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.

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.

How I wish I could've pressed 'pause'

I intentionally left work a little earlier than usual last night.

My 5pm exit didn't have anything to do with needed prep time for a 'special someone' dinner reservation or at-home hydrating before a 'single and so okay with it' happy hour.

No, I left when I did yesterday because of you, or rather because of what many of you have been saying about my lack of DC-centric posting lately. After the dozenth or so "you've lost your direction" public profession, I thought I'd give myself some fresh air, say "hello" to Josh manning the door at Camelot and perhaps pick up a confidence-boosting smile or two.

Before I even took my sweet Valentine time, strolling on L for a couple of blocks, then shifting over to K and finally back to M, I had already identified the singular and specific reason for the paucity of this blog's bread and butter bitchiness in recent weeks.

Put simply, DC women have been looking much better lately.

True, I'm taking fewer lunch breaks and keeping my head in a more to-the-body tuck to avoid another season of "naturally" bronzed cheeks, but from what I've seen -or in some respects, not seen- during the 20 minutes or so of daylight I take in each morning, there aren't nearly as many major offenses walking the ConnAve corridor as there were last year at this time.

No new ones, anyway.

Honestly, how many times and in how many different ways can a girl berate her city's female professional population for walking the weekday streets in the same strappy evenings sandals, boxy poly-blend button-downs and denim skirts?

I'm not implying I've reached the end of my creative rope, not in the least, but that of which I am patently sure is how I work best, and that has everything to do with inspiration -- feeling it, being driven by it and producing persuasive pieces as a result of it.

For the first time during my young tenure as a blogger, I haven't felt very inspired by what I've seen on these sidewalks. There's been nothing particularly good nor bad, just a whole lot of hovering around the status-quo, which in itself could be fodder for an interesting post, I suppose, but call me nutty, I found my insights from what I saw at The Coterie and the prettiness of New York Fashion Week welcome breaks from the doldrums of rehashed 'DC dont's' of posts past.

So yesterday, a bit disheartened, I set out for a walk with no destination, no timetable and no real purpose other than to soak in the view and like I said, to offer Josh his daily greeting.

As I stepped from carpet to concrete and realized it was much milder than I anticipated (thank goodness, as I'd forgotten my gloves), I saw almost immediately a highly abnormal level of fabulousness going on in front of me.

"What in the world...," I thought to myself as not one, not two, not three but four consecutive women in slim, leg-baring black skirts (or dresses?), tasteful high heels and perfectly tailored showpiece coats -one each in red, ivory, black and camel- whizzed by me in a frenzied click-click-click sprint.

One of them, I do believe, was even rocking the sheer black hose with sexy back-seaming.

Before I could process what it was I'd just witnessed, another chic treat in a navy military-style wool trench, side-tipped Dita-style hat and these precious Marc by Marc Jacobs peep-toe pumps nearly sideswiped me by the CVS at ConnAve and L. And no sooner had she passed did two others emerge -one with flawless Hillary eyes and the other wearing that metallic Alice+Olivia party topper I so coveted but could never find in my size- by the flower stand outside Farragut North's K Street exit.

As this last one rushed past me, I happened to catch a few seconds of her phone conversation, and suddenly, it all made sense.

"I can't talk now, Janelle, I've got to get his present, wrap it, pick through all the shit cards that are left at Border's, find something that isn't totally lame, write something that isn't totally lame, and get to Citronelle by 6:15..."

It may not mean a style revolution is nigh, it may not mean that these women who looked so tremendous in their dressy garb won't fall victim to an unfortunate polo-and-khakis Casual Friday uniform today, but I gotta tell you, there was a reason why my 15 minute walk home clocked in at triple that time last night.

Because of you, gussied up DC women, my wanting inspiration got the adrenaline injection it so sorely needed.

I just hope the feeling you all had of knowing you were the prettiest girl in the room and realizing that the confidence you summoned through that great dress, that fancy hat, that sexy kohled eye or that special pair of shoes doesn't have to be a once annual experience.

And on that note, have a great long weekend.

best,
Johanna

p.s. the red suede Marchesa dress with rose-bunch shoulders pictured at top is what I would have worn last night had I been able to locate that direct easy-button transport into Georgina Chapman's life...damn, where did I put that?

How I wish I could've pressed 'pause'

I intentionally left work a little earlier than usual last night.

My 5pm exit didn't have anything to do with needed prep time for a 'special someone' dinner reservation or at-home hydrating before a 'single and so okay with it' happy hour.

No, I left when I did yesterday because of you, or rather because of what many of you have been saying about my lack of DC-centric posting lately. After the dozenth or so "you've lost your direction" public profession, I thought I'd give myself some fresh air, say "hello" to Josh manning the door at Camelot and perhaps pick up a confidence-boosting smile or two.

Before I even took my sweet Valentine time, strolling on L for a couple of blocks, then shifting over to K and finally back to M, I had already identified the singular and specific reason for the paucity of this blog's bread and butter bitchiness in recent weeks.

Put simply, DC women have been looking much better lately.

True, I'm taking fewer lunch breaks and keeping my head in a more to-the-body tuck to avoid another season of "naturally" bronzed cheeks, but from what I've seen -or in some respects, not seen- during the 20 minutes or so of daylight I take in each morning, there aren't nearly as many major offenses walking the ConnAve corridor as there were last year at this time.

No new ones, anyway.

Honestly, how many times and in how many different ways can a girl berate her city's female professional population for walking the weekday streets in the same strappy evenings sandals, boxy poly-blend button-downs and denim skirts?

I'm not implying I've reached the end of my creative rope, not in the least, but that of which I am patently sure is how I work best, and that has everything to do with inspiration -- feeling it, being driven by it and producing persuasive pieces as a result of it.

For the first time during my young tenure as a blogger, I haven't felt very inspired by what I've seen on these sidewalks. There's been nothing particularly good nor bad, just a whole lot of hovering around the status-quo, which in itself could be fodder for an interesting post, I suppose, but call me nutty, I found my insights from what I saw at The Coterie and the prettiness of New York Fashion Week welcome breaks from the doldrums of rehashed 'DC dont's' of posts past.

So yesterday, a bit disheartened, I set out for a walk with no destination, no timetable and no real purpose other than to soak in the view and like I said, to offer Josh his daily greeting.

As I stepped from carpet to concrete and realized it was much milder than I anticipated (thank goodness, as I'd forgotten my gloves), I saw almost immediately a highly abnormal level of fabulousness going on in front of me.

"What in the world...," I thought to myself as not one, not two, not three but four consecutive women in slim, leg-baring black skirts (or dresses?), tasteful high heels and perfectly tailored showpiece coats -one each in red, ivory, black and camel- whizzed by me in a frenzied click-click-click sprint.

One of them, I do believe, was even rocking the sheer black hose with sexy back-seaming.

Before I could process what it was I'd just witnessed, another chic treat in a navy military-style wool trench, side-tipped Dita-style hat and these precious Marc by Marc Jacobs peep-toe pumps nearly sideswiped me by the CVS at ConnAve and L. And no sooner had she passed did two others emerge -one with flawless Hillary eyes and the other wearing that metallic Alice+Olivia party topper I so coveted but could never find in my size- by the flower stand outside Farragut North's K Street exit.

As this last one rushed past me, I happened to catch a few seconds of her phone conversation, and suddenly, it all made sense.

"I can't talk now, Janelle, I've got to get his present, wrap it, pick through all the shit cards that are left at Border's, find something that isn't totally lame, write something that isn't totally lame, and get to Citronelle by 6:15..."

It may not mean a style revolution is nigh, it may not mean that these women who looked so tremendous in their dressy garb won't fall victim to an unfortunate polo-and-khakis Casual Friday uniform today, but I gotta tell you, there was a reason why my 15 minute walk home clocked in at triple that time last night.

Because of you, gussied up DC women, my wanting inspiration got the adrenaline injection it so sorely needed.

I just hope the feeling you all had of knowing you were the prettiest girl in the room and realizing that the confidence you summoned through that great dress, that fancy hat, that sexy kohled eye or that special pair of shoes doesn't have to be a once annual experience.

And on that note, have a great long weekend.

best,
Johanna

p.s. the red suede Marchesa dress with rose-bunch shoulders pictured at top is what I would have worn last night had I been able to locate that direct easy-button transport into Georgina Chapman's life...damn, where did I put that?

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."

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."

K Street's dual personality: Bespoke by day, Bebe by night

K Street, between 13th and 20th, is one of my favorite stretches of sidewalk to click on a new iMix, pop a few Ice Breakers Berry Sours and watch some of the most powerful men in my city preen just like the pretty peacocks you see emblazoned on their $135 Thomas Pink ties.

Some like to see the skinny-denim-clad sort the U Street corridor has to offer; some like the retro-fabulous rainbow invasion found wandering the streets of Penn Quarter and Chinatown; still others prefer the popped collars and Nicole Richie lookalikes populating Georgetown.

Those city pockets and their respective crowds are all fine and good in their own distinct ways, but for me, when it comes to on-the-street eye candy, I want the Willy Wonka fantasy factory that is K Street's lobbyist/lawyer row.

I've lived in DC for three and a half years, the last two and a half in my current, Dupont proximate building. I don't go out socially a tremendous amount -maybe once every other weekend- but by no means would I consider myself a stranger to the nightlife in our fair city.

Until Saturday night, that is, when I came face-to-face with a disturbing urban underbelly that quite honestly I would never have guessed existed within DC proper, much less four blocks from my home, three blocks from the White House and smack dab in the middle of my precious, suit-heavy K Street.

For those of you who haven't had the displeasure of experiencing the weekend scene at this street's eponymous lounge, I'd advise you to continue missing out unless the idea of having tight-on-tighter ensembles like this one flush up against your person while asshat men reeking of Mystic tan and low ambition attempt to bed you with gems like, "your friend's tits are amazing" and "you know where I'd like to put that mouth of yours?" sounds like a good way to waste $24 on cover and coat-check charges.


The good news in all of this is that despite my shock and sadness to see unimaginably unflattering and wrong-message-sending skanky clubwear in my favorite part of DC, this does present me with the perfect opportunity to run with reader Sarah Anne's "If you like ______, how about ______, instead?" idea.

I'm not yet sure with what I'll fill in that second blank, but so far, I already know I'll be inserting these into the first one:

- frayed denim mini skirts/shorts
- muffin-top creating skirts/pants
- "Real Housewives of Orange County" tops
- tube tops/dresses
- wrap-up-the-leg strappy stilettos
- acrylic French tips

Look for this inaugural installment later today or, depending on how many silver peacocks are out and about during the 65-degree lunch hour, possibly tomorrow.

p.s. here's that full-length photo I promised (photog credit goes to HRL):

K Street's dual personality: Bespoke by day, Bebe by night

K Street, between 13th and 20th, is one of my favorite stretches of sidewalk to click on a new iMix, pop a few Ice Breakers Berry Sours and watch some of the most powerful men in my city preen just like the pretty peacocks you see emblazoned on their $135 Thomas Pink ties.

Some like to see the skinny-denim-clad sort the U Street corridor has to offer; some like the retro-fabulous rainbow invasion found wandering the streets of Penn Quarter and Chinatown; still others prefer the popped collars and Nicole Richie lookalikes populating Georgetown.

Those city pockets and their respective crowds are all fine and good in their own distinct ways, but for me, when it comes to on-the-street eye candy, I want the Willy Wonka fantasy factory that is K Street's lobbyist/lawyer row.

I've lived in DC for three and a half years, the last two and a half in my current, Dupont proximate building. I don't go out socially a tremendous amount -maybe once every other weekend- but by no means would I consider myself a stranger to the nightlife in our fair city.

Until Saturday night, that is, when I came face-to-face with a disturbing urban underbelly that quite honestly I would never have guessed existed within DC proper, much less four blocks from my home, three blocks from the White House and smack dab in the middle of my precious, suit-heavy K Street.

For those of you who haven't had the displeasure of experiencing the weekend scene at this street's eponymous lounge, I'd advise you to continue missing out unless the idea of having tight-on-tighter ensembles like this one flush up against your person while asshat men reeking of Mystic tan and low ambition attempt to bed you with gems like, "your friend's tits are amazing" and "you know where I'd like to put that mouth of yours?" sounds like a good way to waste $24 on cover and coat-check charges.


The good news in all of this is that despite my shock and sadness to see unimaginably unflattering and wrong-message-sending skanky clubwear in my favorite part of DC, this does present me with the perfect opportunity to run with reader Sarah Anne's "If you like ______, how about ______, instead?" idea.

I'm not yet sure with what I'll fill in that second blank, but so far, I already know I'll be inserting these into the first one:

- frayed denim mini skirts/shorts
- muffin-top creating skirts/pants
- "Real Housewives of Orange County" tops
- tube tops/dresses
- wrap-up-the-leg strappy stilettos
- acrylic French tips

Look for this inaugural installment later today or, depending on how many silver peacocks are out and about during the 65-degree lunch hour, possibly tomorrow.

p.s. here's that full-length photo I promised (photog credit goes to HRL):

Ze best of ze best -- a DC style success in three parts

Though posted a bit later in the week than I'd anticipated, here is the more promising set* - a follow-up to those brutalized in this piece - from my lovely-while-it-lasted adventure into the world of being single, sexy and social.

Two out of three isn't so bad, no?

Venue: Tour de Champagne, French Embassy

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

Black dress with just-the-right-size white polka dots in the style of this Oscar de la Renta but tea-length and with a straight-edged, to-the-throat bateau neckline. Barely-there black** sandals very similar to Natalie Portman's favorite red carpet shoe. Flawless, simple eye makeup. Short red toe and finger nails (no chips). Coiffed shoulder-length bob.

Black silk 3/4-sleeve wrap dress in a style similar to this Diane von Furstenberg. Black jacquard-print patent-leather slingbacks. Katie Holmes' hair. Perfectly-applied black liner with just a hint of "cat" detail and kohl smudge. Small red doctor's-bag-style satchel.

Black satin trapeze-style tunic with delicate lace neckline similar to this one from my beloved Mona & Holly jumper. Black opaque tights. Black lizard-skin sky-high stiletto boots I'm pretty positive were of this "If I had a sugar daddy..." ilk. Tight, nape-of-the-neck chignon. Great false lashes, thick black eyeliner, glassy clear lip. Silver box clutch.

*I'm not sure how much of a DC style success these women represented given that all three were French, but at the very least we can all learn a little by example

**they were actually light pink (egads!), but I changed them to black in my mind

Ze best of ze best -- a DC style success in three parts

Though posted a bit later in the week than I'd anticipated, here is the more promising set* - a follow-up to those brutalized in this piece - from my lovely-while-it-lasted adventure into the world of being single, sexy and social.

Two out of three isn't so bad, no?

Venue: Tour de Champagne, French Embassy

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

Black dress with just-the-right-size white polka dots in the style of this Oscar de la Renta but tea-length and with a straight-edged, to-the-throat bateau neckline. Barely-there black** sandals very similar to Natalie Portman's favorite red carpet shoe. Flawless, simple eye makeup. Short red toe and finger nails (no chips). Coiffed shoulder-length bob.

Black silk 3/4-sleeve wrap dress in a style similar to this Diane von Furstenberg. Black jacquard-print patent-leather slingbacks. Katie Holmes' hair. Perfectly-applied black liner with just a hint of "cat" detail and kohl smudge. Small red doctor's-bag-style satchel.

Black satin trapeze-style tunic with delicate lace neckline similar to this one from my beloved Mona & Holly jumper. Black opaque tights. Black lizard-skin sky-high stiletto boots I'm pretty positive were of this "If I had a sugar daddy..." ilk. Tight, nape-of-the-neck chignon. Great false lashes, thick black eyeliner, glassy clear lip. Silver box clutch.

*I'm not sure how much of a DC style success these women represented given that all three were French, but at the very least we can all learn a little by example

**they were actually light pink (egads!), but I changed them to black in my mind

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...

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:

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:

Please don't denim the pencil

There are a select few wardrobe components that, in my opinion, are so utterly perfect in their current iteration that they have reached their style zenith.

In other words, they will not, shall not and cannot be improved upon.

The simple, unembellished black peep-toe, the fits-your-frame-just-right black sheath, the classic trench -- these items hold spots four, three and two, respectively, on my short list.

The one article of clothing that if it were up to me would be remembered and worn only in its simplest, blackest, formal-fabric-ed state, however, is the pencil skirt.

Don't bedazzle it, don't put pockets on it, don't give it an animal-print or weigh it down with chunky buttons.

And please, please don't denim it.

High-waisted or otherwise.

I've made my feelings known for non-jeans denim, and I understand my it's-a-fabric-of-last-resort view isn't universally - or even popularly - accepted. And I'm comfortable with that. Preferences and the strong expression thereof, after all, are healthy, not to mention a necessity for one writing a fashion blog.

Whether you agree with me or not that denim skirts are best left to those who attend rodeos and elementary school, can we at least come together in recognizing that a denim pencil skirt is not the same as its traditional, more professional black wool-crepe counterpart? And if we can align on that view, can we take it a step further and nod our heads in agreement that similar to jeans and a pair of black dress trousers, or a jean jacket and a suit coat, the wardrobe components that best complement each of these skirts are going to be different?

Yes? Good.

Then please help me relay that message to the woman I saw this afternoon on M Street between 19th and 20th who wore her no doubt J. Jill-purchased beauty with black pointy-toed pumps, a navy pinstripe blazer and an off-white silk shell.

Please don't denim the pencil

There are a select few wardrobe components that, in my opinion, are so utterly perfect in their current iteration that they have reached their style zenith.

In other words, they will not, shall not and cannot be improved upon.

The simple, unembellished black peep-toe, the fits-your-frame-just-right black sheath, the classic trench -- these items hold spots four, three and two, respectively, on my short list.

The one article of clothing that if it were up to me would be remembered and worn only in its simplest, blackest, formal-fabric-ed state, however, is the pencil skirt.

Don't bedazzle it, don't put pockets on it, don't give it an animal-print or weigh it down with chunky buttons.

And please, please don't denim it.

High-waisted or otherwise.

I've made my feelings known for non-jeans denim, and I understand my it's-a-fabric-of-last-resort view isn't universally - or even popularly - accepted. And I'm comfortable with that. Preferences and the strong expression thereof, after all, are healthy, not to mention a necessity for one writing a fashion blog.

Whether you agree with me or not that denim skirts are best left to those who attend rodeos and elementary school, can we at least come together in recognizing that a denim pencil skirt is not the same as its traditional, more professional black wool-crepe counterpart? And if we can align on that view, can we take it a step further and nod our heads in agreement that similar to jeans and a pair of black dress trousers, or a jean jacket and a suit coat, the wardrobe components that best complement each of these skirts are going to be different?

Yes? Good.

Then please help me relay that message to the woman I saw this afternoon on M Street between 19th and 20th who wore her no doubt J. Jill-purchased beauty with black pointy-toed pumps, a navy pinstripe blazer and an off-white silk shell.

DC men are all sorts of classy

Time: just past 9:30 this morning

Location: ConnAve/M St. intersection (Burberry side)

Characters: 30-something suit, myself
Outfit: this and these (yes, again)

In tow: everyone's favorite Halloween candy carrier (see below)

"Excuse me, you aren't the girl who writes that style blog, are you?"

(turning down - not off, but down - "The Power of Love" on my iPod)

"Yeah, that's me," I replied, trying hard not to sound too excited at being recognized.

"Wow, my girlfriend _______ is like, obsessed with...what is it called, 'A Woman's Job Isn't Serious' or 'An Excuse for a Job...'"

"'A Serious Job is No Excuse.'''

"That's it, yeah, she loves it. Totally loves it."

(taking off my headphones)

"Thank you, that really means a..."

"I have to admit, I sometimes read it, too. You know, at work and stuff. And when _______ isn't home or when she's watching one of those stupid Hugh Grant movies or when she's pretending to work out at the gym, emphasis on 'pretending,' if you know what I mean. (scanning me up and down) She certainly doesn't have the, uh...the discipline you have when it comes to exercise and staying toned."

"Uh-huh, okay, well, thank..."

"And it shows, too. You look good. Reeeally good."

(more no-so-subtle body scans)

"Would you mind if I took a piece of your candy, Joanna?" he asked, playfully nudging my shoulder with his own.

"Sure, go ahead," I said, not bothering to correct the mispronunciation and hoping both the gesture and the disinterested tone in which I spoke would end our growing-more-awkward-by-the-second conversation, "just don't take the Skittles, I only have a few of those."

"Hot and she likes to give orders. I like that combo. How about (waving the fun-size Twix he'd liberated three inches from my face) instead of this candy, you give me your phone number?"

"I'm not really interested, thanks."

"Oh come on, I was kidding," he said, his voice taking on a markedly less friendly pitch as I inched farther away, my eyes laser-focused on the 11-10-9... countdown to my right.

"You're not gonna blog about this, are you? I mean, I was just kidding around. I have a girlfriend, it's not like I was really serious."

(light turns green)

"Enjoy the Twix," I called out to him over my shoulder, "and be sure to check out the blog this afternoon -- what did you say your name was again? Brad?"

*on an unrelated but equally alarming note, I switched from 'Russian Navy' back to 'Midnight in Moscow' this weekend after I, too, discovered the blue had left a wicked stain on my nails.

DC men are all sorts of classy

Time: just past 9:30 this morning

Location: ConnAve/M St. intersection (Burberry side)

Characters: 30-something suit, myself
Outfit: this and these (yes, again)

In tow: everyone's favorite Halloween candy carrier (see below)

"Excuse me, you aren't the girl who writes that style blog, are you?"

(turning down - not off, but down - "The Power of Love" on my iPod)

"Yeah, that's me," I replied, trying hard not to sound too excited at being recognized.

"Wow, my girlfriend _______ is like, obsessed with...what is it called, 'A Woman's Job Isn't Serious' or 'An Excuse for a Job...'"

"'A Serious Job is No Excuse.'''

"That's it, yeah, she loves it. Totally loves it."

(taking off my headphones)

"Thank you, that really means a..."

"I have to admit, I sometimes read it, too. You know, at work and stuff. And when _______ isn't home or when she's watching one of those stupid Hugh Grant movies or when she's pretending to work out at the gym, emphasis on 'pretending,' if you know what I mean. (scanning me up and down) She certainly doesn't have the, uh...the discipline you have when it comes to exercise and staying toned."

"Uh-huh, okay, well, thank..."

"And it shows, too. You look good. Reeeally good."

(more no-so-subtle body scans)

"Would you mind if I took a piece of your candy, Joanna?" he asked, playfully nudging my shoulder with his own.

"Sure, go ahead," I said, not bothering to correct the mispronunciation and hoping both the gesture and the disinterested tone in which I spoke would end our growing-more-awkward-by-the-second conversation, "just don't take the Skittles, I only have a few of those."

"Hot and she likes to give orders. I like that combo. How about (waving the fun-size Twix he'd liberated three inches from my face) instead of this candy, you give me your phone number?"

"I'm not really interested, thanks."

"Oh come on, I was kidding," he said, his voice taking on a markedly less friendly pitch as I inched farther away, my eyes laser-focused on the 11-10-9... countdown to my right.

"You're not gonna blog about this, are you? I mean, I was just kidding around. I have a girlfriend, it's not like I was really serious."

(light turns green)

"Enjoy the Twix," I called out to him over my shoulder, "and be sure to check out the blog this afternoon -- what did you say your name was again? Brad?"

*on an unrelated but equally alarming note, I switched from 'Russian Navy' back to 'Midnight in Moscow' this weekend after I, too, discovered the blue had left a wicked stain on my nails.