Wedding Season '07 pt. III: dressing a small bosom

I have 2 weddings to go to in August, one mid-scale in Maryland, and another much higher-scale in New York.

Here are my stats:

- I'm about 5'4"

- I generally wear size 28 jeans

- I get serious boob envy, because, well, I have none

- My price range is in the under $200 area

Despite my boy-tendencies, I don't mind the high heels. I don't wear strappy shoes since I've never been particularly attracted to them, but I have a tendency towards various closed-toe/peep-toed shoes. (It's also easier on the budget if I can use the same shoes for gallivanting and work when I actually need to be more business-y.)

I'm not really a fan of the back baring stuff for random scars reasons. I'm ok with the legs for the most part. They're not chicken-esque, and from what I hear, are slightly awesome with the right shoes.

Wedding Season '07 just won't go quietly into this good night, will it?

Before I start, I want to first thank this reader for sending me so much detailed information - even a full-length picture! - the thoroughness of which really helped me narrow down not only what type of hem, neckline, back and sleeves would look most flattering on her frame but also, because of the clearly expressed desire for versatility (i.e. a dress that needs to fit in at both a semi-formal and formal wedding, shoes that can bridge the work-to-wedding transition, etc.), what colors and fabrics to select.

My subject has toned arms, nicely defined shoulders, a thin waist and killer legs.

She also has a very very small chest (that second "very" was hers, not mine) and an aversion to anything with an open-back.

My first thoughts always lead me to the question, "What should she not wear?" In this case, if we want to minimize attention to the chest, I advise against a v-shaped neckline or any other kind of deep front plunge that will draw a virtual arrow to her self-proclaimed AAs. Even if she wears a padded bra that boosts her babes up to a large A/small B, the lack of any real outline of a rack will show much more obviously when one bares a large swath of decolletage. I've been there, and the last thing you want is to look "all bra." On a similar note, I would also avoid dresses with a strapless neckline, an empire waist or anything with front-heavy embellishments, because again, tuxedo-bibbing, an ornate ruffle or rosette adornment, or anything of equal look-at-me detailing is going to draw unwanted focus to the breasts.

Another consideration is this woman's height. 5'4" isn't short by any means, especially if heels are involved, but in light of the fact that there are some great gams we need to show off, I would steer clear of any dress with a knee-length-or-longer hemline. Because we're covering up your back and leaning toward a higher neckline, it only makes sense to shorten that hem and bare some skin down below so as not to look overtly prudish.

Now, onto the "What should she wear?" question. When I looked at this young woman's photo, the first thing that stood out to me was her upper body: her shoulders, her arms and her lovely side-to-hip contour. These are all extremely enviable features, features most women would trade their fabulous racks for, because while plastic surgery can give a girl a heaving D-cup, it can't do much to transform ham-hock biceps and it certainly can't carve out an ideal not-too-narrow-not-too-broad pair of shoulders. And finally, because I will never not be in favor of highlighting a narrow waist, I wanted to look for a dress that either cinched with a belt or band or at the very least had a built-in narrowed-to-the-hips silhouette.

Taking into consideration color, fabric and the ability to serve this woman well in both a semi-formal and a Manhattan-formal setting, I have come up with three choices in a well-under-$200 price range. I know this isn't a large selection from which to choose, but I highly encourage you to take the figure-flattering guidelines I've provided above in tandem with the silhouettes you see below and attempt to find something in-person either at a department store, a vintage boutique or even your local Zara/H&M/Forever 21.

As for shoes, a neutral peep-toe like these, these or these would work just as perfectly with a dress at a low-key or formal wedding as they would with a pair of herringbone trousers or pencil skirt for a day at the office. Just remember, the more delicate your dress, the more delicate your shoe should be -- one of the biggest egads! I see at formal events is when a woman tops off a thin-strapped or no-strapped dress in a super-fine fabric like silk or chiffon with a full-figured clunky-by-comparison pump.

And because I can't stress this enough, if you haven't already begun one, start now - start this second - with a full-body, twice-a-day, vitamin-E-enriched moisturizing routine. You've got the hardware, now start with the upkeep. I'd recommend a good body glimmer as well, but I'd hate to increase your chances of a run-in with an older man and his trusty pocket square...

Happy bouquet dodging!

Palm Springs silk dress by Anne Klein ($177 at saks.com)***

Beaded matte jersey dress by JS Boutique ($140 at dillards.com)**

Silk chiffon belted dress by Maggy London ($148 at macys.com)*

*your editrix's top pick (note: I would try to find a boatneck that drapes a bit lower than this one does so you can reveal that nicely-sculpted collarbone of yours)

**If you could find this style sans keyhole and with a slightly shorter hem, you'd be golden

***I would have your tailor snip a good five inches off the hem of this one

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.

Pretty face + hot body + 9 tatts + porn pout = hung jury

There's no doubt about it, up-and-coming actress Megan Fox (seen here at last night's Hollywood premiere of her new film, Transformers) is one of those stunningly beautiful women, who, even when tatted up and giving off an unmistakable yeah-I-could-be-into-that porn pout, still looks just that -- stunningly beautiful.

But assuming the just-turned 21 year old has the acting chops to move on from '80s cartoon remakes to scripts requiring more range than making "Holy shit! There's a giant primary-colored plastic manbot after us!" faces, she's at a clear disadvantage from other young actresses who don't look as...shall we say, rough and ready. Even with all that natural beauty - her eyes really are that color - even with all the silver and ivory beaded feather-adorned art-deco Collette Dinnigan cocktail dresses and pairs of metallic Louboutin pumps, Megan can't expect to be taken seriously in the Glenn Close, Cate Blanchett, even Penelope Cruz sense if she doesn't hire a glam squad that can:

(1) Teach her a new signature look that does not include sex-me eyes and an "insert here" mouth

(2) Spackle some foundation onto her "shoulder poetry"

(3) Find a way to spin her marriage to Brian Austin-Green - David Silver from "Beverly Hills 90210" - as more a charitable gesture than an actual marriage marriage

For more of Megan looking like a top-earning Vivid Video vixen, see below:

I'm probably gonna lose readers over this, but...

...I simply adore this grey belted bustier deep-pleat side-pocketed romper my girl-crush of the moment Kim Kardashian wore to a birthday party in the Hollywood Hills last week.

In fact, I adore it so much I spent the greater part of last night's penultimate episode of "Charm School" typing into Google various permutations of "bustier," "romper," "pleated" and "the sexecutive look."

Because of her petite (5'2") and curvy frame, Kim's options for evening-wear are much more limited than one might think, and as such, I give her major props for coming up with a never-before-rocked outfit that both flatters her assets - those thin, toned gams and sculpted shoulders - and keeps her mind-boggling chest-to-waist-to-ass proportions in relative check.

A girl can only wrap herself up in a universally-flattering DvF so many times before she starts to yawn and resort to craptastic threads like this, after all.

As a result of my arduous five-magazine poolside session yesterday, I'm now aware that the style Gods that are the executive editors of Harper's Bazaar, Elle and W have decreed it is no longer advisable to match one's belt to one's shoes (the new thing, apparently, is to only match one's clothes to one's purse), but here, when the goal is clearly to achieve the look of an after-hours office temptress, the strictly gray/black color palette is the spot-on right choice. The contrast of the work-appropriate pearl studs, corporate hair and black peep-toes with the copious amount of leg and boobage certainly makes your head spin...but in a really really good way.

Kind of like that ass of hers.

Technical difficulties (updated)

Yes, thank you, I am aware I have two "Since I don't (yet)" features on my sidebar.

Until Blogspot decides to shape up (we've been fighting since early yesterday evening), just ignore the dated picture and instead enjoy this snap of Kim Kardashian last night outside Koi in Los Angeles.

Methinks there was never a more convincing advert for the high-waisted pencil skirt -- or 10 sets of 15 lunges after your Sunday morning spin class.

Update: no acerbically witty caption to wrap your head around -- you just need your mouth (gaping), your eyes (bulging) and your hand (censored)

No, Blogspot still won't let me get rid of the Club Monaco skirt. Yes, this was just an excuse to show another photo of Kim's ridiculously large, in-charge and gravity-defying backside.

You're welcome.

Scarlett at her scrum-diddily-umptious-est

Once again making Lindsay Lohan look even more like the trash-nasty scrap of coked-up, thinks-a-girl-has-to-be-naked-to-be-sexy B&T she rightly is in her released-this-week supermodel attempt, Scarlett Johansson full-court-presses all us ladies into bi-curious submission in these hot-n-fresh pics from her second round of adverts as the current Louis Vuitton spokestemptress.

Frankly, I don't like the shoes, clothes or any of the oversized, logo-emblazoned luggage pieces, totes, doctor-bag-satchels or quilted-purses featured in either this or her preceding LV campaign, but I must say, Miz Scah-lett never did look better. Or whiter, coincidentally.

And I especially dig this second one below, where ScarJo is lying on what looks like a satin-cushion-covered inverted benchpress with the "Oh pooh, doesn't Daddy want me to finish showing him how I spent all his money this afternoon?" expression we all know and use on occasion.

None of these ads make any interpretive sense to me, but at a visceral level, I'm learning quite a bit about my deep-seeded appreciation for the non-gymrat female form.

Instead of the Bieltastic ass, perhaps I should alter my New Year's resolution and try instead to acquire an all-around - save for the blonde - ScarJo-liciousness. And yes, that is the simplest, 1+1=2, can't-be-broken-down-any-further description I can come up with.

Like I have to tell you -- enjoy.

First round of campaign snaps from earlier this year:

Reign 'em in, ladies.

Just like I don't get how Victoria Beckham can walk around in public unaware of how the two oranges hot-glue-gunned to her chest look nothing like breasts, I also don't get how naturally well-endowed women like the one I saw last evening around 6:15 at the corner of ConnAve and DeSales can be under the impression that the breast-bossanova taking place under their covers courtesy of an extremely ill-fitted bra and too-tight top has any chance of going unnoticed as it swings left, swings right, tucks, rolls and triple-sow-cows down the street.

As so many phenomena are, I believe this rash of carelessness to properly lock down the ladybits is rooted in the world of young Hollywood. How many times do we see pictures of Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson and the aforementioned former Spice Girl walking around town in the middle of the day, often times in the presence of their children (Posh took it to a new level by accompanying her three small children loose and free to Disneyland earlier this year), either in a lingerie-style bra or more often, with no upper-undergarments at all.

I have several friends whose ladies clock in above the DD tag, so I've had a lot of sturdy bra shopping experience over the years. True, these bras aren't as pretty, lacy, or obviously as dainty as their single-lettered counterparts, but as my friend J would say, "Thick straps and thick underwire are small prices to pay for having a fantastic rack."

So, to all the women out there who have fallen under Paris Hilton's Valtrex-induced spell and believe forgoing a bra is sort of like opting for sweatpants over trousers, please join forces with the camp who think their four heaping handfuls fit in the heavily size-inflated Victoria's Secret C-cup Ipex, watch "Oprah" together for a week - if I recall correctly from my grad school days, she does a bra-fit show at least once every five episodes - take notes on the tips she and those two really unfunny British ladies from the original "What Not to Wear" offer women like yourselves, and then please, for the safety of children's heads everywhere, get a bra that keeps 'em in your hoola-hoop of personal space.

In fact, get two.

When Georgetown's good, it's *really* good.

Most days of the week, most weekends in the month, most holidays during the year (graduation season, included), you couldn't tempt me with a Cusp giftcard to put up with Georgetown. It's a mix of the crowd, the style, the stores, the tourists and their hold-everyone-up pace, and most notably, the ubiquitous sense of entitlement with which I inevitably come into contact that never fails to ruin my day.

Some days, though, WiscAve from Sequoia to Urban Chic and M St. from Hu's Shoes to Waterworks - Georgetown's shopping district - is good. Really good.

And sometimes, when the weather, the company, and your mood is just right, even the walk from Logan Circle to Lily-Pulitzer-central can turn a brokenhearted girl into a hopeful one.

If she stops at Betsy Fisher, that is, and drinks a Pinot spritzer while trying on a couple of beautiful dresses she might one day be able to afford.

Readers, enjoy below today's low-pixelage shopping diary:

Python-trimmed grey plisse racerback dress by June

($400, in-store only at the Betsy Fisher boutique)

I tried to look surprised instead of "I know, right?" when

Betsy told me this dress made my chest look amazing.Eyelet housewife dress by Vivienne Tam

($445, in-store only at the Betsy Fisher boutique)

I imagine myself wearing this dress commando with pearl studs
handing the man I love a packed-with-care sack lunch while

whispering in his ear how I'm going to ______ his ______ off

when he gets home from work.

High-waisted black-scribble-print pencil skirt
($149, in-store only at Club Monaco)

L insisted you get an ass shot. Thank her, not me.
Metallic Ankle-Strap Sandal by Maison Martin Margiela
($645, in-store only at Hu's Shoes) In the end, pricey duds are nice, but all a girl really needs on a

sunny May day is to find an identical twin (in black) to her

under-$100 red Zara baby and a thick-strawed Thai bubble

milk-tea with extra tapioca bubbles ($4.25 at Snap)

Okay, that's complete bullshit.

The truth is, I offered the extremely gracious salesman at Hu's his choice of any and all of my vital organs - even those I only have one of - for those unbelievably sexy, unbelievably so very me, last-pair-in-my-size gold-bangle-ankle-strap stilettos but he wouldn't budge. Sugar Daddies, please take note -- I wear a 38.

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.

MassAve chic

Since I started this blog back in December, I've been meaning to pay closer attention to the walkers-home - or more specifically, what the walkers-home are wearing - while I scamper Asics-style up and down MassAve chasing Oprah's 4:29:20 and burning off countless handfuls of Hershey's miniatures, at least three-inches of half-n-half and whatever non-vegetable topping (I allow myself one) I added to my Cosi salad that day.

Well, today, finally, I'm going to make good on that promise.

In between giving Dick my best Yasmine-Bleeth-running-in-slow-mo-on-the-beach impression when I pass by the Naval Observatory (he might see me, one day...) and carefully avoiding tripping (again) over that homeless dude on a hunger strike in front of the Sudanese consulate, I will take enough mental notes to prepare something good and juicy for you all.

And yes, I actually do have all three "Baywatch" themes - Save me (Peter Cetera/Bonnie Raitt), I'm always here (Jimi Jamison) and I'll be ready (Naughty Boy & Sunblock) - in a "Baywatch"-block on my training iMix as inspiration to nail that intense-eye-contact, heaving-bosom jog-past.

You know you'd watch it if it was still on the air.

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."

Cleavage: setting the record straight

"I am so sick of cleavage-haters like you who clearly are just insecure about their own inadequate chests. You love your legs, I love my breasts. You show off your legs, I proudly show off my breasts. What a double-standard you weave, Ms. Editrix. You are what my well-endowed friends and I call a 'cleavage-phobe.' So instead of hating on those who have what you wish you had, maybe you should expend your energy earning more money so you can buy a nice chest."

A sizist, yes.

An elitist, yes.

An education-ist, yes.

A good-looks-ist...well, maybe, but I have really odd taste (i.e. him over him any day), so it's not as offensive as most might assume.

But a cleavage-phobe? Sorry Ms. H, but you are SO barking up the wrong pair of pins with that accusation.

There's no way for me to respond to this reader's e-mail without sounding defensive, so just bear with me while I attempt to navigate each of her misguided points one-by-one without sounding too transparently self-protective.

First, to the assertion that my distaste for baring breast-age at weddings is an admission of my own breast inadequacy: I have little else to say here but that I actually have an amazing chest. Amazing. I do. There's no getting around it, it's an objective fact. And it's not just the construction workers and homeless men who tell me so - though they do and often - it's also random women, my friends' grandparents (okay, grandfathers) and throngs of schoolchildren and foreign tourists who barely know how to ask, "Where is the White House?" but who somehow break free from whatever language barrier they face to pay verbal homage to my precious girls. Sorry sweetie, but the gloriousness of my symmetrical-as-Halle-Berry C-cups is just not up for debate. But if you want to throw-down some kind of breast-off whereby the two of us and our ladybits undergo a series of victory-determinable challenges, I'd be more than willing to commit. Just name the date, venue and dress-code.

Now, as for out of where this "no cleavage" rule of mine was borne, it comes from an unwavering belief in adhering to a certain level of class - and even more than that, a belief in not egregiously drawing attention to oneself when it's not your day to do so - at a function such as a wedding, a black-tie state dinner or an event which you know beforehand will be attended primarily by people 20-30 years your senior.

As a well-endowed woman, H, you should know there are few body parts a woman can put on display that are more beguiling, more entrancing and ultimately more distracting than a fabulous pair of lush, young, pushed-up-and-out breasts. You'll always get noticed, you'll probably get a lot of phone numbers, and yes, you're likely to get a night-full of "who-does-she-think-she-is?" looks from mostly envious, mostly insecure women. And while I admit, receiving those looks is pretty much the only "interaction" I look forward to when attending wedding receptions, my approach is to elicit them with my natural beauty, my searing wit, and my undeniable air of sophistication, not with my chest.

Second, yes, I do like to show off my legs in a blousy mini or dressy short shorts and stilettos, but what you may not know is that I also indulge in a little deep-plunge v-neck and down-to-there scoopneck when the occasion - i.e. going out for cocktails in New York or celebrating my birthday with girlfriends at the Mayflower - merits it. Where we diverge may be on the point that I prefer braless cleavage (like Sienna Miller's shown above) to the balconet-push-up variety - some things I like to savor for the private one-on-one(-on-one) situations - but as for being a hypocrite, again, you're sorely mistaken for I'm an equal asset flaunter.

And if you read my formal dress rules more meticulously, you'd see that right above banning cleavage, I also rail against the high-hemline. Though I do believe heaving breasts to be markedly more offensive than showing off your upper thighs, neither in my book is permissible at a formal affair.

As much as it pains me - and perhaps you - to attend any event where I'm not the center of attention, sometimes I have to set aside the vanity and the competitiveness, wear the dress I don't quite like as much and fib as sarcasm-free as I can through my nude lip gloss to every guest with whom I come in contact that, "Oh yes, I certainly do think the bride is the most beautiful woman here."

As long as there's an open-bar, a DJ willing to play Journey and at least one other disillusioned sizist/elitist/education-ist in the crowd who thinks she's the bees-knees, too, it's not always a complete loss.

Just be sure the following night to restore your inner-equilibrium by strapping on your highest heels, your sexiest - not trashiest, but sexiest - asset-highlighting outfit and preen around town with the rest of your wedding-weary friends.

Kate finally eats, sprouts a cute little rack

A day I thought might never come seems to have arrived.

Note that I chose the word "seems" instead of "has" -- a direct result of having been a victim of Liv Tyler's trickery one too many times. See, Mom and Dad, I do learn from my mistakes.

Kate, sweet little, perfect-cheekboned, met-her-and-fell-in-love-with-her-instantly-in-a-2002-sleeper-surfer-movie Kate. There's just something about her - and yes, I won't lie, it's probably that she gained acceptance to Princeton before she became a big star - that has made me want to stick by her through those stomach-turning graphic love scenes with a very-much-past-his-Iceman-prime Val Kilmer in 2003's Wonderland, the so-beneath-her-you-had-to-turn-it-off Win a Date With Tad Hamilton the year following, and of course, her up-until-recently ambitious multi-year project to transform her athletically sexy silhouette into something you might mistake for a pre-pubescent 6th grade boy.

But in looking at these photos snapped yesterday of Ms. Bosworth frolicking on the beaches of Maui, for the first time in a long time, I'm hopeful the tide is turning and these 3-5 pounds aren't just temporary vacation weight but are part of a here-to-stay, building-toward-at-least-a-size-2, be-beautiful-again effort.

Until she dishes about it in a tasteful manner on her own time (i.e. a September Vanity Fair/Vogue/Elle cover story shot by Annie Leibovitz), there's no way to know with any certainty what it was that prompted Kate's decision to call up Keira and Nicole and concede defeat in their three-way who-can-fit-into-Iggy-Pop's-vinyl-pants-first competition.

My guess? Love. True love.

Speaking from rather recent experience, I know there's nothing that makes a beautiful woman look her most beautiful, her most radiant - with glow and spirit and confidence bursting from every cell - than the knowledge that the man with whom she's passionately in love loves her back just as passionately. Or even a bit more so.

That familiar look is written all over the face of this finally-gettin'-back-to-her-Blue-Crush form sweetheart. And it suits her well.

For more photographic proof that James Rousseau is a better lover than Orlando Bloom, see below:

The perfect weather for some Kim Kardashian reflection

Like many of you, this foul wet weather has convinced me to hole-up hermit style in my studio today doing little else but press "refresh" on my favorite celebrity blogs, watch both Under Siege films in succession and try to remember to think about achieving my one weekend goal of cleaning something.

Since I'll have no opportunities today to be influenced by random acts of DC style, I thought I'd take care of another less nail-breaking brand of house-cleaning: finally attempt to build a legitimate blog post around callipygian beauty Kim Kardashian.

"Who?" some of you might be asking yourselves. Well, beyond being Hollywood's only truly hot piece of celubtante T&A, Kim is the former galpal of Paris Hilton, daughter of the late OJ defense attorney, Robert Kardashian, star of the soon-to-be-released "Kim Kardashian Superstar" Vivid Video release, and the most difficult to justify object of your editrix's affection.

This may surprise you, but for the most part, both in my real life and the other ones to which I occasionally escape, I prefer people of substance, people who are aware of themselves and the audiences they entertain, and finally, people with the guts - and the proper vocabulary - to articulate what they really think of what I've just said to them.

Sure, my friends happen to be that rare marriage of elegance and raw hotness, they're the kind who'd sooner jump in front of a bus to save the life of an irreplaceable vintage cocktail dress than a Peace Corps clipboarder, and every Friday after work they anticipate the arrival of their Us Weekly far more than they do their Economist, but they're also security clearance holding, foreign language fluent, grad-school educated professionals who are more than capable of engaging in nuanced discussions on typical DC topics like China's ever-increasing influence in the pan-Asian region and the benefits of tax breaks for the rich.

And though I can't personally attest to Scarlett, Cate, Monica, Amy or Penelope's ability to measure up to the real women in my life, I believe the challenging, provocative roles/songs to which they've attached themselves and the intelligent interviews they've granted are proof enough that they, too, are women of both great beauty and great depth.

If there's one bit of wisdom I've held onto from sophomore-year statistics, however, it's that for every seemingly perfect pattern, there are always one or two outliers that - or in this case, who - bring down the strength of your correlation coefficient.

For me, Kim Kardashian is one of those inexplicable outliers.

Despite the fact that she wears too much shiny satin, doesn't exactly exude intelligence, is a documented urolagniac and by virtue of having been BFF with Paris probably has some form of Hepatitis, there's just something about the 26 year old Armenian that makes me want to take her under my wing, teach her how not to make DVF look trashy, buy her a proper bra and seat her in between Cate and Monica at my fantasy dinner party.

Or maybe, just maybe, my interest in Kim is rooted in an unconscious desire to have her come over and organize my closet, because when she's not staying out 'til 4am at Parc or Area or Les Deux, apparently that's what she does for a living -- she organizes closets.

On second thought, I'd better invite Keeley Hazell to this get-together, too.

If I had a sugar daddy...

Nikita demi bra by Agent Provocateur
$135 at agentprovocateur.com

Since I don't (yet)

F2597 push-up bra by Calvin Klein
$23.90 at nordstrom.com

The Spring essentials (pt. I)

In every fashion magazine I've skimmed (InStyle, Allure, and Glamour) given a thoughtful once-over (W, Elle and Jane) and pored over in tireless detail (Bazaar and Marie Claire ) since February, I've come across no fewer than a dozen "2007's Five Spring Essentials" features.

Some of these "essentials" I agree with, some I don't, and some - chunky lucite bangles and berry-colored silk headwraps, for example - make me think certain editors have been trapped for far too long with far too few meals in the couture bubble that is the New York City, Paris, and Milan fashion circuit to really understand what the concept of "an essential" is anymore.

In my opinion, an essential is that which you hope to use not only this season but in seasons to come. An essential is an item that can transition easily from day to night, from he'll-do date to you-know-he's-the-one date, and from Lounge 201 happy hour to Town & Country post-symphony cognac. An essential is what it sounds like, an essential part of your wardrobe -- something once you own and enjoy the benefits thereof, you really couldn't live without it.

In no particular order, here are my picks - 10 of 'em, because I couldn't pare down to just 5 - for every DC working girl's Spring essentials:

1. A mid-length khaki trenchcoat

2. A patterned wrapdress

3. A short-sleeved tailored white oxford shirt

4. A non-denim, non-khaki pair of dress shorts

5. A high-quality bronzer

6. A pair of round-toed flats

7. A comfortable wide headband

8. A tissue-soft dress tee

9. A pair of three-plus-inch black peeptoes

10. An A-line skirt in a bright color

Justifications, descriptions, recommendations and the shortlist of items that came thisclose to making the cut to come tomorrow.

Until then, have a good long look at Scarlett.

Mmmm...Scarlett...

Criminally sexy, indeed.

Woody Allen on his muse, Scarlett Johansson, in the new issue of Vogue:

"She is unlike anyone who has come before her, and while she is a much stronger actress in every way, there is a tiny bit of Marilyn Monroe in her zaftig humidity. She is criminally sexy."

I couldn't have put it any better myself. More vulgarly and with more mention of her rack, yes, but not any better.

Trying to think of something good to say that doesn't involve her boobs

There are some celebrities I just can't bring myself to criticize.

It's a small group, only two or three deep, and to be honest, there's no consistent reason behind any of their immunities.

Maybe it's rooted in my sad little fantasy that one day I'll cross Scarlett's - or Cate's or Liv's or Rachel McAdams' or Dick Cheney's - path, and after becoming fast BFF, she'll ask me if I have a blog, to which I'll say "yes," and when she looks at it and sees I've written nothing but positive things, she'll say, "Oh, you were so nice to me!" and then our friendship can play out as any famous/non-famous one does with the former taking the latter to Clive Owen movie premieres and Louis Vuitton fashion shows during Paris Fashion Week.

Or something like that.

That's why, when you see me post pictures of Scarlett looking like this, I'm not going to comment on the fact that her hair, handbag and shoes all look like they've been fashioned out of cream cheese frosting. Or that in her mini dress, she strikes a cross between what I always imagined Gretel would look like before she was incinerated Sylvia Plath style and a slightly-more educated St. Pauli's beer wench.

No, instead, I think I'll focus on my favorite 34D's, I mean actress's valiant effort to match her Proenza Pink lipstick to her balconet bra.

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.