REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK: Fashion week in NYC

Any New York Fashion Week regular worth her salt will tell you that it’s all about the swag.

Some claim the trendy term originated at the biannual couture confab, and means “samples, wearables and gifts.”

But I’m of the slightly-less-fashion-crazed camp that maintains it originated from British slang used by robbers to indicate items “stolen without a gun.”

At any rate, I got plenty of the stuff last month at the Fall/Winter 2008 event, my first.

As all of this town’s school board members know, I — like most journalists, I’m told — am drawn to freebies like a suicidal moth to a very large flame.

I don’t accept diamonds in exchange for stories, of course.

But it’s an entirely different matter when the district food services department puts out a pile of chocolate chip cookies for all to eat, which I’m convinced contain some form of crack.

Nice, healthy, district-approved crack, of course.

Anyway.

After being accredited to attend the event, I started trolling blogs by people who routinely cover the week.

But almost everything I read was wrapped in elitist, whiny tones: “You have to stand in line all day wearing high heels.” “You have to carry a giant handbag to schlep around all the free stuff you get.”

My solutions: Wear cute flats, and be grateful about the free stuff.

Both worked out really well.

For the handbag dilemma, I scoured local stores and finally found a versatile, not-too-trendy bag I liked at Ross, of all places, on clearance for $18.

When I got home that night, I turned on “The Devil Wears Prada” for distraction from deadline madness.

Sure as I’m sitting here, the lead character was shown wearing the 10-times-more-expensive version of my new bag.

Score.

After a day of somewhat turbulent flight, my husband and I arrived at the West Village apartment we rented.

I grabbed my bag, and we walked to dinner at the Gotham Bar and Grill, still in our airplane jeans and sweaters; the dinner recommendation mentioned nothing about dress code.

We arrived to find ourselves the only people there not in business suits or dresses, but we were treated just the same by the hostess, who sat us next to a table laden with champagne, red wine, white wine, port and cordial glasses.

Beside that was a besuited man easily eligible for retirement, sharing intimate “conversation” with what I stubbornly, in my heart of hearts, maintain was his granddaughter.

Perhaps, where he comes from, that is how one shows affection to their tall, blonde, wide-eyed, scantily clothed granddaughter.

But back to the bag.

I was still a bit nervous about my appearance, so I booked it for the restroom and started hopelessly rearranging hair and sweater in front of the mirror.

“Great bag,” a voice rang out from behind me.

I looked behind myself in the mirror to see a truly stereotypical (yet amazing) Manhattanite — lithe black dress, cunning heels, liquid eye liner — staring at my $18 marvel in obvious envy.

“Thanks,” I murmured, in what I hoped was an acceptably disinterested-yet-grateful tone.

“Is it comfortable?” she asked, continuing her languid leopard pace around it; I recall her heels clicking on the stone floor.

“Extremely,” I said, showing her how it can be worn across the torso or on one shoulder.

“Ooh, I love it,” she said.

I smiled and made my departure before the inevitable “Where did you get it?” question.

It turned out that I didn’t need the Not-So-It Bag at all — the Fashion Week organizers provided their own giant swag bag emblazoned with a Mercedes Benz logo. Unfortunately for my shoulder, this bag already came filled to the gills with its own assemblage of goodies.

In addition to a massive bottle of Kinerase cream, a MAC makeup kit and other cosmetic goodies, the bag was full of beverages that ran the gamut of randomness, from organic limeade to a mini-bottle of Chambord.

The fashionable set’s prime concerns these days appear to be stretch marks and hydration.

The organizers also, in their immense thoughtfulness, provided a branded corkscrew that got me in trouble with security when I got back to JFK.

Such beverages were also free-flowing all over the Bryant Park tents; Evian bottles were as common as ugly realty advertisements on suburban doorsteps, an open Peroni bar kept editors and glitterati happy, and LYCRA brand had its own in-house Bra-sserie, where attendees could stop by for an A-cup (espresso), B-cup (Americano) or a C-cup (cappuccino) while learning about the history of undergarments.

I scored a 50% swag rate at the fashion shows we went to; Rad Hourani’s show at Bumble and Bumble garnered a tote filled with the latter’s high-end hair products, and Catherine Fulmer partnered with a cosmetic company for her goodie bag.

Both swag-filled shows dealt with the “future” of fashion; lean lines, layering, leggings, and a black and red palette.

I found myself front-row at the packed, massive Carmen Marc Valvo show when a New York Times Magazine representative failed to attend.

Desperate to fill seats, a crazed show coordinator escorted me to a seat directly across from 80s divas Salt N Pepa.

However amazing the experience was, front-row status didn’t guarantee a bag; nobody received one at that show, which nonetheless featured amazing vintage-y pieces inspired by Elizabeth Taylor in “Butterfield 8.”

But the most excruciating highlight had to be the close of the Cynthia Rowley show at Gotham Hall.

Not for its swagless status, but for one of my more embarrassing gaffes that week. (I commit several per day, even in my own home.)

The hall was outfitted with the delicate, golden chivari chairs most commonly seen at high society weddings and divorce parties.

Actor Philip Seymour Hoffman and his longtime girlfriend Mimi O’Donnell, friends of the designer, decided to catch the show before departing for the British Academy of Film and Television Arts awards in London.

They sat on two of those precarious chairs in the front row, while I stood to one side of the runway.

After the show, my aforementioned extra-super-fabulous bag o’ self esteem decided to catch itself on a chair after the show.

When I turned around to see what the holdup was, the fragile little chair o’ death decided to tip and veer straight for O’Donnell.

Hoffman jumped in front of her, graciously moving it out of the way.

“I am so sorry,” I mumbled.

A brief smile later, the Oscar winner and O’Donnell swept mysteriously into some secret VIP exit-thing.

My husband’s comment later: “You almost killed Philip Seymour Hoffman!”

I blame it all on the bag.