The *perfect* blouse FINALLY FOUND!

I thought the day might never come...

But here it is and in my favorite-for-Fall color, no less:

Silk pleated cap-sleeve top ($68 at bananarepublic.com)

And in case you need a memory jog, the blouse that started the quest:

Hooker-face + Vegas dress + Costume Institute Gala = wrong wrong WRONG

There's just no excuse for Jessica Simpson showing up to the most high-fashion event of the season - arguably of the year - looking like an Atlantic City cocktail waitress who just won the lottery and bought the first "this-shows-off-my-boobs-good" gown she could find at the Caché outlet store.

I'm speechless. Literally.

(taking a Fresca/Marie Claire break)

Okay, I'm back.

With a dress this frenetically busy - just so typical Roberto Cavalli - your eyes don't know where to settle first. The intricate beading, the metallic sheen, the deep-plunge, the larger-than-life focal points Jess can't seem to keep to herself lately (evidenced here, here and here, all of which were snapped within the last seven days) -- it's just too much.

And though her makeup this year is slightly less transgendered looking than the spackle and magic marker job she sported last year, she still bears a striking resemblance - especially in the last photo - to that ladyboy who introduced me to the most amazing spicy Cuban corn outside Psyche's Tears in the East Village last July.

In the end, all of this vitriol is really just my being jealous that a woman who has a body and a bank account to kill for, one who is fortunate enough to nab an invite to an event I would sell what's left of my soul to attend, essentially shows up with a sign around her neck that reads: "For a bucket of chicken, my cleavage can be your wonderland."

You SO wish, Biel.

This fine piece of British badunkadunk doesn't belong to Sienna Miller or Keira Knightley.

And good guess, but no, it's not the backside of Billy Zane's insanely hot girlfriend, "actress" Kelly Brook, either.

Believe it or not, but this bah'um - born to Ilyena Vasilievna Mironov - has won an Oscar, two Golden Globes in a single year (three total), and perhaps most impressive of all, has been around for six decades and change.

That's right, this sweet behind (and those fierce black toenails) belongs to none other than 62 year old Dame Helen Mirren.

Until I discovered Ms. Mirren this past year, I blindly believed the line I heard other parents feeding their defeated children when I outperformed them year after year in the Grammar Bees, the Student Government elections, and the from-home-plate-to-second-base throwdowns:

"Nobody wins everything, honey, somewhere along the line, she's going to lose, too."

Now, I suppose that has been true in my case (there was that one time...), but certainly not in Helen's. Not when it comes to professional success or hotness longevity, anyway. To jog your memory, this is the woman whose rack, without the benefaction of surgery, still looks unfathomably perky and full as an ingenue's half her age.

A fabulous ass, a tremendous chest, a happy marriage of 21 years and that elegant accent?

Now I know exactly how the other kids felt.

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.

Kinda over her

Aside from her terrific ass, I'm not really sure why I was so fixated on Jessica Biel.

Her movies are forgettable, she has more than a hint of man shoulders, and if Us Weekly sales are any metric for how interesting a person is, she falls short of both the Spelling family and Nicole Kidman. Nicole Kidman.

There's no argument, however, over the fact that she can rock a Chloé dress and fitted trench like few others can, evidenced again last night outside Dave Letterman's studio in a Paulo Melim Andersson designed prim white 3/4-sleeve embellished A-line sweater dress and a long gunmetal gaberdine cinched coat. Not crazy about the stacked wooden-heeled peeptoes, but that's a me thing, not a style thing -- I just don't care to see anything fatter than a four-inch Bruno Frisoni toothpick propping up a woman's foot.

Then there's the handbag, or shall I say, bodybag? Seriously, is she carrying a Bowflex in that thing? It's ridiculous. Plus, white-on-white-on-white is almost never a good idea, because unless their tones match perfectly, you end up looking like you've tried too hard to be matchy-matchy. And there's only one thing worse than looking matchy-matchy, and that's tried-and-failed matchy-matchiness. Were I her stylist, I would've chosen for Jess a warm chocolatey brown pair of stiletto pumps like these from Celine and a subtle metallic-and-khaki clutch like this one from Marc Jacobs. Complement, don't match, sweetie.

But perhaps what I find most disappointing in this series of photos - other than her unseasonably mid-winter berry lips - is the realization that Ms. Biel may not be an officer of the cankle club, after all.

Looks like Katie Holmes will be stepping in to pinch-hit for Jess this season!

An unsettling feeling

It's an unsettling feeling, one that even casts doubt upon my own unwaveringly sound judgment, when I look at a picture of Britney Spears, another of Jessica Biel, point to the former and say, "I'd rather have her legs."

But strangely enough, that was the swift conclusion I reached while looking at the following photos, both taken yesterday.

Look closely and you'll see BitBit's got lovely, shapely runner's calves, while Biel-tastic is unequivocally the comptroller of Cankleville.

It breaks my heart, it really does, to know that a woman whose most strenuous exercise involves hooking up with some Guido after an all-night Vegas bender out-legs the hottest, most dedicated gym-rat in Los Angeles, but like that Ethiopian girl Angelina didn't choose at the orphanage knows painfully well, life isn't always fair.

I guess we all know now why Jess overcompensates with an up-to-her-ears badunk-a-dunk and wears an inordinate number of floor-sweeping column gowns. Girl's ripped and smart.

Now that we can FINALLY bear arms

In case you didn't hear, Friday was a big day for gun lovers in DC.

The US Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit struck down the District's strict gun control law on Second Amendment grounds, and as a result, I'm now allowed to not only liberate my Israeli-made holster from a fire-proof safety deposit box in Michigan but my best-graduation-present-ever Walther PPK as well.

I wasn't going to muse about this legislation, but well, Goldfinger is on right now on the Encore-Action channel, and I just can't help myself.

Before all of you clipboard-toting Obama-ites get on my case for mingling politics with fashion critique, I'll have you know there are no two-legged, opposably-thumbed children in my place of residence, nor will there be any live ammunition. My old-school James Bond gun may be, as a crusty old Marine with whom I work told me, "a fu**in' good piece to kill a motherfu**er with at close range," but were I to actually bring my handed-down darling to the District, it would solely be for those Sunday afternoons when I piled myself into an SUV stacked with fresh-off-the-Iraq reservation contractors itching for a few hours in rural Virginia with a briefcase full of (licensed) semi-automatics and a stack of $.20 Bin Laden targets.

The obvious question that begs to be asked and answered, then, is this: "what does a fashionable girl wear when she's off to the range?"

Do I break my iron-clad no-jeans-and-sneakers rule?

Do I go for the Angie a-la Tombraider look?

Do I opt for the extended clip even though loading the extra bullets almost always ruins my cuticles?

In my view, the shooting range, whether indoor or outdoor, is a venue that falls outside my urban fashion guidelines. In other words, when I'm spending upwards of $50 on ammunition alone, my time better be spent getting better, not looking better.

I recommend jeans, of course, but not skinny jeans, not straight-leg jeans, and not anything nicer or pricier than your sole pair of wouldn't-mind-getting-'em-irreparably-soiled jeans.

As for footwear, it's a coin-toss between sneakers and boots, though I tend to favor the former because I find my taking-it-from-the-hip timing to be considerably faster when I have a less restrictive, more cushioned foundation.

Up top, depending on the weather (remember, the deeper into Virginia red country you go, the colder it gets), I'd either wear my thinnest, faded-to-gray purple MTV tee on its own or coupled with my children's size alma mater sweatshirt. More so than below the belt, a shooter's upper body needs to be agile and unrestricted, a tougher-than-you'd-think equilibrium achieved only through a not-too-tight and not-too-loose upper body garment.

As for how to wear your hair, if you're serious about hitting Bin Laden in the larynx at 10 meters with a body pistol, you'd better ponytail it like a Marine: high and tight.

And just because you're in the sticks doesn't excuse you from the makeup basics of mascara, concealer and bronzer. There's no need for foundation, cream-based shadow or eyeliner, but just because you're packing a PPK and not a briefcase doesn't change the fact that you're still a woman and you're still leaving your front door.

Once you've got the gun, the ammo, the look, and your own bevy of private mercenary instructors at your disposal, you're almost there.

The last steps are getting that NRA membership card and a custom pair of Lara Croft thigh-holsters or Bandidas-esque high-waisted ass-less chaps.

Or both.

omigod omigod omigod!

Could it be, a photo of ScarJo and Biel-tastic sharing the same hoola-hoop of personal space while shopping for I-can't believe-we-both-hooked-up-with-him luxuries at ze famous Le Bon Marche department store?

It is!

Okay fine, so it's not exactly how I envisioned their first encounter would play out. First of all, Scarlett's not in this and Jessica's not in this, and secondly, they aren't here waiting for me to show up bespectacled in this and these.

Now, if only Clive Owen, Daniel Craig and Eric Bana would rendezvous at the Town & Country in made-to-order Brioni tuxedos, this birthday girl could call it a day...

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.

Gotcha!

I could only find a good picture of 'em in red, but the color is immaterial. What's important here is that the Gwen Stefani mystery shoe is no longer without a name.

These six-inch, sure-to-be-sold-out-before-they-even-hit-Bergdorf's beauties are none other than the Yves Saint Laurent 'Tribute' pumps.

These will probably set you back three DVF wrap dresses and a couple of Kir Royales at the St. Regis, so I find it highly amusing - and very characteristic of the eh-it's-just-money attitude in the fashion industry - that YSL's lead designer Stefano Pilati had his delicate red suede stilettos come down the runway caked in mud.

Now that this mystery has been solved, I just need to track down (and acquire) Jessica Biel's *perfect* blouse...

The *perfect* blouse

The girl with the perfect behind has helped me identify that elusive item most women go their entire lives without finding -- the *perfect* blouse.

This jewel-blue satin cap-sleeve blouse with deep neckline-to-chest pleats and keyhole back (not shown) may not seem spectacular to you, but to me, it is that marriage of the right silhouette, the right color and the right fabric I've waited years to come across. Heartbreakingly, I know I can't afford this particular, surely-couture piece, but at least now, every time I browse the sale section at shopbop.com or step into a Club Monaco, I have an indelibly-burned reminder of why I won't settle for that cute but not quite right satin blouse.

What is it, specifically, about Ms. Biel's top that has me so captivated?

Well, to begin, its versatility. It's the bright punch of color that will lighten up one of my many all-black ensembles; it's that prim, feminine shape that will tone down the severity of my pinstripe pantsuit; it's that simple but still very up-market top that will makes a jeans-and-flats afternoon just as enjoyable, fashion-wise, as a summer cocktail party in Kalorama. Its fitted but not gratuitously so, and would allow me to display my toned - and in the summer, tanned - upper arms.

Most important, though, is that it couples well with every single below-the-waist wardrobe component I have in my closet:

Pencil skirt - check.

A-line skirt - check.

Pleated lampshade skirt - check.

Skinny pants - check.

Wide-leg trousers - check.

Dressy bermudas - check.

Jeans - check.

Ballet flats - check.

Round-toed stilettos - check.

Finally, just because this is my perfect blouse doesn't mean it's yours. In the search for your perfect blouse, try waiting until you come across one that meets all four of the following criteria:

1. Minimizes your problem areas -- covers your beanbag biceps, your paunch folds, and/or your straight up-and-down boy hips

2. Highlights your assets -- hugs your great rack in a non-salacious way, alludes to but doesn't give-away-for-free your hourglass shape, draws attention to your defined clavicle

3. Versatility -- pairs well with the majority of trousers and skirts in your wardrobe and is just as hot dressed up for work and as it is down for a reunion barbecue

4. Love love LOVE it factor -- every time you look at it, you can't wait to wear it again


There is one formidable downside to finding your ideal blouse - or anything ideal - in the manner in which I did, and that is the likelihood of a futile search and ultimately having to decide between being without or settling for less.

Hubbell settled for less, but like I said, I'm a Katie -- I'm holding out for the one I want.

How would it look?

If I could put together my ideal face, it would have Scarlett's eyes, Angie's nose and cheekbones, and Jessica Biel's forehead and hairline.

Okay fine, I sneaked my lips in there, but it was only because the readership demanded it!

Yes, it is a complete coincidence that the three celebrities featured here are the only three to have been dubbed "the Sexiest Woman Alive" by Esquire Magazine.

And yes, my lips are humbled in their forehead's, eyes' and nose's presence.

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.