Gettin' booty

I love, love, love the idea of wearing boots with everything these days, and the ones I covet are usually from Anthropologie, where there are incredible shoes but at incredibly expensive prices, especially considering they only appear to be available online (i.e., you can't try them on before you buy). I specifically love these "legwarmer boots" -- what do you suggest I do?

Ah, the perennial boot question...

After two dozen PowerPoint presentations, two days of in-my-head conference room style scouting and more midday snickerdoodle indulgences than I care to remember, the final night of my Virginia Beach stay found me perched on a bar stool flush up against the babyfaced Beirut players that supersaturated the sports bar to which I'd paid homage not only that night but the night before, and if I remember correctly - which, considering how well acquainted Ms. Artois and I were during the trip, isn't a given - at some point the night before that as well.

More than a little venue-inappropriate in my black super-skinnies, gunmetal knotted satin peep toes and like-hued pouf-sleeved silk-blend tunic (sue me, it was either that or my threadbare "Little Miss Chatterbox" tee and sweat-soaked running shorts), I sat there wondering exactly when it was getting-older-and-clearly-having-issues-with-that-fact statements like, "Fine, so she's got a hot ass but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a career -- how hot is that?" began coming out of my mouth, I decided it was time to shotgun my last pint, take a climb down from my high horse and chat up A, one of my favorite good ol' boys from Houston with whom I only had the pleasure to converse in-person once, maybe twice a year.

"I love makin' the trip up to DC. It's such a great town," A said, tipping back his take-home souvenir football-shaped beer stein and shaking his head 'no' he didn't want the last slice of deep-dish to our dance-pants and sports-bra bedecked waitress, Crystal-Ann.

"It really is," I replied, "I love it there. I'm surprised you like it, though, you seem like such a...well, you know, like such a Texan."

"Oh, I am, but it's those boots y'all wear, Johanna...I love you ladies up there walkin' 'round in your knee-high leather boots. Makes every trip worth it."

As A and I continued our sexy boot conversation, I considered but ultimately decided against describing to him the sensual experience I'd had two weekends prior at the Saks shoe salon with hands-on employees Richard and Marcus, these chest-grabbingly gorgeous Prada zip-ups and my Angelina in Mr. and Mrs. Smith fantasy. There's just something about the smell of that new leather, the tease of the patch of skin between the tippy-top of the boot and the start of the skirt's hem, and the Pretty Woman-esque motion of propping your heel up on the lip of an open drawer and slowly, erotically - even if your only audience is your reflection in a full-length mirror - drawing to a close the view of your leg behind a tight encasement of black leather.

In a word, meeeow.

Based on my own experiences and the high volume of boot-related questions I've received from readers and girlfriends over the past few weeks, I think it's safe to say the women of DC love to wear their knee-high leather boots as much or more as the men of Texas love to look at us in them.

Just like with pumps, lingerie, haircuts and just about every other facet of the feminine aesthetic, I don't believe in half-assing the sexy when it comes to boots, either. My view is, depending on your mood, play the sophisticated dominatrix by rocking the severe stiletto or channel your East Village cool with the Robin-Hood-inspired flat variety. You'll find no two-inch block-heeled nonsense here, nor anything that isn't almond-toed or made of - or made to disarmingly look like - real cowhide.

Ladies whose calves are of a more generous carriage, don't forget to make a pit stop here before entering boot town. Take it from someone who's hit the point in her training where she can no longer fit her lower legs into her skinny jeans without engaging in a painful pantyhose-style shimmy -- the Spanx-cinch makes a big, big difference.

So, to all of you in pursuit of a pair of reasonably priced** cool weather knee-high boots (sorry, no pooties allowed - ever - on ASJiNE), here are my recommendations (for similarly inexpensive in-store selections, try Nordstrom, DSW, Macy's, Filene's and vintage stores, among others), conveniently bifurcated into the sky-high and ultra-flat categories you see below.

The 'objectify me' boots:

High stiletto boot ($119 at victoriassecret.com) L6576 by L’Autre Chose ($296 at zappos.com)Zulli boots by Max Studio ($260 at lorisdesignershoes.com)* Side-strap boot by C-Label ($169.99 at bluefly.com)

Lolita boot by KORS Michael Kors ($292.95 at zappos.com)*

Bridgid cuffed boot ($248 at bananarepublic.com)

The 'respect me' boots:

Madly boot by Steve Madden ($149.95 at stevemadden.com) Traca boot by Steve Madden ($169.95 at stevemadden.com)*

Sunny tall cuff boot by Frye ($298 at urbanoutfitters.com)
Leather flat boot by Sudini ($199.95 at nordstrom.com)

Fauxa boot by Nine West ($169 at nordstrom.com)

Bree faux suede boots by Gabriella Rocha ($79.95 at zappos.com)*

*your Editrix's top picks

**operationally defined as under-$300

A *different* kind of wishlist item

Though it is one of the least labor intensive responsibilities of my ASJINE work day, selecting an item to showcase in the daily "If I had a sugar daddy..." feature consistently ranks as one of my most satisfying.

In fact, it's often one of the most satisfying parts of my entire day.

I'm a masochistic dreamer, I guess you could say, one who draws deep-down-in-her-belly pleasure from wanting things so painfully out of reach - the option to place a $1,540 cocktail dress into her virtual shopping cart, Hollywood moment-filled days every day, among others - that the usual how-can-I-swing-this? next-step isn't a consideration. For in my current and most likely forever future, there will be no "swinging" a dress that costs as much as my rent and there will be no cut-and-paste function to insert into my every morning the piano scene from Pretty Woman, the "Escort me by all means, but don't follow me...it's so predatory" slow dance from The English Patient and the Jonathan-finally-finds-the-copy-of-the-Marquez-book-and-goes-after-Sarah realization from Serendipity. Yet day in and day out, I give into those cravings that are not only unlikely to ever be sated, but in some cases, like the one I'm about to describe, where doing so is a physical impossibility.

Both here in my blog and in my daily life, I've always been very forthright - much to my parents' dismay, I'm afraid - about my impassioned views on female beauty. Particularly those lovely bits that rest just below the collarbone and just above the ribcage. Like some men are "leg guys" and some guys are "ass men," I'm without a doubt, in the purely admiring sense, an unabashed "breast girl."

And until a few weeks ago when I came into close contact with perhaps the most enviable pair DNA ever did link together, this affinity, like that which I have for the price-upon-request runway clothes and the tidy romantic comedy endings, was very much an abstract appreciation -- something I could safely dream about without any expectations and without the complication of having to watch others enjoy in front of me that which I could not - and would never - myself be able to enjoy.

But for better or worse, K and her perfectly symmetrical, perfectly teardropped, as perfectly primed for a push-'em-up-and-out bustier as a faded university tee breasts came smack dab into my life. My real life. My daily life. And now I have to deal not only with the awkwardness that is unconsciously staring at my new friend's bosom (though she assures me this is a common "problem" with which she has grown comfortable over the past decade) but I also have to confront an extreme wanting-what-I-can't-have-edness - a desire even the most impressive implants couldn't palliate - not only when I'm in her presence but even when a "K"-scribed e-mail pings my inbox.

Like I would with any uncomfortable quandary, I forced myself to face the problem head-on, and as a result transitioned through several phases, including the disingenuous just-be-happy-for-K phase, the futile what-can-I-do-to-make-mine-more-like-K's phase, the selfish maybe-I-should-stop-being-friends-with-K-so-I-can-go-back-to-pretending-my-breasts-are-the-most-perfect-I've-ever-seen phase, and finally, where I am now, the Dove commercial inspired channel-this-energy-to-finding-something-about-myself-I-love-just-as-much-(or-more)-than-I-love-K's-breasts phase.

So I'm still figuring out exactly what that "something" is upon which I can redirect my singular focus, but at least I'm now at a place where I can genuinely look forward to seeing K (and her beauties) without secretly hoping my memory of their fabulousness was colored by beer gogglery or my tendency toward selectively-positive recall.

Because frankly, as I look at the pictures she sent me as part of my informal therapy, they are that fabulous. There's no getting around it. Her rack is the Monica Bellucci rack of DC.

And as such, they're to be celebrated bra-free in a backless T-Bags graphic print maxi not only by lustful hetero and style-conscious Logan Circle men but also by women who can truly appreciate the beauty that is a large and lovely pair of lay-your-head-here ladybits.

Going to camp!

Even when I was a wee thing walkin' barefoot as a prairie dog with a grape Sonic slush sticky-gripped in one pudgy hand and a blue leather Darryl Strawberry outfielder's glove in the other, there was no above-the-waist wardrobe component you would more likely find me sporting than the fitted camp shirt.

These days, aside from living against a backdrop with less honeysuckle and fewer homes on stilts, not to mention having sports heroes who aren't in-and-out of the clink and a BMI that doesn't hover in between "obese" and "super obese," my life - my style - is pretty much the same.

After a thorough closet assessment, I can claim official ownership over 11 camp shirts, all of which are fitted, all of which pass the "keyhole effect" test and all but two of which - the linen ones - I wear on a year-round basis.

What is a camp shirt, exactly?

A camp shirt is a hits-right-at-the-waist, short-sleeved button-up, sometimes with a rounded-collar, sometimes with breast-pockets, and is reminiscent, as you'd expect, of the kind of shirts our parents or grandparents might have been issued back when those Parent Trap-type summer camps still existed. The camp shirt is in no way a sexy top, it's a cute top.

What color should I look for?

The sky's the limit. I myself have five solids, two plaids, two with geometric patterns, one with terriers (shut up) and one with cherry bunches.

What pairs well with a camp shirt?

It really depends. About half of my cache, due to their prints, are strictly post-work appropriate and are pretty much limited to dressy shorts and jeans. The other half can go the casual-to-professional distance, complementing both the shorts and jeans and nearly all my below-the-waist work bottoms.

What's the best fit for a camp shirt?

Fitted, fitted fitted. While I believe in a more generous cut when it comes to a traditional oxford, I like my camp shirts to hug my curves just short of tight, which is difficult to achieve in conjunction with a keyhole-free front when your rack is disproportionately more heaving than your waist is wide.

Whether you're headed to the dog park, brunch just off the cobblestones of M Street in Georgetown or to the Manhattan Vintage show, a camp shirt is a sure-fire way to achieve that sweet, low maintenance, I'm-a-guy's-girl façade we all work tirelessly to maintain until they move in and we can finally admit the under-15-minute shower doesn't exist, we will be watching Pretty Woman every time it airs on TBS and that au naturel really means "everything but eyeliner."

Ladies, your man-trappers:

Top to bottom:
1. Cherry blossom shirt by JW Los Angeles ($152 at couturecandy.com)

2. Plaid Jen shirt by Ben Sherman ($69 at urbanoutfitters.com)

3. Pinstripe shirt by Classiques Entier ($118 at nordstrom.com)

4. Puff-sleeve button-up ($39.50 at gap.com)

5. French schoolgirl shirt ($78 at jcrew.com)

6. Welt-pocket button-down ($220 at activeendeavors.com)

7. Farm shirt by Rag & Bone ($170 at activeendeavors.com)*

8. Passiflora blouse by Fei ($49.95 at anthropologie.com)

9. Pop shop blouse by Odille ($49.95 at anthropologie.com)

10. Puff sleeve shirt by Nili Lotan ($203 at shopbop.com)*

11. Ruffled silk blouse by D&G ($295 at saks.com)

12. Dulcie blouse by Theory ($180 at saks.com)

*your editrix's favorites

Don't punish the outfit.

Choosing an outfit for a date is a complicated task made even more complicated by the potential for positive/negative permanent clothing association.

Whether the debut of your black satin halter with keyhole back and ruffle-front was privy to an evening of Christian conservative ideas on how women aren't biologically fit to be brain surgeons or your 3/4-sleeve wrap dress and platform peeptoes had to sit in the presence of a man in frayed jeans and flip-flops who spent what seemed like the entire evening speaking to his mother with a tone of voice just slightly too intimate for your taste, whatever the case, no matter how long, how offensive, how young or how much of a Democrat your date proves to be, the establishment of a permanent clothing association - especially with a piece you truly love - directly threatens that relationship which is most important in a single woman's daily life: her relationship with her clothes.

My gold Grecian-style shift, my green chiffon summer slip dress, even my ivory lace and mesh boyshorts -- all of these smack of one man and of one put-in-the-past-against-my-will relationship. For weeks, I couldn't even look at them. Some of them I still can't bring myself to wear. Pushed to the way-back of their color-coded sections, each item - and there were many, many more than just the three I mentioned - each item elicited a powerful memory, all of which were positive. Too positive. Too him.

This is another set of circumstances where the wealthy have a clear advantage. A lobbyist soiled your halter with his Evangelical venom? Another lobbyist tainted your DvF with his unkempt feet and Norman Bates persona? The assured but now gone love of your life escorted you hand-in-hand through Manhattan's corridors in your ivory pouf-sleeved knit mini? Throw 'em out and buy new ones. Buy better ones. Buy ones that don't have ingrained in their fibers the memories or smells of men past.

Do you honestly think Vivian could have brought herself to ever wear that red off-the-shoulder ballgown again if Edward hadn't listened to his heart, rescued her and allowed her to rescue him right back?

The answer, of course, a resounding "no."

Until I have a bank account able to facilitate regular wardrobe rotation replacements, however, I have no choice but to either pare down my ensemble options or simply adopt a "don't punish the outfit" attitude.

At present, like my politics, I fall somewhere in the middle.

Attack of the 50 Foot Woman attacks 'Pretty Woman'

Daryl Hannah's busted-face spewed this nonsense yesterday:

“One of the things I’m most proud of is refusing to take Julia’s role in 'Pretty Woman.' Every time I see it, I like it less and less. They sold it as a romantic fairytale when in fact it’s a story about a prostitute who becomes a lady by being kept by a rich and powerful man. I think that film is degrading for the whole of womankind.”

I'm guessing the other things Daryl's most proud of are her success in pulling off the man-tuck for 46 straight years, coming thisclose to ruining Wall Street, and at her best, being the poor man's Laura Dern.

In her defense, it could very well be the hormone treatments from her stage-3 gender reassignment making her so darn ornery.

A death in the wish list.

This was the dress.

This Frankie a-line with prim epaulet sleeves and mod silhouette held the top spot on my wish list from late August up until this evening when Anthropologie's website informed me only three remained, none of which were within a size of my size. All that waiting, all the fantasizing about pairing it with a simple ballet flat or with red opaque tights and black round-toed platform heels (yes, Rachel Bilson did it first), all the times I checked to make sure it was still there nestled in the middle of the "little black dress" section -- it was all for naught.

When I saw it had been marked down from a $150-out-of-my-price-range dress to a just-within-reach dress two weeks ago, I naively thought the same good fashion fortune that allowed me to find my ivory knit minidress would repeat itself. I thought for sure I had time. I thought for sure the depth of the love I felt for this dress meant that it, too, loved me and wouldn't leave me. Couldn't leave me.

And yet, here we are.

Who knows, we still might be together one day. When Vivian slipped away from Edward, we all thought it was over. We all knew it was a preposterous notion, a businessman and a hooker making it work. But what we missed, what we weren't thinking about, was their connection. He loved her, she loved him, and that love transcended practicality and vitiated what was and wasn't socially acceptable. In the end, he realized that following his heart - something he had spent his entire life avoiding - was the key to happiness. Unlike I did, he didn't wait until it was too late. He went after her.

A day, a year, or a decade from now, when I'm flipping through the racks at Annie Creamcheese in Georgetown or Tahir Boutique in the East Village, perhaps my steadfast affection for this Frankie a-line will earn me a second chance.

And then, as I should have two weeks ago, I can rescue it right back.

If I forget to tell you later...

...I had a really good time blogging today.

Sorry, I just had to include an allusion to Pretty Woman on my first day. For those of you who know me well, you've already heard more than you probably cared to about my everything-in-life-comes-back-to-Pretty-Woman theory. For those of you who haven't heard of it, well, Christmas might just come early. Cross your short black-nailed fingers, and you might just get lucky.

Speaking of black nails, did you see that OPI just released their own black polish - Black Onyx - to rival Chanel's nearly extinct Black Satin? I scooped up two bottles on Wednesday ($8 each at PIAF Salon) -- better hurry before they're all gone!

Oh wait, I just remembered I live in Washington. No one here gives a Stuckey about emulating the enduring style icons that are Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff.

Hmpf.