale progresses (and the prices go down and they put out new merchandise and the crowds recede) but there's just something about being there on opening night...

"Listen to your body talk" - Olivia N. John

Typical thin and gorgeous West Village woman. My friend Susan lives on the Upper West Side and even she says "The people in your neighborhood are so much better looking than the people in mine!"

Photo by The Sartorialist

When you live in New York, especially in the West Village where models run wild like young giraffes (albeit with cigarettes and Eastern European accents), it's almost impossible not to be critical about your body. The quaint Mom-and-Pop shops and dusty antique stores on Bleecker Street have been replaced with high-end designer boutiques where a size 4 is considered a "medium," a 6 is a "large," and a size 8? Well, you'd better just give up and head to Magnolia Bakery for a box of Red Velvet cupcakes! (This may also be the reason a number of makeup stores now springing up overnight like mushrooms on Bleecker Street. After all, a new lipstick slips onto a size 12 as easily as a size 2.)

And yet, I've never really compared myself to those lithe beauties. They're like creatures from another planet where gravity doesn't squish them into average size Earth women. They're something pretty to look at, like a painting in a museum, but not something I can actually imagine seeing reflected back in my bathroom mirror. It's like when my solid little terrier Petey bumps into an Italian greyhound - we're simply two different breeds of the same species.

Since puberty, my body has always been in the figure fruit bowl as a "pear." Even when I went on an extreme diet and exercise program before my 30th birthday (what I like to call my "Fuck 30" regime), I still had curvy hips and thighs, despite the complete disappearance of my tits and the hollowing of my cheeks. So when I see photos of skinny celebs or models, I never sigh and think "oh, this could be me, if only I had a live-in personal trainer, a microbiotic home chef and just the slightest cocaine addiction...") Not that I've resigned myself to a lifetime of elastic waistbands and caftans, but I have realistic expectations of what my body —and will not— look like. Weighing 115 lbs. is not going to make my legs any longer or change the proportions of my waist-to-hip ratio. And I can live with that. Hopefully the next time around on this big blue marble, I'll have frizz-free naturally straight hair, slim hips and thighs, and no bags under my eyes. My only saddlebag will come from Louis Vuitton. But in the meantime. my body may not be ideal, but it works and it's healthy and fairly strong. So I'll work with what I've got.

Okay, so I don't imagine some towhead cherub/rug rat crawling up my perfectly toned shin, but this is pretty much what is running through my head when I'm working out. Okay, so my hair is shorter, otherwise, exactly the same.

That said, when it comes to exercising, I have the opposite of bad body image. (As opposed to those women you see at the gym with panicked looks on their sunken little faces, pounding out their fourth hour on the treadmill because, in a moment of weakness, they splurged and had half a bagel for breakfast and will now explode!)

Truthfully, I probably have too-good-of-a-body image. I'll do a single workout and I imagine I'm Cindy Crawford, straight off the cover of her exercise video. I've been taking Core Fusion classes at Exhale Spa at the Gansevoort Hotel in Meatpacking District (again, amid reed thin ex-model mommies and junior editors in their snug Lululemon yoga pants and racerback belly-baring tops) and one of the things I love about it is that there are no mirrors. No mirrors! Nothing to dissuade me from thinking I look like Cindy Crawford as I grimace my way through tricep curls. I'm Natalie Portman in Black Swan as I do my barre work "en pointe," instead of a lumpy 53 year old, tugging on her Nike workout pants. Of course, then I am shocked -- shocked I tell you! -- when I pass my reflection in a plate glass window. Where did Cindy go??? Oh well - I'll see her again at my next Core Fusion class.

The miraculous Norma Kamali "Bill" swimsuit.

This woman is actually 185 lbs. and a size 16. And she's in her 50's. See? I told you this was a good swimsuit! Actually my friend Sandy bought it last Spring for $300 (yes, Oprah has a few dozen of these babies) and was sooo pissed when I told her I'd ordered mine online for $98.

Worth every rib-crushing dollar.

Earlier this summer, my friend Natane asked if I'd be interested in sharing a beach house with her and another 1990's supermodel. These women are more than a decade younger than I am and oh, did I mention? They're former supermodels! Could I really face a summer of the two of them with their flawless, golden bodies, cavorting in tiny Lisa Fernandez bikinis? Meanwhile, I'd be slathering on SPF 1000 while wearing my Norma Kamali "Bill" suit, a retro one-piece with more internal power structure than the Pentagon. Seriously, this suit is flattering on every single body, but it also requires the Jaws of Life to remove it. Resign yourself to not drinking any beverages if you plan on wearing it poolside, as it will take a good 30 minutes (45 if it's damp from a swim) to squeeze all your body parts back into it. Could my ego really survive this trial by fire? Fortunately, I didn't have to decide as the summer share discussion faded away.

So now, with Labor Day tapping on the backdoor of August—and not a moment too soon—I can fold up my Bill swimsuit, along with thin tees and leg-baring shorts and nestle back into more figure-friendly layers of sweaters, leg-covering cords and neck-concealing scarves. Oh, I'll still keep up my Core Fusion regime and stay in touch with my inner Cindy Crawford, but winter is such a gentler, kinder season, when who knows what kind of physique is hiding underneath that oversize parka? It could be a Victoria's Secret model or it could be me! And until I reluctantly remove that parka, no one has to be the wiser!

Can you still call yourself a writer...

...if you haven't written more than a grocery list in weeks? That's been my dilemma lately. No new projects on the immediate horizon, not much interest in picking up where I've left off on older personal projects. (Kind of like that yellow cotton sweater I've been knitting for the past five years. I finally took it down to Hilton Head for a summer project. Brought in the one and a half sleeves, the back and the left side panel only to discover I've been purling wrong my entire life. So I ripped the whole damn thing out and started over. Three months later, about 1/4 of the back is done. Just not interested.)

My friend Michele used to date a handsome fellow named Stephen who would always answer that he was an actor when asked what he did for a living. Inevitably, the person would ask,"oh, have I seen you in anything? Movies? TV shows? Plays?" "No," he'd answer. "Well then, are you studying with someone, going to auditions, doing workshops?" "No," again came the reply. An exasperated Michele finally asked him, "Why do you keep saying you're an actor?" and he answered, "I'm an aspiring actor."

By this logic, I could be an aspiring princess. Or a race car driver. Or an astronaut. And perhaps I might just be one day.

But in the meantime, I'm still telling people I'm a writer. So maybe it's time to blow the dust off this old blog, shake the wrinkles out of the sheets and put some more ink in the cartridges and see if I still am a writer after all.

Stay tuned.

P.S. I've attached this photo I took of the Rialto Bridge in Venice this past March because sometimes I like to think I'm a photographer!