Scarlett at her scrum-diddily-umptious-est

Once again making Lindsay Lohan look even more like the trash-nasty scrap of coked-up, thinks-a-girl-has-to-be-naked-to-be-sexy B&T she rightly is in her released-this-week supermodel attempt, Scarlett Johansson full-court-presses all us ladies into bi-curious submission in these hot-n-fresh pics from her second round of adverts as the current Louis Vuitton spokestemptress.

Frankly, I don't like the shoes, clothes or any of the oversized, logo-emblazoned luggage pieces, totes, doctor-bag-satchels or quilted-purses featured in either this or her preceding LV campaign, but I must say, Miz Scah-lett never did look better. Or whiter, coincidentally.

And I especially dig this second one below, where ScarJo is lying on what looks like a satin-cushion-covered inverted benchpress with the "Oh pooh, doesn't Daddy want me to finish showing him how I spent all his money this afternoon?" expression we all know and use on occasion.

None of these ads make any interpretive sense to me, but at a visceral level, I'm learning quite a bit about my deep-seeded appreciation for the non-gymrat female form.

Instead of the Bieltastic ass, perhaps I should alter my New Year's resolution and try instead to acquire an all-around - save for the blonde - ScarJo-liciousness. And yes, that is the simplest, 1+1=2, can't-be-broken-down-any-further description I can come up with.

Like I have to tell you -- enjoy.

First round of campaign snaps from earlier this year:

I was *thisclose* to getting over her...

And then she takes a photo like this.

Well played, Ms. Biel.

Whomever it was at Elle who made the call for Jessica to wear a turtleneck and a fat-strapped Swatch watch deserves a king-size box of Mike & Ikes for their sound judgment. Were it not for those two components, one might look at a picture like this - the two-inch hemline, the stripper heels, the reflective titty-bar-stage surface and the uh-uh-yeeeaah-I-like-it-like-that pose - and think twice about considering her a serious actress.

Keep trying, honey, you're just two Nicholas Cage/Jerry Bruckheimer films away from Vivien Leigh status.

Found me some serious leg competition

Jennifer Connelly, you've SO just been demoted. Give my best to Charlize and J.Lo on JV, and be kind when you tell Giselle she's been bumped down to Cameron-level club league.

Why all the sudden movement in the hot-legs hierarchy?

Two words: Carrie Underwood.

I don't watch "American Idol" and I don't listen to country music, but after seeing Carrie Underwood's tremendous legs in short-shorts and heels for the second time - I incorrectly assumed their debut at last year's AMAs (pictured above) was a fluke - I have no choice but to recognize that I have definitely encountered some hardcore leg competition. And frustratingly, from a genuinely oh-golly-gee kind of woman who claims to have earned hers through "eating pizza," "walking and stuff," and "exercising when [she] can."

If with that regiment she's able to get pins that look so good she can rock the ankle-strap without looking stocky, I'd hate to see how sick they'd look if she were the one preparing for yet another post-work 9 miler up the never-ending hill that is Massachusetts Avenue.

Sure, it's disappointing to see proof of my inadequacy in one area - this area, in particular - but the timing is fortuitous, because I've just about achieved my goal of the Biel-tastic bah'um and have been looking for some time to replace that other just-not-gonna-happen goal of being a nicer, less judgmental person.

Enjoy below a few more pics of yet another pair of ZZ-Top-video-worthy, perfectly slender, perfectly toned, born-and-bred-in-the-great-state-of-Oklahoma legs:

Best calves in the business

"Damn, those are nice calves..." aren't typically the first five words that pop into my head when I see a woman, famous or not, in heels and a skirt.

But when I saw this picture, I thought just that. Twice. And then said it out loud.

In part because of my tremendously high standards, in part because I'm territorial - you don't see Scarlett gushing over Lucy Pinder's rack, J.Lo swooning over Jessica Biel's ass or Sienna Miller carrying on about Hilary's Duff's eye makeup, after all - I don't tend to recognize nor reward the shapeliness, strength or overall perfection of a pair of calves unless they're attached to my own body. My justification for this is the same as why I so infrequently tuck dollar bills into thongs at Camelot -- the ladies haven't earned it.

But in this case, despite the frigid humorless bitch to whom these calves are attached, I cannot deny praise where praise is due, and here, in this black asymmetric off-the-shoulder Oscar de la Renta dress, in these patent-leather platform heels, and at this angle, this 37-year-old mother of two (and avid runner) has what I am now anointing, "the best calves in the business."

Though I fear she's unaware she peaked back in 1986 with her performance in every middle school kid's favorite indoor-recess film and has since been on a decline that can't be half as painful for her to experience as it was for us to sit through (think shitbombs like The Rockateer, Dark Water and especially A Beautiful Mind), at least she can proudly show her kids these pictures.

And then she can go back to saving the world one Blood Diamond, one hybrid minivan, one Hillary Clinton fundraiser at at time.

Impressive side-boob takes Biel from a 6.5 to a 9

I wasn't crazy about this '80s-pink column dress with extended-keyhole back the first time I saw it saunter down Oscar de la Renta's runway at Bryant Park two weeks ago.

Likewise, I wasn't crazy about it when I disappointingly realized my muse was making her Oscar presenter debut in it last night.

But now, from this angle, well, all I can say is that the side-boob makes all the difference.

Her choice still isn't on par with Nicole's or Cate's, but indisputable evidence that her breasts don't need support almost cancels out that sheen-depleted frizz-puff on her head and that pink lemonade Lip Smackers gloss on her lips.

Almost.

And no, these pictures aren't identical. If you look really closely - I mean, get your face right in there - you'll see that the first photo shows about two centimeters more curvature of her left lady bit than the second.

Plus, I like the coy uh-huh-they're-that-great look she's got on her face in the latter photo.

To show toe or not to show toe? (pt. I)

That is the question.

Determining appropriate wear-to-work footwear is a controversial, subjective science.

The variables not only include particulars of the shoe - heel height, color, material and style - but particulars of its wearer - job industry, choice of outfit and body type - as well.

Let me start with flats tonight (and continue with heels tomorrow), since they are a much less complex, much less volatile issue than their lankier counterparts.

It may not seem necessary to provide an operational definition of what a flat is, but since I've only recently been informed that "anything below a three-inch stiletto" is not an accurate description, I feel compelled to be specific. A flat, for the purposes of this analysis, is a shoe without a heel. A skimmer, a ballet slipper, a flip-flop -- these are all examples.

Now, clearly, a flip-flop or any other kind of summer sandal that wedges your first two toes apart or shows any side-skin is never okay to wear to the office. Not even in the elevator going up to your office. Walking to work, fine, I suppose, but even then, I tend to think we should have higher standards for ourselves as professional women with mid-to-high level incomes. For the rest of the flat styles out there, there are very few moves you can make that would result in a penalty flag (i.e. bitchy glances from female co-workers). The shoe shown above right (Youth flat by Pella Moda, $129.95 at zappos.com) is about as risky as you can get and still be in the professional green zone. The non-aggressive shade of cherry red is acceptable, but the peeptoe, for some women, especially women in DC, would disqualify this flat because it violates the staunch no-toe-at-any-time rule. An example of a perfectly acceptable style but oh-no color would be the gold-foil Minnie slingback flat by Stuart Weitzman above left ($215 at nordstrom.com). Super cute with skinny jeans and a cropped blazer at Paulo's in Georgetown for aperitifs, this shoe is just much too much flash-and-disco for a place with wall-to-wall carpeting. Even if paired with a completely muted ensemble, my answer to shiny metallics is still "no."

Surprising to some may be my assertion that wild-printed, loud-colored ballet flats are perfectly fine for an office setting. As with any other outfit component, though, if you choose to be vibrant in one area, you must temper that choice with restraint in every other area. If you wanted to wear these Tula zebra-print ballet flats ($159.95 at jcrew.com), for example, I'd say fine, go ahead, but make sure you're wearing black trousers (not a skirt -- showing their strappyness would be inappropriate), and a simple high-neckline top in either black, white, or red. The key word here is "simple" -- let the shoe and the shoe alone be your power source.

One final rule for flats involves your trouser cut. The beloved black and white tweed trousers that drape perfectly over your four-inch black round-toed pumps with bow-accents are not going to cooperate as nicely with a pair of black round-toed flats with bow-accents like those above left (Paleo patent leather flat by Ann Klein, $82.95 at zappos.com). So don't try to make them cooperate. You'll just end up shortening their lifespan by embedding the cuffs with city street debris and premature-fray. My advice is, if you find that magical pair of trousers that make your bottom look Bieltastic, buy two pairs and get one tailored to hit just right for flats. Problem solved.

Tomorrow, it's onto heels.

And more deep-knee-bend squats in the gym.

How to deal with the death of your premium jeans

This is how jeans should fit a woman's bottom. I'm not saying the bottom is ideal - in fact, I like something bigger, a bit more Biel-tastic - but the fit itself is spot-on. The waistband is flush against the hips, the fabric just above the bottom point of the pocket is wrinkle-free, and you don't see a centimeter of spillover.

This last fact leads me to my sister-in-law's fashion mantra: low-rise jeans are a privilege, not a right.

Unless you're born lucky or you earn your fat-free hips in the gym, please do us all a favor and pick up a pair of mid-rise or high-rise jeans and cover yourself. Every premium and non-premium denim brand makes them. If you aren't sure if you've earned your low-rise admission, try them on and solicit your Mom's opinion. Two decades of experience tell me you'll get your answer (and then some) within the first few seconds of asking.

Now we deal with the issue at hand: what to do when your premium jeans die a premature death.

I make the distinction between premium and non-premium jeans for a simple reason. The former cost a whole lot more than the latter. Losing the battle with a pair of $49.50 Gap jeans is unfortunate but not tragic; watching a pair of $172 AG Adriano Goldschmied Angel stretch jeans go from a size 27 to a size 29 in the span of four months, on the other hand, deserves a proper mourning period. Welcome to my world. This has happened to me not once, not twice, but FOUR times.
Something else that separates a pair of premium jeans from its less expensive counterpart is that premium jeans have a range of uses, from a casual weekend look (right on Jessica Alba) to a dressy going-out look (left on Charlize Theron) and everything in between. Unlike a daybag, premium jeans don't benefit from a harsh, long life. I want my bottom to look as tightly hugged after a year as it did they day I bought them; I want the striated blue wash to look as dark after a year as it did the day I bought them; and finally, I want the cuffs at the bottom to be as fray-free after a year as they were the day I bought them.

The first two pairs I bought, I admit, weren't as doted upon as they should have been. Instead of letting them drip-dry as the Anthropologie saleswoman instructed I do, I carelessly threw them in the dryer on high heat every week. The elasticity retreated within the first two months. The ass in which I'd invested so many hours in the gym was now swimming in stretchless fabric. In a word, unacceptable.

I take complete responsibility for the first two deaths. By the time my third pair started to show signs of premature old age, a pair I didn't even introduce to a washer and only dry-cleaned, I was convinced I was wronged. In a moment of rather shameless audacity, I marched back into the Tarheel blue dollhouse entrance of Georgetown's Anthropologie and demanded they either revive my denim's shapelessness or give me my money back.

After listening to my story, a look of shared sadness came over the saleswoman's face. She knew. And even though I didn't have my receipt or any other way to prove my jeans came from her store, she gave me a heartfelt I've-been-here-too apology and a full in-store credit.

This is one way to keep your fashion intact in the midst of a denim death, but what happens if you come across a saleswoman less sympathetic to your plight? I asked around, and there are very few alternatives, none of which, however, are to continue wearing the premium-turned-Mom jeans (to watch SNL's classic "Mom Jeans" commercial, click here).

One option is to get your jeans taken in by a tailor. A girlfriend of mine has done this to her favorite pair of Sevens twice, and the only way anyone could tell is if they were to look at the tiny red and yellow label that instead of reading "For all mankind" now reads "For aln kind." The risk in taking this route is high. If you don't have a tailor skilled enough to perform the surgery, you could end up in a bigger mess than you started with, in addition to being out the $20 to $40 (s)he charges you for the botched job.

A second option is to write the company and tell them your story. This worked for another friend of mine, who not only received two new pairs of Habitual jeans but also got a handwritten thank-you note from someone in the design department. In the note, the woman apologized for my friend's trouble and said her bad experience would influence future Habitual design and construction methods.

But that's it.

The best advice I can give when bringing home your first bundle of $200 denim is to treat it like the luxury it is. But once it's past its prime, once it looks like you've got a "thass" (an indistinguishable mass of thighs and ass), move on. Don't be Debbie Harry in a red mini and fishnets at the VH1 Hip Hop Honors -- just admit it's over.

I'm aware my bah'um doesn't look like hers

There are some mornings when I wake up convinced my lower half looks like Jessica Biel's. I have about 6 mirrors in my studio apartment, 1 of which is about 8 feet tall, 4 feet wide, and greets me at my front door. As inanimate as it is, that mirror is partly to blame for my bloated ego. Tipped back ever so slightly, it elongates my frame just enough to make me think I'm 5"9 (I'm 5"7) and 120 lbs (I'm not that). Some days I remember not to believe what I see, and some days I don't. When it comes down to it, though, I know even on my best day, Jessica's glorious bottom extends out at least an inch farther than mine. Maybe an inch and a half. I find solace in the small things -- that I'd have chosen a less taupe-colored shoe, for example. But my point is, some mornings I feel that I do look Jessica Biel good. If I've worked out for a few consecutive days, kept to my healthy diet of veggie burgers, fruit roll-ups and frosting, and not had more than say, 4 beers that week, I'm ready to walk into Smith Point and steal some preppy blonde thunder. Today, however, is not one of those days. Yesterday wasn't, and I'm pretty sure tomorrow won't be, either. Normally, I would stress over such an acute drop in confidence, but in this case, there is no mystery as to what's causing it. In this case, the culprit is simply being at home. Grateful as I am to live in close proximity to four stocked refrigerators, a drawer filled with 12 bags (I counted) of baked cheddar Chex Mix, and as far as I can tell, a smiling Santa candy dish on every available surface, the excess is literally killing my ass. The collusion between gravity and laziness has caused at least an inch drop in my pigu since I arrived on Thursday. That puts Jessica a good 2 inches ahead of me. Whatever, she's just a stupid Hollywood bitch, anyway. Bet she only reads the Leaders in the Economist.

When people ask me (and they don't) what I think my biggest asset is, I do a quick mental shuffle among my many favorites but always come up with the same answer: my awareness. Awareness applies to most everything in life. Be aware of the company you're in when you see a fat person tip over on a Segway and you can't stop tittering. Be aware of your audience when you put on the new leggings, cashmere minidress, and almond-toed stiletto boots you got from shopbop.com after your bonus check cleared. Be aware of how annoying it is to other people when you say things like, "I only worked out for an hour yesterday -- should I skip lunch?" Not everyone thinks fat is funny, not everyone reads Marie Claire's style guide, and not everyone's life goal is to look Biel-tastic in a black crocheted Alessandro Dell'Acqua sweater dress.

In short, not everyone is me.