I watch TV as part of my job. Rather, I really leave it on in the background, keeping one ear on it while I check out newspapers online. The channel I watch is a local news station of middling calibre, which means I've been hearing the trailer for Confess . . . (More)

Oh New York Times Style Section, you are so blithely ridiculous, it's nearly enviable: you publish a cheeky, whimsical article on how women may endure this economically difficult holiday season by dressing in flashy, metallic dresses with hemlines up to Here, gams v. the ghosts of gloom. The fr . . . (More)

A dress of warm, light comfort: pale grey knit, a fine silken wool that invites appreciative fingers. An attractive gathering at the bust (that is to say, gathering attraction). Little puffed sleeves that insist on slipping off the shoulders. Textured banding along a deep neckline in the fr . . . (More)

Twisting around to attach the rear garter tabs to the tops of one's stockings is trying enough, but keeping one's seams straight is some near-impossible shit.

White camisole. Pink fleece sweater. Brown corduroy jeans. I feel like a carton of Neapolitan ice cream.

There's a tendency for alien underwear to creep into my collection now and again, usually my mother's, who used to buy the same Hanes as I did and which created all sorts of awkward, cringeworthy problems. (I've long since acquired a large distinct batch and defined clear borders, so I may return . . . (More)