J. Who?

Remember this?:
J.Crew Vs J. Peterman

After I posted this face-off between my two favorite clothiers, many of you wrote to ask if, in fact, J. Peterman is real.

"I thought he was just a fictional Seinfeld character," you said. Well. He's real. And so is his retail company. And so is his blog. And so is his very funny marketing manager, who I met for the first time, in my inbox, on Monday morning, over green tea:

Good Morning Miss Ive,

I have thoroughly enjoyed your post: J.Crew Vs. J. Peterman

Let me be the first (hopefully) to contact you and put all claims aside as your bookmark favorite.

I am the Director of Marketing for the J. Peterman Company and want to thank you for your article. We've all enjoyed.

Wishing you great success.

Cheers,

So how do you like them apples, J.Crew? Or better yet, let me tell you how I like 'em. I like 'em a lot. I'm a woman of my word. The minute I publish this post, I am headed to my bookmark, will highlight J.Crew, and let my well-toned, shopping finger free fall onto the DELETE button. 

I'm not saying there won't be some tears. We go back a long way, J.Crew and I. But as with many great love stories, this one seems unrequited.

So this is my Dear J. letter:

My Dearest J. Crew,

I've given you my size-four years. And what have you given me in return? A bunch of over-priced, moth-hole-ridden sweaters? And what about all those years I was knocked up and you, well, CONVENIENTLY, were not THERE for me. No, actually, it's worse than that. I'll not hold back. Remember the time you sent me glossy pics of your SKINNY jeans in my third trimester? Well, I do. That hurt. Really hurt.

You're lucky I'm an efficient, band-aid ripping type of gal. Now go peddle your colorful stories elsewhere. I'm older, and wiser, and, well, about 10 grand lighter, thanks to you.

I feel cheap, in a broke sorta way.

Chin up, though. We'll both move on.

M.I.

And though I feel a little sleezy doing a break-up and a make-out in the same post, can I just gush for one moment about my new love? There's nothing in life I love more than a great adventure. And, in my brief affair with J. Peterman and Co., I feel a kindred spirit in that sentiment. They celebrate fine things, and not for their 'thing-ness,' but for the beauty that they bring, and for the richness of the lands from whence they come.

Go to their site. Not with your credit card—go with some tea, and some time. Their copy is art. Its jocosity, intellect and innuendo inspired a man like Larry David to jump on the bandwagon. What more can be said?

And go to their blog. It's full of the ruckus-raising  you'd expect with such a namesake. I especially say this to all my literary friends and mentors. Go and raise a ruckus of your own.

J. Peterman Company has dresses that quote Emerson, perfume that recites poetry, virginal-white nightgowns for riding on horseback, magnificent French kitchen pottery that thirsts for direct flame, New Zealand sheepskin rugs for naked frolics with Errol Flynn, and I've just scratched the surface. Oh, there's a couple things for boys, too. Sorry. I'm still thinking about the sheepskin. Got a little, um, distracted. 

So today, I say goodbye to J.Crew. And though I should be sad, I just can't stop thinking about that other 'J.' That email blew the fresh scent of foreign winds into my bookmark. I thank you, J. Peterman. Because of you, by lunchtime today, I can expect to find myself in the Outer Hebrides, lying on my back in a wool dress, hand-dyed with red Alder berries. I will love my dress. Not for its dress-ness. Not because it makes my butt look small. I will love it because when I slip it over my head and around my shoulders, our mutual love of all things beautiful will grace me with the gift of fluent Gaelic and the ability to discriminate between variants of peat in single malt Scotch.

Hello, J. Peterman