Forgive me.

Tomorrow, the follow-up. I promise.

Until then...

"Have a nice flight, sir."

Forget that my naturally long lashes were painted twice over with Cover Girl 'Marathon' mascara in "very black".

Forget that I was wearing a cropped bomber and fitted -fitted verging on tight- straight-leg jeans, the combination of which unmistakably outlined my waist-to-hips contour.

Forget that the timbre of my voice is consistently described as somewhere between "sweet" and "girlish."

Forget that I had on my feet and dangling off my forearm a pair of patent leather four inchers and a black leather tote, respectively.

In truth, what stunned me most about my being addressed as a "sir" yesterday was not that the screener -a young man who, given his position as the first line of airport security presumably had no serious vision impairments- had in his possession a driver's license that not only informed him of my first name but also included a 2005 photo from when I was in the thick of my 'Nicole Richie long bob' phase and still thought I looked sufficiently unfeminine to warrant a male assignation, but rather my reaction to his mistake.

I honestly didn't care. My feelings weren't hurt. I had no desire to correct him.

In fact, my first reactions upon hearing these five words were to tilt my head ever so slightly, look this boyish twenty-something squarely in his blue eyes, smile, and say, "Thanks, I will."

Check back later today for the Volvo style epiphany that came to me as a result of my interaction with Derek the Dayton Airport security screener.

*to those who identified the 1985 movie from which the above film still was taken, you've earned my utmost respect

Only 124 days to go...

Outlook the date and start looking now for a dress worthy of SAtC premiere night...

A female-friendship's most delicate dance

Of all the films my at least once per week cinematic habit has had me sit through in the past 19 years (for serious, I've already logged three this month and have plans to see my fourth tomorrow evening), very few have resonated as deeply with me as the 2004 indie hit, Sideways.

Now before you open your mouths to accuse me of being that girl who claims to have been uninfluenced by the darling status bestowed by highbrow critics upon The English Patient, Howard's End, Gosford Park and yes, Sideways, be sure to know that I couldn't stand The Queen, shrugged my shoulders and said "eh" after Little Miss Sunshine and pretty much only liked Atonement for the way Keira Knightley looked in her stunning green Jacqueline Durran designed dress.

But anyway, Sideways. Or, as I like to think of it, the film that helped me recognize, understand and accept what I call the '80-20' friendship (i.e., a friendship that "just works" even though friend 'A' gives 80% to friend 'B's' 20%).

Yours may be the exception, but I can't think of a single girlfriend with whom I've had or currently have a close friendship where there exists an unwavering, across the board, perfect equality.

In my many years of building girl-to-girl relationships, there has admittedly -and I think, naturally- been some jealousy on my part. There is the one who attended a better college, persevered past the M.A. to get her J.D. and Ph.D. and whose four bedroom home puts my rental room to shame; there is the one who never fails to have fewer than three men in her pocket, who looks model-pretty without makeup and who never seems to gain an ounce even when she "forgets" to exercise for months at a time; there is the one born into a trust so colossally large the notion of checking the price of something -anything!- before deciding to buy it for herself or for you wouldn't even occur to her; there is the one whose wit is so razor sharp and whose relationship is so exactly what I hope for one day I often find myself throwing my hands into the air in a "why bother?" fashion.

Actually, now that I sit here and really think about it, I'm sure I could come up with similar testimonies for all my girlfriends.

Fortunately, just as immediately and acutely as female jealousies arise, they also tend to fade with each discovery and subsequent reminder of how fiercely loyal and considerate that successful, self-assured, natural size-4 sitting across from you during a pleasant Sunday brunch truly is. The best way to deal with jealousies, I've found, is to raise them (when appropriate) in a playful manner that to everyone else will seem exactly that -playful- but deep down, to the two of you, establishes an I-really-admire-and-yes,-sometimes-get-jealous-over-your-_____ understanding. It lets the other person know that even though you're completely confident in X, Y and Z, ______ is a soft spot.

Being aware of your girls' sensitivities and caring enough to tread lightly -or not at all- in both public and private situations is, for me, the mark of a true friendship.

But what happens when someone you deeply love and whose friendship you hope to always have in your life can't seem to reconcile her jealousy? Or maybe not jealousy, per se, but the difference, the disparity. What to do when that person's success, be it in the area of looks, wealth, charm, talent, or any other envy-inducing trait, always brings with it for them, the pangs of inadequacy and for you, a sense of helplessness?

And herein lies the meaning of the "delicate dance" to which I refer in the post title.

As you know, I've always been a proponent of occasionally setting aside the 'real you' if a less pronounced version thereof is more appropriate. Point in case, a dinner party at your parents' friends very formal home. Save the black polish and severe five-inch Jil Sander platform pumps for another time; wear something you like, obviously, but not something you suspect will raise eyebrows and put your parents in an awkward position.

But what about an occasion less obvious, one in which the awkwardness doesn't have to do with appropriateness but rather the effect your better figure, your more obvious beauty and/or your more stylish wardrobe has on your friend's insecurity?

We regularly put this let-them-shine practice into play when a woman gets married, but what about her birthday party? What about a day when the two of you are shopping for an important outfit for her upcoming interview? A double-date?

The idea of subtly dialing down one's look -or aspects thereof- so as not to exacerbate a good friend's insecurity is, in my opinion, another gauge of true friendship.

I've certainly done it, and I'm confident others have done it for me.

Thoughts?

In the spirit of 'High Fidelity'...

The Top 5 Fashion Crimes* Perpetuated by DC Women:

No. 5

The on-display butterfly collars you see blanketing the clavicles of women from Senator Clinton to the 22 year old Georgetown grad who sat next to you at the CIA information session. Not even pretty Katy Heigl can get away with a subtle variation of this look, so chances are you and your kite-sized shoulder runners aren't pulling it off, either.

No. 4

Those of you who encourage or allow your boyfriends to wear skinny jeans. "Junk outline" wasn't attractive on my of-large-carriage OAKS softball coach back in the third grade, and I've discovered - courtesy of my apartment's close proximity to the Black Cat - that it's still mouth-squinchingly unsettling, even on a rail-thin hipster.

No. 3

Mistaking a t-shirt for a blouse. Just because you wouldn't pack it in your WSC gym bag doesn't mean it belongs under your suit jacket or paired with a tri-acetate pencil skirt. If it has a crewneck, loosely-fitting short sleeves and nary a hint of waistline tailoring (think: box-shaped), do yourself a favor and save it for the next Nationals game.

No. 2

Those stupid, stupid scarves. I realize this is an obvious one, but just walk down any block of NW DC and you'll realize that despite the large number of legitimate critiques, these puppies are as prevalent as ever. The only women who can get away with wrapping one of these toxic accessories around their neck/shoulders or tied to their handbag straps are the kind who are so inherently stylish they could get away with wearing leggings, pooties and a newsboy cap. For the other 99.9% of us, a decorative scarf, be it from the Hermès flagship store or a Steinmart discount bin, has us looking about as fierce as Dorothy Zbornak. Less so, actually.

No. 1

The short, fat heel. I mean, really, why even bother? A one-inch boost neither accentuates your calf muscles nor lengthens your frame. Does 5'5" honestly make you feel more in-the-zone than 5'4"? I find anything more diminutive than a three-inch heel - not just for me but for any woman - a real waste of the wearer's time. If you have a medical condition or you simply have an aversion to looking overtly feminine, just wear a cute flat -- there is certainly no shortage of them these days.

*this list inspired by my fashion-crime-filled walk home last night and the cozy viewing of High Fidelity, my second favorite** John Cusack movie, shortly thereafter.

**not a better movie, I realize, but it holds a very dear sentimental place in my heart

Holy sh*t this is fun!

So, I think I've found something I enjoy more than pretty much anything and everything I have ever done ever.

More than admiring my taut tummy in the full-length mirror first thing in the morning, more than serendipitously catching the uncensored versions of Roadhouse or Ruthless People on a lazy Saturday afternoon, and even more than...well, okay, I guess there is one thing I do fancy a bit more, but that's it -- that's the only activity.

Thanks to a couple of always-thinkin'-of-me readers, I've discovered the world of Polyvore, a program that allows you to cobble together, collage-style, an outfit - or anything, really - using pictures from the Interwebs. Though I haven't yet tried this, they even tell me readers will be able to click on any of the individual items in the photo and be immediately whisked over to the link from which the item came.

Too. 'Effing. Cool.

Obviously, I'll be making good use of this new toy for my May-jah Friday feature, but for now, take a gander at my first Polyvore creation, a $9,654.45 wishlist collection I like to call, "Because I felt like dressing up, that's why":

Because I don't wanna hear a flip nor a flop past October 1st...

I'm working on a piece (to be posted later this evening) that will both explain the reasons for and provide a colorful, bountiful selection of for-Fall commuting shoes.

Because if you thought there was nothing worse than seeing a woman in a suit showing off her French pedi in a pair of thick-strapped, thick-foamed Reefs, try a woman in a suit showing off her French pedi in a pair of thick-strapped, thick-foamed Reefs whose toes are tight and blue from morning chill.

Yeah, not so good.

Until then, enjoy a few of the little (anticipatory) pleasures that have been putting a smile on my face as of late...

"Le Disko" by Shiny Toy Guns

"Last One Standing" (premieres on the Discovery Channel on Oct. 4th)

Lust, Caution (rated NC-17, opens in limited release on Sept. 28th)

Technical difficulties

Because Blogspot wouldn't let me upload any pictures last night (or this morning), I'm going to hold off on posting this morning's piece on the professional woman's back-to-school backpack (read: backpack = handbag) until the geniuses that are Blog and Spot can get their sh*t together.

Maybe by lunch, maybe not.

Until then, enjoy the trailers of two of my favorite lesser well-known films - Chopper and Sexy Beast - both of which I saw solo back in the day at the Avon's discounted midnight showing, both of which boast heavyset, unscrupulous men whose allures I've not been able to shake in seven years and both of which are such good cinematic rides they rightly deserve to bump 300 to take top billing in your NetFlix queue.

Enjoy. And check back at lunch!

Chopper (2000):

Sexy Beast (2000):

'Cause I got a lunch date...

Last night, as I wrote the previous post, I took in for only the second time in its entirety the disturbing yet highly entertaining and surprisingly well-soundtracked Christian Bale film, American Pyscho.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love myself the arrogant K Street type who'd sooner starve than wear an off-the-rack suit, but after watching this scene (several times, courtesy of Tivo), I'm now wondering if, for my own good, I should take my heel strut a few blocks north of lawyer-lobbyist row...

While I'm away this 'noon getting my "Don't forget to call" pity-pout on, please enjoy the all-male exchange that supplanted the business card quick-draw as my favorite from American Psycho (note: watch out for a bit of spirited, NSFW language):

'Cause I got Britain on me mind today...

Thank goodness for this picture.

After Sienna's multiple WTF appearances in Rome last week, I was prepared to accept the fact that one of my very favorite style darlings had taken not just a dip in the crazy pool but a full-on off-the-high-dive bellyflop thereinto.

But here (sigh of relief), yesterday, at the Tribeca Grand Hotel for the New York City premiere of her new Steve Buscemi-helmed film, Interview, she didn't just redeem herself in this prim, proper and perfectly-fitted black Chanel strapless sheath with a lace-overlay bustline, pencil-skirt and patent-leather cinch, she sent my expectations soaring into territories just shy of Cate Blanchettown.* I mean, who knew the befreckled, swears-like-a-sailor London lass who not only usually epitomizes that whole boho-chic look but frankly, was the co-inspiration therefor with these two back in the Summer of 2005, had it in her to transform from this (just hours before the premiere) into the polished lady I see here.

In fact, the only thing I can think of that looks better than Sienna in this dress is Interview itself:

*she would have made there, had she chosen these shoes (in black) instead...

In keeping with the Parker Posey theme...

Because I didn't leave my desk for more than 10 minutes today and because no celebrity blog cared enough to post pictures from the Broken English premiere (from the tiny thumbprint-sized photos I found on WireImage, Posey wore an eh short-sleeved black and red printed satin wrap dress that hit past mid-calf), I thought that instead of railing against the giant toenails and skirts-'n'-sneaker combos waiting to greet me on my way to Hump Day Happy Hour, I'd entertain you all with a few minutes of inspirational sarcasm from your, my and everyone's favorite pseudo-bitch.

Yes, that's right, inspirational.

Enjoy.

Best in Show

Dazed and Confused

And the scene from The House of Yes that prompted the comparison:

"Some people want magic...I think you are one of those people."

Since today is the final day of the season during which we're all supposed to fall overwhelmingly, passionately, even recklessly in love, I thought I'd take a quick detour from all things fashion and inject some hopeful, just-follow-your-heart-edness into this grim, drizzly DC hump day (update: I just went outside and it is neither the grim nor drizzly day it was when I walked to work this morning, but as far as I know it is still hump day).

One of my favorite in-bed exchanges involved a man saying to me, "Parker Posey would totally play you."

"Play me?"

"Yeah, if they ever make a movie about your life, she would play you. Hands down."

I don't know if this person still thinks about that exchange - probably not - but I certainly do and probably always will. Not because I think anyone will ever make a movie about me one day - I'm self-indulgent but not that self-indulgent - but more so because no one had ever planted the idea in my head before. Now, every time I see Parker in a film, whether it pre-dates that conversation or not, whether she plays a braces-bedecked demon wench or a mentally unstable Jackie Onassis fanatic, I can't help but imagine it is myself, my life, up there on-screen.

And in her newest film, Broken English, my inclination to live vicariously through her character - this time, it's Nora Wilder, a woman in her early-30s who finds herself romantically jaded, professionally indifferent but steadfastly resistant to settling - looks especially tempting.

To be a voyeur into that ideal world where falling in love is as passionately intense as it is goofy and giggle-filled* and for the opportunity to see Parker Posey demonstrate all sides of her oft underestimated multi-talent, forget A Mighty Heart and see Broken English this Friday.

It'll totally be worth the trip to NYC/LA.


*I also recommend Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for this

Ellen *owns* the fitted tea-length sheath

Ever since that Saturday afternoon in late Summer 1989 when my precociousness - and Al Pacino crush - led me to sneak a peek of the very R-rated Sea of Love on my way back from a bathroom break of the Michael Keaton mental-illness comedy classic, The Dream Team, I have had a steadfast "thing" for Ellen Barkin.

She wasn't a conventional beauty like other mid-to-late '80s leading blondes such as Kelly McGillis (Top Gun), Rebecca De Mornay (Risky Business) or Kathleen Turner (Peggy Sue Got Married), but even at 9 years old, even in the short 20 seconds I watched her bring Helen Cruger to life as the wrong-side-of-the-tracks temptress who could make even straight-shooting detective Frank Keller cross the line, I knew Ellen had that intangible something that separates those who simply act on-screen and those who own the screen.

As I moved on from Trapper Keepers and Al Pacino to Coach purses and Gene Hackman, Ellen fell off my movie star radar. In fact, she fell off everyone's radar. It wasn't until her turn a decade later as the perma-drunk trailer park pageant-Mom in Drop Dead Gorgeous opposite a deliciously skanky Allison Janney and a surprisingly un-annoying Kirsten Dunst and then again last year when she publicly announced her intention to auction off the entirety of the jewellery collection she'd amassed while married to estranged billionaire husband Ron Perelman - a collection valued at more than 15 million dollars - that I began to remember why and how much I wanted to be just a wee bit like Ms. Barkin when I finally grow up.

Unless you've made a concerted effort not to know about Ocean's Thirteen, its 13-star cast and month-long circuit of high-profile international premieres, you've probably come across photos of a now 53-year-old Ellen Barkin walking the red carpet in a melange of her trademark fitted tea-length sheaths.

George, Matt, Al or Brad?

Um, try Ellen. Hands-down.

For more evidence of Ellen's enviable-at-any-age figure setting the standard for how to wear a fitted tea-length sheath, see below:

In pale grey at the Los Angeles premiere of Ocean's Thirteen In steel-blue metallic at the CFDA Awards In coral sequins at the Las Vegas premiere of Ocean's s Thirteen

40 guys and a pretty red sundress

Since 1988, the year I pushed my way onto the boys-only Summer baseball league with my blue leather Darryl Strawberry outfielder's glove and an ego the size of Lake Michigan, I've come to appreciate and recognize the benefits of a heavily-in-my-favor male-to-female ratio.

At eight years old, my parents were concerned I might be intimidated or uncomfortable with the situation, but being the precocious little thing I was, I was much more consumed with perfecting my third-to-first snap and nailing my "uh-huh-that's-right" eye-contact with the cutest boy's father on the opposing team. It didn't even occur to me to be bothered by the fact I was the only player in the dugout without a plastic junk-cup strapped to my waist.

Since my final summer stint with the Beulah Berettas in '92, I've managed to place myself in more than a few male-dominated circumstances (read into that statement what you will), none, however, as satisfying - or educational - as those few glorious Junes, Julys and Augusts I spent getting my first formative lessons in what made boys tick.

Last night, as I sauntered into Bobby Van's uncharacteristically early and well aware I'd be sitting on my own for at least 10 minutes until my companion arrived "rock star late" as he called it, I adjusted the criss-cross backstraps on my red sundress, clicked shut the finicky hinge on my 1952 vintage purse and relished the opportunity to have a few alone moments to silently judge those seated in my vicinity. The al fresco dining setup at this particular steakhouse is bifurcated with a more casual bar area on the left and a you-must-order-dinner area on the right. I chose right and was shown to a corner table for two -- the perfect perch for people-watching. Having already ordered my drink - Heffeweisen, not Stella - and received yet another, "running late - sorry" text, I decided to relax, nosh on some bread with garlic-infused butter and take in the crowd.

It only took me a few seconds to recognize the peculiarity of the demographics. To my right, two men in suits and ties, next to them, four men in suits without ties, and surrounding them, three other gaggles in a mixture of casual Friday golf shirts and khakis, dress shirts and jeans and a guy who clearly knew a Georgetown stop was in his near future sporting a white Lacoste polo and a pair of J. Crew madras patchwork pants. No elderly mother, no overworked hired-'cause-she-looks-good assistant, not even a Russian prostitute waiting for a Brioni-clad businessman. I was it. I was the only woman.

Normally, I'd be happy as a Crystal Lake clam for numbers like those I encountered last night (especially in a makes-my-jumblies-look-good frock such as the one I had on), but considering that the whole point in choosing this locale was to explore adjacent-to-the-White-House cusp-of-Summer Friday night style - female style - the 40:1 male-to-female odds I was facing were not helpful.

In the end, I came to realize that like much of the rest of DC, Bobby Van's on a Friday night is conservative, navy-pinstripe-heavy, shrouded in clouds of Davidoff cigar smoke and curiously female-free. A Friday night that despite a fairly decent filet and wonderful company, has inspired me to stay inside today switching between pints of Cinnamon Buns and Marsha-Marsha-Marshmallow B&J ice cream while watching USA Network's treasure trove of so-very-me movies: About a Boy, Pretty Woman, Love Actually, and coming up next, the matchless Notting Hill.

Ladies, corny as it is, be sure to add this Ronan Keating classic to your "She rescues him right back" iMix:

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:

How to dress like a neo-Heather

Before I turned 14 and discovered the weathered good looks of Gene Hackman in The Firm and Ralph Fiennes in Quiz Show, nearly all my on-screen crushes were high school "preps" like Steff in Pretty in Pink, Hardy in Some Kind of Wonderful and of course, Jake from Sixteen Candles.

Likewise, some of my earliest and most indelible fashion (and personality) role-models were members of the popped-collar girl crowd like Blair from "Facts of Life," Claire from The Breakfast Club and the entire cast of Heathers.

Once I moved to the East Coast and spent four years at one of the prep-prep-preppiest eyelet-and-seersucker, cable-knit-and-linen, Tod's driving moccasins and Prada loafers loaded universities in the country, a place where you're more likely to hear the word "vineyard" used as a verb than a noun, my crush for all people and all looks preppy blossomed into passionate love.

I'm not saying I, nor anyone, should force a head-to-toe Ralph Lauren ensemble at Milly & Al's in Adams Morgan, but I do believe that in the conservative professional - and even social - DC corridors, to err on the side of preppiness is the most successful strategy to look audience-appropriate and maintain your unique style.

The operational definition of "preppy," from what I've observed, has evolved from the shoulder-padded blazer and Lacoste polo days of Heathers' yore to a look with a much slimmer silhouette, a much less overt pronouncement of wealth and privilege, and a much more permissive attitude toward mixing and matching traditional with trendy, ladylike with avant garde, and cotton knits with luxe satin.

The one characteristic of the preppy look that hasn't undergone a change over the years, however, is the primacy placed on full-coverage cuts. This means no cleavage, no backlessness, and certainly no short-short hemlines -- unless, that is, the neckline is high, the sleeves are substantial, the shape is demure, and the event to which you're wearing this outfit is not work-related.

To illustrate what this neo-prep style - my style - looks like, I've put together 20 representative items, most of which I can't afford but all of which I would warmly allow a Sugar Daddy to add to my wardrobe.

Enjoy!

Top to bottom:

1. Leather bayswater bag by Mulberry ($995 at net-a-porter.com)
2. Silk pencil skirt by Castle Starr ($281 at revolveclothing.com)*
3. Lawless shorts by DVF ($185 at dvf.com)
4. Keyhole blouse by Corey Lynn Calter ($80 at azaleaonline.com)
5. Silk newel trousers by Lauren by Ralph Lauren ($139 at macys.com)
6. Martine jacket by Peter Som ($2,300 at eluxury.com)
7. Valentine flats by London Sole ($245 at urbanchiconline.com)*
8. ‘60s dress by Alice + Olivia ($426 at urbanchiconline.com)
9. 7.5mm pearl studs by Mikimoto ($610 at mikimotoamerica.com)*
10. Black/tan pumps by Lila Norman ($250 at activeendeavors.com)
11. Double-breated linen coat (£55 at topshop.com)
12. High-waisted pencil skirt (£32 at topshop.com)
13. Puff-sleeve shirt by Nili Lotan ($203 at shopbop.com)
14. Puff-sleeve top by Rebecca Taylor ($249 at shopbop.com)
15. Pharoah dress by Vena Cava ($531 at shopbop.com)

16. Pleated dress by Development ($369 at pinkmascara.com)

17. Bubble-sleeve top by Mint ($253 at pinkmascara.com)

18. Verna d'Orsay by Fitzwell ($69.96 at zappos.com)

19. Metallic box clutch by Bottega Veneta ($2,250 at net-a-porter.com)*

20. Chiffon and sequin dress by D&G ($795 at net-a-porter.com)

*your editrix's favorites

Worth staying up for

For the stunning sexy/preppy early-'50s fashion, the scorchingly flirtatious dialogue, the palpable urgency behind George Eastman (Montgomery Clift) and Angela Vickers' (Elizabeth Taylor) every-level chemistry, the pure joy of seeing Alice (Shelley Winters) pushed into the drink after her frightening rant about how "content" and "settled" George will "eventually" be with her instead of his true love, and above all, to be reminded of how conversation-stoppingly - hell, breath-stoppingly - beautiful a woman can be, turn right this second to Turner Classic Movies and savor one of my favorite films, A Place in the Sun.

The white strapless dress with rosette-adorned bustline and tiered, appliquéd tulle ballgown skirt Angela wears in the first romantic scene she and George share is alone worth the 122 minutes of your time.

This will never be me. Ever.

But I still pre-ordered my ticket for its April 13th opening just to see what pathetic dog people are like.

Because I cannot relate to them.

And their desire to spend the entirety of a weekend sitting at home watching reruns of "To Catch a Predator" and "The Soup" while throwing around what used to be a tie-dyed squeaky ball but is now a de-squeaked, de-stuffed, always wet, often strategically nudged between the bed frame and the wall piece of red/yellow/green/blue/purple fabric.

At all.

And never will

The trailer for "Year of the Dog":

Strapless done well. *Really* well.

It's been a good two months since I last complained about the curious misconception the majority of women - most notably brides and sorority girls - are under that strapless is an equal-opportunity, universally flattering neckline.

For the sake of time and to avoid the sheer frustration of having to explain (again) why back fat and bean-bag upper arms aren't exactly assets to which you want to draw attention at a formal gathering, I won't take you through my analysis of why only a very small percentage of women can rock sweetheart-strapless and an even smaller percentage of that percentage can rock straight-edge-strapless.

No, instead I'll just gaze upon the strawberry satin strapless tea-length Peter Soronen dress with eye-catching asymmetric structured bustline, hue-matching cinch and pencil skirt bottom Hilary Swank wore last night to the L.A. premiere of her new thriller, The Reaping. Very similar in silhouette to Reese Witherspoon's lemon Nina Ricci frock at this year's Golden Globes, Hilary's dress fits just so in all the difficult regions, which is a feat not easily achieved when dealing with satin, especially in a lighter color.

Note how in the widest part of her tiny frame - her hips - there is neither bunching from a too-tight fit, nor unnecessary hanging from a too-loose one. The bunching you think you're seeing, as far as I can tell, is just that pesky and unavoidable wrinkle-age from the limo ride. At the neckline, the cut and thickness of the structured fabric allows the double Oscar winner's generous chest to look considerably smaller than the perfect C-cup we know is hiding under there.

When you're a lady like Hilary, you recognize that at a still-light-out event, it's much more appropriate to showcase the shoulders and back, not the ladies, ample as they may be.

As for the rest of her ensemble, I must say I'm a bit disappointed. I think her makeup is too washed out for her pale complexion; I think her hair looks sheen-depleted and the style poorly executed with errant fly-aways and not-sure-if-they're-meant-to-be-pulled-back-or-poofed-up bangs; I think her Manolo Blahnik patent leather buckled sandals ($585 at bergdorfgoodman.com) are too avant garde and too distracting for the simple, feminine cut of the dress; I think the Chopard necklace is okay but doesn't serve any real complementing purpose. It's just there - the hallmark of an unnecessary accessory.

And the belt. Not a fan of that, either. Her extremely formal, estate-sale-looking jewelry acts in contradiction to the modern casual nuance of the waist-cinch. It's confusing to the eye, and I'd have gotten rid of both. For shoes, I would have either gone a bit bronzer or stayed in the nude palette but since the dress is so simple, selected something with fewer, thinner straps and unique adornments or cut-outs like these other Manolos.

Aside from the dress itself, Hilary's sizable diamond studs and red and white mod minaudière are pretty much the only other components I'd give a positive nod.

Well, those and the unabashed admiration she shows herself in the first picture.

Money doesn't buy that kind of self-love. I should know.

Maybe I will see "Black Snake Moan" after all...

I know these shots of Christina are probably photo-shopped to the hilt, but even so, I'm now seriously considering reallocating the $10.75 I was saving for my second showing of 300 to listen to bluegrass and watch Ms. Ricci chained to a radiator for 2+ hours.

That I would use my own money to see a film in which Justin Timberlake has even a small part is a testament to how seriously I'm considering Christina for membership to my girl-crush club.

Granted, in the film, she's too thin, has a busted lip, bad dye job and spends the majority of her time acting strung out in nothing but a super-cropped Confederate Flag tee and pair of suspiciously soiled bikini briefs, but perhaps the longer I look at these photos, the easier it will be to mentally superimpose this makes-her-look-half-Asian makeup job over all those facial lacerations.

Christina Ricci looking damn hot in haute couture in the new issue of mean magazine*:

*it looks like the JV needs to give the Varsity some help when it comes to choosing a knock-your-socks-off cover shot. Marie Claire, take note.