10 Best Dresses of Summer '07

This post may not on the outset look like it would have taken much time to piece together, but believe me, the 10 dresses you see here - the 10 I'm presenting to you as the 10 'best' of Summer '07 - represent only a very wee fraction of the near 800 celebrity photos I've right-clicked and saved over the past two and two-thirds months.

For every photo of Jessica Alba in a gorgeous metallic sheath, I had to skip over five of Fergie sans makeup in a fedora with high-waisted purple skinny jeans; for every photo of Jennifer Lopez looking stunning in a Lanvin mini, I had to suffer through dozens of Cameron Diaz in a pair of don't-pity-me-I'm-"gorgeous" short shorts and seafoam green wrap-up-the-leg gladiator sandals.

Point is, when I finally finished making my cuts, it was late, my eyes hurt and frankly, I was taxed from the two trips to the salon it took Sayed to get my hair as close to this* as my half-Asian locks would allow. If you feel strongly one or more of these dresses doesn't belong among the ranks of the rest, you're just gonna have to ask me (after you berate me) for an explanation in the comments section.

And no, I did not pick Eva Mendes three times just to pick Eva Mendes three times.

In no particular order, here are my favorite celebrity dresses for the season that was Summer 2007 (I declared it over after the fourth straight day of needing a sweatshirt to walk Monte in the morning):

L.C. in a knit bubble dress by Lauren Conrad Collection
Jessica Alba in a metallic column gown by John Galliano for DiorMary-Kate Olsen in a kimono style dress by Elizabeth & James

Eva Longoria in a bib-front belted mini by Monique Lhuillier
Julia Stiles in a ruffle-trim shirt dress by Zac Posen
Jessica Alba in a metallic sheath by Dolce & Gabbana

Jennifer Lopez in a lantern-neck mini by LanvinEva Mendes in a floor-length strapless gown by Valentino

Eva Mendes in a sleeveless metallic sheath by Dolce & Gabbana

Eva Mendes in a one-shouldered Grecian gown by Alberta Ferretti

*photo courtesy of The Sartorialist

I'd go out with Eva, too

In case you hadn't heard, Jane, one of the small handful of wry, extraordinarily well-written, substantive-but-not-too-substantive fashion magazines has been "let go" by its parent company, Condé Nast.

I wasn't robbed by a shortened subscription or devastated because Jane was the magazine at the center of my if-I-could-have-any-job fantasy (that would be Marie Claire), but I am nonetheless heartbroken both because the writing was that good and for as long as I can remember, it - along with Lucky - served as my reliable, get-me-through-my-layover one-two punch.

With its subtle feminist message, salacious word-choices, generous mix of low, mid and high fashion promotion and the audacity with which its writers intruded upon celebrities' lives instead of simply recycling the tired "tell us how you became so fierce!" fare you find in every issue of People, Glamour and Cosmopolitan, Jane will no doubt go down in periodical history as the foul-mouthed tomboy of the fashion mag crew.

The hot foul-mouthed tomboy with a brain, ambition, glowing skin and a fantastic rack, that is.

Considering its reputation and penchant for being much more Betsey Johnson than Anna Wintour, it's only fitting that for its farewell issue, editor-in-chief Brandon Holley chose as her cover girl the saucy, "I work hard for my body and yeah, I like it" Cuban treat that is Eva Mendes.

Enjoy, and be sure to remember those three magic words...

Click. To. Enlarge.

Eva-va-va-VOOM!

I just can't get me enough of Ms. Mendes.

Not sure if it's her always glimmered to the hilt nut-brown skin, her sultry you-want-this-don't-you? photog face, those tremendous runner's calves (she claims to run 4 miles a day even on vacation) or her reliably ASJINE-approved sense of asset-flaunting, sky-high-heel-complementing, ladylike style, but whatever it is she's got, I not only want a piece but a wing, a drumstick and a nice juicy breast to go with it.

Perhaps it's that she has so many nice features from which to choose - legs, shoulders, skin, face, hair, arms, back - and so very few flaws - under-the-radar longtime boyfriend, having starred in a Will Smith movie - that I'm simply, utterly and completely in awe. I mean, only Eva could rock a demure, loose-fitting gold sheath, oversized black clutch and neutral slingback platform peep toes, an ensemble that on most women would look ho-hum, and knock it so far out of the park at this past weekend's Valentino-athon in Rome that women like Sarah Jessica Parker, Anne Hathaway and even the usually sublime Sienna Miller (though here, um, well, uh...I'm at a loss) in their much more amped-up gowns, were forced to lower their heads in we're-not-worthy defeat.

I can't think nor write in this GD heat

I sat down last night and then again this morning prepared to write a what-to-wear-in-99-degree-heat post complete with an unrelated picture of the baby lovepuff sleeping on top of my wallet - his way of ensuring I don't leave without arousing his "you're-leaving-me-alone-again??" fury - and more topic-appropriate recommendations from both "If I had a sugar daddy..." and "Since I don't (yet)" price points, but on both occasions, I got as far as promoting a threads-free Tantric Sunday, tissue-tees and v-plunge linen cover-ups before the AC-free stifle of my apartment (the pup and I both prefer jungle hot over a faux cool) caused a complete creative-writing meltdown.

So while I'm out doing my best poolside impression of Eva in Capri (coinslot included), do me a favor and grant me a teensy bit of slack on the minimal creative output you'll see here today.

The kind of slack, I guarantee you, I won't be granted elsewhere...

Cannes and should do better next year

I've been waiting all week for the Palme d'Or to be handed out and thus mark the end of the seven days informally known as the week when Sharon Stone goes extra crazy in a-too-young-for-someone-half-her-age wardrobe.

My anxiousness for the grand award had nothing to do with the films themselves but rather the final parade of evening couture. I needed this last red carpet song-and-dance so that I could finally cobble together my "loved it," "hated it" and "WTF?" categories.

So here they are, the good, the bad and the plastic tit-cones:

Loved it

I love the deep teal color, the fluid drape and the contrast of the burgundy waist-cinch on this silk jersey column gown

(Kerry Washington at the De Grisogono Party)

I wish Andie had worn her hair in a more upswept fashion and chosen a richer color that didn't make her beautiful alabaster skin look so washed out, but other than that, from the tasteful - and age-appropriate - cleavage to the like-a-glove fit, this subtle seafoam-green Versace chiffon confection is picture-perfect.

(Andie McDowell at the My Blueberry Nights premiere)
As I've said before, Eva's upper-body was made for the strapless neckline, and this exaggerated sweetheart Lanvin gown with black mesh overlay and patent leather belt is a perfect choice to remind people of that fact. I love how she never wears necklaces and allows all the attention to go to her natural - and best - assets: her skin and sculpted shoulders.
(Eva Mendes at the We Own the Night premiere)

Hated it
I don't quite understand how the diminutive vertical ruffles on this tiered Marchesa gown could make tiny-as-a-sparrow Kerry Washington look plus-size from the waist-down, but oh goodness, does it ever. The dress itself is quite pretty, but an on-the-hanger aesthetic does not always translate to a figure-flattering fit.
(Kerry Washington at the Ocean's 13 premiere)

Maybe it's that I don't have a "trained eye" for fashion, but I have never found this kind of mismatched front and back hem length pleasing to look at. The diagonal stripes on the bodice of this Hervé Léger isn't doing Jess' girls any favors, either.

(Jessica Simpson at the My Blueberry Nights premiere)

This is a Miss USA evening-gown-competition dress. Miss New Jersey's evening-gown-competition dress.

(Rose McGowan at the amfAR AIDS benefit)

WTF?

Mesh paneling on an already sexed-to-the-gills bustier minidress? Psychedelic platform wedges? Somewhere at this premiere, a confused Bai Ling is wandering around wearing Kylie's chiffon gown and Louboutin slingbacks.

(Kylie Minogue at the Ocean's 13 premiere)

First, you have the gall to don an Elie Saab the reigning queen of the red carpet gown knocked out of the park fewer than six months ago. Second, you degrade it with chunky turquoise jewelery and disheveled surfer-girl hair. No wonder Leo didn't want to accompany you down the carpet...

(Israeli model Bar Rafaeli at the Ocean's 13 premiere)

Even if Hofit's dress had covered a good three inches more of those orbs of hers, this candy apple red with beaded belt still wouldn't have been passable by Cannes standards. It's very junior prom chaperone, very Rizik's-display-window. And for those of you who live outside DC, no, that's not a good thing.

(Israeli model Hofit Golan at the Ocean's 13 premiere)

Dita, why the plastic tit-cones? Had you left your hotel without those things, hands-down you would have been in the first group.

(Dita von Teese at the Dolce & Gabbana party)

Gone tannin' (pt. II)

After the wicked migraine brought on by drinking a half-bottle of Moët & Chandon with a jigger of Palma pomegranate liqueur in yesterday's 92 degree heat, I've decided to make today's field trip to the only pool in SW a little less Delta Delta Delta Vandy-chapter inspired.

So, instead of drinking $25 worth of Champagne from my out-of-town friend's fridge (kudos to R for his generosity), today I'm gonna just stick to Volvic and fruit punch Gatorade.

Instead of InStyle, I'll listen to last week's "Nightline" podcasts and read those three Dorothy Parker short stories I've been saving for a rainy day.

Instead of Akon and Britney, I think I'll revisit the soundtrack of my early childhood with some Everly Brothers, Dion, Fats Domino, Buddy Holly, The Archies and Johnny Rivers.

Instead of channeling Eva Mendes' hotness (I won't lie, that love-scenes-make-me-nervous bullshit she pulled in Cannes took her down a notch for me), I think I'll make a rare turn for a blonde with the recently-crowned "hottest damn woman period" by the sports show of similar name, six-year SI swimsuit issue veteran, Ms. Marisa Miller.

And just because I'm the kind of woman who likes to share the spoils of her Internet searches with her friends, here below are a few snaps from Marisa's most recent photoshoot.

I do warn you, though, check body-confidence at the door before you take a peek. I forgot to do so and am now bandying between a full-coverage one-piece and a makeshift burkha.

And because my Mom thinks I should talk about boys more...

Quote of the day: Eva Mendes

"I wasn't comfortable at all. They were very sweet and they poured me a vodka and orange juice and then I was fine. I'm very professional and I don't usually drink on the job but that morning I had a little vodka and OJ."

(Eva Mendes, discussing what it was like to do her first on-screen love scene in We Own the Night with Joaquin Phoenix)

I'm a tad suspicious of this whole I-needed-to-hit-the-bottle-because-of-the-love-scene excuse.

First of all, Miss Modesty, you bare-boobed it for a full five-count in your breakout role in Training Day. You remember, right? It was the only part of that film other than Denzel's "You probably still fuck her face to face, don't you?" tip of the hat to newlywed-dom that might convince me to watch this "Oscar worthy" film for a second time when it inevitably makes its debut as a TNT "New Classic" sometime in the next two years.

Second, I've seen more lad-mag covers with you wearing little more than a pair of Loeffler Randall boots, two strategically-placed hands and your signature come-and-get-it-boys smirk than I saw pink Izod polos in all three semesters I spent at Georgetown University.

Third, this is how you answered the on-screen love scene question in an AskMen.com interview back in 2000:

"Doing them with girls is fun! It goes back to the play yard mentality: guys can be yucky, and girls are sweet, soft and smell good."

Eva, why don't you just come out and say what the rest of us are thinking -- it was Joaquin's all-sorts-of-crazy that made the thought of love-making - not just on-screen love-making but the love-making of any sort - so off-putting you needed to resort to your freshman-year-in-college drink of choice.

I'm not blaming you for using false claims of modesty to divert attention away from the fact you didn't want to get frisky with a man who, from what I can tell from the batty interviews he's given and shit like this, has a cocktail of Tourette's, autism and schizophrenia, but Eva hon, shouldn't you have thought about this before you signed onto the project?

My advice to you is to stick with the girl-on-girl love scenes with which you claim to be more comfortable, and believe me, faster than you can wipe your mouth and say, "God, that felt good...", it'll be you up on that Oscar podium, not your male co-star.

Gone tannin'...

But here are a few of the things I'll be thinking about this afternoon while I sip Veuve-n-selzer to my new Summer soundtrack:

The coiff, the chiseled jaw, the magic underwear...

I love my new concealer...

Mmmm...Eva Mendes...

J and I are like the Demi and Bruce of DC breakups - we even tan together!

Why doesn't couture ever go on sale?

See, there waaay more judgmental people out there than I am...

I'm coming home soon, my sweet lil' Saturday night steady...

Who the flip is in charge of this?

Jessica Alba, getting too skinny but okay.

Scarlett Johansson, oh yeah.

Jessica Biel, mmm...cutting it close, but fine.

Ali Larter, kinda d-list, but I can see it.

Eva Mendes, no question - yes with a capital "Y".

Eva Longoria, annoying as f**k but I guess she has a pretty face.

The six women listed above make up places 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 9 on Maxim's newly-released, annual "Hot 100" list.

These are the ones, for better or worse, that make sense. Now we move on to the remaining four, some of whom are more curious choices than others:

Lindsay Lohan (1)
Christina Aguilera (4)
Rihanna (8)
Fergie (10)

Let's look at Lindsay and Rihanna first. Both clearly have good looks and good bodies, that's not up for debate, but what they don't have is what other women like the majority of those listed above and Vanessa Minnillo (34), Adriana Lima (53), Kim Kardashian (97), Marisa Miller (not on list) and Monica Bellucci (not on list) have as well, which are outstanding looks and outstanding bodies.

The belly-baring coke-bloat youngness of LiLo and the bootyliciousness of Rihanna beating out the feral sexiness of Angie (12) and the just-wanna-kiss-her-ness of Penny (58) is one thing (it is Maxim, not Esquire, after all), but Christina and Fergie cracking the top 10 is nothing short of hotness blasphemy. Their inclusion literally boggles my pretty little mind. I suppose, if you added them together, subtracted Christina's makeup, Fergie's face, Chrstina's bad boob job, Fergie's face again because once wasn't enough, Christina's synthetic highlighter-yellow hair, Fergie's Meth mouth and Christina's Tang-like glow, you might have a hot piece of something, but still, these two over Carmen Electra (28)? Come on, now. The jig is up.

Granted, I haven't read the article's fine print in which it assuredly explains in U.S.-News-&-World-Report-style detail how these rankings were determined through the assignment of discrete hotness indicators (e.g. face, legs, ass, etc.) relative weights of said indicators (e.g. face = 30%; attitude = 25% ass = 20%; legs = 15%; chest = 10%) and most important, the description of the process through which such qualitative pieces of data were translated into objective, quantitative figures.

I'm sure once I do my homework and work through Maxim's thorough research plan, all my questions will be answered. In the meantime, I'm gonna grab a smoothie and contemplate my own, boys-allowed "Hot 100".

Flaubert, foie gras, and fashion, too.

As difficult as it is for me to admit this, the French really do get it, and by "it" I mean all the important parts of life aside from a sound national security strategy.

The French people enjoy a 35 hour work week, have an alcohol-at-lunch acceptant attitude, indulge in a daily intake of rich fatty foods, all the while smoking enough cigarettes to put the entire Georgetown University Eurotrash contingent to shame and somehow remaining the most collectively lithe and acne-free society I've ever seen.

I was aware well before my inaugural trip to Paris nine years ago of the matchless gifts the French - Montesquieu, Deneuve, Matisse, Casta and Camus, to name my favorite few - have bestowed upon the world. And it was not until my stint in graduate school when I was forced to look at the country in which nearly all my beloved Kundera-written love affairs were set in a new, defense-related light, that I developed a strong and perhaps unfair distaste for all things French.

So strong and permeating had this distaste become that I would actually make a conscious effort to cross MassAve at the stoplight just past the Cosmos Club so as to avoid running on the same side of the street as a stunning chateaux-style mansion I'd come to recognize as a - for lack of a better description - hangout for patrician-looking French people.

Tonight, however, for whatever reason, perhaps humidity-induced fatigue, perhaps distraction from rediscovering Candyman's Knockin' Boots and Color Me Badd's I wanna sex you up (my first and second self-purchased cassette singles back in '90 and '91, respectively), I remained on the Gandhi-statue side of the street and thus found myself not even two feet from the black wrought-iron gates surrounding the French party palace I usually take such care to avoid.

Not at all surprising, last night, like any other Thursday night for the French, was a black-tie affair.

The closer I came to the six-car back-up blocking the sidewalk, the clearer the cuts, fits, silhouettes and fabrics of the ladies' dresses became.

"Whoah," I said under my breath, when I finally passed by what was easily the best-looking, best-dressed couple I'd ever seen in the nation's capital. Monte and myself, obviously, not included.

He in a Clooney-fit simple black-tie tux and she in a strikingly similar plum version of the black dress Eva Mendes wore earlier this year to the Golden Kamera Awards. In their late-40s, early-50s and clearly pleased-as-punch with that fact (neither was trying to look 30, which only served to make them look even more sublimely attractive), they walked past me tittering at something she'd just said, his hand on the small of her back, hers holding an ivory Roger Vivier clutch.

If for no other reason than to share with you the details, I wanted so badly to find an excuse to stop and gawk at the rest of the stylish arrivals. But with Makin' love until we drown/Girl you know it feels real good/We can do it 'til we both wake up pounding into my ears at full-volume, compounded by my knee pain and the high humidity, there was no chance I could come up with anything even remotely believable.

And so I ran on, but not before craning my neck one last time, taking in one more sigh-worthy sight - this one a butter-hued backless column gown - and vowing to the catchy hum of the Knockin' Boots intro, to never again run on the opposite side of the street.

What the French lack in ally-loyalty they certainly make up for with their high-fashion sensibility, the presence of which on the much-in-need (see below, but don't look too long) DC style landscape is only too obvious.

(last photo courtesy of Project Beltway)

5 best dresses of the Spring semester

Sienna Miller in vintage Ossie Miller (A+)

Jennifer Lopez in Oscar de la Renta (A)

Penelope Cruz in Oscar de la Renta (A)

Eva Mendes in Marchesa (A-)

Nicole Kidman in Balenciaga (A-)

The anti-Eva eye-makeup

Remember what I said about equilibrium, how for every woman in skinny-heeled peeptoes, a fabulous wrapdress and just so sideswept bangs there is her block-heeled pilgrim-buckled pump, boxy sheath, Mom bob counterpart?

Upon seeing Eva's lure-me-to-the-other-side cat-eye and now Christina's frightening circus face, I understand this concept holds true in the world of celebrity makeup as well.

Click at your own risk, but I should warn you, in addition to seeing up close the psychedelic color wheel painted on her face, you'll get a mouthful of arm hair thick as a day laborer's.