Caroline in Paris

I met a new neighbor this morning when I took the dogs out.

Since Nick is traveling, we started the day a little later than usual; it was light out and everything, and not so brutally cold. I’m always a little conflicted about my outfit when it’s light enough for people to see me: yes, technically, it’s first thing in my morning, but shuffling around in pajamas and a parka isn’t nearly as stylish here as it is in New Canaan.

But the dogs were extra-well-behaved last night, so I slept a little later, so I worried about Juliette’s ability to wait on my sartorial choices, so…I went with the socks-and-ballet-slippers look. Okay? I dug around in the bed for a minute (because I like wearing socks to bed but inevitably overheat and shove them off in the middle of the night), pulled out a pair of socks, stepped into my painfully bronze flats, and went outside looking ridiculous.

Which is, naturally, when I met my effortlessly stylish new neighbor with her adorable little Lhasa mix puppy. I mean, I assume she’s new, because she kept asking for advice: Do I know a good company to do apartment swaps through? Do I know a good dog kennel? Where is it, exactly? And I’m happy with their service?

And of course, the whole time my eyes kept drifting to her suede boots, and I kept thinking…that really wouldn’t have taken that much longer than what I did.

When I got back inside, I unhooked the dogs and then did a double take. Nick’s been gone two nights, see, and I really do do that sock thing pretty much all the time. And so there I was in my foyer, wearing painfully bronze flats with one black sock..and one hot pink one.

Kill me.

Hey: any bets on whether she might have been asking about our kennel just to make sure she never accidentally sends her dog there?