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I Get Too Many Catalogs

Adrian wants a terry cloth bathrobe for his birthday. No, really. I asked him didn’t he think it would be too bulky? Like, if he wanted to wear pajamas beneath it?  He said that would never happen. He will be wearing skin beneath it. I should buy him a Tony Soprano gold necklace to lay in his chest hair while he hunkers around in this towel-robe, reminding me of Jane Gallagher’s creepy unemployed stepfather in Catcher in the Rye.

I do not like anything described as ‘ribbed.’

The word ‘quilted’ as a descriptor isn’t much better.

I adore toggles. On anything. Even the word ‘toggle’ is lovely.

I’m a fan of shawl collar sweaters, too.

I don’t think I want any man who would deign to wear a velvet jacket. (Probably he wouldn’t want me, either.)

Who wears turtlenecks anymore?  Besides the models in L.L. Bean, Eddie Bauer and Land’s End?

Vests do not look nice on me.

I keep seeing dresses that I’d like, only to discover they are transparent lace or chiffon. CHIFFON. Seriously?

Whenever I see polar fleece, I just picture it covered in animal hair.

Bows on things? No thanks. Also? Ruffles, tucks, gathers, flounces and puckers? Pass.

Please, just call it a ‘hooded scarf.’ Not a ‘snood,’ which is probably one of the grossest words out there.

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