I'll try and act like I'm not jealous, but...

...a former supermodel as your First Lady?

France, I'm normally not on your side when it comes to anything other than Fashion Week and foie gras, but this time I gotta hand it to you -- these surprise nuptials deserve a resounding "well played".

I just wonder how poor Mitt is gonna handle that first State Dinner next year. God gives one strength, I suppose, but those legs, that voice, those legs...this could get very interesting.

Squarely on Team Hillary

Ahhh, Carla Bruni.

You've seduced a mogul, two rock legends, and now a President, this last conquest pushing one of the most socially liberal nations to the brink of something they haven't felt since the fallout of the Congress of Vienna in 1815 -- disapproval.

Leggy, effortlessly chic and talented chanteuse though you may be, when I look at you -all 5 feet, 10 inches of you- I can't help but think just how smart it was of your boyfriend (and his advisers, I'm sure) to keep you hidden in the country home during his tough campaign against Ségolène Royal last Spring.

That you're a siren of the highest physical and intellectual standards is nothing to be ashamed of, don't get me wrong, but when in the throes of a close election, you have to agree a candidate can't be taking chances by indulging publicly in what he thinks is acceptable knowing full well that that decision might influence voters -especially embittered, middle-aged female voters- to side with his opponent.

Inauguration first, supermodel girlfriend reveal second.

Now onto the little spat between Vogue Editor Anna Wintour and democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

Whether Hillary herself thinks wearing a series of $14,500 Haute Couture gowns in the pages of a glossy fashion magazine will render her "too feminine" really isn't the issue at hand. Frankly, for a woman who has spent her entire life over-achieving, over-working and over-compensating, I can't think of a person more deserving of a day of I-feel-pretty excess.

Excess, however, that can -and should- wait until after our very judgmental John Q. Public casts its collective vote in November.

Inauguration first, Dior second.

In the Vogue primary, my vote goes to Hillary

I apologize for the lack of posting today, but I've been buried under a massive pile of work work since last night, and unfortunately, I don't anticipate a reprieve until tomorrow afternoon.

Check back then for a post a week in the making on why, when it comes to this fashion-versus-function battle, I fall squarely and surprisingly on the side of Ms. Square-Toed Pumps herself, Hillary Clinton.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to tend to the pair of steamer trunks forming underneath my eyes with a couple of fresh, cool pumps of Darphin...

as you were,
Johanna

The standard has been set

As much as I like to believe - and usually do believe - everything I read on Wonkette, there was a post on their site today linked to from Jezebel in which an unnamed writer crowned Obama the early victor in "luring" the votes of "the elusive slutty anxious female demographic," a determination that even after reading the entirety of the "article" I found as baseless and confusing as Cameron Diaz's continued inclusion on any list associated with the word "sexy" and without the words "buttaface gnome."

It's hard to fathom a media outlet that can in one breath speak the sobering truth and report that former Austrian president Kurt Waldheim "choked to death on the devil’s cock" and then turn around and link to - i.e. promote as the truth - as grossly subjective a piece as the one mentioned above. Not only is this calling the game a wee bit before the final inning but it's also putting forth an argument that is precariously hinged on the assumption there doesn't exist an even larger contingent of even sluttier and even more anxious females who are in the throes of creating their own "I gotta crush on Giuliani/Gilmore/McCain/Brownback/Huckabee/etc." YouTube-able streams.

Sure, this 'Obama Girl' may have hit the jackpot with a candidate whose first and last names are easily pliable into both dirty-sounding verbs and nouns, but if for example, I were tasked to put together such a project for my GOP hardbody of choice, what with his wholesome background coupled with my porn-distracted mind and four-Kaplan-courses-worth-of-flashcard-enhanced vocabulary, some seriously salacious video magic could be made.

It would start, as most good things do, with the intoxicating melody of Silk's early-'90s classic "Freak Me." Following, "Flavor-of-Love"-worthy outfits and a whole lot of the kind of outlining-the-hips-with-both-palms writhing you find every Thursday through Saturday at MCCXXIII. Then, an assembly of random urban backdrops like public fountains, the L'enfant Plaza metro (D St. entrance), that Thai restaurant over in the U St. corridor and a block of PennAve that's populated entirely by thick-waisted Dads in suits from the Men's Wearhouse. After all that's nailed down, it's just peripheral tasks: casting average-looking office boys who have good "you're way hotter than I am" expressions, getting down pat the talking-dirty-with-the-eyes look (see profile pic -- almost there), tracking down and poster-ifying a shirtless photo of candidate Rom-it-in-me (hey, I'm still working on it), and finally, finding a bikini that is both patriotic and rack-flattering for those all-important split-screens.

The lyrics? Oh right...lyrics. Well, I'll just have to take the template I created back in 1987 for Wyoming's at-large congressional district election, tone it down - waaaay down - and start from there.

'Obama Girl' might want her candidate to bah-rock her all night long, but make no mistake, there are plenty of red-state Romney girls out there who want to be mitt-mitt-Mitt'n that ass just as hard and just as dirty.

But I must give props to whomever came up with the "You're into border security/now let's break down the border between you and me" lyric. That shit's poetry.

A breath of fresh French air...

"Ségolène who?"

That was the question that popped into my head after I came across these snaps of Cécilia Sarkozy, the wife of newly-elected French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, at his inauguration last month.

All along I'd been told President Sarkozy's socialist challenger, Ms. Ségolène Royale, was the hot one to watch on the French political scene, but after being only mildly impressed with her "scandalous" bikini photoshoot* and then of course completely dissuaded once she failed to secure a win in the runoff election, I now turn my attention instead to the fickle-icious comings and goings of the extraordinarily well-dressed (seen here in a shimmery gold duchess sheath by Prada) self-absorbed beauty that is France's new first lady.

She may be a lithe 5'10" former Schiaparelli and Chanel model who only dabbled in a little of this and a little of that academically; she may have allowed France's most powerful man to follow through on his plan - one he concocted while he himself was still a newlywed and in attendance at his future wife's first wedding - to actively woo her out of those pesky 'til-death-do-us-part-etc.-etc. vows and into his bed; and she may be the woman who instead of ending her sagging second marriage to Sarkozy took up with yet another high-profile man in a very out-in-the-open affair that not only had her so distracted she forgot to vote in the decisive second-round election that put her husband in his high office but has also taken her on vacations to Cannes, London and New York, not to mention audacious hand-holding alfresco brunches, lunches and dinners in Paris.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

The sophisticated, figure-flattering style, the thin ankles, the toned triceps, the good haircut, the genuine smile and alluring feminine wiles -- it looks like Hillary might have found her perfect complement.

Put Bill on lockdown, there might be one hell of a State Dinner coming up in '08...

*on a related-but-not-really-related note, check out these pics of the stunning freak of nature that is Brooke Burke only five months after giving birth to her third - yes third - daughter.

Quotes of the day: Elizabeth Kucinich

“I have never noticed [the age difference] at all...Dennis is a very mature but young-at-heart gentleman and we complement each other."

(Elizabeth Kucinich, 29, on what she thinks of her husband and their 31-year age difference)

“Can you imagine what it would be like to have real love in the White House?”

(Elizabeth, reminding women like Hillary it's important to still give your husband "real love," and by "real love" she means...uh-huh, yeah that)

On the outset, I should dislike these two.

Elizabeth, a ginger-haired hippie from the English countryside who lists her occupation as "Politician's wife!" and spells Christopher Walken as Christopher Walking on her MySpace page, and Dennis, a twice-divorced Roman Catholic vegan who looks like every cute child TV star who's unfortunately grown into a cute adult, may gravitate toward everything from which Dick and I shy away such as peaceful resolutions, careless misspellings, Tofurkey and Christmas Mass, but somehow, if I might borrow the lazy analyst's crutch of an explanation -- they just seem to work.

And in addition to both enjoying Elizabeth's tongue piercing, the Kama Sutra (the film, not the book, incidentally) and long-distance e-mail flirtations, these two kids have also managed to stop sending naughty pictures back and forth just long enough to make their mark on DC's social scene, a fact no doubt helped by the reality that not even the two of them take Dennis' bid for the 2008 presidency very seriously.

She may be 6 inches taller and 31 years younger than her man, but you have to admit, it's quite refreshing to see a political couple who you don't immediately assume has slept in separate bedrooms for the past decade and that doesn't personify the 'Too-Bad'-lifestyle Dorothy Parker captures frighteningly well in her we-both-picked-the-wrong-one-but-we-keep-on-keepin'-on-anyway tale of look-the-other-way-while-we-eat marital bliss.

And no, Mormons don't count. They're always happy.

I don't get the scarf look.

I'll never be the one who only wears articles of clothing that make practical, functional sense.

I love ridiculously small clutches that require me to carry my Treo in the other hand and to use my latent Tetris skills to fit my remaining ID, debit card, eyeliner and Kiehl's lip balm just so in order to snap it shut.

I love my backless silk blouse that as soon as I turn around announces to the world, "Ha-ay, guess whose lady bits are only a millimeter of shiny fabric away from the world?"

I love my collection of super-cropped cap-sleeved boleros, capelets, swing and bell jackets that provide no real warmth and whose only function is to break up my cat-burglar-black ensemble with a bit of pattern or color.

I love love LOVE my white knit, white eyelet and jewel-blue satin micro mini dresses that have on dozens of occasions made me say, "nuh-uh, not tonight" whenever the notion of sitting down crossed my mind.

And I know if I actually had it, I would love - and wear - until the end of time that oversized Dean Burke designed Aquamarine cocktail ring in today's "Sugar Daddy" feature.

Of all the impractical items a woman wears for no other reason than to make herself look more beautiful, there is one I have never understood from the time I was a little thing looking like this but less furious in the front pew at Norman Presbyterian Church to today, when once again, I saw a half-dozen women walking around these parts donning this not only unnecessary but age-enhancing layer.

Yes, I am talking about the 3' x 3' multicolored nautical/paisley/animal-print/holiday/Bible-themed silk scarf. I don't care if that thing is a real Hermès, I don't care if that knot you've tied it with was invented by Yves Saint Laurent himself, and I sure as hell don't care if your kid bought it for you at the Duty-Free shop for your birthday -- it's ugly. And not only that, but it covers your neckline, which, in a lot of these cases is the one thing these women have left that hasn't "left the building" prematurely.

If your goal is to add unique touches to a boring black pantsuit, ditch the matching jacket and pick up a complementary one in ivory, tweed or even red, throw out the scoopneck for a more youthful, eye-catching pin-tucked or peter pan collared neckline, add a pair of brightly colored garnet/citrine/spinel studs, tie your hair back into an elegant chignon or low ponytail, slide on a wide leather croc-embossed headband and/or top it off with a slightly-out-of-your-comfort-zone pair of skinny heels in an unexpected silhouette and color.

So let's please do everyone a favor, including the man in your life who cringes every time you rustle through that scarf drawer, and put those busy picnic blankets back where they belong -- tightly sealed up in the bin in the garage with the holiday sweaters, the Birkenstocks, the Umbro shorts and the pleated pants.

Explanation.

You may be wondering where that post on Rayburn style I promised you yesterday morning is hiding.

Truth is, in typical Washington form, my event was postponed an hour before it was supposed to begin, and I never had a chance to see if my suspicions that the good-looking interns live under their bosses desks and that the rest of the them almost perfectly match their boxy Ann Taylor Loft twinsets to the the beige walled, beige floored and beige doored corridors were actually true.

Another time, I promise.

Rayburn style.

Rayburn House Building style.

Don't know what it looks like, but from 11:30-1:30 today, in between seeking out Michele Bachmann for advice on how to be crazy and still get elected and letting the all-the-Chinese-are-spies rantings of a China "specialist" go in one ear and out the other, I'm dedicated to finding out if 'Hill' style is any different - any better - than its ConnAve counterpart.

I was going to write up something on what I encountered yesterday at Bolling, but let's just say the crowd was so far gone with flaky unmoisturized, unmakeup-ed faces, red and white snowflake-printed tube socks stuffed into brown block-heeled square-toed buckled boot-shoes and literally, every other female (I can't bring myself to say, "woman") with untended-to, half-wet, product-free hair pulled back into a waffle-textured scrunchie, that last night, when I sat down to write, I thought, "What's the point, really?"

I'm crossing my fingers the JV skinterns give me something more to work with.

What if we all wore this to the range?

Would that convince Mayor Fenty not to challenge the Court's decision to allow firearms in the District?

Even the most strident anti-gun politician - male politician (and Hillary, of course) - has to admit these Brigitte-Nielsen-circa-Rocky-IV-esque photos from last September's issue of Vogue Italia are smokin' hot.

And a legitimate reason to think twice before denying all the pretty girls with strong legs, kohled eyes and a penchant for spiked heels their desire to rapid fire a few boxes off in a licensed shooting-range.

(scanned photos courtesy of L's boy R)

Thank goodness

Because Salma is in that small core of lovely women I just can't bring myself to criticize, I chose to ignore these highly unflattering photos that surfaced a few days ago of the normally hotter half of the va-va-voom-licious Latin duo that is Hayek-Cruz, Incorporated.

Now that the entire world has been let in on her pregnancy secret, however, I suppose it's okay to share these with the few of you who haven't already seen them. And by the way, not only is Salma knocked up with this French dude's baby, she's apparently planning on marrying him, too.

Oh, poor, poor Salma, hasn't anyone told her that even when a fresh baguette, a room-temperature square of Camembert, and a four-hour workday is at stake, a Frenchman just isn't capable of keeping his word long-term?

Since I'm not allowed to criticize a pregnant woman's appearance, here are two pictures of Salma looking...um, uh, purple, white and dumpy all over.

I tried.