Hands-down, my favorite purchase of 2007

Tasked by a familial client to do some last-minute holiday shopping, I hiked it four-inch heels, thin trench and all up to Georgetown this evening after work to make one last pilgrimage to Club Monaco before my impatience with shove-happy crowds and women who walk six shopping bags across manifested itself in the form of a potentially violent, "As a matter of fact, ma'am, I do have a problem" confrontation.

After picking up a pair of elbow-length leather gloves, a slouchy oversized gunmetal clutch and a few of the gauziest, coziest turtlenecks in three lovely shades of black, blacker and blackest, instead of heading home, something compelled me to abandon my 45-minute target and instead make a quick stop down and around the WiscAve/M St. intersection to Zara.

I didn't need anything, of course, but as Oprah is always telling me, when you hear that inner-voice speak to you, honey child, you better prick up those ears and listen.

So listen I did.

And thank goodness, because had I not, I would never have found this, my hands-down favorite purchase of 2007. There's really not much else to say other than I can now die happy that I've found a way to literally wear my love for all the world to see.

"Oh Mum, it's splendid, just splendid. But honestly, couldn't you have tidied up the box-shelf a bit before we sat for the photo?"

*I do apologize, but I think you'll understand why this post took precedence over the dress-code follow-up. Be sure to keep an eye out for that post (I promise) at some point this weekend...

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.

Gone New Yorkin'

But don't fret, I'll be back in full "harmfully judgmental" force Wednesday morning with a new, this-inspired vintage mini, a higher alcohol tolerance and a few mystery bruises.

Miss me, you fools.

The only kind of date I stress about is the *girl-date*

L knew right away what I meant when she asked what my post-work plans were this week and I responded, "Monday - run, Tuesday - drinks with the ex, Wednesday - anniversary celebration with a half-gallon of Neapolitan and Serendipity, and Thursday...Thursday, oh right, I have a girl-date."

Men, on the other hand, in part out of ignorance and in part out of the undeniable reality that their default thoughts are synonymous with their most sought after but most likely - and unfortunately - unconsummated fantasy, tend not to assign the words "girl-date" to a let's-talk-about-work-and-men Carrie/Charlotte/Miranda/Samantha-esque happy hour but rather to a of scantily-clad, Champagne-inspired Gina-Gershon-and-Jennifer-Tilly-in-Bound (shown above) scenario.

But obviously (or perhaps, not so obviously given all the Monica fawning and gratuitous rack commentary), "girl-date," in the context in which I was referring to it per my conversation with L, falls into the former, less tawdry category.

For those male readers who aren't quite sure what a girl-date is, at least the kind of girl-date I'll be going on later this week, let me offer you a rough operational definition:

A girl-date is when two women who are relatively unfamiliar with one another (in my case, we met at a party) decide they want to explore a more meaningful friendship outside of their current circumstances (in my case, e-mail correspondence) and do so by setting up a meeting whereby the potential for said meaningful friendship can be more deeply explored.

For me, these dates, the dates when I might discover a new shoulder to cry on, a new acid-tongued wingwoman to have my back when I'm dragged to horrific places like Rumors, or a new number to dial when I find a mis-marked DVF wrapdress in her size buried at the bottom of a clearance bin, are much more consequential and much more anticipatory than the other kinds of dates I'm "enjoying" in my present social schedule.

But the question is...what to wear?

I have four days to decide on that perfect, not-too-sexy, not-too-trendy, not-too-trying-too-hard ensemble that will represent me without looking like I spent as much effort as I did assembling it.

Final decision - and reactions thereto - to be shared with you all on Friday morning.

Grape slushees and tornadoes, here I come!

Though I always knew I loved this blog and loved you, my loyal readership, it took facing a no-way-around-it three day departure for me to really realize just how attached I'd grown over the past four months to sharing with you my sometimes educational, often repugnant but always spot-on views regarding DC fashion and celebrity weight-gain.

But like I said, there's just no way for me to fit in time to blog when I will be jet-setting this glorious ass of mine Grapes of Wrath style in a pair of Asics Gel Kayanos to the capital city of the state that boasts the nation's highest civilian-to-correctional-facility ratio (approximately 70,000:1), is home to Shawnee, the city in which the very first Sonic Drive-In turned on its speakers, and most notable, the state that serves as the unofficial birthplace of the rat-tail, the femmullet, and even though I'm pretty sure it hasn't been identified yet, whatever this is.

And to those of you who've asked me the same two questions over and over again, the answer to the first is I will prepare mentally with the films Time Cop, Rocky IV and Serendipity; the answer to the second is a resounding "yes." Yes, I will be going through the full makeup routine beforehand. Even bronzer. Even eyeliner. Even Dior Addict lip gloss in shade #313.

See you on Monday!

Tell Lloyd Dobler I said, "Thank you"

If you're one of the individuals who will spend this Saturday evening at the White House Correspondents' Association dinner and thus be within breathing distance of my current love and a love from one of the brightest, dearest corners of my teen-idol past, I envy you. The latter of these two is a man I first encountered in the mid-'80s as high school loser Bryce, rediscovered in 2000 as Rob Gordon, then for whom I fell hard - really hard - a year later as Jonathan Trager, but who will always, always be, to me, the sweet-natured, misunderstood, "sport-of-the-future" kickboxer Lloyd Dobler.

It was Lloyd's unflinching I-will-hold-this-boombox-above-my-head-and-make-you-listen-to-Peter-Gabriel-on-repeat-until-you-admit-you-feel-the-same-way-I-do perseverance that helped shape for me - and for so many other girls - what it was I wanted in a man.



He taught me to want a man who would clear a path for me even if it was in a 7-11 parking lot.

He taught me to want a man who when he discovered my earmarked dictionaries (or in my case, stacks and stacks of SAT prep flashcards) would look down, smile, and think to himself, "So her."

He taught me to want a man who, even when he was out with the guys and I was nowhere in sight, would say things like:

"This girl was different, man. We'd go out, we wouldn't even have to go out, you know? We'd just hang out. This girl made me trust myself, man. I was walking around and I was feeling satisfied. Can you imagine that?"

So if you happen to run into John Cusack by the crudites tray two nights from tonight - he'll likely be flanked by John McLaughin, the closet Serendipity fanatic who invited the actor - give him my very best and please tell him I said, "Thank you."

Oh yeah, tell him to stick to the romantic comedies, too. No more Identity bullshit.

And just because fantasy is fun, if I were actually going to this chichi gala and money weren't an issue, my ensemble would include this royal purple layered silk Malandrino couture gown with lantern neckline, empire waist and bubble-hem from her Fall/Winter 2007 collection (price upon request), these barely-there Azzaro jeweled t-strap sandals ($1,680 at bergdorfgoodman.com), this metallic box clutch by Bottega Veneta ($2,250 at net-a-porter.com) and my own stack of yellow-gold Indonesian bangles:

This about sums it up.

This scene from Serendipity expresses better than I ever could with words exactly how I feel every time I'm surrounded by Manhattan's splendidly frenetic pace.



It could be a professional daytrip like today, a quick overnighter, or one of those rare 72-hour stretches where the beginnings of a lovely routine begin to take shape: "In Good Health" breakfasts, giggle-filled walks from Columbus Circle to just past Fiorello's, and before dinner cocktails at the King Cole bar where we bask just as much in the pleasure of Maxfield Parrish's painting as we do in the spirits just below his Majesty's feet.

It's all quite magical to me.

As is the fact that no matter where I find myself eating the white part of a black-and-white cookie or what department store display I'm gape-mouthed in front of, "January Rain" and "Northern Sky" always manage to come out of nowhere to fill my ears - and my heart - with one-day-I'll-make-this-town-mine reminders of how deeply in love I am with this place.

"Serendipity" on the couch beats the Ritz anyday

As much as I seem to prefer the finer things in life - the Marchesa dresses, the Brian Atwood pumps, the Karoo cashmere tunics and the room service at Central Park South five-stars - there's nothing like an impending Valentine's Day to remind me just how important the intangibles - the in-bed belly laughs, the hand-in-hand walks and the we-have-so-much-fun-together looks - truly are.

So, for those of you in the throes of a fabulously healthy and happy relationship, I hope tomorrow is Roberta Flack's "The first time ever I saw your face" played out in real life.

Really, I do.

And to prove it, here's a playlist my 13lb Valentine and I put together that's perfect to induce (in no particular order) lip-biting kisses on the kitchen countertop, slow dances in the living room, and bah'um massages in the bedroom.

Our gift to you.

Valentine's Day '07
1. I only have eyes for you (The Flamingos)

2. You're so desirable (Billie Holiday & Teddy Wilson)*

3. Bewitched bothered & bewildered (Anita O'Day)

4. I thought about you (Frank Sinatra)

5. When I fall in love (Nat King Cole)

6. When you know (Shawn Colvin)

7. A soft place to fall (Allison Moorer)

8. Moonlight (Bob Dylan)
9. This year's love (David Gray)

10. Somewhere only we know (Keane)

11. The promise (Tracy Chapman)*

12. Reason why (Rachael Yamagata)

13. Most of the time (Sophie Zelmani)

14. Fallen (Lauren Wood)
15. Tell him (Lauryn Hill)

* tracks not available through iTunes