Last week, a woman who works with me had the moxie to insist I tell her the name of my perfume because her boss was going to be in Brussels next week and she wanted her boss to buy her some (she knew from previous conversations that you can't get this particular scent stateside . . well, you CAN at Colonial Drug in Cambridge but I wasn't about to tell her that).

And when I say insist, I mean press me back into my chair and breathe clam chowder/cigarette breath into my face and threaten me with bodily harm. I am of course a total weakling who runs from conflict so I caved when she promised to never wear it to work (yeah right-- let's see her keep that promise). But I ask you, a woman's perfume is sacrosanct, n'est-ce pas? Shouldn't the Harpies of feminine etiquette descend upon her with impunity for this infraction of the inviolable code? Yes, I thought so.

My thoughts have turned to style of late not in small part due to the discovery of a most sparkling blog, LaCoquette, whose banner urges me not to hate her for living in Paris but she need not worry. I won't hate her-- I shall stalk her-- I'll be her number one fan *maniacal laugher*.

Perhaps she will get some reprieve as one of her posts directed me here, where you can peruse the Spring Collection of zillions of designers. I have already spent far too much time here and am feeling the terrible pain of withdrawl. Getting dressed this morning after lusting over Marc Jacobs last night was, in a word, torture.

Yes, I have let my secret perfume out to the world, why not expose all and admit that Marc Jacobs has been designing for me yet due to a terrible curse that was put on my head during my christening when my parents, circus performers that they are, failed to invite the thirteenth fairy who cursed me to live in the north woods of an uncivilized country with no hope of ever fulfilling my birthright which is to wear the clothes of Marc Jacobs.

I did scan a couple of other favorites but they just didn't have it this season (no matter WHAT the reviews say-- the reviews are WRONG, I'm telling you). Armani?-- oh god the hats, the hats! Run run---- Stella McCartney? Please. If I put something from this season's Dries Van Noten in front of you right next to a Stella McCartney you would not be able to guess which was which. Nobody would-- plus they suck. Ugh. And that is a definitive opinion. Despite my accursed status.

Final point in this oh-so-rare post about clothes and shoppping (as opposed to dogs, woodstoves, life in the hinterland, and lamps made from whale tusks)? This is a link, I found chez Maud that shows you the political leanings of some of your favorite emporiums. Do with it what you will.

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