Ze worst of ze worst -- a DC style disaster in five parts

In no particular order, here are the five ensembles from three separate venues that stood out not only for their wearers' poor execution (fit, color scheme, etc.) but also for the absolute WTF-edness of the overall "look."

Venue #1: Tour de Champagne, French Embassy

(dress code: semi-formal, black-tie optional)

Beige strapless tube dress. Chandelier-style faux diamond necklace. Slouchy Frye boots. Messy ponytail. Chipped bubble-gum pink nail polish. Extremely dry skin -- think visible scales.

Baggy black low-rise sequined bell-bottoms. "Dressy" black t-shirt. Thick brown bifocals. Unstyled shoulder-length Mom-bob. Square-toed one-inch pilgrim pumps. No makeup. Again, very dry skin.

Skin-tight teal satin sheath that puckered painfully at the sleeves and across the stomach, hips and rear -- every time she downed a heavily-pâtéd crostini, I could see another bulge begin to form. Stubbed-to-white black pointy-toed pumps. Good dramatic eye makeup but thick, poorly-blended pancake-y foundation.

on the bubble:

Nondescript short-sleeved, shoulder-padded black sheath. Busily-patterned black tights. Double-strapped, distressed brown leather round-toed block-heeled slingbacks. Thick librarian glasses. So in need of lotion I came thisclose to demanding she let me rub her down, neck to toes, with my coconut/olive oil salve.

Floor-length ivory satin deep V-neck/V-back evening gown. Jewel-encrusted sandals. Enormous black Marc by Marc Jacobs turnlock tote.

Heaving, salacious cleavage. Black wide-netted fishnets. One-two-three...seven visible tatts. Magic marker-looking black eyeliner. Chipped cherry-red toe and nail polish.

Venue #2: Lotus, K Street, between 14th/15th St.

Kite-shaped handkerchief-printed backless "blouse." Painted-on yoga pants. Poor man's Edie Sedgwick eye makeup. Dark brown-lined lips. Smirnoff Ice.

Venue #3: The Park at 14th, 14th Street, between K/I St.

White pearlized pleather (?) mini skirt. Black halter with large metal O-ring detailing in front and back. Straps-up-the-calf, raffia-wedged platform sandals. Alternating inch-wide sectionals of white-blond highlights and dark-brown "natural" hair color. French pedi.

*'ze best of ze best' post to come later in the week...

An unusually social weekend

For the first time in recent memory, I was busy this weekend.

And by "busy," I don't mean busy with my usual Saturday/Sunday commitments like documentary watching, dog snuggling and late-night exercising but rather more age-appropriate fare like fancy DC event attending, club hopping and new "friend" making.

I don't think I'll make a habit of keeping this kind of weekend schedule - I only have so many party dresses, after all - but I will admit, there was one major benefit to being a social butterfly:

finding blog fodder -- lots and lots of truly horrific blog fodder

Being the studious little fashionista bee I am, I stopped mid-sip of Bollinger at "Tour de Champagne," mid-swig of Amstel Light at The Park and mid-gulp of Diet Coke at American Gangster to take very descriptive notes with my cell phone (thank GOD for the full keyboard on my enV) of five of the most unfortunately dressed women I have ever come across in this city.

Some ill-fitted, some double-take trashy and some in low-rise, black-sequined bell-bottoms with square-toe work pumps and bifocals.

Check back later in the day for the full breakdown.

And speaking of poorly-dressed, here I am looking much the opposite on my way to the aforementioned Champagne tasting -- my first fancy-pants DC event:

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

I'm pretty sure the boss doesn't want to see your jacked-up heels

I know not every professional woman in this city shares my view on the notion that a serious job is no excuse for turning a blind eye - or in many cases, a pair of blind eyes - to how one looks as they bridge the divide between home and office.

I realize for some of you, whether it's out of necessity or preference or whatever, clothes are just...well, clothes. Nothing more. And certainly nothing over which you find yourself fretting, fawning or foregoing meals on a daily basis.

But in the spirit of a post I wrote a few months back in which I questioned one young woman's decision to introduce the belly shirt to a Sunday morning church service, I would like to here and now raise the issue of another peculiar - and in my opinion, equally offensive - lapse in think-of-how-it-affects-others judgment.

And that would be the jacked-up, cracked-up, haven't-seen-a-bottle-of-Jergens-since-the-Clinton-administration heels stuffed into a pair of besequinsed too-small, peep-toed, kitten-heeled slides.


There are few female body parts that when taken care of properly have the ability to distract (at least temporarily) from a busted mug, a bulging belly, jumbly thighs or a shiteous haircut. Gorgeous, fresh skin does the job, a taut pop of ass definitely goes a long way, and the last feature on this shortlist, the feature that can really boost a 5 to a 6.5 and the reason why so many of us spend more time and money at the salon than we should or can afford is a pretty, well cared-for pair of feet.

But as I saw yesterday evening at the intersection of 17th and L, the power that on one hand can upgrade a woman's hotness factor has the power to down-down-downgrade it as well.

You wouldn't expose your colleagues to a rash on your inner thigh, you wouldn't share with the world an infected, ingrown nail, you wouldn't find it appropriate to wear a top that highlighted a giant whitehead on your back, so why, why are so many women - not just the aforementioned one, but throngs and throngs of callous and fissure-flaunting females in my pocket of the city - under the misconception that their so-dry-they-look-diseased feet have the right to see the light of day in an office setting?

To all the women who favor the slide, I implore you, either lotion 'em up, or keep 'em well encased in a non-slingbacked pump, boot, sneaker, hell even one of those stupid-looking pootie things.

Because from now on, I'd like to keep down my $5.49 Infinite Orange smoothie, thank you.

My suburban style transition

"You know, most people have trouble picking out an outfit for a formal event, not a casual one," S said to me last Friday night over the trill of Joel McHale's impression of Kendra Wilkinson's laugh and the intense scraping of spork against an empty pint of Phish Food frozen yogurt, "honestly Johanna, this (motioning to the enormous pile of discarded outfit options at the foot of my bed) is ridiculous. Wear some jeans, wear a shirt, wear some shoes, a coat if it gets cold and get it over with. Hurry, 'Sunset Tan' is starting."

Until I’d actually begun the process of casual-ifying my wardrobe for a weekend in the upper-Midwestern suburbs – a three day stint where the majority of my time would be spent in lowkey social situations, not the biannual milling about my parents' home in size L JV volleyball sweats and the overpriced Hammacher Schlemmer Androscoggin Sheepskin slippers I begged and begged Santa to buy me and then only one of which I wore (purely for decoration) when I cracked my shin and fractured my ankle during my "crutch phase" of '95 - I thought, hey, no problem, just like transitioning from a Treo back to a regular ol' cell, taking a break from the thoughtfully assembled ensembles of gunmetals, blacks, wines, impractically tall heels, high-waisted this, and rosette necklined that I normally wear in favor of could-do-it-with-my-eyes-closed casual would be something I could achieve with relative ease.

After all, a t-shirt is a t-shirt is a t-shirt, right?

As soon as I delved into the pre-packing project, it became clear as Spencer Pratt's conscience the effortlessness with which I assumed I could scale back my day-to-day fabulosity was far more challenging than I'd originally thought it would be.

"Workout tee, workout tee, workout tee...do I have anything in here that hasn't seen a 10x10 set of squat thrust lunges?" I thought to myself, pawing to the bottom of the top three drawers of my dresser.

"The grey ones are too skinny, the red ones are too Fergie, these are too bootcut, these are too faded, these are too big, these are waaay too big...don't I own a pair of jeans that falls somewhere between hipster on U Street and Girbaud in the '80s?" I asked aloud in a pitch so acutely frustrated it incited Monte to give my aggressive hanger shuffling a lift-and-tilt so cartoon-like I could actually see the question mark hovering above his sweet, little head.

10pm soon became 11:30 which soon became 1am, and after S left and Monte had his final walk of the night, I looked at my very small "to take" pile, which included one set of running clothes, underwear, toiletries, my iPod and phone chargers and an Archie comic, and decided, despite my allegiance to all songs Dido, to raise that white flag, tuck three days' worth of DC style wardrobe components into my little Samsonite satchel and join my sweetpuff in the stretched-out spoon he'd been waiting three hours for me to complete.

The next morning, I applied my usual face (i.e., concealer, Eye Basics, wide swipes of bronzer, double coat of mascara, thin stripes of black liner on top and bottom, Kiehl's lip balm and Dior Ultra Gloss in "reflect") to polish the look I'd created with these, this, these (last picture) and something similar to this, gave myself an "uh-huh" up-and-down in my full-length mirror and set off for Reagan National.

Against my better judgment, I felt confident during the 13 minute cab ride to Terminal A in my decision to just be the 'DC me'. I felt good as I passed through security; I felt comfortable standing tall - very tall - in line at gate 4; I felt fine the entire hour and nine minutes on the plane; and as I made my way through Detroit Metro to the tiny corridor where those of us heading to America's more modest destinations are corralled, I still felt good. I still felt I'd made the right choice.

But then, just as I turned the corner and found gate A14, just as I took a seat in between a woman knitting an Ohio State hat atop her personalized Bible and another reading a Dora the Explorer book to her daughter in the no more 20-chair waiting area, the lump I thought I'd successfully averted came into my throat with full, guilty force.

I'm near sure my clothes and my obvious attention to trend and fit and color and cut didn't offend or make insecure a single person in that waiting area. No one was rude. No one shot me a who does she think she is? look. Quite to the contrary. The woman to my left (the knitter), in fact, used my knee to prop herself up and even asked if she could "fetch [me] a pop" on her way back from the restroom.

Upon seeing in her eyes the hope that I would, I accepted her offer and a few minutes later she handed me a 20 oz Diet Sprite, saying with wink, "I could tell you were a diet kind of girl."

For the first time since I started this blog last December, I looked down at the outfit I'd carefully chosen and felt a searing sense of regret, even embarrassment at my own hypocrisy. In wearing what I had that morning, I not only violated my wear what makes you feel most confident, not most comfortable dictum but perhaps infringed upon my venue-appropriateness rule as well.

A t-shirt may be a t-shirt may be a t-shirt, but DC is not Dayton is not Daytona Beach is not Durham. Now, I don't advocate dressing for others or choosing looks in an attempt to meet the expectation of what people in a certain city hope to see when they step out their front doors each morning, but I have to tell you, after my weekend, one that saw me anxiously reach each day for the same workout tee I'd packed for my long run instead of the cute trapeze tops and pouf-sleeved sweaters I'd planned to don Saturday and Sunday evening, I know I won't soon forget I need to shut InStyle every once in a while and listen more carefully to the Midwesterner inside of me who knows, when in my native fly-over land, I may be more comfortable in painted-on pants and sky-high stilettos, but I'm more confident in an beat up pair of jeans and a hoodie.

Sans the black eyeliner.

10 Most Wanted (shoe edition)

If I had one wish and one wish only, clearly, I would be expected to put it toward something selfless, something that would benefit the majority and make this world in which you and I live a more beautiful, less hostile place.

In short, I'd criminalize the wearing of the following footwear during business hours, Monday through Friday:

10. Wrap-Up-the-Leg Espadrille Wedges

9. Crocs

8. The Kitten Heel Slide7. The Mallwalker
6. The "I Put Out" Flip-flop5. The Slow-Dance Strappy Evening Shoe
4. The Stripper Slingback
3. The Block-Heeled One-Inch Pump

2. The Stacked-Heel Square-toed Pilgrim Bootie

1. The Sturdy Comfort Sandal:

Not even Cindy could've gotten away with it

I have heard with firsthand authority from three very reliable sources on three staggered occasions - once in the late '80s, once in the mid-'90s and once last Summer - that Cindy Crawford, in person, is the most naturally beautiful celebrity on the block.

The first witness, a then-17 year old high school friend of my brother's, cited (not surprisingly) Cindy's slim, athletic physique as what first drew his attention and then, after closer inspection, dropped his jaw; the second witness, a man of more "seasoned" age and coincidentally the one responsible for my thankfully now-over 15 month binge on Rachael Yamagata music, Anne Sexton poetry and bags upon bags of Tropical Skittles, couldn't get over her skin, bone structure and "perfect posture"; the third, a girlfriend of like age and like taste in girl-crushes, was stopped-short by how effortlessly her clothes fit, both in drape and style ("I never really knew what 'Cindy Crawford style' looked like until I saw her, and then it just hit me over the head.").

Point is, from what I hear and from what I can tell in most every picture I've ever seen of her, Cindy is that rare-looking creature that no matter what she's wearing (or not wearing) elicits the "It looks good on her, but on anyone else..." reaction.

You know what I mean -- the boucle suit, the suspender jeans, the capri pants, those horrendous oxford bootie-heels that are supposed to be so in-vogue for Fall. None of these could do 99.9% of women justice but on someone like Cindy (or my delicious friend O, a picture of whom I wish I could show you) you might be able to eke out a "Yeeeeah, I guess I can see that working" rationalization.

Where is all this going?

Well, I finally saw something today as I returned from lunch at Panache (just off ConnAve by the ABC News building) that not even as-close-to-perfect-as-perfect-comes Cindy could have pulled off.

And it looked a little somethin' like this:

But think black pointy-toed, ankle-strap heels instead of boots and a boxy navy pinstripe blazer atop a denim button-up instead of an olive t-shirt.

As the ladies on GFY often say when there really isn't anything left to say...there are no words.

Step-tug-tug-smooth

Just like when an Honors Geometry teachers gives partial credit to a student whose attempt at a tough proof - misguided and wrong as it may have been - exhibits intuitive, creative problem-solving skills, I too hold something back from my usually withering critiques when I see someone trying but ultimately failing to execute an intended "look."

Her dress was a black-eyelet cap-sleeved sheath with a scalloped boatneck and tiny leather waist-cinch that hit just below the knee.

Stunning, right?

Well, yes and no. The dress itself was flawless, and from the waist-cinch up, so was the drape. But while this thinkin'-she-looked-so-good brunette clearly had a puts-in-the-time-and-reaps-the-rewards size-4 figure, the extremely fitted bottom half (think pencil skirt skinny) was so painted over her hips-to-ass contour that with every step - literally, every step - she had to stop, tug at the left side of the hem, tug at the right side of the hem, smooth out the material and continue.

Graceful though her corrective movements were, between 17th and ConnAve on M St. alone, she must have gone through at least 15 step-tug-tug-smooth repetitions. Needless to say, she and her too-tight-edness did not go unnoticed.

Once she made it to the intersection, however, all judgmental looks dissipated -- standing still and at full, upright attention (she was about 5'11" with her 4-inch heels), this woman had discovered the absolute perfect wardrobe component to flatter her frame.

The seconds soon ticked down, the light turned red and the little white man ushered the cattle to cross. Almost immediately, even with that first push off the curb, there she went, each struggling strut distancing her further and further away from that statuesque static moment she'd just achieved opposite Burberry's god-awful Fall preview window displays.

And that was just the walk to work. Now I've got to take myself, my too-tight, purchased-in-an-impulse vintage dress ("it'll fit one day...") all the way to dinner with L and then another six blocks home.

I'm anticipating that translates to somewhere along the lines of 1,932 step-tug-tug-smooths.

Lessons for the day:
(1) Listen to your it-feels-kinda-tight instinct and return the dress to the hanger
(2) Follow my own GD advice

Let's buh-bye all versions of the Adilette, shall we?

In my now second piece in just as many weeks harkening back to my days as a top-to-bottom white-mesh-clad Lady Chieftain, let me introduce to you all a "shoe" with which I'm sure, if you're between the ages of 8 and 50 and at least attempted or attended an athletic endeavor of some sort, you're all quite familiar.

Yes, I'm talking about your old favorite and mine, the ubiquitous two-toned, single wide-strapped, 100% synthetic, molds-to-your-arches-in-under-a-day Adidas Adilette sandal.

Good for lounging between sessions at Summer basketball clinics, strolling into your local mall for the one-two-three casual-chic shopping punch that is American Eagle followed by Abercrombie followed by Hollister and making quick trips to Target for cheap pregnancy tests DVDs, the Adilette, I remember thinking at 14 years old, offered a versatility with which few other footwear alternatives could compete.

Sometimes I wore them without socks, sometimes I wore them with anklet, mid-calf, or on game days - in an homage to my then-boyfriend who did the same during his games (altogether now, "Awwww...") - with knee-high socks. I wore them with purple-and-teal Umbros, with ass-tight stonewashed GAP jeans, with too-short bone-colored khakis, with too-long, rip-away track pants, and I'm sure if you rifled through my yearbooks meticulously enough, you might even find my beloved Adilettes paired with a truly fabulous oversized-flannel-shirt-and-denim-skirt ensemble.

As I've said here before, what you do on your own time inside and around your home, after work and on the weekends is your business. If you want to wear tie-dyed Crocs and a denim-on-denim-(on-denim) outfit while preparing dinner, or slap on a pair of pleated, cuffed khakis and leave your face a blotchy, foundation-free mess while catching up on your Tivo log, heck, even if you want to wear a "Vote for Hillary in '08" sweatshirt belted at the waist with Tevas while homeschooling your poor children, that's completely your prerogative. It's an objectively unsightly prerogative, but as long as you're not subjecting anyone who doesn't love you for who you are (blah blah blah) to its hideousness, who am I - someone who spent her entire weekend in a bathing suit and youth-size-S "M is for Milkshake" message tee - to pooh-pooh your comfort-first wardrobe choices?

Point is, what we did when we were young and what we do in non-professional settings is all water under the 14th St. bridge. Free passes granted all around.

What is not permissible, however, is the long-standing trend I've noticed where DC women have brought the thwack-thwack-thwacking Adilette - or the "grown up" version thereof - into the workplace.

Here below, just one example of this needs-to-go-buh-bye footwear tragedy:

Thaaaat's gonna leave a neck cramp

I've always been in favor of the Pam Grier-ified black afro. There's something very sexual, very primal about it; whenever I see a beautiful woman who's chosen to rock this 'do, even if she's casual as can be in a Summer maxi and wafer-thin flats or a straight-legged pair of jeans and a transition tee, I can't help but take a second look - gawk, really - and imagine what a confident little always-on-top hellcat she must be with the lights off.

Or, with the lights on.

But somewhere during my 42 minute flight between Traverse City and the Motor City last night, my love affair with the afro-puff took a sharp turn for the worse.

I didn't make a peep when I realized the massive orb I'd seen in the terminal atop a cute young thing's head was to flank me on the left and invade my personal space to the point where I had to arch my neck 70 degrees due right from taxi to takeoff to touchdown to avoid the nuisance of a constant cheek tickle.

I didn't exhibit a whit of impatience as I was forced to fold myself completely in half - nose-to-knees - to enjoy without hair-in-mouth incident the freshly-picked raspberries, Fig Newmans and Diet Vernor's 20 oz I'd packed myself for dinner.

But finally, finally I broke down and raised a minor protest when the young lady and her six-inch-radius hair-helmet settled into a position that got in the way of my being able to keep close watch on seat 2B in the First Class cabin.

Of course, I didn't come right out and say, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm really impressed with celebrities, even F-list ones like that guy up there - the portly one with the mussed red ponytail and the orange Crocs - and I really need an unobstructed view of the back of his head for the duration of this flight, so could you do whatever it is you need to do to tuck your hair in a bit?"

No, instead I decided to simply push her head-to-toe bedenimed body aside with a few swift elbow juts, exaggerated neck stretches and finally, a signature move I hadn't unsheathed since the days when my big brother and I rode the backseat of the family Volvo for our annual 25 hour pilgrimage to the lakehouse -- that's right, the *super* wide-legged Indian-sit.

In the end, I got my celebristalker view back, but after having paid $180 to count my pup as a carry-on and after having endured a flight-delaying lecture from flight attendants Julio and Evelyn concerning my airline-approved Sherpa (see below) not sliding "all the way" under the seat in front of me, I couldn't help but be a wee bit peeved this woman was permitted to bring that hair of hers aboard without having to fork over some sort of equally exorbitant head-room extension fee.

"People with fat asses have to do it," I thought to myself as I peered across the aisle at a woman plowing through a family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos who'd comfortably poured herself (and the powdery dregs of her in-flight snack) into both the window and middle seats, "so why not people with fat-ass hair?"

Believe me, I'm squarely behind the notion of fashion over function, but in cases where a stylish choice, especially a permanent choice like hairstyle, consistently affects those around you in a negative way (thank GOD the two of us didn't meet one-in-front-of-the-other on opening night of the upcoming Clive Owen, Monica Bellucci firearm-filled release) you seriously need to rethink your game plan.

And you seriously need to buy two seats on an airplane.

White linen: good in theory, R-rated in practice

Note to all women with darker skin tones who brave the world of below-the-belt white linen -- buy a slip.

As the Sweetness and I came around the corner of ConnAve/K yesterday evening around 7:30, we noticed a pretty young thing in a pretty young Summer outfit. Petite, fit and tan, the sunglasses-bedecked Georgetown University student - believe me, once you've spent time on campus, you just know - complemented the humidity with a very weather appropriate ensemble of a coral-colored cap-sleeved boatneck tissue tee, metallic ballet flats, a worn caramel satchel over her left wrist, a crisp, well-fitted-at-the-ass, white linen skirt, and oh yeah, royal blue bikini briefs so visible even I, without glasses, could clearly identify where the cotton material met its silken piping.

You never know with a girl like this; this was, in my immediate opinion, an intentional act, an act of calculated entrapment meant to invite a confrontation in which she could justifiably accuse a man caught at the latter end of the implicit five-second am-I-really-seeing-what-I'm-seeing? stare-at-a-stranger window of being a pervert.

You know, like we all do with our university-emblazoned booty shorts?

Why am I so convinced this wasn't a typical DC fashion miscue?

If there's one thing I learned in my days up on College Hill and then again behind the gates of Georgetown, it's that girls with Tod's handbags and subtle diamond jewelery know every inch of their appearance before they leave their luxury apartments. Front, left-side, right-side, and most assuredly, back-side.

And to her credit, the plan worked. For the first time in recent memory, Monte's patrician good looks and self-important gait weren't the center of attention.

It's no wonder guys need nights off from us

I'm well aware of and by no means immune to that distinctly female instinct whereby witnessing another woman's failure brings with it a twisted, indulgent pleasure. And I don't just mean hush-hush failures divulged over cocktails in a "please-don't-tell-so-and-so" manner but failures that are brought to light in a very public way, during the lunch-rush, in front of your ex, his new girlfriend and that handsome older man who oh-so-subtly schedules his Cosi run every Wednesday to align with your own.

The degree to which female X wants a particular failure to hurt female Y depends somewhat on the nature of their relationship (e.g. acquaintances, friends, good friends, very good friends, etc.), but not as much as one - a man - might think. I've found, through both my own unconscious reactions and the voiced reactions of the few women in my "very good friends" circle, that even after years of holding back hair following rowdy nights at the Big Hunt and lying through our teeth and agreeing that yes, of course it was his fault, we still relish a wee bit of the as-long-as-it-didn't-happen-to-me female failure.

Because it is the portal to a female's inner-dialogue, let's discuss "the look." Ladies, you know what "the look" is. You get 'em and give 'em on a daily basis. On the subway, on the street, in a staff meeting, at a restaurant -- no venue is impervious to a situation in which the bitch-stare may be deployed. Each woman has her own signature variation of "the look." Most of the women with whom I associate have not just one but an entire arsenal of oh-no-she-dih'int looks, all of which have the same three-letter endgame that starts with "W" and ends with "F." Some are delivered with a lip-bite and an eyebrow-raise, some with a smirk and a just-barely audible hmpf, and some, like the ones I most often launch at women who teeter around ConnAve Spanx-free in their wrap-up-the-calves evening shoes and metallic halters at 12:30pm on a Monday, are all about the deadpan, "you're aware of what you're wearing, yes?" eyes.

So anyway, the point is, I'm so well-versed in recognizing these kinds of expressions that when an itty-bitty blond in a light brown pantsuit and black Reef flip-flops stood next to me on ConnAve/M and turned her face toward me as I returned to my office from lunch this afternoon, I knew exactly what was on her mind.

I didn't need outside confirmation or a second look to know what it was she was throwing my way. With my keen peripheral vision, I saw her glance down at my admittedly very tall 4.25-inch vintage croc-embossed peep-toes, then give me (or my shoes, rather) the exaggerated eye-roll where your entire face can't help but get involved, and followed that up with the slow-mo head-shake -- it was without a doubt an "I don't know who you think you are, but I hope you fall flat on your fantastic ass in front of the entire intersection" look she was burning white-hot into my right temple.

Okay, maybe I imagined the "fantastic ass" part, but you get the point.

This woman didn't know me, she didn't know whether I was good-natured or the kind of person who would give a homeless man pocket change, and yet there she was, secretly hoping I would fall and raspberry my knee or full-on break an ankle. Judging from the severity and persistence of her look, I'm guessing it was not just the latter but a full-on projected fantasy in which the broken ankle led to full-body atrophy, bed sores and the loss of my dog who, quite realistically, would soon run away in search of a more attractive owner.

Ironic thing is, given different circumstances, she and I probably would have gotten on quite well. We still might some day. In DC, you never know. We were both young professionals with Treos, both runners (Asics Kayanos tied and slung over her daybag), both readers (Auster hardcover tucked neatly between her laptop and a three-inch accordion folder) both in the black toe polish club -- heck, she and I had more in common at first blush than most of my friends and I do.

Yet there we were, I to her, the uppity bitch in sky-high heels, and she to me, the lazy bitch who needed flip-flops to walk three blocks for a burrito.

In an attempt to deescalate the situation for the remainder of the 14 seconds the gymnast and I were to share the curb, I turned off the side-vision and went to click from Gwen's punchy-poppy "Rich Girl" to the soothing calm of Phil Collins' "One more night." But just before my right index finger could counterclockwise its way from 'Playlists' to 'Sofitel Mix' to 'Track 1,' a woman in a two-sizes-waaay-too-small Granny-Smith-green terrycloth jumpsuit, filthy white wedged flip-flops, and a shock of platinum blond fuzz inserted her at least mid-50s, gum-snapping, cell-phone-on-speaker self between the two of us.

And that's all it took. Our pie-eyed stares locked and instantly all the vitriol and all the judgment we'd each built up for the other over the course of a two-block walk Care-Bear-Stared into a single stream aimed at the much larger problem.

There are offenders, after all, and then there are offenders.

The inevitable "didn't you wear that yesterday?" look

There's no doubt about it, I'm one of those women who notices right away when someone, be it a colleague, friend, family member, celebrity, or celebrity dog, wears the same ensemble twice.

And I'm not talking about recognizing the same patterned DvF wrap dress two days in a row - anyone can do that - I mean my capacity for fashion recall is so vast and so quick that as soon as I came across this photo of Ice-T's wife Coco at the Die Hard premiere yesterday, I immediately woke Monte out of his afternoon slumber with an outside-voiced, "Look, it's a knock-off of Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. dress from the 2005 MTV Music Awards!"

Point is, there are lots and lots of women just like I am, who, despite your carefully-planned wardrobe rotation, are gonna know you wore that blouse with that skirt and those shoes to work last month, to the bar a week before that and to a housewarming party the season before that. That's just life, and unless you're Sarah Jessica Parker playing Carrie Bradshaw and you have a well-connected stylist who manages to wrangle 365 hot outfits for you a year - every year - we're all bound to be caught by someone's watchful, observant eye.

So, what is a resasonble amount of time in between professional wears? A week? Two weeks?

This is a complicated question, because there are several variables to consider, including color, cut, season, complementary options, among others.

For most solid pieces, especially those in neutral colors, the minimum duration with which I'm comfortable is somewhere between two to five days. Honestly, two days. I own nine black at-the-knee-length skirts, all of which, when paired with different permutations of shoes, tops and accessories, lead to a seemingly infinite number of very different-looking, very cute work-appropriate outfits. As I do with workout songs ("Pour some sugar on me") and reality shows ("Bridezillas"), often I'll go through phases where I become so one-track-minded that I just have to wear a high-waisted, pencil or tulip-hemmed skirt and nothing but a high-waisted, pencil or tulip-hemmed skirt. Problem is, I only have four, three and one of each, respectively, and since I just spent last month's, this month's and next month's allotted mad money on two dinners in New York, I'm stuck with what I got for the forseeable future. But instead of sulking and wearing that which doesn't satiate my current style obsession for the sake of maintaining wardrobe rotation integrity, I say "f**k it" and wear that one tulip-hemmed skirt on Monday, re-wear it on Tuesday and re-wear it again Friday night. As long as you mix up the complements, a neutral solid is free and clear to see the light of day and candlelight of evening as frequently as you feel inspired to let it.

For extremely bright and patterned pieces, however, I advocate a much more disciplined approach. The rule of thumb I follow - because yes, I do own a few - is one wear per two full work weeks. This is a tough schedule to swallow when you're just starting out in the workforce and don't have a lot of options, but that reality is exactly why I believe in investing early on in blacks, browns, ivories and navies, and then once you've created a solid foundation on which to build a wider clothing rotation - and once you're in a position to increase your wardrobe budget - you can introduce the less stylishly malleable leaf-green graphic print sheath, red swing jacket with gold piping, pink boucle Jackie O. skirt-suit or the eyelet peasant blouse. A woman who only has the funds to purchase five work outfits is much better off, in my opinion, buying high quality mix-and-match neutrals than than five shocking, easily-burned-to-memory, one-trick-pony pieces.

I suppose that means I'm more a Miranda than a Carrie. But again, I should remind you we're talking professional, not weekend wardrobe here.

I realize this isn't going to be a popular prescription for those of you who build your identities around wearing rainbow polks dots and animal prints, but you have to understand, I'm writing from the perspective of and primarily for a professional woman with a conservative bent who believes in sacrificing quantity and trendiness for quality and versatility. I love bold bursts of color and pattern, and I think there is definitely a place in the professional world for that kind of creativity, but I'm so (yawn) over DC fashionistas who claim all-black or all-neutral to be tantamount to "lazy," "easy," or "typical." An all-black or all-neutral outfit certainly can be lazy, easy or typical (just as a loud outfit can cross the line from eccentric to haphazard), but the trick is to find the unique sleeve, hem or embellishment, not to mention the perfect fit, that sets this black blouse apart from that one and the one that not only complements this pair of grey wide-legged trousers but those nine black skirts and that pair tweed city shorts as well.

In the end, there is no set timetable one should follow for when to wear and re-wear an outfit other than the timetable with which you feel comfortable.

Because I can promise you, even if you change up the look of your jersey dress from chunky turquoise jewelery and patent leather pumps one day to simple pearls and tweed ballet flats on another with a two-month window in between, there's always going to be someone like myself who watches you walk in the door and thinks to herself, "Didn't she wear that on Tuesday...back in the first week of March?"

Sometimes you have to tap a bitchy-looking girl on the shoulder

Without glasses, I have 20/200 vision.

With glasses, my meticulously applied eye makeup is shielded from all those DC women for whom it was meant to serve as get-up-10-minutes-earlier-and-use-your-eyelash-curler inspiration.

As such, outside of work, the movie theater and the evenings sitting on my bah'um in my living room - my only room - typing up these pieces, you'll almost always find me frames-free and blind as Josh Duhamel. Having recognized for some time that I'm about two accidental eye-pencil pokes away from guide-dog eligibility, I've taught myself never to believe what I see unless it is within 10 feet of my hazel eyes.

When you take that tried-and-true rule of thumb, add three Heineken Lights and a lunch that consisted of a nectarine, two Hershey nuggets and half a 260-calorie tray of inedible Lean Cuisine...well, those 10 feet of good vision shrink to about 10 inches. If that. This is why, on my way home last night, I stared long and hard at the back-of-the-skintight-pants stain that seemed to be growing with each step the very unfriendly-looking young woman in the giant sunglasses in front of me at the corner of 17th and M was taking before I took the drastic action I eventually did.

An action, up until yesterday, I had never taken.

(tapping her on the shoulder) "Excuse me, Miss?"

(taking out her left iBud) "Yes?"

"Um, I just needed to tell you that you should wrap your jacket around your waist."

"Excuse me?" (the italics really don't do her attitude justice)

"I'm not trying to be weird, sorry, I'm...it's just that, well, you have a stain on the back of your pants, and I think it's..."

"What? Oh my...(turning around and looking down), oh my God! Oh my God! What do I do?"

"...getting bigger."

"No seriously, what do I do?? I'm on my way to dinner with people from work - my boss will be there! - and I'm supposed to meet them right now on 14th Street."

"You could walk back up to Connecticut and buy another..."

"(looking at her watch) Shit, it's past 8:30 Everything's closed!"

"What size are you?"

"What?"

"What size are you?"

"An eight - why?"

"Well, I don't have anything that'll fit you well, but you're welcome to walk back with me to my place and at least get something clean."

(her tone softening) "Are you serious?"

"You're about to have dinner with people from work. As someone who constantly complains about DC fashion, I can't in good conscience let you walk in and sit down on that (pointing to the now even larger oblong oval crawling down her right pant leg)."

And so she wrapped her black sweater around the seat of her pants, and we walked the few blocks back to my place discussing high heels ("what's the point of a one-inch heel, honestly?" she asked), her initial bad attitude ("I was a total bitch, wasn't I?"), the vague allusion to my love/hate relationship with random meetings on the corner of 17th/M ("there's just something about this intersection that invites drama...") and of course, our mutual affection for Neil Diamond ("Cracklin' Rose? Are you kidding me? Shilo is clearly his best work!").

Don't worry Mom and Dad, I didn't drunkenly invite a stranger into my apartment, but I did let her into my building, elevator her down four options (two skirts and two pairs of jersey trousers) to try on in the lobby restroom, and as a result earn a very sincere hug and promise to return the skirt, which, to both our surprises, fit her like a perfect pair of cashmere-lined leather gloves.

"You should just keep it."

"No, I couldn't..."

"I haven't worn it in two years. Seriously, keep it."

So she did - or will - and just like that, I took one DC woman from a pair of too-tight trousers and put her in a fitted, flattering chocolate brown pencil skirt.

Like my old header used to say, "I'm taking the DC style intervention one woman at a time..."

Toe talons make my eyes go "ouch"

I'm always happy to see a woman wearing skinny-heeled peep toes.

I'm always happy to see a woman who takes the time to remedy the unprofessional miscue that is chipped toe polish.

And though I will always be a black polish girl, I'm elated to see other women who brighten things up with ten small pedicured punches of pink, red and coral.

That being said, exposed and on-display toe talons - i.e. toenails that extend past the toe itself and begin to curl downward (see below, and if you're a masochist, here) - go well beyond the comparatively benign offenses of evening shoes during the work day, quilted Vera Bradley totes, even sleeveless with three-days worth of reaching-for-the-razor forgetfulness as perhaps the most stomach-turning move a professional woman could make.

Seriously, I can't even look at my favorite Cosi salad right now (I've hidden it behind my laptop screen for the time being), because all I can think about are the two iPod-sized big toenails an otherwise respectably dressed young woman who ordered a Signature Salad with extra pistachios and dressing on the side had sticking out of her textured Enzo Angiolini Maylie pumps.

What a waste of one of my two $2-off coupons.

The power forward in a poly-blend power suit

Everything about this one was bad.

Bad dark beige poly-blend skirt suit.

Bad light beige butterfly-collar button-up.

Bad shiny white hose.

Bad thick, short-heeled, square-toed beige Naturalizer pumps.

Bad posture. Bad upper-lip shag. Bad chipped French manicure.

But worst of all, worse than the nail-picking interspersed with nail-biting, worse than her volume-10 cell phone voice in the salad line at Cosi, and even worse than the fact that all this badness belonged to a woman with a really cute figure in her mid-to-late 20s, was the hair -- a virgin-tight, scrunchied-at-the-bottom, inside-out French braid.

Standing only inches from her bumper-crop of strawberry blonde flyaways, I stared and stared hard, racking the corners of my brain to try and remember the last time I had seen that hairstyle at eye-level.

Then, just as I was reciprocating the wry smile a more-salt-than-pepper gentleman in a bespoke-quality three-piece shot my way by the bowl of bread samples, Bell Biv Devoe's "Do Me" came through my SonyStyle wraparounds and a-ha, it hit me! I remembered!

It was Fall of 1993. Clyde Drexler's double-deuces on both sides of my maroon-and-powder-blue-piped white mesh tank. An away game against the Orioles under "the dome" in Charlotte, Michigan. I traded one of my signature back massages for one of my friend Kim's signature double inside-out French braids. We all did. We all had them.

And it was cool. Kinda like pigtails and plastic beach shoes were cool when we were in pre-school and varsity jackets were cool when, no wait, those were never cool.

As with the triple-threat position, there's an appropriate place, time and outfit for basketball hair; downtown DC in your late 20s in a skirt suit, however, does not qualify. So next time you have the urge to get your braid on during the work-week, do yourself a favor and just tie your tresses up-and-back with a slim black Goody.

And another tip, when you get a really promising smile from a guy who fits your type to a "T," stop thinking about how good a blog post the woman in front of you is going to make and introduce yourself.

As Will Ferrell said in Blades of Glory, "That is how babies are made."

Idea good. Dress bad. Backne worse

Yesterday, upon returning from Doggiestyle Bakery with a five-inch carob and peanut butter cake that read "Monte's Two!" in yogurt-piped icing in one hand and my Nano tuned to "Maneater" in the other, I snagged my favorite heels not once, not twice, but four times in the 18th St. cobblestones, because the woman in front of me - the woman to whom I was paying such rapt attention on my walk home I didn't even notice my skirt had done a 180-degree turn - was wearing the most distractingly cheap-looking, shiny satin, Pucci knock-off printed, ankle-length halter-style sun dress I'd ever seen.

It was so bad, I tell you, I barely even noticed her thick-strapped comfort sandals, chipped Grimace-purple toe polish and flagrant disregard for my shave-the-morning-of sleeveless-ness rule.

As nose-wrinkling and almost Hall-and-Oates-ruining as it was to walk two feet behind her accidentally-went-off-Yasmin-for-a-month induced back "rash," I had to acknowledge this woman's fabric fun-tent did remind me there was a very necessary Summer wardrobe staple still missing from my closet.

Perfect for sultry Summer nights monument-hopping with a lov-ah, lakeside picnics with the family in Michigan and girlfriends-only Champagne brunches at the Beacon, the long flowy sun dress, depending on the style you choose, is a nearly universally figure-flattering, not to mention minimal-effort-requiring, best-bet when it comes to warm weather outings.

Just please, go for cute flats like these instead of the Mephistos, commit to either on-or-off the polish, and for God's sake, if you can't remember to pick up your birth control, wear a cardigan.

Happy shopping!

Lilypad print long dress by Milly ($435 at saks.com)

Army topaz long dress by Sky ($138 at fashionchateau.com)*

Shiva dress by Free People ($148 at freepeople.com)
Long silk dress with gold belt by Rozae Nichols ($638 at ronherman.com)

Lucia maxi dress by ingwa;melero ($306 at shopbop.com)

Thick strap maxi dress by C&C California ($125 at revolveclothing.com)

Empire gown by Plenty by Tracy Reese ($150 at couturecandy.com)

Long chiffon dress by Tricia Fix ($275 at couturecandy.com) Long flutter-sleeve dress by T-Bags ($220 at pinkmascara.com)*

*your editrix's top picks

You're not poolside at the Delano...

I know the feeling. Believe me, I know.

I know what it's like, for the fifth straight morning, to look at your tidy little row of black pencil skirts, ivory pouf-sleeved silk button-ups and gray gabardine shifts with knee-length hems and come to a "Hmmm...not today" conclusion.

I also know that because it's a casual Friday, because it was already desert hot at 8am and because you've spent all Winter earning that bikini-ready body, you felt you had the right - hell, the obligation - to slip that strapless Susana Monaco plum-hued tube-dress onto your size-4, curves-in-all-the-right-places frame and head off to work.

The thing is, hon, you don't have that right. None of us do. And instead of looking cute and put-together as you clearly intended with your complementary, equally-beachy accessories of a raffia tote, coral drop-down earrings and (shudder) wedged, laced-up-the-calves espadrilles, you simply looked like the kind of girl who didn't know any better than to wear a poolside ensemble to an office building in the oh-so-not-poolside part of town that is 18th St. between L and M.

As I've stated previously on this issue of crossing the too-casual line during the work-week, take a moment, take two, and please reconsider your decision before you ruin it for the rest of us who, like you, would much prefer to face the Summer swelter of a Friday morning like Nicole Richie shopping on Robertson Blvd. but realize that doing so is flat-out wrong. If you think the rest of us don't want to show off the fruits of our calorie-counting and calorie-burning labor seven days a week in thigh-baring, backless, push-'em-up-and-out wardrobe components, you are sorely mistaken. We do.

Okay, I do.

But the point is, we don't because we're adults and we know better.

If you really felt you had no choice but to dress the way you did this morning, you should've taken a sick day, walked your little blonde ass up to the Georgetown University green and laid out with the rest of the tube-dress crowd.

Skirt good, fit good, VPL bad

Last night, as we always do at minute-70 on our post-work 90-minute jaunt, Monte and I exchanged daily pleasantries with the Mayflower attendants and made our familiar right turn down DeSales Street.

Before we even passed the last of Filene's three display windows - and the prince could make his three-drip mark on the adjacent shrub - I could already hear the high-pitched, five-cocktail chorus of sorority-sister babbling pouring out of Panache.

I knew from previous attempts that unless I picked Monte up kicking and squealing, retreating back to ConnAve wasn't an option, so I took a deep breath, stood as tall as my 5'7" frame would stand, shot the dollop an you're-the-only-one-I'd-do-this-for look and forged on into the single-sided skintern gauntlet.

Predictably, the mix of Corona Light, pre-Summer weather, hell's-yeah-it's-Friday! excitement and the cutest puppy that ever was meant the two of us couldn't slip by unnoticed.

"Oh my GOD, that is like, the most ADORABLE little...hey Jen, look at...JEN, this is the dog you need to get!"

Out of nowhere, a dark-rooted blonde stumbled over the velvet rope partition in a pair of 5-inch pointy-toed pumps and headed straight for us.

"Oh my god, hi, I'm Jen -- what is this little girl's name?" the clearly on-at-least-her-fourth woman asked Monte, not me.

"His name is Montesquieu."

"Montescrew? What an odd name for just the sweetest wittle guurlll...," Jen purred, simultaneously digging her French tips into his scruff and unsuccessfully trying to balance her Vodka tonic atop the metal sphere on the pole to which the velvet rope was attached.

I thought about correcting her, but that would only lead to glassy-eyed confusion and a feeling of pretentious shame for being the sober girl walking her dog past a bar on a Friday night trying to explain to a girl well on her way to drunkdom why I named my dog after a French political theorist.

Needless to say, I let it go.

After about three minutes of basic "yes, it's expensive to have a dog" and "no, I've never left him alone to spend the night at a guy's house" conversation, she stood up, smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt and picked her tumbler up off the edge of the (occupied) table on which she'd placed it.

It was only then that I realized Jen was wearing a pretty fantastic high-waisted black pencil skirt.

"That's a great skirt."

"Thanks, it's new - my boyfriend (using her head to "point" in the direction of a babyfaced boy boisterously filling the bar with talk of how A-Rod's recent marital problems better not affect his performance against the Red Sox this weekend) hates it. He thinks I look like a grandma."

"Well you don't, it's really quite stunning. Good fit, too."

"Thank you so much," Jen said with Vodka-enhanced sincerity, "that really made my day."

"You just spilled your drink."

"Oh fuck...well, I better get back," she said, more motivated by the need to get a replacement, than to tend to the enlarging wet spot on her white silk button-up.

"And we better get on our way. But seriously, the skirt -- keep wearing it."

"I will! And goodbye to you, teeny little...what was it again? Montescrew?"

"Yeah, Montescrew."

And as she turned away to reclaim her perch at the bar, the little bit of wind her Catherine Malandrino skirt (identified by its distinct cummerbund waistband) had blown into my sails vanished.

VPL, or "visible pantyline," is nothing new, especially not in a town where women seem to think thongs, g-strings and my fitted-skirt default - commando - are tantamount to a hooker's first layer of defense. But this woman, Jen, was in her mid-20s, seemingly very appearance-aware and was unafraid to casually drop the f-bomb in front of a stranger -- in short, not the kind of woman I'd expect to be sporting a very VPL. A full-coverage brief VPL, no less.

In the short five-second window I had to do so, I certainly bandied with the idea of bringing this very elementary fashion don't to her attention, but in the end, she wasn't my friend, she wasn't even an acquaintance -- it would've seemed petty.

So instead...

"Hey Jen!"

(swiveling around) "Yeah?"

"It's Monte-skew, not screw."