What We Want for Mother's Day (Hint, Hint)

My friend and I were walking around Pamela Robbins the other day after lunch, wandering aimlessly, touching pretty things, chatting with the sales help and the other customers.  Amy was interested in a ring from the jewelry case and I, not surprisingly, had found another scarf I liked in the window.

            

Amy tried on the ring.  “What do you think?” she asked, extending her arm to arm’s length and moving her head back and forth.  A group huddled around her hand and decided that the ring was fab.  We immediately agreed that she must have it.  Now. 

            

(“We” might be enablers of sorts, but that’s not for today’s article.)

           

“Do you think I can buy it and then have my husband give it to me for Mother’s Day?”  Amy asked.

            

Of course, we all agreed.  Doing that takes the pressure off him and it guarantees that you’ll get a nice little something that you’ll truly enjoy…since you picked it out yourself!

There are people who would disagree with me about this.  Continue reading here.

Plastic is Fantastic!

When I was growing up, my parents did a lot of summer entertaining, before they divorced and ruined all the fun.  Our house in Edgemont had a pretty backyard with a pool.  Since my birthday is on July 3^rd, we often hosted outdoor birthday parties, end-of-the-year school class parties, and elaborate Independence weekend fetes back-to-back for the first part of the summer season. 

In fact, I recall the time between Memorial Day and July 4^th as one big party.

My now long-deceased Bichon Frise, Ellie, would agree, having spent much of that time sipping margaritas from the half-filled cups left next to people’s lounge chairs and then falling asleep in the shade.  

Of note, there was the bat mitzvah outdoor brunch with an omelet station, the Sweet Sixteen party to which I wore a rockin’ white, Oscar de la Renta bathing suit, and a Club Med party, during which my father burned his exposed stomach by grilling without a shirt. 

For my mother, these parties were all about setting the table. Continue reading here....

The Perfect Accessory: a husband or a scarf?

“Brett,” I ask my husband, “What’s the weather like today?”  He has just come in from a brisk run and is panting a bit.

            

“It’s nice,” he says, a slight hesitation to his voice.  He knows what’s coming next.

            

“Nice cool or nice warm?”  I ask.  “Should I wear a jacket?  A sweater?  Just a scarf over my t-shirt?  Or, like, a scarf and a sweater?”

            

Brett ignores my questions and walks past me.  “I’m going to take a shower.”

           

“Maybe my leather jacket?!” I call up the stairs after him, but he does not reply.

            

My husband of 13 years does not reply because he knows me too well.  He knows that I am hardly ever satisfied with my preparations for the weather and that, somehow, this is his fault.  Click here to read the rest on The Huffington Post.

            

The Sandal Revolution

The box arrived from Bloomingdale’s just as my husband, Brett, was walking out the door to attend a neighborhood meeting one evening.  That’s bad timing, when the UPS guy comes face-to-face with one’s husband.  The uniformed man stands at your doorstep, a guilty look on his face, as he hands over the goods.  He knows the rules.  He knows he’s supposed to drop the package when your husband is either a) at work, b) at the gym, or c) has left the house precisely eight minutes ago, but sometimes he screws up and gets caught.  The husband looks at the return address on the box, sees the name of a clothing store like Bloomies, or an e-tailer like Gilt, or a supermegavirtualworld like Amazon, and shakes his head sadly at the UPS man.  Dude, he thinks, You’re complicit in her schemes.  I’m so disappointed in you. Read the rest of the article on the Huffington Post Stylist here....

To Market, To Market

The other day, I went grocery shopping. I don’t know how you shop, but I have a feeling it’s not all that different from how I do it. It always starts out the same way, by heading to a big supermarket to try and purchase everything I need in one place. The shopping experience quickly slides downhill from there.

I arrive at the store with a scribbled, crumpled piece of paper containing about half a list of things I really need, with the other items stored safely in my head, repeated like a religious mantra until they are securely stowed in the cart. (Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk, juice, butter. Eggs, milk…you get the point.) This is then combined with spontaneous discoveries made up and down each aisle. (“Oh! Muffin tins! Didn’t I need new ones?” or, “Look! Capri Sun is on sale. Let me buy 4 of them.”)

Undoubtedly, however, two things happen. One: the store does not have the brand, shape, flavor or manner of mozzarella cheese sticks preferred by my son (or yogurt, cereal, turkey, fill-in-the-blank), and Two: I forget one crucial, critical item needed to make an actual meal. Like a chicken.

Forty-five minutes later, the trunk of my SUV is filled with over a hundred dollars worth of mostly snack items. These are stored in plastic bags instead of my oversized, burlap recyclable bags because I left those in the car. Again.

Glaring at me from the list of things not yet purchased are 5 or 6 items that can only be found at specialty stores. Two of the items are at Trader Joes’s but not Mrs. Green’s. Three of the items are at Mrs. Green’s but not Whole Foods and one of the items can only be found at an ethnic foods store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.

Two hours and 16 grocery stores later, I make it home. I am exhausted and my head is spinning. I have been to the butcher as well as to all the stores mentioned above.

I am only missing three items from my list now, and am feeling much closer to the finish line of this week’s market marathon.
As I’m unpacking, the phone rings. It’s Brett, my husband.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s your day?”

“Just tremendous!” I declare. “I’m unpacking the groceries.”

“I hope you didn’t buy more couscous.” He warns.

“Why?” I pause, holding in my hand at that very moment three boxes of couscous.

“Because we have like 10 boxes already. Remember? I declared this ‘couscous awareness week.’ Everyone needs to check and see how much they have before heading to the store.”

“I thought this was ‘get your ketchup under control week.’”

“That was two weeks ago.”

“Huh.” I hide the new couscous behind the ketchup in the pantry and quickly try to get off the phone.

“I have to go,” I tell him. “I need to get over to the vegetable stand before writing an article about going over to the vegetable stand.”

“Okay,” he relents. “So…what’s for dinner?”

“Pizza!” I smile.

Purple Haze

I’m on the verge of putting a bumper sticker on my car that says “slap me: I’m obsessed with purple.” Purple shoes, purple sweaters, purple leather gloves with cashmere lining. I’ve got it all. I love it all! I recently had to call a friend while I was standing in Lord & Taylor and demand an intervention on a purple pocketbook that was dangling on my arm. It was begging me to take it home.

“No more purple!!!” Kate demanded.

“But...but...” I stammered, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, cell phone pressed to my ear.

“If you are thinking that this bag will look great with your new purple flats, you are seriously misguided. That would be a fashion disaster.”

I sort of heard her through the purple haze in my brain. Then my mom beeped in. “Hold on, Kate.” I switched over and immediately started talking. “Mom, I know I just called you before and didn’t leave a message. I’m having a purple problem, but Kate’s on it.”

“Just say no!” I heard her say as I hung up and switched back to an awaiting Kate, thinking that everyone sounded a bit too drug-era Nancy Reagan for me. Because I was thinking just say yes.

What is it with trends? How do I fall into every trap every season? My friend Andie thinks it’s because of the trend reports we receive from magazines and department stores, telling us what’s on this year’s “hot list” and “must haves.” It’s sad but true. I read those things and, suddenly, I find myself looking for accessories with studded hardware, or tops with cutouts at the shoulders (which, by the way look incredibly ridiculous on me). It’s hot! It’s a must-have, so I must have it…right?
Grey nail polish? Awesome. Just walk me to the counter and give them my credit card. I’m like a fashion lemming.

When I go shopping, I try really hard to drown out the sound of the little voice telling me what’s hot, cool and new. And I know that, as I get older, most of these trends are not meant for me, at least not in their purest and hippest form. I’m fine with a watered-down, suburban mom version of leggings, for example. I have them, but I wear them with ballet flats and a long sweater instead of with heels, a micro-mini skirt, and a tank top that looks like it has been mauled by a rabid cat.

Just, you know, for example.

By telling you about my recent color addiction, I like to think that I’m in the first steps of recovery. The picture accompanying this proves that I’m not exaggerating. Unfortunately.

What’s next? I’m thinking rose gold jewelry. It’s so pretty. And it looks great with purple.

I am an American Girl

Last spring, I wrote an article about having a summer birthday party for my daughter Zoe with several members of her preschool class. I called it the Seasonal Birthday Party, or SBP. The idea of the Seasonal Birthday Party is to streamline the celebratory process. Parents of pre-schoolers in particular are inundated with invitations to parties for their children’s friends, because the nice thing to do at a young age is to include everyone. But why attend similar parties for 3 and 4 year olds every weekend, when parents could just plan one each season for all the kids in the class and be done with it? This had been the crux of my argument.

Further, I had asked deep, probing questions like, do children really require so much personalized attention on their actual birthday? And how many gifts does one child really need?

According to my now four-year-old daughter Zoe, the answers to those questions are “yes” and “a whole lot.”

Oh, she had been pretty happy with the SBP at first. She had danced with the kids in her class and had enjoyed her ice cream sundae. But why were there so few presents for her, she wondered aloud in the car the way home, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the meager pile of gift wrapped boxes in the back row. “Because only the host children exchanged gifts,” I tried to explain.

“But all my friends were there!” She rationalized.

“Yes, but they came to celebrate with you, not to get you stuff you don’t need.”

She pondered this for a while, looking out the window at the passing cars on the road. “I don’t get it.” She concluded.

I sighed. “On your actual birthday next month we are taking you to the American Girl store. You will get lots of presents then.”

“Oh! Then that’s okay.”

So there you have it. The cat is out of the bag. I caved.

It had not been my intention to undermine the SBP. It’s just that the American Girl party had been planned by my mother since Zoe was about 6 seconds old. (My mom, who helped to deliver Zoe, cut the umbilical cord. Then, holding the clamps high, she had announced, “On this day, four years hence, my granddaughter Zoe Rebecca Gerstenblatt shall have an American Girl celebration!” Or something like that. I was on drugs at the time and can’t remember it verbatim, but you get the gist. A trumpet may have blared.) This event was meant to be, with or without a class celebration.

So, on July 14th on this year, while France was celebrating their independence by eating croissants and watching fireworks light up the sky over the Seine, Zoe and I headed into Manhattan for her birthday lunch at the American Girl Café.

Correction: lunch with Nana, GG, Auntie Sheri, Rosie, JaJa, and my friend Dana and her daughter at the American Girl Café.

When this group had convened in the entrance of the store, my mom gave everyone play-by-play instructions. “Right now, we are here, in the lobby on 5th Avenue. Next, we will head straight to the third floor to shop. If anyone has to use the facilities, stop on 2 and we’ll re-group later. We start lining up for lunch at 1:45.” This was her Superbowl. She chugged some Gatorade, threw a whistle around her neck, and clicked the heels of her Chanel flats three times. Game On.

In addition to those participants mentioned above, both my dad and my step-dad came by the store from their respective New York City offices to say hello to us all and to wish Zoe a happy birthday. Then my dad stayed for a bit to shop with us ladies.

“Jeez, Jules, this place is nuts.” My dad declared, shaking his head at all the moms holding girls holding girl dolls.

“I want that one!” Zoe whined.

“Which one, pussycat?” My mom asked, bending over to look at the case with Zoe. She pointed. “That one?”

“No, THAT one!!!!” Zoe wailed, pointing at the exact same doll.

This was going to be fun.

“What can GG get you, Zoe? Come with GG and let’s look over here.”

“I had this idea 65 years ago,” Great-grandma Rosie said with awe. “I raised three daughters that liked to dress up just like their dolls. I could’ve made a fortune!” She mused. “Stupid.”

“Here, Rosie, look at the Rebecca Rubin doll. She’s Jewish! She’s from the Lower East Side, just like you!” I enthused.

“Really? My word. This I’ve got to see.”

“Jules,” my dad said with finality minutes later. “This is nuts.”

“I believe you’ve already said that, dad.”

“And your daughter, she isn’t being very cooperative or grateful.”

“Yeah. Maybe we should leave her here.” I tried for a smile.

“Can I get Zoe’s doll these shoes?” My sister-in-law Sheri asked. “They are so cute. I wish they came in my size.”

“Look: a hair salon for dolls!” My aunt, JaJa, exclaimed. “And, oooh…puppies!”

“Jules, I think I have to write to that newspaper of yours.” My dad was back from his wanderings. He held up his left hand, revealing pink pajamas in Zoe’s size, and his right, holding matching doll-sized ones.

“Why?”

“Because I’m On The Verge!” he laughed.

Twenty exhausting minutes later, we were the proud parents of Julie, the 1974 American Girl. Julie had secured a groovy canopy bed to sleep in, a new bathing suit, several outfits, two dogs, a change of shoes, two pairs of pajamas, and a lot of grown-ups around her in need of a stiff drink.

We headed to the café for Bellinis and sticky buns.

That night, Zoe and I settled in to her bed to read all about Julie.

“She’s Julie like you, Mommy!” Zoe said, now exhausted and back to being her sugary sweet self. “She has long blonde hair like you, too.”

“Yes, you’re right, puppy.” I agreed. “This doll is supposed to be like me.” From the 70’s, with bell-bottoms and a small braid in the front of her hair. I opened the story.

“For Julie Albright, life after her parents’ divorce held as many ups and downs as the hilly streets of her San Francisco neighborhood.” I stopped. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I called out.

“What?” Zoe asked, clearly concerned.

“Nothing, pup. This is just…familiar. That’s all.”

I kept going. There were more similarities. A best friend named Ivy Ling who loved gymnastics. (I loved gymnastics. I also loved my friend Pat Li.)

“I’m tired,” Zoe yawned.

I finished reading. “Most of all, Julie missed having her whole family together.” I tucked Zoe and Julie into their beds and thought back on the day.

I pictured my 97-year-old grandmother talking animatedly with my best friend from 7th grade. I thought about my mother-in-law, newly diagnosed with stage four breast cancer, who took the train in from Rhode Island with my sister-in-law for the day just to be a part of the experience. My aunt JaJa, who made me feel so special as a child that I couldn’t end a visit with her without crying hysterically. My mom, who had been looking forward to this day for so long. And crazy little Zoe, the center of it all, hugging her new Julie doll and having no concept of what this day really meant to me. To all of us.

It’s good to be an American Girl.

Making Friends with the Past, Part I

It was around this time last year that I had to face a harsh reality: my 20th high school reunion was quickly approaching. I don’t know why this news sent me into a panic, but it did. I suddenly felt really old. Overnight, my laugh lines turned into wrinkles, and purple bags formed under my eyes. This rapid deterioration couldn’t be all in my mind, could it? Was it the fear that I would soon have to face the clique of girls that always reminded me of that classic movie, Heathers? And what about those friends that I had lost touch with, whether amicably or not-quite-so? Did I really want to deal with all the feelings the past might stir up? In short, was I ready for this reunion?

While I was mulling this over, a website had been set up, and people from the Edgemont High School class of 1988 were now chatting online.This is what I heard through the grapevine, at any rate. I couldn’t actually verify the fact that my former classmates were reconnecting via this new-fangled, post-80’s technology because I had decided not to follow the link sent to me by Sarah, one of my best friends from high school.And that’s because I had decided that I wasn’t going to go to the reunion.


“I think that’s a wise decision,” my husband, Brett, concurred. He and I were waiting for a table at the diner with our children one Saturday morning last March. In the 10 minutes that we were standing there, I had run into about 5 people I knew from high school.“Every day in Scarsdale is like a reunion for you. I say, save the 85 bucks per person and take a walk around the village, waving at all the people you’ve known since the mid 70’s. Call it a reunion.”


He had a point.And he was on a roll.“Clearly, you should not go to the reunion. You loved high school. We go out with all these ‘Edgemont couples’ – people who actually married their friends from high school, and it’s like some sort of convention where I don’t know the language. You guys are like Trekkies. I don’t think I could take a whole room of you people, gushing about the good old days when you went to Madonna concerts and wore finger-less lace gloves, or smoked cigarettes while eating fries dipped in gravy at The Mont.”


He had another point.High school really was fun, come to think of it.“You had friends you loved, and teachers that you loved so much that you decided to become a teacher yourself. You moved back to your hometown! You were even a cheerleader! Yeah, you totally shouldn’t go to that reunion.”


I was detecting some sarcasm from my normally sarcastic husband.“Okay, I hear you. I’m like the poster child for it,” I admitted. “I’ll probably end up going. And you’ll probably have to come along. But please, let’s get one thing straight: I was not just a cheerleader. I was a cheerleader who made fun of cheerleaders. It’s the essence of who I am. You know, insider/outsider.”


“Whatever. Did you wear the little skirt? Did you jump up and down and shout rhymes at athletic boys?” 


I nodded. “Then you were a cheerleader. You did not take a political stance.”


“I’m not sure about that. Senior year, we put together a very impassioned petition stating that cheerleading was indeed a sport and therefore worthy of exemption from gym class. It was highly politicized.”


“And how’s that turn out for you?”


“Some of the squad had to make up gym credits over the summer in order to graduate.” 


The memory of it made me wistful.By the end of that breakfast, I had decided to go to the reunion.That night, I went online and updated everyone with my 20-year story in about a paragraph of text. I also casually mentioned in that note that I would be glad to help Steve, now living in New York City (and married to another EHSer, of course), who had come forward to organize the reunion.


The next day, my phone was ringing.“Hey, Julie! How’d you like to plan this thing with me?” Steve asked. By the end of the week, I had gone from not attending the reunion to actually co-chairing it.


“Now, that’s my cheerleader!” Brett winked.I dug through the attic to find my pom-poms. Goooooo Re-union!!!


******


Spring turned into summer and summer into fall. Before I knew it, the scent of football season was in the air. The reunion was now a mere 4 weeks away. RSVPs had been pouring in from across the country and around the world. I had been connecting with people via email that I hadn’t seen since graduation. The experience was strange and exciting at the same time. I was starting to really look forward to this event.Dana was coming from Bulgaria. Sarah from New York City. With them by my side, I could walk into that reunion and feel confident.As long as I had the right outfit.It was time to get my game on.


Several trips to the city later, I had fourteen options and nothing to wear. Was the black cocktail dress very Jackie O. or very Nancy Reagan? Were wrap dresses so 2005? And should I wear fierce boots or stiletto heels?I was having trouble focusing on anything other than the big R.


My book group had witnessed enough, and was on the verge of kicking me out. On a Tuesday in early September, they cornered me in a corner of Lila’s living room. Lila spoke.“We need to stage an intervention. We’ll be over Friday night at 7:00. You’ll try it all on for us and we’ll decide.”


“But…” I began.They held their paperbacks up to me, as if to strike. 


“No buts! We’re coming. End of story.”


To take my mind off the costuming issues, I decided it was high time to see my dermatologist. There were capillaries on my face that needed zapping.“Now, this might sting a little bit,” the doctor with milky-white, perfectly unwrinkled, rosacea-and-mole-free-skin warned. “Like rubber bands being snapped against your cheeks.”I looked at her and thought, I’ll endure almost anything to have skin as blemish-free as yours. Bring on the rubber bands!


“Also, you will have some bruising. It might take a few weeks for your skin to heal fully.”Bring on the bruising! I have 15 days! 


Now here’s a little lesson for you folks who, like me, might not see the danger in those words. If a doctor ever says to you that “there might be bruising,” you should stop right there and ask some questions. Like, how bad will that bruising be? And, for how long will that bruising last? And then you should up and run, even if only wearing a backless paper gown. Because, otherwise, you will end up like me.I left that office $400 poorer and in a deep state of psychic disarray.


In the first hour post-procedure, my face looked so bad that I thought, surely there has been some mistake. The v-Beam is lauded by movie stars precisely because it doesn’t cause any bruising. There is not supposed to be downtime between the procedure and the perfection.For me, the not-Angelina girl, this harmless laser caused 12 days worth of brownish blackish, bloody-looking pustules that threatened to take over the entirety of my face.“Remember that guy who got shot in the face by Dick Cheney?” Brett asked me as I sat to write this article. “I didn’t want to tell you at the time, but you looked just like him.”


Thanks, honey.


In order to take my mind off the bruises that I was sure would keep me disfigured for life, I decided to go back to obsessing over what to wear. I headed into Scarsdale village for one last look around before the book group intervention that evening. And at one store, I found something that could be perfect. It was a shimmery dark blue dress with a deep v-neck and some stretch to it. Accessorized with a thick black belt and a little cardigan, it felt very me.But since the return policy would leave me with a store credit if I changed my mind, I had to be certain before purchasing it.I looked at my watch. 12:00. Which of my friends might be on-call at this hour? I dialed Janie, my friend from high school who now lives in Edgemont with her EHS husband. I explained my precarious situation to her voicemail. It went a little something like this: “I’m-in-the-village-and-I-need-help-deciding-what-to-wear-to-the-
reunion-because-as-you-know-I-am-a-crazy-person-help-me-
my-face-is-all-messed-up!!!!”

Next person on the list: Lila from book group. She already knew how insane I was, having planned the intervention. She answered the phone and I explained.“Oh, I’d love to come see, but I’m getting a pedicure. Can’t leave the chair.”


“Are you getting a pedicure in the village?” I asked, an idea forming in my mind.


“Yes….”


“Then I’m coming to you.”Don’t you just love shopping in a small town? The saleswoman in the store shooed me out, seemingly not too worried about the fate of the dress and whether or not I would ever return with it. I marched over to the nail salon, price tags flapping all over me.A few people stared and I smiled back. Then I remembered what my face looked like. People weren’t gawking because of my outfit.


Lila loved the dress. So did the woman in the pedicure chair next to her, as did all the ladies who worked there. My second bit of advice to you is this: if you ever need an opinion about something, just walk into a nail salon. Doesn’t matter if you know anyone there. You will have a captive audience, a committee of commentators!“Honey, turn around. Let me get a good look.” An elderly woman called from the front of the salon, where her fingernails were drying by the windows. I obliged.“Very pretty. But what happened to your –?”


Want to know how it turned out?Seeing the clique of girls? Former boyfriend? Prom date?Tune in next week.

Reflections of a Recessionista

The weekend before Black Friday, there was a huge sale at Saks in Manhattan. This surprised everyone, because it wasn’t advertised and because it came a week earlier than expected. You see, the after-Thanksgiving sale at Saks is legendary. Every year, fashionistas of all ages drag their turkey-hangovered selves out of bed at some ungodly hour just to line up outside the Hallowed Doors of Saks so that they can be the first ones in. These lucky few get the best selections in sizes and styles and the best deals, as the savings drop from 50% back to 30% after 12:00 noon. Well!

Not this year, ladies. This year, if you weren’t at Saks the Friday before Black Friday, you basically missed the boat. Let me tell you what I know. And then, let me tell you why it matters.
First of all, I wasn’t there, so I am relying on data collected by a fellow fashionista, my friend Dana. Dana fell upon the sale accidentally, merely by walking into Saks to buy some cosmetics. “It was insane! I’ve never seen anything like it!” she told me afterwards, shaking her head as she reported that women were literally snatching up 8-10 pairs of brand spanking new Jimmy Choos, Manolos and Pradas for about a hundred to two hundred dollars a pop. She said that the shoe salon looked like a bomb had been dropped into the middle of it. I immediately pictured a scene from some black and white World War II drama where a shell-shocked woman wanders around aimlessly among the rubble, calling out for her lost loved one. “Tods! Tods? Where are you, Tods!?” Smoke and ash hang in the dead air around her, but she must go on.

The second day (yes, Dana went two days in a row), Saks had hired security to watch over the horders. Women were fiercely clutching snakeskin pocketbooks they didn’t need or want just because they were so darn cheap. Dana found this absolutely fascinating to watch, like some sort of sociological experiment. Her normally restrained step-mother even purchased three pairs of shoes retailing for $1,700 for a little over $400.

At this news, my already palpitating heart started to do the Macarena.

She and I happened to be 4 blocks away from Saks on the Sunday of the sale, walking around the city with our children. She turned to me, a knowing look in her eye. “I think we should go,” she said, left eyebrow raised conspiratorially.
I glanced longingly in the direction of Fifth Avenue. “I do need some black boots,” I sighed.

“Then you’ve gotta go there. Like, now.”

I was on the verge of saying yes.

So, here’s the thing.

I didn’t go.

Why? Because it sounded too tempting, too amazing. And although I feared I’d be missing out on The Chance of a Lifetime, I also worried that my credit card and I might not get out of there alive. The fact of the matter is, a year ago – six months ago – I would not have even hesitated. Of course I would have marched right in there and shopped. It’s a sale, after all! Good deals to be had on beautiful designer items! There’s nothing wrong with treating yourself now and then.
Except when the “now” is, well, now.

Welcome to my world: I am a recessionista.

What is a recessionista? On the surface, it seems fairly self-explanatory: it’s the way a fashionista behaves in response to a recession. The recessionista -- or “frugalista,” as William Safire prefers -- is still glam, but on a (much tighter) budget.

So, what does being a recessionista really mean, for us here in Scarsdale? Let’s take a closer look.

Have you cut back on haircuts, blowouts or color in recent months, or perhaps switched salons so that you are not paying New York City prices for your coiff? You are a recessionista.

Have you dug out a vintage pocketbook from the back of your closet and fallen in love with it again, instead of buying the latest Balenciaga? That’s a classic recessionista move. (And a great recycling technique, too. Very anti-consumerist. Bravo!)

Are you considering getting rid of that second (or third) car, the little sporty one that only goes out with you on Saturday nights? You are a recessionista.

Have you stopped decorating your living room, calling the sparse furnishings and lack of art “The New Minimalism?” Rock on, recessionista.

Is your next vacation being scraped together with frequent flyer miles and Amex points? Now that’s a practical, globetrotting, recessionista.

If it’s time to cut back on personal training, take a jog around the track, recessionista!

An important note: some things are worth fighting for. I have a friend who, no matter how dire the situation becomes, will never give up on getting her eyebrows waxed once a month by her beloved top-secret groomer in the city. Babe, I’m here to say that holding on to one or two time-honored rituals like that is completely recessionistic, too. A recessionista knows what makes the most sense for her, her family’s wallet, and her extraneous facial hair.

And lastly, I’d like to say that, somewhere, a line in the sand must be drawn. My friend Jodi really wants some red-soled, stiletto Louboutins. She understands that now just is not the time for such frivolity. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. When last we spoke, she actually contemplated getting some spray paint and – you see where I am going with this and it isn’t pretty – turning the soles of her Nine West pumps red.

“Those would be your LoubouNOTs,” I declared. “And doing that is just downright depressionista.” I shivered. “Let’s hope we never get there.”

The fact of the matter is, we – as fashionistas, Scarsdalians, and Americans -- were maybe more than just a tad bit out of control before. It’s time to prioritize and to do a little soul searching instead of sole searching. If Obama can trim the fat and cut back national spending, isn’t it time we do the same at home? Don’t just do it because you have to economically. Do it because cutting back is the right thing to do.

So, my fellow recessionistas, chin up. I know old habits die hard. There will certainly be an adjustment period as we learn to accept that less really is more. For the time being, how about we try this: I’ll let you borrow my slouchy Chloe bag if you’ll lend me your YSL tote.

Who knows? If we go for lunch after, it may even feel like real shopping.