fitforafemme.com

When: Sunday, Nov. 30th, 2008.

What: Light blue turtleneck by Nine West, royal blue cropped linen jacket by Persaman NYC, Laundry by Shelli Segal trousers and suede and patent boots by Restricted. Awesome bag of unknown, thrifted origin, and flower pin in shades of gray with crystals also unknown, but just because I don’t remember. Anyway, this was my outfit for our impromptu date night to go and see the new Jason Statham movie, Transporter 3, at Kadinsky’s urging over at BCP.

Scent: Valentino’s Rock ‘N Rose. It tells me that I am a rose on the outside and a rocker on the inside. I don’t know what that means, but M picked this out for me on another notorious date night, and it’s nice. The notes are: Bergamot, Black Currant, Crunch Green, Orange Blossom, Gardenia, Muguet, Rose, Sandalwood, Orris, Musky Notes, Vanilla, Heliotrope. It isn’t floral, save rose, and the rose itself is a very pure note with almost no trace of sweetness whatever. M likes it as well but she disagrees, saying she can detect the other florals. It’s unapologetically feminine, very French, almost – thus I believe Rock ‘N Rose to be a bit of a misnomer. It’s what Emmanuelle Béart ought to smell like (I’ll demonstrate Herculean self-restraint and post something other than her French Vogue cover):

Confession: The other night M & I met a friend of ours to shoot pool and imbibe at the White Horse Inn, the oldest gay bar in Oakland. We’re all pretty terrible at pool, so once it was clear that we were losing a game, we’d simply try and harass our opponents into submission, at which point it became even clearer that our opponents enjoyed the harassment at least as much as they enjoyed winning. Midway through the night, M was busy writing her name in huge letters on the chalkboard, having been accused of not signing up properly. When I say ‘huge,’ I mean she left no room for any other names whatsoever. She was interrupted, however, by a 31-year-old with alleged $40K dental bills who asked M if she was wearing fleece.

(Insert sound of record scratching here.)

M (to stranger who asked about fleece): Do not ever speak to me again.
Stranger: What? Why? Did I say something wrong?
Femme (having walked over, sensing M’s belligerence escalate): What did you say to her?
M (pointing at stranger): She is never to speak to me again. Do not let her speak to me.
Femme: Why?
M (v. clearly enuciated): She asked me if I was wearing fleece.
Femme: (Sucks in breath, gives stranger a scolding look.) Nevermind, bebe. It’s your turn. Go on. (M sulks off, ignoring stranger completely.)
Stranger: What did I say to her? What’s wrong with fleece? I don’t get it.
Femme: She would never wear fleece. It’s insulting.
Stranger: What? I didn’t know. I mean, I know fleece isn’t super fashionable or anything, but…
Femme: Never. Ever. It’s OK, you didn’t know. Now you know.
Stranger: I sometimes wear fleece!
Femme: I’m sure that’s very nice for you, and probably only you.
Stranger: I mean, it’s always a last resort.
Femme: There’s a reason for that. Obviously.
Stranger: But it’s practical.
Femme: (Scowls in disgust.) Like that’s an excuse.

Anyway, I made an attempt to continue communicating the fleece issue but didn’t get very far. I realized today that I should have just explained that asking us if we wear fleece is like asking a foodie if they garnish their delicious gourmet dinners with Velveeta. Or used canned vegetables. DON’T DO IT. Only small children and non-Californians in hostile climates should be allowed. (Note: We are not foodies.) His ‘n hers fleece is HELLA especially not allowed:

When: Thanksgiving Day, 2008.

Femme What: Sweater dress by Dolce, green belted trench by Do & Be, brown chevron tights from Old Navy. Skinny brown belt by Elie Tahari, olive green knit socks by some fancy Italians (I can’t remember the brand, sob) and Donald J. Pliner boots. For the trek to the actual river, I wore my awesome “hiking” boots from El Mexico. They are the only boots, aside from my Noconas, that haven’t got a 4″ min. heel!

Femme Scent: Serge Lutens Chêne, of course.

Femme Confession: I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday weekend. My top three thanks, for the record: My precious girls. My resilient health, while it lasts. The dearest, most clever, loyal and affectionate friends a girl could wish for.

Tomboy What: Awesome bear sweater from Express, shirt from Banana Republic (with vintage fleur-de-lys cuff links – a bit much, I KNOW), brown label jeans from Lounge, and brown boots from Harley-Davidson.

Tomboy Confession: I started the day with a completely different outfit: black slacks, a black blazer and the same green shirt (silver and black griffin cuff links from Ben Sherman instead of gold fleur-de-lys ones) and black boots. I only changed because my black boots are too faggy, they provide absolutely no traction! Since the trek down to the river is the absolute highlight of my dogs’ lives, I changed into something more “outdoorsy.”

Second Tomboy Confession: I ate about 100 grapes from the vines to and from the river!

When: Tuesday, Nov. 25th, 2008.

What: (Let’s start from the bottom, shall we?) Red leather pumps with ankle strap, Nine West. Black knee socks, Betsey Johnson. Black jersey skirt, Sylvie & Mado. Black keyhole turtleneck, Nine West. Blue cardigan from Buffalo by David Bitton. Belt, thrifted. Red wool coat, vintage I. Magnin. Leather argyle cuff from Grove St. Kids in Berkeley and feather headband from modcloth.com. (For the Bangmaster: The Grape Lakes by OPI.)

Scent: Today I am wearing Guerlain Insolence, which M gave to me on one of our dates a year or more ago. (She gives me fantastic little date night gifts every once in awhile. It’s lovely.) It is described on Sephora like so: “Exuberant notes of violet are accompanied by jubilant red berries like raspberry. A hint of orange blossom and rose impart a striking intensity, while sensual iris and tonka bean resins finish the scent, making Insolence the ultimate luxury fragrance.”

It is very sweet, if you are familiar with it, then yes, this is definitely a fragrance martini with a generous shot of Guerlinade. The staying power is wonderful, it just kind of floats around you, a very soft and very feminine and very pink perfume. I stood in front of all my many bottles and decants and vials this morning, hesitating, and then (who knows why, perhaps because of a frisky morning) I realized of course the Insolence!

Confession: Being a (temporary) housewife/housefemme is HARD, yo. I just got home from the bank, the drycleaners, selling 3 bags of the petite’s clothes to a resale shop where she “made” $40, getting gas, exchanging some not-so-goodies for goodies at Sephora (Kinerase Clear Skin Moisture Light & I are friends again, Kat Von D lipstick in Lolita, the Tarte limited edition Tres Cheek 3-piece set), lunch at Pasta Pomodoro (kids eat free on Tuesdays, apparently) and Claire’s, where I procured a satin ivory bow headband. That was all after a very pleasant (read: morning sex FTW) morning. SCORE. Anyway, it was very busy, and now you’ll have to excuse me, as I have to take the pork chops out of the oven, and serve them to my family with applesauce and delicious stuffing. And Ketel One cosmos, of course. Oh, and soft, fresh vanilla cupcakes with a huge dollop of cream cheese frosting for dessert. Wish you were here!

When: Sunday, Nov. 23rd, 2008.

What: Dry aged denim by James Cured by Seun Jeans with black cotton tank by Michael Stars. This short-sleeved, striped cardigan is from Italy and I got it thrifted! I love it and want to wear it with a sexy black pencil skirt, belted. Black leather heels are by Guess.

Confession: This morning we had to get up terribly early. It was godawful, but it lead to a delicious brunch in Rockridge at Citron, an elegant little bistro with authentic French and Mediterranean dishes. I had a poinsettia (like a mimosa, but with cranberry juice instead) and the Fall pumpkin pancakes with whipped butter, Vermont maple syrup and a side of breakfast potatoes. The tomboy had a mimosa with chilaquiles verde: slow roasted pork with eggs, spicy salsa verde and guac, crema and potatoes. After we ordered, they brought us tiny beignets to tide us over! It was all so, so good. This puppy kept us company, and we sat outside of another cafe in the sun to read the SF Chronicle for a little while:

When: Friday, Nov. 21st, 2008.

What: Velvet “Black Fairy” dress with ribbon trim and embroidery by Free People, white cotton blouse with cascading black satin bows and black bow headband by H&M, peacock tights from modcloth.com. Onyx pendant, vintage. Charles David ‘Butane’ boots.

Scent: Serge Lutens Chêne – Most beautiful and exquisite scent, I love you I love you I love you, and I cannot possibly live without you. I love this so much that I spent an ungodly amount earlier this year to buy the exclusive Paris bell jar, pictured below. (The bell jars can only be purchased in Paris or strictly shipped within Europe from the Paris boutique, as I understand it. The exports, including the export exclusives, are in rectangular bottles.) The notes include cedar crystals, wood sap, black thyme, immortelle, beeswax, silver birch, rum absolute and tonka bean.

M says that it smells like the rebirth of a forest after it’s been burned down. I suppose one of the reasons that I am so fond of it – aside from the fact that it is perfectly executed – is that it reminds me of walking through Dry Creek’s vineyards on Thanksgivings at the Russian River. When the air is cold and still and the sound of the river is close by, recently emboldened with late Fall rain, coursing through its bends and curves between ravines and wide panels of gray rock. The towering trees covered with moss, the oaks and cedars and lizards scurrying underfoot, and smoke from fires burning in happily filled homes on nearby acres all mixing into this calm and perfect cocktail of scent in my memory.

Chêne captures all of that. It captures those most happy and content of days that have endured through all twenty-eight years of my life. Since I am in so many ways an orphan, I can climb into Chêne like it is “home.” The staying power is amazing and requires a light hand. I’m getting up the nerve to layer it with some of my florals, too. I disagree with the majority who think this isn’t a very wearable scent, or that it leans toward the masculine side.

Confession: So, my fancy outfit! Last night there was a birthday party for a dear friend of mine at Metro, a gay bar in the Castro. It turns out the old Metro is now the Lookout, and the new Metro is an unmarked, pleasant hole-in-the-wall further down on Market St. So, gift in hand, I trudged past Cafe du Nord (a wonderfully dirty-luxe and intimate place to see a show) and the Lucky 13 and finally found it. I had a good time and got to catch up with folks I haven’t seen in a long while. I also had a fascinating conversation with a 40-something bisexual male (currently with an adorable boyfriend) and some gays as a sort of follow-up to BCP’s Sugar Walls conversation on bisexual women in the lesbian community. More on that later! I’m getting back into bed with my loverbird…

When: Thurs., Nov. 20th, 2008.

What: Train t-shirt by Fun-Tees, vintage. Dry aged denim by James Cured by Seun Jeans.

Scent: Gucci by Gucci EDP! (Just to clarify, everything reviewed thus far has been EDP. Well, it matters.) The description from Sephora is a mouthful, so here are the notes for this particular Chypre: Guava, Pear, Tahitian Tiare Flower, Musk, Honey, Patchouli. That’s all well and good, but when I put this on all I feel is like I am a simple country girl swinging on a tree rope barefoot and the only thing that matters is that the sky is blue, the birds are singing and I am alive. (That is a very good thing.) For all those elements, that is the final note for me. It’s lovely. Alas, I let some Saks gay talk me into buying Burberry’s The Beat (to be reviewed at a later time) instead of this, and I regret that deeply. I don’t know what it is, but it’s just so soft and natural, like sweet hay or a dewy morning or burying your face in your lover’s skin with the sun beating down on you at the Pacific. Comfortable, but deliciously so.

Confession: I’m mostly joking with this outfit, I mean, I don’t want y’all to worry. I’m still going to bring it, but today I spent three hrs. deep-conditioning my hair and appx. 1.5 hrs. soaking in a lavender bath with Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace and a glass of champagne. I also made, entirely from scratch, the most delicious fucking beef brisket stew ever. It was perfect. So, re: this outfit in which I don’t even bother to wear shoes, I feel that I earned it!

Anyway, I don’t own too many t-shirts that aren’t, like, band shirts. This one with the train is M’s favorite. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because it’s so terribly old and worn that it’s practically see-through. It is very soft and comfortable, I’ll admit. I stole it from my stepdad’s lakehouse at least 14 years ago, which means that it’s at least twice that old. (I’m guessing about as old as the vintage Playboys that were always laying around there, too.)

When: Wednesday, Nov. 19th, 2008.

What: Pretty chrysanthemum print wrap dress by BCBG Max Azria, with black tights and dark brown socks layered under my Donald J. Pliner boots. Vintage onyx pendant, feathered headband from Target. I really think the new coat at modcloth.com would be cute over this, in a “more is more” kind of way:

Scent: Today was an Agent Provocateur day. Hopefully, we all know the brand. It’s the classic scent, described as “a modern classic combining saffron oil from India, Egyptian Jasmine and Vetivert from Haiti amongst other exotic elements.” It’s nice enough. When I first received it, I didn’t quite get enough sexy from it, but it’s definitely not sugary sweet. There is that. (Things that aren’t “supposed” to get sweet or powdery often become that way as a result of some cursed skin chemistry of mine.) It goes on a bit sharply, but perhaps the jasmine smooths it out and makes it the scent equivalent of a sexy, dirty look across a crowded room. Not hostile, but not very nice, either.

Confession: This says it all for today:

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