Squarely on Team Hillary

Ahhh, Carla Bruni.

You've seduced a mogul, two rock legends, and now a President, this last conquest pushing one of the most socially liberal nations to the brink of something they haven't felt since the fallout of the Congress of Vienna in 1815 -- disapproval.

Leggy, effortlessly chic and talented chanteuse though you may be, when I look at you -all 5 feet, 10 inches of you- I can't help but think just how smart it was of your boyfriend (and his advisers, I'm sure) to keep you hidden in the country home during his tough campaign against Ségolène Royal last Spring.

That you're a siren of the highest physical and intellectual standards is nothing to be ashamed of, don't get me wrong, but when in the throes of a close election, you have to agree a candidate can't be taking chances by indulging publicly in what he thinks is acceptable knowing full well that that decision might influence voters -especially embittered, middle-aged female voters- to side with his opponent.

Inauguration first, supermodel girlfriend reveal second.

Now onto the little spat between Vogue Editor Anna Wintour and democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

Whether Hillary herself thinks wearing a series of $14,500 Haute Couture gowns in the pages of a glossy fashion magazine will render her "too feminine" really isn't the issue at hand. Frankly, for a woman who has spent her entire life over-achieving, over-working and over-compensating, I can't think of a person more deserving of a day of I-feel-pretty excess.

Excess, however, that can -and should- wait until after our very judgmental John Q. Public casts its collective vote in November.

Inauguration first, Dior second.

In the Vogue primary, my vote goes to Hillary

I apologize for the lack of posting today, but I've been buried under a massive pile of work work since last night, and unfortunately, I don't anticipate a reprieve until tomorrow afternoon.

Check back then for a post a week in the making on why, when it comes to this fashion-versus-function battle, I fall squarely and surprisingly on the side of Ms. Square-Toed Pumps herself, Hillary Clinton.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tend to the pair of steamer trunks forming underneath my eyes with a couple of fresh, cool pumps of Darphin...

as you were,
Johanna

A breath of fresh French air...

"Ségolène who?"

That was the question that popped into my head after I came across these snaps of Cécilia Sarkozy, the wife of newly-elected French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, at his inauguration last month.

All along I'd been told President Sarkozy's socialist challenger, Ms. Ségolène Royale, was the hot one to watch on the French political scene, but after being only mildly impressed with her "scandalous" bikini photoshoot* and then of course completely dissuaded once she failed to secure a win in the runoff election, I now turn my attention instead to the fickle-icious comings and goings of the extraordinarily well-dressed (seen here in a shimmery gold duchess sheath by Prada) self-absorbed beauty that is France's new first lady.

She may be a lithe 5'10" former Schiaparelli and Chanel model who only dabbled in a little of this and a little of that academically; she may have allowed France's most powerful man to follow through on his plan - one he concocted while he himself was still a newlywed and in attendance at his future wife's first wedding - to actively woo her out of those pesky 'til-death-do-us-part-etc.-etc. vows and into his bed; and she may be the woman who instead of ending her sagging second marriage to Sarkozy took up with yet another high-profile man in a very out-in-the-open affair that not only had her so distracted she forgot to vote in the decisive second-round election that put her husband in his high office but has also taken her on vacations to Cannes, London and New York, not to mention audacious hand-holding alfresco brunches, lunches and dinners in Paris.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

The sophisticated, figure-flattering style, the thin ankles, the toned triceps, the good haircut, the genuine smile and alluring feminine wiles -- it looks like Hillary might have found her perfect complement.

Put Bill on lockdown, there might be one hell of a State Dinner coming up in '08...

*on a related-but-not-really-related note, check out these pics of the stunning freak of nature that is Brooke Burke only five months after giving birth to her third - yes third - daughter.

Quotes of the day: Elizabeth Kucinich

“I have never noticed [the age difference] at all...Dennis is a very mature but young-at-heart gentleman and we complement each other."

(Elizabeth Kucinich, 29, on what she thinks of her husband and their 31-year age difference)

“Can you imagine what it would be like to have real love in the White House?”

(Elizabeth, reminding women like Hillary it's important to still give your husband "real love," and by "real love" she means...uh-huh, yeah that)

On the outset, I should dislike these two.

Elizabeth, a ginger-haired hippie from the English countryside who lists her occupation as "Politician's wife!" and spells Christopher Walken as Christopher Walking on her MySpace page, and Dennis, a twice-divorced Roman Catholic vegan who looks like every cute child TV star who's unfortunately grown into a cute adult, may gravitate toward everything from which Dick and I shy away such as peaceful resolutions, careless misspellings, Tofurkey and Christmas Mass, but somehow, if I might borrow the lazy analyst's crutch of an explanation -- they just seem to work.

And in addition to both enjoying Elizabeth's tongue piercing, the Kama Sutra (the film, not the book, incidentally) and long-distance e-mail flirtations, these two kids have also managed to stop sending naughty pictures back and forth just long enough to make their mark on DC's social scene, a fact no doubt helped by the reality that not even the two of them take Dennis' bid for the 2008 presidency very seriously.

She may be 6 inches taller and 31 years younger than her man, but you have to admit, it's quite refreshing to see a political couple who you don't immediately assume has slept in separate bedrooms for the past decade and that doesn't personify the 'Too-Bad'-lifestyle Dorothy Parker captures frighteningly well in her we-both-picked-the-wrong-one-but-we-keep-on-keepin'-on-anyway tale of look-the-other-way-while-we-eat marital bliss.

And no, Mormons don't count. They're always happy.

"Women shouldn't wear pantsuits."

"That was a beautiful woman."

"Women shouldn't wear pantsuits. Men wear pants. The last thing this city needs is another Hillary Clinton."

This was Robert Hanssen (played frighteningly well by Chris Cooper) waxing on the dos and don'ts of women's fashion to his young assistant.

My spontaneous (and quite loud) "Amen," much to L's dismay, was not drowned out by the what-a-ridiculous-thing-to-say laughter that had erupted from all four corners of the shoebox sized theater.

Both couples in front of us and behind us went through great pains to show their disapproval with above-whisper "What an idiot" barbs and too-hard-to-be-accidental seat-kicks. I don't think my "that simpering wife either needs to get her own security clearance or stop asking so many god damn questions" comment a few minutes later endeared me to them any further.

By the end, L had slumped down so far in her seat, her sweet curls weren't even visible to the rows behind her.

"Nobody got that you were throwing up the 'Amen' in favor of skirts, not misogyny, or that you didn't like the wife because she was potentially jeopardizing national security," L explained to me afterwards. "At this theater, in Dupont Circle, you just looked like the Cheney-lover you are, and while I'm fine with that in confined settings - really I am - I don't want to risk an ugly confrontation when we're in such close proximity to concessions."

"Oh right, sorry," I said, clearly not at all sorry.

"Seriously, Johanna, I just got this coat dry cleaned over the weekend. Do you know, first of all, how difficult it is to find a dry cleaner I can trust with my vintage coat, not to mention how much it costs? Do you?"

"No, no, but I get it. I'm sorry."

(eye roll)

"Really, I get it."

Other than that pantsuit line, fashion was not a central topic of conversation, nor was it even noticeable, in the remaining 109 minutes. The costume designer perfectly captured DC's workforce in all its ill-fitting neutrals and sensible-shoe glory.

After resolving our differences over some rustic Cosi bread slices, L and I found common ground in our deep empathy for Laura Linney for her having to wear these ugly puppies - first in navy, then brown - throughout the entirety of the movie.

The normally chic Ms. Linney certainly took one for the team.

And it was good she did, because like the cheap oxford shirts Ryan Phillippe sported and the imitation Burberry print scarf Cooper wore, the movie was better for it.