Everyone at work loved my blouse today! It was a short-sleeve button-up shirt from Marc by Marc Jacobs, which I daringly paired with some light-blue corduroys from Club Monaco. High on the compliments I was receiving for the shirt, I went over to Alyse's, where I came down to earth by helping her clean her apartment. This entailed unpacking a vast trunk of past outfits from her recent summer abroad in Europe, where she took lots of pictures and lots of lovers, most of whom gave her some scrap of fabric to remember them by. We breathed in the musk of these emotionally unavailable men, and it made our heads spin. I took the pieces out of the trunk, one by one, and their beauty transported me to other worlds, other times. "What a beautiful bikini!" I exclaimed while holding one piece, but it turned out to be a handkerchief. (Whew!) "Look at this exquisite Israeli cloth!" I cried while fingering an item that turned out to be a Louis Vuitton scarf. Everything seemed so exotic to me - and much of it seemed vaguely African. What I thought was a Moroccan scarf turned out to be a blouse. What I deemed a Bangladeshi shepherd's cloak was actually a pair of pants. We became consumed with the fun of mis-interpreting fashion, and invented new lines, new designers, for her outfits. I called one blouse "Nora for Target." (Nora is a friend of hers who is a successful actress, if fond of simple styles). Emboldened, I called the next item out of the trunk - which was ill-advised and overly ambitious - "Isaac Mizrahi for Sears." Alyse countered that the belt I'm wearing as a sash in this picture was "Idi Amin for TopShop." ! Where could we go from that one? Where - I ask you!? My cousin beat me at my own game!