Eye candy of the week

She may drink her own breast milk and be the kind to leave a Post-It in her friend's apartment reminding her to recycle, but with her asymmetrically shaved pixie and super lean runway frame, 24 year old Claire from NYC was the easy choice to be my prized pony for this, the tenth (!) installment of "America's Next Top Model."

Here, a video introduction:

It's so true what they say about typecasting. Luke Perry and Jennie Garth have grown up, gotten married, raised children, ridden bulls and danced the cha-cha-cha, but try as I may, these two together, even at some random event called "Chevy Rocks!", will always make me think first and foremost of Kelly's face after Brenda skewered her (in front of Dylan!) with the classic, "I was always taught that if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck…"

HRL, take note, Rihanna at last night's Brit Awards is your eye makeup blueprint for my "Jumpsuit Mandatory" birthday celebration. Tick tock, woman, get to practicing!

After enduring four straight days of not being able to avoid Lindsay Lohan's painfully unsexy attempt at recreating Marilyn's "Last Sitting" (not to mention her mother's insufferable interviews pertaining thereto), I've come up with an idea.

How about we take this young curvy thing here...
And make some Jayne Mansfield magic?
My favorite photo of Scott's this week captured all that I love about a well-dressed man: fitted, formal, polished and neat. The yellow accent of eccentricity, the silvery tousle and the Gucci boutique backdrop certainly don't hurt, either...

After I figure out the genesis behind Tommaso Aquilano and Roberto Rimondi's decision to anoint themselves "6267," I'm going to place at the tippy top of my wishlist their breathtaking take on the perfect formal showpiece coat.Or at least let it share top billing with this front-draped, skinny-cinched Bottega Veneta sheath...
...and this tiered one-sleeve Marni blouse peeking out from under this structured coat, which, if there's room, I might slide somewhere else in my top 10.
I know presidential politics are and should be rooted in substance, but let's suspend reason for a second and imagine how cool it would be if our First Family looked like this instead of this?

My ticket on the Megan Fox Express has long since expired -she's just too one-dimensional is what it comes down to- but holy wow, that's one hard to miss rib tatt she's got there. I don't really care what it says (if you do, click here), I'm just in awe of a woman with that little protective fat who chose the most painful part of the body on which to have a needle create not just a small fairy or the Chinese character for "serenity" but something of the that-must've-taken-a-good-45-minutes variety. Color me impressed, MegFo.

May-jah Friday ('80s as inspiration edition)

With all the recent contention as to how worthwhile a contribution stereotypical '80s style has made to the current fashion landscape, I thought it only appropriate to dedicate today's May-jah Friday to the ten years that, in my opinion, yielded the most indulgently enjoyable music, movies and television.

And some of the most fun albeit not so universally flattering color schemes and cuts.

Inspired by one of my favorite songs, one of my all-time favorite cinematic scenes (those shoulders!) and one of my favorite groups of gorgeous cartoon sass-kittens, here is veritable proof, like it or not, that the 1980s are still very much with us.

Enjoy.

"Missing you" (John Waite)

Boyfriend blazer by Elizabeth & James
($395 at saks.com)

Rolled collar blouse by Cynthia Rowley
($275 at shopbop.com)Sleek jean by Rich & Skinny
($160 at ronherman.com)Daran peep-toe pump by L.A.M.B.
($335 at eluxury.com)

"Flashdance" (Jennifer Beals' best moment)

Bib-front top with bow by 3.1 Phillip Lim
(£245 at brownsfashion.com)
Pencil skirt by Teri Jon
($180 at nordstrom.com)'Wink & Whisper' seamed fishnets by Victoria's Secret
($15 at victoriassecret.com)
'Corta' patent pump by Christian Louboutin
($675 at saks.com)

"Truly Outrageous" (Jem & The Misfits)*

Fashion star earrings
($4.99 at shopintuition.com)Convertible tunic by Shelly Steffe
($144 at shopbop.com)

Lamé leggings by American Apparel
($40 at americanapparel.net)

Tri-color stiletto by Alessandro Dell'Acqua
($585 at shopbop.com)

*while running into someone in DC wearing this get-up would surely give me the giddies, the answer is a resounding no, I, myself, would not wear any of its components, save for those delicious Dell'Acquas.
**this marks my 1,750th post - I sincerely thank all of you for your continued readership and er, colorful commenting!

Lifetime's best offering since "The Babysitter's Seduction"

Don't ask me why, because I'm not sure I could offer much in the way of an explanation, but I spent nine-tenths of my time this past weekend rediscovering my slothful side by taking in hours (and hours) of the deliciously vapid fare on which the Lifetime Network -and if you have mega cable, the Lifetime Movie Network (LMN) as well- has built its sterling reputation.

In stunning, before-they-were-famous performances I haven't seen since the days of dancing fingertips-to-shoulders to Firehouse ballads, Montesquieu and I spent the last three days in a perma-spoon watching Kirsten Dunst bitch it up prenatal-style in 15 and Pregnant, Keri Russell bikini her way into bed with Reverend Camden in The Babysitter's Seduction, Hilary Swank naïvely walk into a web of deadly sorority hijinx spun by Zach "campus reporter" Morris in Dying to Belong and Elizabeth Berkeley fight her urge for flannel-shirted boy flesh in Student Seduction.

If only we'd caught one or both of Meredith Baxter Birney's turns as scorned housewife Betty Broderick, it would've been the perfect weekend.

Once the PM set in on Sunday and the classic early '90s movies with themes of teenage motherhood and homewrecking were about to give way to newer, more socially sensitive pieces on human trafficking and (yawn) the homeless getting into Harvard, Monte nudged me hard in the kidney and shot me a "Mum, change it now" look.

But just as my newly-burgundied nails reached for the remote, a very familiar and very fabulous voice filled the room.

I'd recognize that spirited, sssss-heavy enunciation anywhere -- it belonged to none other than "Queer Eye's" resident style savant, Carson Kressley.

In one 79-second clip from the premiere of his new Lifetime show, "How to Look Good Naked," Carson summed up why, over the past 13 months, I've dedicated pretty much every waking moment of my non-working life to the cause of helping DC women pay closer attention to the way they dress.

Add one more to the Tivo Season Pass...

Still time to Tivo!

Today (Monday, January 14th)

Katie on "Good Morning America": ABC, sometime between 7-9am

Katie on "Live! with Regis & Kelly": ABC, approximately 9:20am

Katie on "Late Night with Dave Letterman": CBS, approximately 11:50pmGoing bare-legged in New York in January makes me go hmmm...

I heart DC Style, pt. VII

Sorry for my absence today, but I've been feeling really under the weather lately (and yes, I'm sure it's 100% attributable to my choice of impractical footwear), so after my fourth straight night of getting fewer than six hours of sleep and waking up this morning with a sore throat, I decided enough was enough -- I need to take a 'sick' day.

So I'm here at home with my life partner slash Florence Nightingale, three Tivo-ed two-hour episodes of QVC's "Gourmet Holiday" and a lovely little bowl of Campbell's tomato soup doing my best to build back up my immune system.

To keep you occupied until Monday, please to read my newest post for DC STYLE on how to dress for your office's weekend holiday party

And in case you missed the first installment - how to dress for a weekday holiday party - you can check that out here as well.

Have a good weekend,

Johanna

p.s. just so you know, I had NOTHING to do with the selection of that Laundry by Design strapless dress

p.p.s. the beautiful Vanessa Bruno mini is now on-sale over at Bop!

Lamborghini vs. Volvo vs. Saturn style

The last time I was behind the wheel of a car for more than the four minutes and ten seconds it takes me to make the three right turns from my parents house to the gym was sometime back in the mid '90s.

In fact, if you were to add up all the mileage I've amassed from the time I was 16 until the present, I'd wager it would fall just short of some of my colleagues' 90 minute one-way work commutes.

To be clear, my refusal to drive is not borne out of some sort of bourgeoisie idea that I need or deserve to be driven but rather the very real fear I have of making stupid snap decisions with two tons of potentially repercussive steel, glass and other such automobile-ish bits ready to punish whomever happened to be on the road with me that day.

But just because I don't drive doesn't mean I can't appreciate cars in the aesthetic sense or that I can't use them metaphorically to drive home the more ASJiNE-related point at which I will now finally arrive.

Until last week when I had a life-changing epiphany courtesy of 'Jeopardy!', I had always considered there to be two primary camps when it came to women and style:

the Lamborghini group

and

the Volvo group

In short, there are overt demonstrators of opulence and then there are those who choose a more understated approach.

"Lamborghini women" tote multiple pieces of Louis Vuitton emblazoned luggage and as many other conspicuously expensive items they can fit into a single outfit. These are the woman whose desired "look" is so loudly designer-driven that even if you tried to ignore their clothing and accessories' logos and distinctly-tied-to-a-brand decorative detailings (if you or someone you know owns a Coach bag and consciously decides not to remove the function-less "dogtags," you know what I'm talking about), you'd still walk away thinking, "Wow, she's got money":


And then there are the other kind - my kind - to whom I like to refer as, "Volvo women." Members of this group carry themselves with a quieter luxe that may very well include Gucci separates and Louboutin heels, but unless you're of the fashion-obsessed ilk that spends the better part of the day memorizing the subtle differences between the wares of brands X and Y, most would never know a simple black ensemble like this one below cost somewhere in the ballpark of $4,800:


Now back to my epiphany.

As I often do after returning from Monte's first walk of the evening, one day last week I immediately shed my fitted black work uniform and snuggled into a pair of light blue wide-leg sweatpants and an old friend's oversized t-shirt, clicked from the news on E! to 'Jeopardy!' on ABC and began to write up the next day's piece.

Though I keep the volume relatively low so as not to aggravate my sweetbun's eardrums (for serious, everything on that one is "sensitive," my vet claims), I could still hear the contestants' voices as they, one by one, offered Alex some banal two sentence introduction and gave a shout-out to their "wonderful" families. As the third and final "Hello, my name is _____, and I'm from _____," filled the room, I looked up to confirm what I thought I'd just heard -- all three contestants were women.

It was in that moment, out of a rare burst of feminist pride, I decided to set aside my laptop and give the show - more specifically, these three fabulously accomplished women - my full attention.

Maybe it's because I write a blog dedicated to upgrading professional women's appearances, maybe it's because I always have been and most likely always will be someone who can't help but assume the storyline is only as good/bad as the cover, but for whatever reason, at the conclusion of the first round, I had learned nothing aside from the fact that behind the podiums were three ruddy, concealer-free faces, a painfully tight denim blazer atop a burgundy fleece zip-up, two one-size-fits-all ribbed, faded scoopneck sweater tops - one of which was cut low enough to reveal more than a peek of sun-damaged pancake cleavage - and three dingy, unkempt bobs that at the very least could've used a pre-show comb-through.

Hold on, it get's worse.

At the end of the final round, after the third contestant overtook the reigning champion in a sweet bit of clever wagering, my final nightmare was realized when not one, not two but all three women stepped down to the main floor in the same universally-unflattering tapered, pleated, bone-colored, balloon-seat chinos.

It was bad. I mean, even Monte looked up from his Sudoku to let out an "oy vei."

And so, from a gameshow, I came to realize there aren't just two groups of women but in fact three, the last of which I'll call:

the Saturn group

These are the women who don't concern themselves with making an impression based on anything but their merits and that mystery brew my Mom refers to as, "what's on the inside." These are the women who, even on the most important and memorable days of their lives, don't give a flippin' flapjack about presentation. These are what I call, "Saturn women."

I'd include a photo of one such woman, but my fatha' the lawya' says to do so would potentially open me up to a world of problems, so instead, just sneak a peek at most of the women around you as walk home this evening. Just like men who don't seem to get the point that "how r u?" and "c u later" text messages are about as endearing as track-stained underwear, these ladies are *everywhere* in DC. Seek and ye shall find.

As appalled as I was that these women would come dressed more for Fall softball league than an extended national television appearance, the truth is, 'Jeopardy!' is that ideal place where success is exclusively dependent on one's ability to perform. Whether you have a cute face, a fabulous sense of style or a winsome personality is completely irrelevant.

"Saturn women" with serious jobs, take note: 'Jeopardy!' isn't the real world.

Hello, my name is Johanna, and I'm a high-neckline-aholic

First, there was this.

Followed by this.

Then this.

And this.

Oh, and then there was this.

And now, after what is embarrassingly the eleventh like-cut addition to my wardrobe in less than one calendar year, we have this:


And from ze back:

Two months ago, Hot Redhead Lawyer mentioned in passing that she'd seen a dress at Club Monaco that immediately made her think of me.

"Black, knee-length, shoulder baring, funnel-neck -- it was 'you' right down to the modest little keyhole."

A few weeks after she first came upon it, the two of us found ourselves in the Georgetown store on a post-brunch shopping excursion. Right away, before HRL could confirm it was in fact the same dress, I recognized it, wanted it, looked at the price-tag (then $179.99), hemmed, mentally shuffled through my inventory of LBWD*, hawed, and finally returned the hanger to its resting place.

"How come?" my painfully chic friend asked when I answered "no" to her, "Are you trying it on?"

"I just can't justify it right now," I replied. "Anyway, it's wool -- what is it outside, 88 degrees? I couldn't even begin to think about knowing how to wear Fall fabrics right now," I said with such matter-of-fact-edness it was clear I didn't believe a word of what I'd just said.

With my decision semi-firmly made, we made our way past the security guard and out the double glass doors, but not before I could shoot my dress a melodramatic, palms-against-the-prison-glass "maybe one day..." look over my right shoulder.

Since then, I've thought about her on occasion (you might have noticed items tend to shift from the neuter to the feminine once a bond is formed), most notably the time I saw her on another, much squatter woman who happened to be in wedged peep-toes of all unfortunate footwear options and whose fleshy, untoned shoulders really shouldn't have "gone there," to use a euphemistic colloquialism.

In the moment, I couldn't decide which was more tragic, that this woman had her and I didn't or the fact that her seams were stretched to the near-burst point, her hemline was inadvertently raised by the girth of this woman's mid-section and that her under-sleeves were clearly caked with deodorant.

Either way, it didn't matter. I still had too many blouses and dresses with similar necklines in the same color -- there was no need to add to the collection another sister, especially one whose price-point was just high enough that it would affect that month's budget.

Fast-forward four weeks to yesterday afternoon.

Finally getting off my duff after watching four straight hours of "True Life" episodes I'd already seen, I sojourned over to the Pentagon City Nordstrom to return two didn't-fit items and to snap up my sister-in-law a _______ from the _______ department for Christmas. A half hour later, I somehow wandered my way into a Club Monaco fitting room with my want-it-but-still-didn't-need-it dress.

Excuse me, my want-it-but-still-didn't-need-it, on-sale dress.

Am I right, or am I right that when something you know you don't need drops in price from $179.99 to $79.99 (then add an additional 15%-off savings from an in-store coupon) it has a tendency to creep into the maybe-I-actually-do-need-it category?

After all, once I have Mr. Lee raise the hem an inch and a half, it'll be the perfect post-work holiday party dress**, and at last count, I only had five or six of those to go around...

*LBWD = little black work dress

**to be worn with a cropped swing jacket, of course, between 9 and 6

Who will be this season's Kara Saun/Daniel V./Laura?

As anticipated as tonight's premiere of 'Project Runway' has been for my friends and me, I can't help but go into this season a little jaded and a lot sure that the designer behind whom I'll throw my love and support will fall victim to the same didn't-see-it-coming demise of Kara Saun, Daniel V. and Laura from PR installments one, two and three, respectively.

Before I continue on this topic, allow me a brief digression.

A few days ago, through an investigative tip, I came across a scathing critique of my blog and me. At first, I was pretty upset by the author's assertions that I wasn't "fashion-forward enough" to be proffering style advice to the women of DC, that my sense of style could be boiled down to an Alice+Olivia mini dress and a pair of Agent Provocateur bloomies, and most frustrating of all, that I "confuse good design with seasonal trends and a love of fashion with single-minded acquisitiveness."

The more I thought about these accusations, the more I wah-wah-wah-ed to friends about these accusations, the more I read and reread these accusations, the more upset I got.

To distract myself, I began thinking about this, my upcoming Project Runway post. Rolling various ideas over and over in my head, I thought about what direction it might take, what tone it might have, which moments in which season I might allude to, etc. All of sudden, somewhere between reminiscing about Santino Rice's Michael Kors impersonation and shuddering at thought of Wendy Pepper's general bitchiness, something clicked and my anger began to dissipate.

The author behind that critique was dead-wrong about most of her conclusions but she was right about one of them -- I'm not very fashion-forward. I'm just not. I don't look at a blouse or a jacket or a pair of shoes and find myself drawn to it because it triggers in me some kind of intellectual curiosity or because I "get" what that particular designer was trying to achieve with his/her collection. In the finale of each seasons one through three of PR, I sat confounded as Tim, Heidi, Michael, Nina, et. al, praised Jay's brilliant use of layered knits, Chloe's comfy-fresh take on femininity and (deep breath) the "seductive edginess" of Jeffery's white leather short shorts and skull-emblazoned blazers. Certainly I don't subscribe to a dismissive Andie-esque point of view when it comes to a design those who know more than I do about this subject consider "genius," on the contrary, I'm in awe of people who have an eye like Anna's or Scott's for recognizing the beyond-the-obvious aesthetic quality of a Dries van Noten coat, a Proenza Schouler dress or any other designer/non-designer piece that hints at an innovative new direction fashion might take.

As is the case in most areas of my life, I don't use my head to discern among those items of clothing I will actively pursue, those I actively won't and those that don't even register a blip on my like-it/don't-like-it radar. Instead, my selections fall where they may according to one criterion, something I like to call, "the heart-flutter test." Essentially, does it or doesn't it make me lose a bit of my breath when I see it, feel it, smell it or touch it? If it does, I'm all over it like an unhappily married partner on a pretty young associate. If it doesn't, then I move past it until I find something else that does evoke that feeling.

Just like Cathy Horynn said in her audio review of Paris Fashion week last month, some designers are virtually impossible for a woman not to love (Lanvin, Dior) and some take a bit of thoughtful consideration to appreciate (Balenciaga, Louis Vuitton). At present, I fall firmly and almost exclusively into the former category, though I am finding out through my burgeoning love for Alexander McQueen (and interest in not-typically-me dresses like this one) that I may one day strike a more even balance between the two.

When that does happen, when I do start to appreciate fashion as opposed to react to the prettiness of it, maybe I'll be better equipped to predict which Project Runway contestant will come out on top. Until then, I'll continue to align myself with the designer whose pieces most make my heart jump -- like those you'll see clipped below from Kara Saun, Daniel V. and most especially, m'lovely lady Laura.

Kara Saun, Season 1:

Daniel Vosovic, Season 2:

Laura Bennett, Season 3:

There's no strapless in baseball, er, boardroom

Sadie Hawkins Dance? Lah-dee-dah fourth of July rooftop cookout? Cocktail waitress taking a break?

Dream sequence? High-budget porn? Film still from an MSNBC "Dark Heart/Iron Hand" documentary?

Oh no. None of the above. This was the ensemble of choice of The Hills' L.A.-based Whitney Port to deliver the most important professional presentation of her young, well-dressed life. In Manhattan. In September. In the AM.
For this woman.

I gasped out loud every time Whitney, her halter bikini tan lines and Milly 'Filcoupe' dress sashayed on-screen. I gasped when she matter-of-factly told LC as they waited in the Teen Vogue lobby, "I would never wear this to work in L.A. - but this is Manhattan, it's different here." I gasped when, in the middle of her presentation, when Whitney explained - er, tried to explain - where the flower arrangements would be placed in the venue, she inserted both thumbs into her sweetheart bodice and shimmied her cleavage back into place. I gasped when she bent over at the waist to pick up a piece of posterboard and we the viewers, not to mention the entire Teen Vogue senior staff, got to see just how mini her mini actually was. I gasped when, upon Whitney's return to L.A., her relentlessly condescending boss, Ms. Lisa Love, met her with a half-smile, tilted head and a very icily delivered, "So...I heard your dress made quite an impression."

And finally, I let out a last gasp when Whitney nodded, shot a lip-bite and curious look at an equally confused LC, and said, "Oh, did it?"

In the spirit of maintaining equilibrium - a concept I absolutely believe in - for every flower-emblazoned ruched strapless party dress worn to a morning business meeting, there scientifically has to be an outfit of khaki capris, a denim jacket and oxford pooties* having drinks at an upscale hotel bar.

Both, in my opinion, are equally offensive, but I just wish we, the women of DC, didn't always have to be the latter.

*actual outfit sighted last night at Palette in the Madison Hotel

(all photos courtesy of the Vh1 blog)

Because looking at her makes me happy (UPDATED again)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

To see a bah'um no number of bathroom squats could create...

...tune in tonight to the KimKar ass parade show I've been waiting for what seems like forever to fill up my television screen.

After you've had a sobering 53-minute dose of relationship reality from my recent obsession on HBO, be sure to perk back up with "Keeping Up with the Kardashians," 10:30 EST on the E! Network.

A penchant to go a-trenchin'

Before I introduce you to the selection of under-$200 trenches no fewer than eight of you have requested from me in the past week, let me first apologize and offer an explanation for my recent unannounced leave of absence.

You see, last Friday after work, I allowed myself to be convinced by Jennifer to kibosh my plan to switch from OPI's 'Midnight in Moscow' back to the old standby 'Black Onyx' and instead try the (for me) very daunting, very seemingly iridescent purplish-blue 'Russian Navy'. As soon as that second coat dried and I received the all-important 'yes, now you can go' nod from Ms. F, however, every last doubt I had in rocking the luxe deep-blue vanished.

'Cause. It. Is. The. Sh*t.

But as is usually the case, with every blessed style discovery brings with it a burden to shoulder. From the moment I exited PIAF's double doors four days ago, I've had so many on-the-street compliments to field and so many "Could you write that name - Russian what was it?' - down?" pleads to indulge that I simply collapsed into an I'm-taking-a-long-weekend heap on the couch and did abso-toot-ley nothing but drink cans of Diet Sunkist and watch on-repeat episodes of the new season of "Lockup San Quentin: Extended Stay" on MSNBC.

Okay fine, I was really in Ohio for three days and too busy eating pumpkin cookies smothered in caramel icing, laughing my ladybits off in Superbad and kickin' ass in the 'fastpitch softball' batting cage to think about much else.

But for serious, I did get a lot of compliments, including one from patter-downer LaShonda at the airport in Dayton who even insisted, post-patdown, I paint her pinky nail so she could see the in-the-bottle-versus-on-the-nail difference for herself.

Oh, and yes, that is a Monte hair, like a feather plume, proudly perched in between the first and second folds of my peep-toe's satin rosette. It's like I always tell him right before a separation, be he in the care of good friends L, M, H or, as he was this weekend, the watchful staff in the rolling hills of his private pet sanctuary, baby boy is always still right here (patting heart) with Mommy.

Without any further random tangents, here, dear readers, are your coats. Your trenchcoats:

Satin trench ($138 at victoriassecret.com)*

Puff-sleeve trench by Tulle ($98 at styleviolet.com)
Floral-lined trench by Priorities ($158 at southmoonunder.com)

Double-breasted trench by Ben Sherman ($184 at southmoonunder.com)

Drop-sleeve trench (£85 at topshop.com)

Trench with bubble hem ($69.99 at target.com)

Swing skirt trench by French Connection ($141 at amazon.com)

Alden trench by G by Guess ($79.50 at amazon.com) English trench coat ($49 at forever21.com)

Gala trench by Soia & Kyo ($196 at tobi.com)*

Belted trench with zip liner by London Fog ($158 at nordstrom.com)

*your Editrix's top picks