A quick post from your desperate Editrix in between lap dances

"I think it is stupid to wear stiletos to work, unless you are working as a *umm* professional dancer. For those in government, private industry, law, sales, and so on, I think it looks out of place and a little desperate. JMHO"

Normally, reader comments don't get to me.

Even the really spiteful, personal attacks that might've brought me to tears or anger months ago don't really pack a punch anymore.

But this one, excerpted above, in response to yesterday's very tongue in cheek analysis of the 'heels and sex' research has me about as riled up as I've been in months. So much so that I abandoned my half-written A-line skirt follow-up to address not so much the author -because frankly, I bet her beliefs have quite the following in DC- but more the meat of what she's actually asserting.

Now, it's unclear to me whether Ms. Anonymous used hyperbole in her comment for comedic effect or because she actually believes stilettos in "serious" offices smack of lap-dancing and desperation. Either way, what is clear is her gross generalization that all stilettos are five inches high and propped up by a translucent plastic platform and her assumption that all women who wear these shoes do so only for the effect they'll have on the men in the workplace -- at least that's how I interpreted the "desperate" bit.

I'll have Ms. Anonymous know that today, on this beautiful 70+ degree day, I'm rocking a stem-skinny four-inch grey suede stiletto peep-toe, and not once have I had the inclination to wrap myself around a chubby, depressed businessman nursing an overpriced gin and tonic or felt a desire to flaunt my lengthened legs in front of my male colleagues.

For most of us who step into stilettos day in and day out during the work week, not only do we have the common sense to select something elegant -not to mention temper our clothing, as appropriate- but the motivation behind our choice of footwear is a whole lot less complicated than you think: we just like looking thinner and feeling taller.

Unlike these women, who I think we can all agree stand before us as head-shakingly embarrassing examples of how not to dress if you want to be respected:

Sophia "Will Strip for Singles" Bush outside the Ports 1961 show

Ali "Built for the Pole" LarterAngie "Handjobs for Smack" Harmon at Carolina HerreraMandy "Whore" Moore outside the tents at Peter Som
Some skank model at the Vera Wang Lavender Label show

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?

Epiphany: 'dress-for-success' ain't just for the office

Let's face it, whether we're in the city, the country or the suburbs, in a pulsating nightclub, an ESPN Zone or a local dive bar, we as females -small and large, alike- know the easiest and most reliable way to avoid having to open up our pocketbooks and pay for a drink is to put forth a flagrant display of tits and/or ass.

Not saying it's right, not saying it's wrong, just saying from what I've heard and what I've witnessed, it's about 94% effective.

And if you're a blonde with streaky, chunky highlights and a set of acrylic French tips, tack on three more percentage points.

Because of that, because there is such a predictable male effect to the cause that is scant female dress, how can I fault all those plunging metallic halter tops and low-rise dance pants enrobed women to whom I shot "don't touch me, don't touch my shoes" looks last Saturday night at K St. Lounge? When I think about it, these women were there for a set of premeditated purposes, chief among them to meet men whose lady-frame pawing would make them feel desirable and whose open wallet policies would enable the lovely feeling of their last inhibition slip-slip-slippin' away.

Now, if I had seen a pair of fur-trimmed biker boots and a bejeweled romper with cutouts and built-in balconnet bra dancing tabletop where we started the evening, I'd have just cause for the "here's what you should've worn, instead" judgmentalies. Since that wasn't the case and since HRL and I were the ones who committed the venue-inappropriate offense by wearing into the sweaty sin-pit our delicate cocktail dresses and formal overcoats, I realize now, in this moment, even though it would be more satisfying to rip these girls apart, Bebe accessory by Bebe accessory, to do so would be incredibly hypocritical. Therefore, I'll just fold my hands, smile and nod deferentially and be darn sure to have on-hand a more appropriate little number for the next time my dear friend wants to explore K St. nightlife.

In a way, the aforementioned tabletop dancer and I are more alike than most of you might think. Sure, we both throw down the same quote-making gesture whilst performing the 'running man', we both think there's no point in buying fishnets that aren't full of rhinestony goodness, but there's something beyond the obvious -- a deeper, more substantive lifestyle parallel: just like I believe a polished office look can help give me an extra professional edge, she too runs a dress-for-success operation.

Same concept, slightly different definition of "success."

Don't let "the Lachey way" reign

In case you hadn't noticed, I almost never make mention of men's fashion here on ASJiNE.

There are several reasons for the omission, most notably that I have very little knowledge of and experience with menswear labels, cuts and accoutrement. Half-Windsor, single-vented, double-breasted, French-cuff, spread-collar -- sure, I could identify each of them in a line-up, and sure, I know that I personally prefer this to that, but to match body-type 'X' with silhouette 'Y' to create flattering look 'Z' is a task in which I'm neither particularly interested nor one for which I'm remotely prepared.

There is one exception to my no-boys-allowed rule, however, and it involves an all too commonplace practice I've dubbed "the Lachey way" in honor of its earliest and most frequent offender, Nick Lachey.

Now, before I point out what it is about this good ol' Ohio boy - and most men within ±10 years of his age (34) - that frustrates me to no end, let me first say that from what little I know of the former Mr. Jessica Simpson, I actually quite like the one time boyband-er. He seems awfully levelheaded, extremely well-adjusted, and blonde simpleton aside, he certainly has good taste in smokin' hot half-Asian women. Despite his tribal arm tatts and Staten Island gel-helmet, you can be sure I'd sooner accept a second date with Nick than most men who give me 'the eye' at a K St. happy hour.

That I have nothing against Mr. Lachey personally should lend some credence to my argument against his namesake offense, otherwise known as always dressing two to three times more casually than his lady escort.

Take the picture above, for example, one of many just like it I've come across in the decade or so Nick Lachey's coming and goings have been tracked in the tabloids. Big-time movie premiere, Friday night in Hollywood, red carpet, woman in a white cocktail mini and strappy metallic evening sandals. To complement her, you decide to throw on a pair of baggy stonewashed jeans, a white tee and a brown blazer-style leather jacket?

Really?

Given that I've always been in relationships with men who place as high or higher a premium on their appearance than I do, I don't know what it is that causes good men to go brain-dead when they slip on jeans/cords/khakis, opt not to iron and forego shaving in semi-formal and formal situations. Having witnessed the his-her outfit disparity enough times in enough cities in enough social circles, however, I have no choice but to accept that what started out as anomalous behavior of the boyus fraternus has somehow made its way into accepted, even standard male practice.

If Jessica, Vanessa and all the well-dressed women I see on city streets, college campuses and in the pages of my favorite magazines won't do anything to curb this epidemic, I feel I should do what little I can in my capacity as a fashion blogger and not only ask the Nick Lacheys of the world, "Why?" but also snap my finger in the Z-formation and say, "Nuh-uh, buddy, put on some flat-front dress trousers and your 'good' shoes."

Just as pink Reefs disrespect the aesthetic of a cowl-necked, cap-sleeved tweed sheath, so too does a man in cargo shorts cheapen the cocktail dress of the woman on his arm.

So guys, if you manage to land yourself a fabulous woman for whom looking put-together and polished is a top priority, why not demonstrate your appreciation by at least attempting to class it up?

Who knows, your efforts this New Year's Eve might even be rewarded with a midnight kiss more passionate than last year's...

More of Nick giving his ladies "the Lachey way" treatment:

How *I* would decode the dress-code

Using examples from the 2008 Fall/Winter RTW collections of Ralph Lauren, Naeem Khan, Oscar de la Renta, Malandrino, Doo.Ri, Brian Reyes and Bottega Veneta, here below are how I would crack the cryptic dress codes of white-tie, black-tie, semi-formal, cocktail, business casual and casual, respectively.

I don't claim to be an Emily Post, an Alan Flusser or any individual for whom dressing according to a set of prescribed rules is a matter of being 100% right or 100% wrong, but I do believe, having attended quite a few of each of these myself - except for (sad face) white-tie - I've developed a pretty good sense of how to show up to an event neither too formally nor too casually clothed.

Enjoy, and please, feel free to disagree with me this time. Really, it's okay, I won't mind. I'm actually getting a bit tired of how obsequious and agreeable you all are, day after day. I mean, criminy, one of you has to disagree with something I've written.

White-tie

(floor-length; luxurious fabric; dramatic neckline/back/sleeve; minimal cleavage)

Black-tie (long)

(same as above but more liberties allowed with color/print; no push-up cleavage but tasteful deep-V necks are acceptable)

Black-tie (knee-length)

(make sure to compensate with formal and conservative colors, cuts, embellishments and fabrics; NO cleavage)

Semi-formal

(longer hemline and lower neckline (optional) than cocktail) Cocktail

(at or above the knee; color, fabric, neckline and print as "loud" as you're comfortable with) Business-casual

(no suits; conservatively tailored pieces in formal but not too formal fabrics) Casual

(loose-fitting through the hips and legs; casual fabrics)

Helping you crack the cryptic dress-code

My girlfriend E recently received a wedding invitation that clearly stated where the ceremony would take place, clearly stated at what time the reception would begin and clearly stated to what address all in-lieu-of-one's-presence presents should be shipped.

But then, there at the very bottom were four of the most inane words ever put to raised script:

Attire: Black-tie optional

"Optional?" I asked, "What do they mean, optional?"

"I dunno, but that's what it says."

"What are your friends wearing?"

"I don't have any friends going to this wedding, it's a family thing."

"Optional, as in optional optional?"

"I don't kn..."

"Give the bride a call, ask her what the hell she meant."

"I can't, I don't know her that well -- do you think I have to wear a long dress? I don't really own any long..."

"It's ridiculous! If they want a black-tie wedding, why not just write 'black-tie' on the invitation? If they want a semi-formal wedding, write 'semi-formal.' If they want a free-for-all, don't even bring it up. But why, of all the confusing things they could do to their guests, throw 'optional' on at the end?"

"Yeah, like I said, I don't get it. That's why I'm asking you."

"Well, I think you have to go black-tie. Always better to err on the side of being too dressed up."

"Really? But I don't think I own anything black-tie-ish...actually, I don't even really know what 'black-tie' means, do you?"

The answer to that question coming later today (probably tonight), along with my interpretation of what is most appropriate for a young professional woman to wear in attendance at white-tie, formal, semi-formal, business-casual and informal events.

And for no other reason than to remind the public at large of just how important age-appropriate dress is (not to mention the idiocy of pairing a mini dress with thigh-high boots in mid-December), here's mini-Pringle-can Panettiere and her 47 year old Madame Mother shopping in New York City last weekend:

I heart DC Style, pt. VI

Need help cracking the code of what to wear to a weekday, just-after-work holiday party? If you do (or you just happen to miss me today), click on over to my post at DC Style for some helpful tips and a few recommendations.

thoroughly enjoying my day off,
J

Don't forget to write a 'thank you' note

With the holidays coming up... any thoughts on attire for Thanksgiving dinner/meeting the boyfriend's parents for the first time and/or a first trip to Christmas Mass with the aforementioned boyfriend's parents? My boyfriend claims he is likely to wear his admittedly boring uniform of khakis/button down shirt/sweater, possibly with a blazer, definitely without a tie. This is a no children zone, just his parents, his older sister and her husband and possibly some family friends. The setting is Weston, CT.

Weddings, funerals, interviews, functions where colleagues' wives will be in attendance, meeting the boyfriend's parents for the first time on a major holiday -- all of these special occasions require careful outfit premeditation.

And in some cases, for those whose wardrobes, regardless of venue, regularly veer toward the tarty, the sloppy, the inappropriate, the in-your-face political, or the just plain stupid, a healthy, take-one-for-the-team sense of compromise must also be closely considered.

Why?

It's simple. In these situations, the clothes you wear must not negatively distract from the good impression you're presumably hoping to make. No one's asking you to act like "the little woman," fake interest in 'Frontline' or laser-off your Dick Cheney neck tatt, but you have to understand, especially in the case of meeting your significant other's parents for the first time, how you carry yourself into and inside the family home is likely to remain in Mom and Dad's minds (especially Mom's) long after the initial introduction. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying your outfit will be the sole deciding factor in whether future conversations between parents and son conclude with a genuine "Please send _____ our love" or an obligatory, "Give _____ our best," but I am saying you don't want to jeopardize your chances of being in their good graces just so you could feel more "yourself" in your favorite slouchy low-rise jeans, UGG boots and Harajuku Lovers hoodie. If these are formal people who like to host a formal Thanksgiving dinner, dress accordingly (see below), drink accordingly (a glass of water in between every glass of wine/beer), act accordingly (no grabby grabbingtons under the table, to start) and please, please write a thank-you note as soon as you return home.

If you don't know what the implicit dress-code will be, ask. And then ask again when he's not playing 'Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.'

Dysfunction has a way of infiltrating every family dynamic around the holidays, so do everything in your power not to invite controversy with a potentially controversial look.

Outfit Guidelines:

(1) No casual cuts/fabrics -- even if they're your best $247 Sass & Bide trouser jeans or your most luxe $200 Juicy Couture velour track jacket, I can guarantee you a Mother who breaks out the good China for Thanksgiving dinner will only see jeans, sweatshirt and disrespect

(2) No cleavage -- not even a hint (no, no, no, no and no)

(3) No skirt/dress that hits higher than two inches above the knee -- remember, when you sit down for post-dinner Brandy on the heirloom divan, that hemline is gonna creep up an extra few inches and potentially give your in-laws-to-be a nice little "view" of the crotch of your control-top hose

(4) No sky-high stilettos -- believe me, if I'm saying put the vixen heels away, I really mean it. Statement heels have no place at a sit-down dinner among new family members in the suburbs.

Outfit Recommendations:
(1) Sweater dress, tights and flats
(2) High-necked blouse, trousers and Mary Janes
(3) Dressy sweater, wool skirt and low-heeled boots
(4) Basic shell, wool jacket, slim pants and flats
(5) Long-sleeved wrap dress in a muted color*, tights and round-toed pumps

*have your tailor sew up the bustline to just above where the "cleave" begins to form

There's no strapless in baseball, er, boardroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(all photos courtesy of the Vh1 blog)

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.

Dressphemy (pt. II)

As I told you many a month ago, I simply adore this glittery-gold, cap-sleeved, slim-cinched Monique Lhuillier mini with front keyhole and sweet, pleated neckline. It's prim, it's showstopping, it's unique in its cut, fabric and color -- for lack of a better term, it's one of those dresses I would describe as "to die for."

You can understand, then, why I had to delay the piece on Fall handbags I'd intended to post this afternoon to address this, only the second instance I've come across in seven plus months of blogging in which I feel wholly justified in using the term "dressphemy."


Before today, I didn't know much about Hayden Panettiere other than the fact she celebrated her coming-of-age with a "tasteful" FHM spread, that she has a Mom even more intent on out-hotting her daughter than LiLo and that she plays some cheerleader on some show everyone keeps telling me is worth skipping Friday night reruns of "To Catch a Predator" for, but after a scant bit of Internet research, I've come to learn that what I suspected was in fact the truth -- Hayden, listed on IMDB.com as 5'1" (which in real life translates to 4'10") has a figure that both in height and width is akin to that of an Olympic gymnast's.

Oh, and that she has a thing for tight, unflattering gold dresses.

Now I know, I know, she's cute as a button, isn't too thin, isn't too fat, consistently wears underpinnings, probably still writes 'thank you' notes after sleepovers and is, in my opinion, much healthier and much more attractive than the model in the first picture, but even so, there is no denying the fact that sister has some disproportionately muscular thighs for her slim frame. And judging by how flat a tummy she has, my guess is them trunks are here to stay. My friend L has disproportionately tiny shoulders, my other friend G shares Eva Mendes' condition of disproportionately large hands and I, mostly by my own doing but in part due to genetics, have disproportionately large calves. It happens. It's frustrating, for sure, but somehow both life and style go on. The trick is, of course, learning how, with the use of certain cuts, colors and fabrics, to effectively draw attention to and away from certain parts of your body.

Specifically, my issues with Hayden in this dress are threefold:

(1) She is too diminutive and too disproportionately thick in the hip-thigh region to pull off a fitted mini successfully; I'd wager, based on the number of unintended folds in the material of the skirt and the placement of her left hand, pretty Miss Panettiere would agree with me that in theory, in the lookbook, this dress was a good idea, but in practice...not so much. And from my vantage point, not so comfortable or confidence-enhancing, either.

(2) She should have had Monique "let out" the bustline a half-inch so the keyhole could lie flat and narrow as it was originally intended. The way it looks here (and even in pictures when she wasn't raising her arm), the slight "peek" of skin we're meant to see instead resembles a puckered, pulling cleavage porthole more befitting the likes of designers Cavalli or Versace whose dresses, while still sexy, aspire to a much less traditionally ladylike aesthetic than Ms. Lhuillier's.

(3) She should have chosen an ensemble that smacked less of night-on-the-town and more of morning-meet-and-greet for her, um, morning meet-and-greet. Yes, you're in Paris, and yes you're a young celebrity in the epicenter of all that is fashionable and c'est la vie, but gold lamé - tight gold lamé - in the AM? Tsk, tsk.

For a seemingly sweet little thing who's forged a path thus far of consistently promising style choices, I have to admit, today, I'm more than a bit disappointed in the indestructible cheerleader.

Either that or I'm just really, really jealous.

My ultimate fantasy...

No, no, my ultimate fantasy after him.

And her.

And the two of them together in a new film coming out September 7th.

That's right, here below in no particular order are the 10 shoes - or types of shoes, to be more specific - that make up what I believe to be the professional DC woman's ideal footwear collection.

The weekends, remember, are left to your discretion. If you want to rock out in a pair of raffia wedges or pink Reef flip-flops, that's your cross to bear -- I'll just be Connie the judgemental cow and rip you apart silently in my head.

Without further ado...

The low-slung-strapped Mary Jane

The perfect patent peep toe

The closed-toe red pump
The closed-toe black pump

The animal-skin embossed flat

The bright, fun flat

The muted, dressy flat

The tall dressy boot

The flat dressy boot

The whimsical rain boot

(don't ruin your nice shoes, please)

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: