First of all, any kind of vintage clothing show weakens your defenses. In fact, I normally avoid them for just this reason: too much stuff, too many choices, and after a lifetime of thrifting the embarrassment of riches feels, well, embarrassing. And so I wandered the aisles, clutching a blue mohair turban, surrounded by eccentrics, and wishing I'd chosen to spend my Saturday a different way.

A ratty parasol caught my eye and I wandered over to inspect it. That's when she pounced.
"Oh my God," she said. "You have to try this dress. Will you try this dress? Look, David, she can totally fit into the dress. We've been waiting someone to try this dress."

She held up the dress. It was indescribable, although if I were to give it a shot, I'd have to say a 50's formal made in the image of a slutty shepherdess costume. With a corset. In gingham. I did not want to try it on. But I understood their dilemma; it was made for a short woman and if nothing else, I am short. Even so, I eyed it uneasily. "You don't have a dressing room," I said.

"You can put it on behind this," she said. Indicating a kimono hanging nearby. The kimono did not provide adequate cover, although given the population of the assemblage this was less of a concern than it might have been otherwise. I wrestled myself into the dress. It was tight; I had to suck in hard while the woman pulled the zipper and wrenched the corset strings cruelly tight. I stepped out and looked at myself.

The result was shocking. There I was, in a miniscule 50's formal slutty-shepherdess costume. Ruffles covered the bust. The skirt parted to reveal more ruffles, Marie Antoinette-style. Either some mid-century tramp had worn this for a theme dance or Mildred Baker, "Newberry Street" (sic), Boston, had let her creativity run wild on this one. I was speechless, appalled.

The booth's proprietors were also speechless, but apparently with awe. "It's perfect," breathed the woman - who, I should perhaps add, was wearing a men's sailor suit. "It was made for you," said her selling partner with conviction. "All you need are some hot boots." I did not find this reassuring. Then another woman came up. "Oh. My. God." She said. "That is amazing. You have to get it. You're getting it, right? Karen, come here. You have to see this." Karen approached. She was wearing a top hat. She, too, gasped in admiration. "If I could, I would wear that every day," she said.

I gave myself another look. Maybe it did look pretty good! "Well," I said uncertainly, "I don't have a Halloween costume..."

"Halloween!" gasped the first woman, as if I'd uttered a blasphemy. "You wouldn't waste that on Halloween! You could wear that anywhere!"

"It is unique..." I said.

"Oh, you won't find another one like that," said the proprietor confidently. "It was waiting for you."

"You could wear that to the clubs," said the "hot boots" guy. Never mind that I'd never been to "the clubs."

"It was made for you," repeated the owner. "I could do -" and she mentioned a figure I wouldn't normally have paid for something I liked, let alone this monstrosity. And yet, I felt my resolve weakening. Normally I am impervious to the hard sell, and my time in retail has given me nerve and cunning of my own. But they were so excited! Maybe it was the bright lights, the exhaustion, the row of letterman's sweaters and charm bracelets, but somehow I was starting to feel that I needed the dress.

"If you don't buy it," said one of the random women dramatically, "I will be devastated." She reached out and adjusted my breasts in the corset, then stepped back critically to survey her work. "Yes," she declared. "You need it."

"I should see what my friend thinks..." I said. I found my phone and tried her. She didn't pick up.

"We take credit cards," said the owner. She knocked off another five dollars.

"I'm just not sure it's me..." I tried.

"Are you kidding?" said one of them. "You are owning that! That could be from a fabulous designer with vintage edge." Her friend nodded enthusiastically. "A couturier," she added.

"Okay," I said defeated, with the feeling of making a mistake but buoyed by their evident excitement. "I'll do it. I'll do it." There was a collective cheer. My heart sank further as they ran the card and bundled the dress into a paper bag. "I am so glad," said one of the women, who was walking on. I gave her a wan smile. I was starting to feel the sick, unwholesome sensation on having spent too much, and not feeling good about it.

I hid the dress from my friend, whom I found examining a rack of scarves. Every time I felt the rustle of its crinoline my heart sank. Later I denied myself a delicious-looking piece of cake and a pair of kid gloves because I'd spent so much on the horrible slutty milkmaid dress.

When my boyfriend came home that night he found me staring blankly at Mother Angelica and clutching the dress in my hands.

"What's that?" he said carefully.

"Some old eccentrics pressured me into it," I said glumly, and held it up for his inspection. There was a long silence.

"Can you return it?" he said.

"No!" I wailed. "The show's over and they've gone back to Ohio! And I'd wear it for Halloween but I can't tell what it is! The only thing I can think of is how in Georgette Heyer novels there are always lots of trampy shepherdesses at masquerades, so maybe...I can be a 19th-Century demi-mondaine at a masquerade?"

He agreed this was a viable plan, but I could see he was being kind and anyway, knew that I'd been planning to dress as Norma Desmond.

I went to sleep, disconsolate. When I woke up, it was a new day - then I saw the dress hanging on the closet door, even worse than I remembered. But in the night, I had had a revelation. I would, I decided, do a high-concept costume. I would go as Folly. Because I would stand as a walking reminder to all who saw me. You really have to see it on - but you're not going to!

Disclosure, of course: I come from a thrifting family. Every Saturday morning was devoted to yard sales, church sales and a round of thrift stores. We shopped for what we needed, of course - the beginning of a new school year meant a visit to the really big SalVa in New Rochelle - but, as any thrift-shopper knows, it was also a treasure-hunt. Part of it was financial; my parents had been raised to thrift and saw no point in spending more when one could find the same clothes with a few hours' rummaging. But more than this was the spirit of adventure.

This was not all fun and games; I had my periods of yearning after Abercrombie and J. Crew, lord knows - and I do think my grandmother might have secretly wished her "shopping" could have been more than just looking though the sack of variegated sized her husband carted back triumphantly from the Naval Postgraduate thrift store. But these were skills that served me well.

There are, of course, two kinds of thrifters: those who shop for need, and those who shop for fun. And then the rest of us, who are somewhere in the middle, who may delight in the outrageous but will also wear it. It takes a while to get thrifting down. At first, many young people go through phases of such exhilaration at the proliferation of cheap, unique garments, that they exercise no restraint at all, putting together wild outfits for the sake of outrageousness, paying no attention to size, so excited at the existence of grotesque polyester dresses that it doesn't really occur to them that they don't really want to be wearing one. We have all been there; I'm thinking of my "40s housedresses" phase.

Over time, you learn where to go first (shoes and bags), how to run your hand down a rack of sweaters to feel for cashmere, how to change modestly under an enormous skirt, how to gauge what will fit, which smells will wash out (ie, not from velvet jackets) and that perspiration stains are forever. You learn what's worth reshaping or just safety-pinning and what will always just look cartoonishly big. You learn how rare a well-fitting pair of pants is, and that you'll never actually wear all those vintage aprons, except for maybe when you run a tag sale. You learn which friends not to shop with - those who are exactly your size - and who has the best eye. Obviously, you learn drop-off days and are there when the doors open.

This is a rite of passage for teenagers, a step towards independence and individuality and thrift. Sure, it's about creativity, but also involves very real lessons of economics and quality and the realities of others' lives, both those who have worn before and those who will wear again. There will always be those, of course, who are put off by used things - or at least require the laundering and sorting of a Crossroads or a vintage store. It's true that places like a warehouse in the Bronx, covered in piles of unwashed clothes, in which one rifled and paid by the pound (sadly, no more) are not for everyone. And I do draw the line at underwear (except in the case of a 50's bullet-bra in my size) But people who have not walked a mile in another's shoes, or sweater, or gas station overall (another common rookie temptation) have missed out on a lot. I'm glad that the kids quoted in the story are becoming bargain hunters. At the risk of upping the competitive ante, I hope it also means an upswing in what, in my day, we just called "shopping."

Losing Its Cool At The Mall [NY Times]

Related: National Thrift Store Directory [Official Site]

There's the Slutoween, um, slut. Take a word, add a "slutty" and you've got a costume, as we know from Mean Girls. This is obviously the lamest form of costume — although I should say I seriously considered going as a Slutty Montauk Creature this year. You've got couples in costumes; lame, conceptual, last-minute costumes; historical outfits; those who have weirdly good, costume-shop style costumes; the friend who wears the same thing every year (apparently Dodai is a perennial Dorothy Gayle); the group costume that makes no sense unless everyone is standing together; the silly costume; the cutesy costume; the scary costume; and the "topical": just a hunch, but we're thinking variations on Sarah Palin will be this year's Amy Winehouse.

For my part, I'm a proponent of the obscure costume, which maybe one person identifies correctly all evening — even though to me it always seems completely obvious. To this end, I have gone as a circa-68 Gloria Steinem, Joan Didion and Linda Pugasch. Costumes that allow me to wear my glasses are a plus. Despite passionate appeals for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and the Fitzgeralds, I have never successfully lobbied a boyfriend into a cutesy twofer.

Growing up, Halloween was a Big Deal in my house. In fact — maybe because my parents are of different faiths, rendering a lot of our observances literally half-assed — it was the one thing we really did up. Halloween meant an elaborately decorated house, hundreds of guests, two six-foot hero sandwiches whose dramatic delivery was a high point, marathon trick-or-treating, and, of course, elaborate costumes. My parents were not craftsy types who could whip things up the way some of my friends' moms did — but they were very supportive. (Luckily an artistic aunt did create one of the best World War I nurse's outfits ever.) My first Halloween was a humiliation. Being two, I was dressed as a round pumpkin, my suit stuffed with balloons. I still remember the chagrin of having to parade next to a glamorous four-year-old friend who was dressed as Faye Wray in King Kong. I vowed that never again would I submit to such indignity, and there followed a parade of fairies, cowgirls and, most memorably, Marie Antoinette (I was five.)

My brother and I never lost the bug. Last year (I was a Son of Sam victim) I ran across my brother, dressed in adult-sized footie pajamas unzipped halfway down his chest, unshaven, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"What?" he said laconically. "I'm a sexy baby."

It seems like Halloween has reached a fever pitch, like not dressing up is completely out of the question — whether or not you have plans. Perhaps in a Slutoween backlash, I have noticed a lot of friends are doing kid-style costumes. One is going as an ice cream sandwich. Maria reports that, like toddler Sadie, she will be a pumpkin — "not a 'sexy' pumpkin but a big, round and stuffed pumpkin with a happy face" — and a third lady is dressing as a (male) minotaur. Natch a few will be Palins. One is going as the Recession. One as Lehman Brothers. Dodai, one assumes, will be Dorothy.

People like to spout nonsense about costumes and masks and being someone different for a night, but it's less about pretending to be someone else than about you — obviously — choosing to pretend to be. That's how it is for kids, after all, even if the costumes have gotten crummier than I choose to believe they were 20 years ago. Last year I saw a little girl, four or five, dressed like a policewoman. She even had her name, Gomez, written on her little plastic badge. "Looking good, Officer!" called a mounted cop who was riding by. (Yeah, it was like four p.m.) The little girl's face lit up with pleasure; she was thrilled. Just then a Slutoween cop passed by in vinyl and fishnets (she was with a slutty nurse and a slutty angel.) The child's eyes widened; in confusion or admiration, I'm not sure. The whole vignette seemed like a pretty good illustration of modern all hollow's.

As to me, I'm currently deciding between Bella Abzug and Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8. Aging liberal icon or be-furred sex symbol? On Halloween, after all, we get to decide. And yes, sometimes it's a letdown.

Related: Sexy Halloween Costumes...For Little Girls? [LA Times]

Earlier: Maybe The Best Way To Handle Slutoween Is To Just Go With It

I've never really understood the thinking behind this kind of piece. I mean, I do, people read them, but they're fundamentally idiotic. Would I like to look like Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O? Um, yeah. Do I? Six inches and an empty bank account say No. That said, I totally get the attraction to the idea of taking something really complicated, like self-expression, and breaking it down into a few simple rules.

A few people have written to ask if I have some tips along these lines. This has prompted me to dole out the one piece of practical fashion advice I will ever attempt to dole out, ever. If you don't want to read something kind of FashMag, avoid the bracketed portion below. Because, as it happens, I do have a tip. Wait for it.

Know your era. Learn this and you've done half the work.

If you go through the major fashion eras of the 20th C, you'll see that different silhouettes and body types were in vogue. Find the one that matches you. (I guess if you want to wear a toga or something that's your prerogative too, but I'm limiting this to the past century.) I'm not saying go around in costume; rather, modern fashion is so friggin' PoMo that every shape is referencing some era anyway, and it's possible to come across virtually any shape in the current marketplace. Skinny? 20s and 60s. Curves? Go for 50s, sexy 70s or 80s. It's not rocket surgery, as my beef would say, but it's foolproof.

I, for one, am a 1940s and a 1970s. The high-waisted trousers and fitted shapes of those eras just work for me. (And sure there are multiple styles within an era: I'm talking more Network than caftan.) I'm too short for the volume of the 50s and too curvy for mod or flapper. What's more, my curly hair and glasses works with these shapes. This is not to say this is the era to which I'm most attracted: if I could do some streamlined Jean Seberg thing, I'd do it in a second. But two little things called breasts have always gotten in my way. In any case, I like the limitation; it makes choices way easier. I'm not saying you can't experiment, but if you want a formula, that's the best I know. ]

I also think it's a pernicious myth that everyone needs to cultivate some earth-shattering 'personal style' look. You don't, any more than you need to excel at archery or confectionary. Very few people have the skill. Unlike these things, however, everyone does need to wear clothes, so you might as well find what works for you. It's hard nowadays because there are so many cut-rate versions of every absurd high-fash trend, each one presenting the appearance of fashion virtuosity in a mass-marketed $15 package. And ironically enough, this preoccupation with fashion icons, and modeling ourselves upon them, seems to have grown apace with the galloping low-end ready-to-wear market, that's done as much to homogenize our aesthetic as McDonald's has to ruin our diet. No wonder InStyle's lame quizzes sell. I remember being totally overwhelmed when I was younger not just by the pressure to look okay but to somehow express my interestingness and creativity via what I wore, and the best advice I can give anybody in my capacity as former horrible dresser, bespectacled woman and retail professional is to ignore what my mother calls 'the herd of independent minds' screaming at you to define yourself, choose an era and keep your head down. Fashion is not particularly accessible, but clothes are. So begins and ends my glorious career as service piece writer - but I do hope that helps!

Star Style Profiles [InStyle]
Related: Getting Back In Style [WWD]

When I was first approached about this guest-blogging job, I worried I wasn't qualified. Although I've always loved fashion and been fascinated by how people choose to present themselves, I'm no fashionista. I follow high fashion the same way I do the Mets: as an amazing art form that doesn't have any relationship to my everyday life. Someone commented yesterday, "Jen was sophisticated and relevant. You are not." I can't pretend I wasn't terribly hurt, but at the same time, I knew the commenter was essentially right. At the end of the day, I'm just a goofball who likes clothes, and I’d certainly hate to pretend otherwise.

I don’t come from a fashionable family. In my house, it was understood that clothes were frivolous, a mere means of keeping warm, on a par with trashy TV and Babysitters Club novels. My mother, a feminist and intellectual, frequently spoke slightingly of those “self-absorbed” women who devoted themselves to grooming and clothes rather than the life of the mind. When we did our annual school shopping, it was at the Salvation Army. Fashion, when acknowledged at all, was regarded as patently absurd: sinfully expensive items made for and by pretentious morons who perpetuated dangerous beauty ideals.

Although I dutifully got in line with my family’s morally superior attitude, from an early age I was secretly drawn to the world of clothes, reveling in dress-up and doll fashion, and noting the outfits I saw on the street. Of course, I was ashamed of these shallow leanings. I remember snaking clandestine peaks at the Vogues in the dentist’s office, marveling at the beauty of the clothes even as I gaped at their prices.

In a sense, my mother could afford her principles; hers was the sort of natural beauty that needed no adornment. But as I grew up, it became clear that I had not hit this genetic jackpot. Whereas my mother’s height and lean lines looked dashing even in sweats, I, five inches shorter and considerably curvier, looked dumpy in the same clothes. Where her straight, thick hair looked elegant after her $20 Supercuts trims, my own curls turned into a frizzy mushroom. And if her high cheekbones and natural tan didn’t need the enhancement of nature, my pallor and pale lashes most certainly did.

As I moved into high school, I knew I looked awful, but I literally had no idea how to go about fixing it. Even if I had, I didn’t have any money and was dependent on my parents for transportation. Asking for funds for clothes was unthinkable; I’d have died before I let on that I was any less high-minded than they. I pretended scorn for the girls in my school who wore artfully applied makeup and dainty, expensive clothes, yet I yearned for their sartorial ease.

When I got a bit older, I started thrifting on my own and experimenting with clothes a bit. I began to learn the structured shapes that worked for my body and to realize that even if I loved the idea of something, did not mean it was for me. More importantly, I had a major revelation: it takes as much time and effort to buy clothes that look bad as something that fits and flatters. As long as one has to wear clothes, there is no reason you shouldn’t spend that energy wisely. I ran across a great quote in a Georgette Heyer novel: “Of course there are more important things than clothes. But not when one is getting dressed.”

I was helped along in this by a naturally stylish friend who, although a serious scientist, took tremendous, unashamed pleasure in putting together the exuberant looks that were her trademark. Clothes were, for her, a means of expressing her creativity, and she did so unashamedly. I came to see that my dismissive moral indignation was no more admirable a stance than revering labels for their own sake. Both are, essentially, a form of judgmental intellectual arrogance.

Late in my teens, I took a part-time job at an antique clothing store. It was a revelation to me. I became fascinated by the artistry and history of the garments, their function and workmanship. For the first time, I came to understand the point of couture – an evolving art form with real-world reflections and ramifications. This is not to say that I started saving for labels; such a thing has never been within my means and I found too much about the world of privilege surrounding fashion unappealing to ever want to be part of it. Unlike most art forms, high fashion has a highly accessible and practical alternative – a cheaper version for the rest of us – and this is inherently alienating. However, I grew to love the clothes as objects in themselves, and found observing their adaptation to real life to be fascinating.

I had a hard time articulating these evolving ideas to my family. It was simply not within my mother to enjoy any form of physical self-expression; she had defined herself for too long as someone who didn’t care about how she looked and to challenge this would have been to undermine a great deal of who she was. She viewed my ever-more elaborate outfits and increasingly expensive haircuts with growing incredulity. When I got a weekend job in a high-end boutique, I could tell that it baffled her.

Then one day, I realized that I cared about clothes. A lot. I thought about them the same way I did the books I read and the movies I loved. It seemed to me amazing that one could transform oneself willfully – that everyone has this much control over how they are perceived in the world. A lot of my friends still found this interest frivolous, but came to see that it didn’t compromise anything else – and, from my perspective, broadened and deepened my interests.

So, when the opportunity came to guest-blog here, I decided to do it. I knew that I couldn’t set myself up as an authority; just try to share my enthusiasms, talk about the way real people dress and, if possible, do so without unkindness. When my mom called me this morning to tell me she’d been enjoying what I wrote, I can’t tell you how happy I was. Oh, and we made a date to go shopping.

While other girls breezed through their skirts, I required as much supervision as the slowest boy, toiling over his cotton tie in the corner. I still have that tiny skirt, and with it the distinct impression that dressmaking, like pastry-making, is a skill fundamentally unsuited to my personality. Not that it's stopped me. Over the years I've turned out a few horrible-looking tunics and wrap skirts that I've sported with impunity, ready to boast about my skills - not that anyone was asking. And when one is short and poor, alteration of thrifted purchases is a reality of life. ('Alteration' in this case also applies to safety pins and double-stick tape - of which I am a mistress.)

When I got marginally-better-heeled, I became a fanatical hemmer. The cheapest skirt, the crummiest pair of pants — nothing was too lame to be spared the dry cleaner's pinking shears. The very act of customizing, no matter how superficial, made me feel well-tailored and responsible. More to the point, hemming is a kind of magic; I cringe walking down the street as I see women whose silhouettes would be improved 200% by a half-inch and $8.

I recently made my first foray into custom tailoring. I loved the idea of something unique that fit my tricky figure perfectly, and I had long been in possession of a vintage pattern for a day dress. I dreamed of it in a rich wool jersey, envisioning myself transformed into a chic Best-of-Everything martini swigger who wrapped executives around her daintily-manicured finger. Fabric is way, way more expensive than you think it will be, but by scouring the menswear stores (and 'scouring' means walking a few feet into the first one I saw) I found one I liked. The tailor was, as usual, my dry-cleaner, Helen. I was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of my new dress — which, while pricey, was still better than what I would have paid off the rack. Should I have been concerned about the language barrier? Should I have worried when she didn't seem interested in the still of Myrna Loy in The Best Years of Our Lives (in a dinner dress which has a perfect neckline) I brought her? Should I have considered whether maybe the willowy drawing on the packet's cover was not an accurate representation? Perhaps. In any event, the garment I received from Helen was not what I expected. When I put it on, I was transformed — into a Mormon fundamentalist on a really bad day.

Scarred by this experience, I have reverted to Plan A and signed up for a sewing machine-skills class offered by some local hipster at a fashion school. I am dreading it. But at the very least I'll be able to handle that 1/2" myself. And one day — one day — I will be able to say "this-old-thing-i-made-it" without, you know, having forced someone to compliment a crudely-sewn burlap sack.

Dress1
The first was from Urban Outfitters. I bought it the August before my freshman year of college: a synthetic black party dress with a vaguely '70s cut, sweetheart neck and an attached Lycra underdress. The moment I put The Dress on, I saw in the mirror the college woman I wanted to be: not the nerdy, frowsy frump who'd been ignored by a high school crush and shopped for clothes with my mom at the local Salvation Army, but a sophisticated woman of the world with a vaguely curvaceous figure. I first wore The Dress to a New York event for entering students, and as I donned it I donned too the new persona: confident and assured. I wore The Dress every chance I got. I am convinced The Dress netted me a boyfriend. I wore it to parties and lectures, in New York and Chicago, whenever I needed to feel pretty or adult or confident. Being cheap, the dress quickly showed the effects of this wear and before long its sleek lines were marred by the lumpy proof of my inexpert repairs. But its magic remained undimmed. Then, one day when I was 21, I lost the dress. I don't know how, or where, except that it was somewhere in London. But The Dress's work was done, and it had disappeared, never to be seen again.

Dress 2
It was three years before I found The Dress's heir apparent. Dress2 was a more sophisticated affair altogether; in fact, it was the most expensive single piece of clothing I'd ever owned. It was brown wool, severely tailored, with a tulip skirt that clung and then flared, and a high neckline saved from dowdiness by a keyhole and a series of gold buttons at neck and wrist. I coveted Dress2 for months before saving up enough to buy it on sale. Dress2 entered my life around the time I took an office job, and it seemed to me the perfect uniform for an efficient and asexual Girl Friday. Dress2 became my trademark around the office, and lent itself to the slightly arcane wisecracking patois I favored at that period. My boyfriend was out of the country that year, and I liked that the dress signaled that I was independent and unavailable. Dress2 made me feel like a million bucks. Then one day my boss showed up at work. "I have a new dress," she said casually, and removed her coat to reveal - Dress2. Albeit on a taller and altogether more stunning frame. I was dumbfounded and hurt. I retired Dress2 and got another job. In due course, Dress2 also disappeared. In a move, perhaps? I combed my apartment for weeks hoping it might turn up, but its work, too, was done.

Dress 3
Dress3 came into my life at an especially low point. For the past few months I'd been nursing a badly broken heart. I was scrawny and ill-groomed. For my birthday, the owner of the clothing shop where I worked gave me Dress3. I'd been coveting it for months, but broke from getting my own place, I'd been unable to do more than gaze at it longingly. When I opened the box and saw Dress3 staring up at me, tears came to my eyes. It was the beginning of a new era. Dress3 is the most utilitarian of the three. It's a denim shirtwaist dress with a faint primary-colored check and a sash. Dress3 is a sleeper: you don't notice it, just the woman beneath. When I first got it, I wore it everywhere, at least three days a week. When I started dating, I wore it for dates. I was wearing it when I ran into my ex and his new girlfriend. I was wearing it when I had my first kiss with the guy to whom I'm now engaged. And when I met his family. It's getting worn around the edges now, but I still reach for it whenever I need to feel confident or need an outfit that expresses just who I am, right now. I fear that one day soon Dress3 is going to disappear, which is part of the reason I've done the unprecedented and taken its picture for posterity. (It is pictured above.) That said, I'm keeping a close eye on it.

The shock swap:

"I had just moved to New York and didn’t know a lot of people; I was also pretty broke so when a friend-of-a-friend told em about this clothing swap, it sounded great. But when I got there, every single girl – literally all of them – was like a size triple zero. There was no way I was going to fit into any of this stuff, and they all looked at me with pity. Also, all their things were really nice – like, designer labels – and no one was touching my three-year-old Target and H&M – even if they could have fit into it. I felt so bad leaving that place."

The cut-throat swap:

"My friends decided to organize a clothing swap, which sounded good, since I had some stuff piling up and I wanted to give friends first dibs before I brought it to the GoodWill. Also, a bunch of us are around the same size, so we all knew we could probably come away with something. I was really psyched that this one friend, Julie, was going to be there since she has amazing style and lots of cool vintage stuff she’s found at thrift stores. When I got there, though, I saw that everyone had the same idea. We were all looking at Julie’s pile covetously. Things quickly got really competitive-like, people jumping in to grab things. One girl tried to cut a deal in the kitchen with Julie for some of the best stuff, which is so not cool. It took a while for the rifts to heal from that particular clothing swap."

The pity swap:

"Some of my coworkers organized a clothing swap: big mistake. It was like the worst of all worlds – not friends, but not strangers either. We were all being super-polite to each other, and th pressure was on to take something from everyone, just to be collegial. I ended up with all this stuff I didn’t want at all, just because I didn’t want to offend these people I have to see every day. This one woman kept being like, 'I'm sure you're all too stylish to want anything of mine,' so then of course we all had to take her skorts and Christmas sweaters. The worst part was, since we all worked together, we were hyper-aware of what everybody was wearing and not wearing in the coming weeks. This one girl actually said to me, 'I notice you haven’t worn that vest I brought to the clothing swap. That was a really expensive vest, you know.' Result: we all walked around in these totally bizarre outfits for, like, a month, until the sensitivity had died down."

Swap at your own risk, friends. For my part, the SalvA is my friend.

Lindsay Lohan launches Visa Swap 2008 [Elle UK}

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I mean, isn't avant-garde knitwear all the rage? Isn't the new M Missoni line the biggest thing on the fashion grapevine? And they pale before the kaleidoscopic wonder of the Classic Cos.

You could argue that, as I write, I am wearing an electric-blue turban from the Wig Factory in San Francisco. And you wouldn't be wrong. But those sweaters are friggin' avant-garde, awesomely inventive garments, and I for one am not going to let my snobbery blind me to their potential. Of course, the price tag's a little steep; I'm obviously going to, as usual, spring for a knockoff. (SalVa here I come.) And I envy the lucky fashionista who wises up and wins the real thing. Oh, and if you think I am joking: before this week is out I will acquire just such a Cosby-inspired look and post a picture for you!

Does No One Want Bill Cosby's Sweaters? [New York Magazine]

1. Flattered. Most women fall into this category, and will give you a straight answer.

2. Self-deprecating. These women do some variation of the "Oh, it's just from Target/H&M/Forever 21." Despite their deceptive humility, these answers can in fact contain a grain of self-congratulation at the speaker's discernment and bargain-savvy.

3. Gloating. Here we have the, "I got it 80% off at a Marc Jacobs sample sale!" type, eager for a chance to boast.

4. Smug. "It's vintage." Sometimes un-asked-for details about the garment's provenance will be given here. Garments made by hipster/artisan friends of the wearer also fall into this category.

5. Sheepish/uncomfortable. This only applies to those sporting designer items that they figure you can't afford.

6. Obnoxious. "I got it in Berlin." Even if true (rarely) this is, for some reason, always objectionable.

7. Paranoid. "You won't be able to find it." In fairness, I only had this happen once.

My own style is a combination of smugness, flattery and oversharing. So thrilled am I by any compliment that I become pathetically confidential, wont to write out unsolicited lists of stores and websites, draw maps of flea markets and wink inappropriately. I think the dame in question was kinda glad to be getting off at the next stop. (For the record, "askliment" is really not catching on. Even in my own mind. It just screams "ass!" over and over, even though it knows it's an awesome composite neologism. Please share any better ideas.)