Spring spring spring spring spring spring spring

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.

Thank Goodness for Isaac

I always feel guilty when I don't blog more about the various fashion weeks. I mean -- aren't they like the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the whatever-it-is that the NHL calls their championship? Stanley Cup? of fashion? Shouldn't I at least, you know, pay attention?

Well, I would, except so much of it is so gosh-darn ugly. I know it's very bourgeoisie of me to expect fashion to be pretty and wearable (or even moderately attractive and wearable), especially when there is virtually no circumstance I can think of up to and including winning the Powerball that would induce me to spend ten grand on a dress, but that's just how I am. I like my chili hot, my men sarcastic, and my fashion to not look as if the person wearing it had been tricked into auditioning for a Disney production of Moulin Rouge starring Minnie Mouse. For example.

So it's always a relief to see what Isaac Mizrahi is showing. Isn't this great? So wearable, without being boring. So true to the idea of American sportswear. So perfectly pink. And is he, or is he not, the only designer who really knows his way around a polo collar?

If you're looking for more Fashion Week coverage, then, I guess you better look elsewhere. I"m going to let the Isaac slideshow loop around to the front again ...