The other side of Volvo-style

For parents who always expounded the virtues of not just proper grammar but beautifully constructed proper grammar, my Mother and Father sure did stick me with one hell of pronunciation pickle when it comes to my given name and the nickname by which I was exclusively known until the age of 24 when my graduate school adviser advised me to "select" something else.

"Anything else," I believe he put it.

But well before I arrived at that rather humbling moment, it was at the tender age of eight when I confronted the more tell it like it is half of my parental unit using my already seasoned brand of passive-aggressiveness for advice on how to remedy the frustration that was my constantly mispronounced names:

"Dad..."

"Mmmhmm?"

"Can I ask you something? It's important."

"Of course, what is it?"

"How would you say the word, 't-a-n-n-i-n-g'?"

"The word, what? Uh...tanning. Why?"

"How would you say, 'p-i-n-n-e-d'?"

"Pinned."

"What about, 'r-u-n-n...'"

"Is there a point to this exercise, Johanna, and if so, are we nearing it? I have exams to grade and..."

"The point, Dad, is that I don't understand why the second syllable of my given name and the first syllable of my nickname are pronounced with a short 'o' when every other word with that vowel/consonant arrangement has taught me to use a short 'a'."

(turning away from his desk and toward me, lowering his bifocals, smiling)

"Good grief, you. I've created a monster."

What does this dilemma -one for which a satisfying resolution wasn't reached until my teenage years when I finally discovered "Johanna" and "Hannie" were originally assigned to me with traditional German pronunciations and thus not meant to be held to the same phonetic rules as their American counterparts- have to do with what happened to me at the airport on Monday or the Volvo-style epiphany to which I alluded in yesterday's post?

Plenty, actually.

Due to my parents' insistence I assume a name with an affectation unnatural to those in this country, people will more likely get my name wrong than right. Over time, I've trained myself to let the "Joannas," the "Johannahs" and the "Hannees" slide right by, correcting only those with whom I knew I would have a close and continuing relationship and being sure to do so in an almost self-deprecating manner so as to preempt any unnecessary apologies that might follow.

Likewise, now that my hair is at a length more commonly associated with the opposite sex, people are much more likely to misidentify my gender. Big deal. Sunday was not the first time, and I don't expect it will be the last. As with the name situation, I don't see any real benefit to my raising the issue with the Dereks of the world other than to boost my own sense of "I'm right/you're wrong"-edness, which frankly, by the end of the day, smacks more of pathetic than victorious.

And now, finally, the epiphany.

In the past two months, I've had encounters with three women, all of these women extremely well-intentioned and all of them brazen enough to approach me, a complete stranger, at a party, on the street and in a department store for no other reason than to pay me an "I love your _____" compliment.

But the thing was, unlike the majority of admirers who offer their "I love your _____" praise and move on, this trio of women took their liking of my shoes, bracelet and coat a step further by unknowingly misidentifying them as items they just plain weren't.

And let me be clear, when I say misidentify, I mean really, really misidentify.

If you'll recall, a woman with something I like to call "Volvo-style" is a woman who dresses no less luxe than her Lamborghini lot-mate but does so in a much less overt, much less attention-whoring manner; she's the one in Jil Sander and Calvin Klein, not Cavalli and Fendi. Not surprisingly, I aspire to the idea of the former, and up until a couple of months ago when I had my first of the three aforementioned interactions, I thought I had been well on my way.

Thought would be the operative word.

I was wrong, for a Volvo woman, I have come to realize, is much more than just her sleek paint job and minimalist high-end stereo system, she is also the embodiment of fashion humility, someone who, even when given a gift-wrapped opportunity to sit alone atop braggart butte prefers the view down below where she can comfortably mingle with all models and makes. She owns a room gradually, quietly, more effectively.

A Volvo woman is the type who, when asked by an unobservant but awfully sweet woman at a formal event if she, too, purchased her "awesome" patent leather pumps at Ross for $29.99 would smile and either falsely acknowledge she had, or if white lies aren't her thing, avoid the question altogether by offering up a compliment on what a fantastic bargain her new acquaintance had found in her admittedly "very similar" shoes.

She would not, however, scrunch her face into a mess of hurt, insult and fury, and without thinking, launch into a story of how she'd bought her MARNI pumps at SAKS and how they'd been her SPLURGE of the Christmas season and how even though they were EXPENSIVE what was the point of owning well-made DESIGNER SHOES if one didn't wear them out every chance one got?

Believe me, no sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth than I was looking for a hiding spot and an Opus Dei cilice. I might've been wearing a simple black dress with small onyx studs but my outburst made me feel as tacky, overaccessorized and logo-emblazoned as Eve circa 2002.

The subsequent interactions concerning my bracelet and Winter coat were not nearly as regretful as the one with my shoes, but all three incidents forced me to recognize I'm very much a Volvo in training at this point, because even though it may not be overt, it may not be exclusive and it may not be frequent, there is no denying I still flush with misguided pride over the enhanced status wearing a higher quality bit or bauble affords me.

In sum, I've let my dentist call me "Joanna" for years, and I laugh it off when airport security mistakes me for a man; it's only fitting the next time a nice stranger calls my ____ "awesome" and compares their ____ to mine -whether there is or isn't a several hundred dollar difference between the two- I will be much more careful not to let the little bit of Lamborghini I have inside of me creep its way down the driveway again.

My favorite six words...

Even though I knew it was coming in the next five to seven days, it was still a pleasant, pleasant surprise to see an e-mail from Mum and Dad with those six magical words in the subject heading:

"Please send us your Christmas wishlist!"

Serious job or not, fully-grown adult living in the city or not, in-the-past-year transition from a wishlist that included a reasonably-priced Coach bucket bag as its top item to an it'll-never-happen McQueen mini or not, there's nothing like those rare moments when you're made to feel as young as a kid who still believes in the story of Santa Claus.

I apologize for the gratuitous when-I-was-wee photograph, but I thought this one better represented how similar my childhood cut was to Miss Katie's. Twinsies, right?

Plus, I also wanted y'all to see that Oklahomans aren't all tree-dwelling Jim Bobs with wheat-stems hanging from their mouths.

See, at the age of four we already know to keep our legs crossed ladylike during high-tea.

Even when it's held in the backyard sandbox.

Passing the torch

Having rocked the Asian-style bob from birth until I was old enough to say, "Yeeeah, I think I'm gonna try something different this time" to my stylist, I'm more than happy to pass the torch onto...


...the lovely Katie so she can now enjoy the more grown-up version thereof.

Go ahead, people, say she looks 45, say she looks suburban, silly or severe -- none of your barbs will change the fact that I think she looks absolutely divine. Deliciously so.

Not that I'm biased or anything.

To see more pics of Katie and the debut of her new like-Mommy-like-daughter 'do last night at the Bambi Awards in Düsseldorf, click here

p.s. bring on the "heavy leg" jokes -- I'm armed and ready with two pockets full of retorts!

Miley on my mind

I'm not gonna lie, when I was 14 years old - the age 'tween sweetheart Miley Cyrus was in the picture above - I threw this same coy expression at older men in grocery stores, sneaked second-glances at my Father's tweed-'n'-leather-elbow-patched colleagues as I took their coats at our annual holiday party, and of course, then there was the meticulously built Gene Hackman shrine before which I knelt each night to pray to whomever was listening that I might one day have the opportunity to take him in all his Avery-in-"The Firm" glory and...well, yeah.

And as my parents like to remind me on occasion with hung heads and incredulous "how did she come from us?" expressions, there was the incident with my 8th grade volleyball coach, Mr. F., to whom I once responded, "But we just met, didn't we?" when he quite forcefully asked me to remove my shoe after I'd just fractured my left ankle in my first girl-on-girl collision.

Point is, I'm not here to criticize little Miss Hannah Montana for her precociousness. I grew up with ultra-normal parents and an ultra-normal brother in ultra-normal Norman, OK and Okemos, MI, not among the ranks of Nashville and Hollywood celebrities with my own hit TV show and platinum record, and still, my hormones raged hard, fast, early and insatiably. Environmental factors may have something to do with the acceleration of a child's proclivity for (ahem) hormonal exploration, but they certainly aren't the only determinant. That being said, when it comes to the very newly-minted 15 year old MiCy, there's no achy-breaky argument about it, she's firmly in the fast lane to big-girl-dom in her fabulously tacky $690 Louboutins (shoes that ironically smack of a 4th grade art project) whether she likes it, wants it or not.

Where I have an issue - a major one - is when this so-called "sweet," "innocent," "wholesome," celebriteen steps out wearing this:


From a figure-flattering standpoint, she looks great. Absolutely great. The dress flatters her toned legs, highlights her defined shoulders, hugs her just-the-right-size-for-strapless cup-size perfectly -- I could go on and on about how women like Paula Abdul, Tara Reid and Beyoncé could all afford to take a page or two from this one's book. Her Nuj Novakhett mini isn't my favorite dress by any means, and I shake my head in distress at the shoes, but overall, I offer this look some of my highest praise for a young star still nascent in the process of defining her personal style.

And for a pre-show appearance at the American Music Awards, I can't think of a more venue-appropriate color and cut. Definitely an 'A' grade in that category as well.

My disappointment doesn't lie with Miley for wanting to don a dress with such a grown-up neck and hemline - after all, I know with right certainty I would've greeted Jeff S. at my front door in that same get-up for freshman Homecoming if I had the chance - rather it's geared toward the parents who allowed her to make that decision.

I've said this before and I'll say it again, one of the most meaningful lessons my Mother imparted to me, especially during my style-formative teenage years, is one I still carry with me every day as a 27 year old, and that is to dress thoughtfully and with consideration to how those around me will perceive my selection.

If you want to fill the girl-next-door void convincingly, Ms. Cyrus, let's try a little more Mandy and a little less cleavage next time.

And the time after that, too.

My new Toys "R" Us catalogue

Remember when we were kids and the phonebook sized Toys "R" Us catalogue arrived a good two months before our parents even broached the subject of a Christmas wishlist? Remember how seemingly endless the options were, with pages and pages and sections and sections of Barbies, Milton Bradley board games, Nerf guns, Fisher Price castles and My Little Pony grooming stations?

You knew early on you wouldn't unwrap every item whose page you dog-eared or even every item that made it onto your Christmas Wishlist through the careful vetting process that was the do-I-want-it-or-do-I-really-really-want-it? test, but even that - the power of the unknown - added an angle of mystery to the anticipation and fantasy of it all.

That time of year was, quite simply, one of the most enjoyable parts of being one of those little people who don't yet drink or have sex.

Well, now, 20 years later, I still experience that same brand of unadulterated joy when I electronically flip through the pages of my grown-up version of the toy catalogue better known as Style.com's comprehensive Fashion Week(s) coverage.

I know, I know, none of us necessarily need '50s-inspired cocktail dresses, plunge-neck evening gowns, high-waisted skirts or ruffle-front blouses to enjoy fulfilled lives, but just like the nine year old who comes across the new-in-'89 talking, walking, eating, drinking, pissing, bath-loving Cabbage Patch doll that causes in her belly such a powerful and involuntary "must have that" desire she completely forgets she already has in her possession 12 Babyland General Hospital birth certificates, quite similar is my predicament when I click on "Oscar de la Renta," "Marchesa," or "Jason Wu."

Me have, me know, but me want, too. Me so very much want.

Santa, for you:

Temperley

Ralph Lauren

Proenza Schouler

Oscar de la Renta

Marchesa

Malandrino Couture

Lela Rose

Jill Stuart

Jason Wu

Doo.Ri

Cynthia Rowley

Bill Blass

When half-off is *still* an impossibility, let the dream go

One day on my way to swim practice when I was seven years old, sitting in the passenger seat of the family Volvo mouthing the lyrics to Dion's "Runaround Sue" and looking but not really looking for the faded turquoise water tower that indicated we'd almost reached our destination, for whatever reason I decided to pose to my father what to most people would be a typical child-to-parent question: "If you could have any car in the world, which would you choose?"

Instead of indulging my still nascent imagination, my very practical, very I'm-going-to-treat-you-as-if-you-were-just-a-tiny-colleague paternal unit turned to me and said, "Johanna, that kind of question, not to mention the answer thereto, are immaterial to the financial world in which I currently live."

"So...you don't like cars?" I asked, head tilted, confused.

"No, I do, and there is a car that if I had all the money in the world I would surely buy, but what you need to understand is that dwelling on these kinds of unrealistic 'if I had all the money in the world' or 'if I could meet anyone' kind of hypothetical situations are simply unhelpful. Unhelpful and unhealthy."

(pause)

"You see what I mean?"

"Okay...I guess I'll see you after practice."

Up until today, that conversation remained one of a scant few between my father and me to which I could point and with confidence say he, the pragmatist, and I, the romantic, would always have divergent approaches to life. When I saw this afternoon that my precious Sergio Rossi Misha open-toe t-straps had been marked down from $743.95 to $394, however, and realized even with that steep, this-never-happens discount, that they were not only still too expensive but also still at a beyond-my-wildest-wishlist-level price point, I began to wonder if the divergence I'd always attributed to personality might actually be an issue of maturity.

Just like my father felt it easier to live life without actually saying aloud "1964 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud drophead coupe" (a fact I finally got out of him in a moment of too-much-Pinot weakness last year) perhaps I too would find life a bit less depressing if I abstained from emotionally investing - likely the only kind of investing of which I'll ever be capable - in the kinds of "If I had a Sugar Daddy..." fare I often do.

A girl can dream, yes, but a girl who wants to write for a living also has a duty to face the freelance-fee facts.

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:

Reason No. 1,209 why I'm not ready to have children

Unlike most women my age, I never had the pleasure of babysitting neighborhood kids to earn extra money. It's not that I declined offers (or an offer) but rather that young mothers looked at me and my neatly aligned Gene Hackman/Mandy Patinkin/Ralph Fiennes Trapper Keeper mosaic, heard the expletive-filled Above the Rim soundtrack blasting out of my chunky foam earphones and took note of the CD-sized "I'm a citizen for Court TV!" button pricked through the front pocket of my Mets-blue Jansport and just knew I wasn't someone to whom they felt immediately comfortable entrusting their children.

Compounding their reluctance was the fact that I didn't have any younger siblings or nearby younger cousins and thus had no firsthand experience wiping, changing, fixing, hushing, and all those other seemingly natural maternal reactions with which a proper babysitter should be equipped.

To my peers, those who spent their Saturday evenings clocking in at this house or that house for a night of child-friendly television and mac-n-cheese-n-Vienna-Sausages, I was the unlucky one, the one who didn't get to coo and frolic on all-fours until Mom and Dad returned from their neatly scheduled once-a-month trip to an upscale chain restaurant.

To me, I was spared.

Besides, Saturday night was for doing extra credit, watching NBC's 'Thrillogy' and scouring magazines for more brooding pictures of Gene Hackman, Mandy Patinkin and Ralph Fiennes to occupy the few bits of available real estate still left in my take-to-school masterpiece.

Now, at the tender age of 27, in large part because I've spent little if any time around those whose years number below my own, I find I'm just not the "Awwww, look at her/him" type when I see a Bugaboo pram coming at me with a nestled-in Juicy-Couture-clad toddler nursing a happy-colored sippy-cup. I certainly don't wince or cross the street when faced with these situations, but I do go out of my way to avoid receiving the mother-to-single-woman "you'll-be-here-one-day" half-smile, because I know how unnatural my "I-sure-will-be-and-I-can't-wait!" expression will look and how prematurely it'll tumble into ambivalence or in cases where EHF-level shrieking is involved, a physically-pained, wide-eyed grimace.

And now, with the back story firmly in place, enjoy reason no. 1,209 why I'm not ready to have children:

Time - 1:35pm

Location - the ladies room at Olive's (16th/K St.)

Characters - unsuspecting 9 year old, unsuspecting 9 year old's mother and myself

The Encounter:

(exiting the right hand stall, moving my way toward the left hand sink)

"Hello," a neither friendly nor unfriendly voice called out.

(looking around and finally seeing the outline of a smallish female frame standing between the left stall and the exit) "Oh, hello," I said, surprised to be addressed by one so young in such a power-lunch destination, "how are you?"

"I'm fine, how are you?" the young girl clad in light-wash denim shorts and a floral-trimmed 3/4-length sleeved t-shirt answered and asked in an up-and-down-up-and-down mechanical pitch similar to the way a language lab tape for newly-arrived immigrants might sound.

(wicking away the moisture from my handwashing) "I'm really good, actually -- the vegetarian panini was delicious."

"I got a hamburger."

(patting my hands dry) "Hmmm, next time, try the panini, you won't even notice you're eating vegetables. It's that good."

(silence)

"Lotion?" I asked, presenting her with my outstretched hand and in it my next-to-last bottle (probably ever) of Ho wood, lavender and Ylang Ylang infused Aromatherapy Associates moisturizer courtesy of the Mandarin Oriental Central Park South.

"Um, no. No, thank you."

"You really should."

"I...I don't know what..."

"It's best to start young with a lotion routine. Here's a simple rule my Mom taught me when I was even younger than you are now -- if you get your skin wet, pat it dry like this (patting my forearm with a paper towel) and then moisturize. Always. Whether you've just showered, gone swimming or..."

(the left hand stall's lock clinked open and a woman resembling my young conversant exited)

"What are you telling my daughter? To moisturize?" the woman asked in an unexpectedly bemused tone, her noticeably ruddy, hardworking hands finding their way to each respective hip.

"Uhhh...yeah, something like that. Sorry, I gotta go...my friend's waiting for me upstairs"

Note to self: preach the lotion gospel only to those without scaly-skinned chaperones.

The new beauty trend: post-clink glow

Paris Hilton bores me, and this whole prison saga bores me even more than her usual comings and goings (except for when Nancy Grace and her crazy-ass cast of characters do a segment on it - then I am gleefully entertained), but can we all agree that three weeks in the clink certainly did her face some good? I mean, I'm half convinced I should set aside this and this and all those other trannied-up pics of her and admit she is indeed a natural beauty.

It almost makes me want to indulge in a product-free lifestyle for the better part of a month and revert back to a time when it was just my bare-freckled face, a bar of Dove and a pump or two of hand lotion rubbed over the apples of my cheeks for good measure.

But then again, given that I almost cried when I thought I'd left my makeup bag at the office this morning (I didn't - Monte had strategically hidden it in one of his four beds to delay my departure), I think I'd better just let this nostalgia pass, not follow through with my get-in-jail plan to "do whatever it takes" to show Dick how good my rack looks in my XS "Cheney in '08" babydoll tee, and instead, for the now sixth time today, strut my butt to the little cowgirl's room to touch up my eyeliner.

The little-bit-of-sunshine blouse (pt.II)

For the blouse that won't make you look a decade younger but might help you recall a time when TGIF stood for boy-crazy sleepovers and a solid two-hour punch of "Perfect Strangers" "Full House," "Mr. Belvedere," and "Just the Ten of Us".

Ladies, your little-bit-of-sunshine blouses, almost none of which, unfortunately, would be considered work-appropriate in these parts:

Gouache top by Idra ($58 at anthropologie.com)

Teleflora tee by Porridge ($78 at anthropologie.com)
Electric cherry blouse by Sonia ($225 azaleaonline.com)

Elastic tee by Geren Ford ($228 at shopbop.com)*

Scarab flutter top by Tibi ($210 at activeendeavors.com)

Silk market top by Talla ($80 at activeendeavors.com)

Heart keyhole-sleeve top by Rebel Yell ($120 at irissinger.com) Heart print roxy top by Deborah Sweeney ($110 at ronherman.com)

Ava babydoll blouse by Jovavich-Hawk ($350 at ronherman.com)

Bunny print bubble-sleeve top by Lux ($24.99 at urbanoutfitters.com)*

*your editrix's top picks

40 guys and a pretty red sundress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grape slushees and tornadoes, here I come!

Though I always knew I loved this blog and loved you, my loyal readership, it took facing a no-way-around-it three day departure for me to really realize just how attached I'd grown over the past four months to sharing with you my sometimes educational, often repugnant but always spot-on views regarding DC fashion and celebrity weight-gain.

But like I said, there's just no way for me to fit in time to blog when I will be jet-setting this glorious ass of mine Grapes of Wrath style in a pair of Asics Gel Kayanos to the capital city of the state that boasts the nation's highest civilian-to-correctional-facility ratio (approximately 70,000:1), is home to Shawnee, the city in which the very first Sonic Drive-In turned on its speakers, and most notable, the state that serves as the unofficial birthplace of the rat-tail, the femmullet, and even though I'm pretty sure it hasn't been identified yet, whatever this is.

And to those of you who've asked me the same two questions over and over again, the answer to the first is I will prepare mentally with the films Time Cop, Rocky IV and Serendipity; the answer to the second is a resounding "yes." Yes, I will be going through the full makeup routine beforehand. Even bronzer. Even eyeliner. Even Dior Addict lip gloss in shade #313.

See you on Monday!

Angelina started young

"I was very sexual in kindergarten. I was a member of a group called the Kissy Girls. I created a game where I'd kiss the boys and give them all cooties. Then we'd make out and we'd take our clothes off. I got in trouble a lot."

(Angelina Jolie in the latest issue of Britain's OK! Magazine)

It makes sense if you think about it.

An effortless, obvious-to-everyone-who-even-looks-at-her primal sexuality like Angie's isn't something that develops over time but rather is so organically a part of her personality she probably just discovered it one day when she crossed her legs a little too tightly in the middle of her teacher's reading of Hatchet.

And then again during spelling class. And the next day during her fractions test.

What's that, kindergarten doesn't have spelling and fractions?

My bad, I must be thinking of some other precocious little thing...

Going to camp!

Even when I was a wee thing walkin' barefoot as a prairie dog with a grape Sonic slush sticky-gripped in one pudgy hand and a blue leather Darryl Strawberry outfielder's glove in the other, there was no above-the-waist wardrobe component you would more likely find me sporting than the fitted camp shirt.

These days, aside from living against a backdrop with less honeysuckle and fewer homes on stilts, not to mention having sports heroes who aren't in-and-out of the clink and a BMI that doesn't hover in between "obese" and "super obese," my life - my style - is pretty much the same.

After a thorough closet assessment, I can claim official ownership over 11 camp shirts, all of which are fitted, all of which pass the "keyhole effect" test and all but two of which - the linen ones - I wear on a year-round basis.

What is a camp shirt, exactly?

A camp shirt is a hits-right-at-the-waist, short-sleeved button-up, sometimes with a rounded-collar, sometimes with breast-pockets, and is reminiscent, as you'd expect, of the kind of shirts our parents or grandparents might have been issued back when those Parent Trap-type summer camps still existed. The camp shirt is in no way a sexy top, it's a cute top.

What color should I look for?

The sky's the limit. I myself have five solids, two plaids, two with geometric patterns, one with terriers (shut up) and one with cherry bunches.

What pairs well with a camp shirt?

It really depends. About half of my cache, due to their prints, are strictly post-work appropriate and are pretty much limited to dressy shorts and jeans. The other half can go the casual-to-professional distance, complementing both the shorts and jeans and nearly all my below-the-waist work bottoms.

What's the best fit for a camp shirt?

Fitted, fitted fitted. While I believe in a more generous cut when it comes to a traditional oxford, I like my camp shirts to hug my curves just short of tight, which is difficult to achieve in conjunction with a keyhole-free front when your rack is disproportionately more heaving than your waist is wide.

Whether you're headed to the dog park, brunch just off the cobblestones of M Street in Georgetown or to the Manhattan Vintage show, a camp shirt is a sure-fire way to achieve that sweet, low maintenance, I'm-a-guy's-girl façade we all work tirelessly to maintain until they move in and we can finally admit the under-15-minute shower doesn't exist, we will be watching Pretty Woman every time it airs on TBS and that au naturel really means "everything but eyeliner."

Ladies, your man-trappers:

Top to bottom:
1. Cherry blossom shirt by JW Los Angeles ($152 at couturecandy.com)

2. Plaid Jen shirt by Ben Sherman ($69 at urbanoutfitters.com)

3. Pinstripe shirt by Classiques Entier ($118 at nordstrom.com)

4. Puff-sleeve button-up ($39.50 at gap.com)

5. French schoolgirl shirt ($78 at jcrew.com)

6. Welt-pocket button-down ($220 at activeendeavors.com)

7. Farm shirt by Rag & Bone ($170 at activeendeavors.com)*

8. Passiflora blouse by Fei ($49.95 at anthropologie.com)

9. Pop shop blouse by Odille ($49.95 at anthropologie.com)

10. Puff sleeve shirt by Nili Lotan ($203 at shopbop.com)*

11. Ruffled silk blouse by D&G ($295 at saks.com)

12. Dulcie blouse by Theory ($180 at saks.com)

*your editrix's favorites