Do you think if I say it often enough, it will happen? If so, then "spring spring spring spring spring" is my new mantra. I'll say it while I shovel the four inches of snow expected in Chicago tonight.
I don't know what it is, but this winter has seemed terribly, terribly long, even longer since we have, thanks to an OBVIOUSLY HUNGOVER post-Super-Bowl groundhog, six more weeks of winter coming.
With all the snow and the ice and the bitter cold, and the using up of tubes of lipbalm faster than Blagojevich wears out hairbrushes, and the constant need to wear two pairs of tights (or one pair of black long johns plus black socks) to prevent the dreaded knee frostbite, and the spring fashion magazines trying to be "relevant" in the "economic crisis" by alternating offering up unremarkable $20 t-shirts with suggesting you buy a couple-grand handbag as an "investment," well, let's just say I haven't even been in the mood to look at anything springlike, not even stuff like this:
That's our friend Oscar de la Renta, who I know we've harshed on before as being a little safe, but — you have to admit — the man knows his pretty.
And speaking of pretty — oooh! have you heard? — Isaac Mizrahi's first set of designs for Liz Claiborne are about to come out:
It's worth clicking on that image EVEN THOUGH the whole Claiborne site is a stupid flashtastrophe that takes forever to load and doesn't allow for direct links. Because the new collection has about double the cuteness of the stuff he did for Target, and nicer fabrics because it's a higher price point.
Anyway, I'm not looking at this stuff now because it's just TOO PAINFUL. I need a couple of fifty-degree days in a row before I can begin to contemplate spring clothes. I'm so tired of winter that I'm even tired of Mexican hot chocolate, and friends, when you are tired of Mexican hot chocolate, you are tired of LIFE.
I'm beginning to think hibernation is a *fantastic* idea. Somebody wake me when the daffodils are out.