Gone tannin' (pt. II)

After the wicked migraine brought on by drinking a half-bottle of Moët & Chandon with a jigger of Palma pomegranate liqueur in yesterday's 92 degree heat, I've decided to make today's field trip to the only pool in SW a little less Delta Delta Delta Vandy-chapter inspired.

So, instead of drinking $25 worth of Champagne from my out-of-town friend's fridge (kudos to R for his generosity), today I'm gonna just stick to Volvic and fruit punch Gatorade.

Instead of InStyle, I'll listen to last week's "Nightline" podcasts and read those three Dorothy Parker short stories I've been saving for a rainy day.

Instead of Akon and Britney, I think I'll revisit the soundtrack of my early childhood with some Everly Brothers, Dion, Fats Domino, Buddy Holly, The Archies and Johnny Rivers.

Instead of channeling Eva Mendes' hotness (I won't lie, that love-scenes-make-me-nervous bullshit she pulled in Cannes took her down a notch for me), I think I'll make a rare turn for a blonde with the recently-crowned "hottest damn woman period" by the sports show of similar name, six-year SI swimsuit issue veteran, Ms. Marisa Miller.

And just because I'm the kind of woman who likes to share the spoils of her Internet searches with her friends, here below are a few snaps from Marisa's most recent photoshoot.

I do warn you, though, check body-confidence at the door before you take a peek. I forgot to do so and am now bandying between a full-coverage one-piece and a makeshift burkha.

And because my Mom thinks I should talk about boys more...

If I had a sugar daddy...

Mary Jane 'Tribute' pump by Yves Saint Laurent

$660 at saks.com

Since I don't (yet)

Miami Mary Jane by Jessica Simpson
$92.95 at zappos.com

Quote of the day: Eva Mendes

"I wasn't comfortable at all. They were very sweet and they poured me a vodka and orange juice and then I was fine. I'm very professional and I don't usually drink on the job but that morning I had a little vodka and OJ."

(Eva Mendes, discussing what it was like to do her first on-screen love scene in We Own the Night with Joaquin Phoenix)

I'm a tad suspicious of this whole I-needed-to-hit-the-bottle-because-of-the-love-scene excuse.

First of all, Miss Modesty, you bare-boobed it for a full five-count in your breakout role in Training Day. You remember, right? It was the only part of that film other than Denzel's "You probably still fuck her face to face, don't you?" tip of the hat to newlywed-dom that might convince me to watch this "Oscar worthy" film for a second time when it inevitably makes its debut as a TNT "New Classic" sometime in the next two years.

Second, I've seen more lad-mag covers with you wearing little more than a pair of Loeffler Randall boots, two strategically-placed hands and your signature come-and-get-it-boys smirk than I saw pink Izod polos in all three semesters I spent at Georgetown University.

Third, this is how you answered the on-screen love scene question in an AskMen.com interview back in 2000:

"Doing them with girls is fun! It goes back to the play yard mentality: guys can be yucky, and girls are sweet, soft and smell good."

Eva, why don't you just come out and say what the rest of us are thinking -- it was Joaquin's all-sorts-of-crazy that made the thought of love-making - not just on-screen love-making but the love-making of any sort - so off-putting you needed to resort to your freshman-year-in-college drink of choice.

I'm not blaming you for using false claims of modesty to divert attention away from the fact you didn't want to get frisky with a man who, from what I can tell from the batty interviews he's given and shit like this, has a cocktail of Tourette's, autism and schizophrenia, but Eva hon, shouldn't you have thought about this before you signed onto the project?

My advice to you is to stick with the girl-on-girl love scenes with which you claim to be more comfortable, and believe me, faster than you can wipe your mouth and say, "God, that felt good...", it'll be you up on that Oscar podium, not your male co-star.

Gone tannin'...

But here are a few of the things I'll be thinking about this afternoon while I sip Veuve-n-selzer to my new Summer soundtrack:

The coiff, the chiseled jaw, the magic underwear...

I love my new concealer...

Mmmm...Eva Mendes...

J and I are like the Demi and Bruce of DC breakups - we even tan together!

Why doesn't couture ever go on sale?

See, there waaay more judgmental people out there than I am...

I'm coming home soon, my sweet lil' Saturday night steady...

If I had a sugar daddy...

Coated linen jacket by Robert Rodriguez
$429 at eluxury.com

Since I don't (yet)

SS cotton jacket
$32.80 at forever21.com

The Brazilian bonus

If this week's booked-solid schedule at Blue Mercury in Dupont Circle is at all representative of how many women across the country are balding their bits in preparation for tomorrow's inauguration of the pre-summer bake-a-thon, aestheticians from Oklahoma City to Lansing to Providence must be as exhausted as Rose McGowan's plastic surgeon.

Well, almost.

For those who don't program into their Microsoft Outlook calendar a recurring, every-five-weeks "Brazilian with ________" reminder, you might be surprised to find out it is not the physical act of spreading, ripping, spreading, ripping, plucking, spreading, ripping and powdering that an aesthetician finds most energy-depleting. On the contrary, that's the easy part -- that's the pie.

The draining part, as devoted reader and beautifier-extraordinaire J will tell you, is having to be every customer's sounding-board on issues ranging from I-hate-my-boss to I'm-in-love-with-a-married-man to I-hate-that-my-married-boss-can-only-give-it-to-me-Monday-through-Thursday. Or, if you frequent the Blue Mercury in Georgetown, it'll be more along the lines of I-think-I'm-bored-with-lunching-and-the-League and I-just-don't-think-this-new-nanny-is-going-to-work-out professions.

I can't say I'm any better at resisting the confessional effect that the combination of soft-lighting and wincing pain in the vicinity of the vah-jay-jay causes a woman, especially when I'm the kind of person who even without those lull-me-into-submission spa accoutrement will hold an audience with the line-up of Sunday morning day-laborers outside the paint store next to Whole Foods on 15th/P St. who wanted nothing more than to see my C-cups up-close but instead got an earful of my wah-wah-wah "I love him. I really really love him. That's why I can't let myself move on -- he was special, you know? He was the one." inner-dialogued pity party.

So yeah, barring specific individuals' names, as part of her $72 fee ($60 + $12 tip), Arika gets to listen to more minutia about my tawdry DC existence - i.e. hot Saturday nights with John Seigenthaler and his collection of in-the-clink props and sound effects - than practically anyone in my Treo's contacts list.

More than anyone who's gotten as much face-time down-there, anyway.

Would a prostitute wear city shorts and peeptoes?

Yes, I was in 4-inch heels and black eyeliner - very thinly applied black liner - at 8:40am.

Yes, I was crouched in half, leaning into an open car window.

Yes, the only individual in this car - a 50-something suit - was a man with whom, up until the moment he pulled up and motioned me over to his passenger window, I was not at all acquainted.

And yes, after about 30 seconds of polite conversation, I did accept four crisp one dollar bills and let out a light oh-you! laugh at his very audible, very Texan-drawled, "Thanks darlin'. And I shouldn't say this for a lot of reasons, but you've got the best legs I've seen in a good long while."

On the outset, I can understand why, as I turned around to reclaim my perch on the curb at the Burberry-side ConnAve/M St. intersection, I had no fewer than four pairs of female eyes shooting me not just judgmental looks but pitying judgmental looks -- looks that said, "I disapprove of your life choices, but sweetheart, you are too good and wearing too expensive a pair of pressed city shorts to be working for that Palfrey woman."

And not only was there a very clear, very palpable them-against-me dynamic, but the six permutations of paired eye-locks and head-nods between the women - a poly-blend burgundy skirtsuit with square-toed block-heeled pilgrim booties, a pavement-sweeping Amish dress with pseudo-Keds, a too-tight black sleeveless shift with stubbly, deodorant-caked underarms, and a stroller-pusher with a multicolored-jacked-up-mess-of-a-denim-romper - also implied there was a strengthening network of solidarity developing among them as well.

The them-against-me dynamic quickly degenerated into one of them-very-against-me.

Needless to say, the three men caught in the epicenter of our unspoken woman-war felt more than slightly uncomfortable and decided to divide their focus between the bursting cracks in the sidewalk and the god-awful resort wear in the store windows behind them until traffic cleared. None of them waited for the white "WALK" sign -- they wanted to bail and bail five seconds ago.

I considered whipping my long ponytail around and confronting the Before-Picture-Squad, informing them that my conversation with the silver fox consisted of two benign questions and two equally bengin answers - "Do they really check parking meters around here?" "Yes." "Do you have change for some ones?" "Yes." - but then I thought, nuh-uh, they're not worth the effort.

Instead, I wanded on a thick stripe of Dior Addict lip lacquer in 'Tulle' and indulged in a little over-the-shoulder smirk, the kind a $4 whore might shoot at a group of women who couldn't even get a nickel for their wares.

The push you need

That means when you enter the code "MAKEUP" at checkout,

you can get my Lisa Curran Wood Bamboo bikini for $118.40*,

instead of the $148 I paid just a week ago. Yay for you.

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