It's 11:11, and that means, as it does twice a day, that it's time to make a wish. Several years ago, I went through a period of time when I'd catch myself looking at digital clocks at exactly 11:11. Someone, probably Scarlett, told me that I was supposed to make a wish if I looked at the clock at 11:11, so since then, I have.

Tonight, my wish is that tomorrow would not be as horrible as I'm fairly sure it's going to be. My car is idling very rough, and I am not looking forward to driving it 29 miles to work. I'm going to diagnose the problem as a faulty fuel pressure regulator, but it could be the fuel pump. But I doubt it. I think it's the regulator. (Don't you love it when I talk all "butch" and capable like that? Yeah.) What I would really like is a 1985 Mercedes 300TD wagon--that's the diesel--with no more than 100,000 miles on the engine. Maybe that should be my wish. Hell, I'll put it in there... But back to the real issue.

First of all, I need to find an outfit for this wedding I'm going to in La Jolla this weekend. It's on the beach, at a switzy hotel, and I have no outfits that aren't either a) black, hence inappropriate for daytime wedding wear; or b) some form of pajamas. I've already made two forays out to find something suitable, both of which were not only unsuccessful but which brought into sharp focus how truly unattractive I am under fluorescent light. Already feeling fat, hideous, and in need of a hairstyle, I shouldn't have subjected myself to the frilly candy jar that is Anthropologie. The fact that I did is more proof that the only sport at which I truly excel is self-hatred.

Certain stores have such strong brand identity that it's impossible to pick an item or two to mix into your wardrobe. You have to buy the whole package, and if you don't already fit the mold, it's best to stay out of the store. Anthropologie is one of those stores: it sells costumes for a type of girl I can imagine, yet never actually encounter. Maybe they all shop from the catalogue, and meet at out-of-the-way bistros for tea and cakes, or circle their Falcon station wagons in a field and throw picnics, comparing their sweaters embroidered with butterflies and whimsical assorted buttons. It is a deeply impractical style, hence its appeal to me.

Damn, though, as I flipped through the narrow, flimsy blouses and silk twill skirts in colors reminiscent of a bag of spice drops, I felt a familiar disheartening, realizing that having breasts larger than pineapple slices renders me unfit for any shirt in the shop.

I called Tahmi in pseudo-despair bordering on genuine despair, and related my Anthropologie failure.

"They only have one nice skirt in there right now," she stated, and together we said, "The mint green one with the brown pattern." Yeah. (We also agreed on the idea that the majority of their skirts are A-line, which create the visual illusion of an ass the size of the Transamerica pyramid on anyone over a size 2.)

At the end of my wardrobe rope, I mentally considered a number of possible outfits, none of which I actually own.

• Retro wrap dress, a la Diane von Furstenburg (naturally, because these are very flattering to an hourglass figure like mine, I do not own one)


• Man's '70s-era suit worn over swanky camisole, in a faux YSL kind of look (major detriments to this plan include lack of said suit, lack of rail-thin clotheshorse body on which to hang said suit)


• Ironic polyester pants-suit in an insouciant shade of Palm Beach Lipstick red (downside: I will know virtually no one at this wedding, so the irony would need to be explained)


• Chocolate brown skirt/sweater ensemble I wore to my cousin Paxton's wedding over the summer (downsides: memory of lack of compliments, general dowdyness)

Damn it all, there is just nothing for me to wear! I found this great DKNY skirt, for which I have the perfect shoes, yet... no top. Topless. Perhaps that is the answer. Why the hell not? Everyone will be looking at the bride, anyway, and owing to the pre-ceremony Champagne celebration, already drunk.

What I really want is a perfectly tailored brown-black tropical wool '70s men's suit, a chartreuse silk camisole edged in coral-colored lace, and heavy ropes of deep red coral branches around my neck and wrists. And emerald green Italian leather wedge heels, at least four inches high. And heavy 18k gold earrings.

Is that so much to ask?

Anyway, in the short-term, I'm placating myself by listening to Al Perry's Clambake on KXCI online. He's on every Tuesday night, and I highly recommend that you check it out. It's just like being in Tucson, except without all the freeloaders who never pick up a check and always need a ride.

Star of the day. . .