FORGIVE ME IF my mascara gets a little smeary, but today marks my last column. Over the past five months, we've laughed, we've cried, we've judged — the Salahis, those uber-tan "Jersey Shore" kids, women who wear pantyhose with sandals. Other than the hate mail I got after criticizing J.Lo's bunchy, nude New Year's ensemble, it's been a fun ride.
Now that I'm giving up my public platform to air my fashion grievances, I thought it was time for one last push against this city's faux pas. I'm hoping we can all work to rid D.C. of these lingering style offenses:
» Puffy button-downs: Dear men, you don't need to be skinny to wear a slim-cut shirt. In fact, lose the blousy Oxford and you'll look 20 pounds thinner.
» Oversized suits: It's baffling that so many people buy too-big sizes that make them look like shapeless blobs.
» Khakis: Who decided that we all needed 11 pairs of pants in this bland, beige-y cotton? (Oh, right: the Gap.) But why do we all seem to agree?
» Twinsets: Wear the top or wear the cardigan, just not together.
» Square-toed shoes: It is no longer 1985. Time to move on.
» My last bit of advice? Wear things you love. That looks good on everyone.

I'M A MAJOR Gleek — to the severely out-of-touch, that's what we super-fans of Fox's "Glee" call ourselves. The songs! The dances! The hilarious banter between Sue Sylvester, above, and Mr. Schuester about his hair! Tuesday can't come soon enough.
Behind the flashy vocals, though, is a sorely underappreciated element of the show: the painstakingly crafted visuals. The spot-on costumes — Sue's rainbow of track suits, Miss Pillsbury's perfect retro-chic ensembles, Rachel's "home-school"-esque ensembles — don't get nearly enough play when it comes to praising "Glee."
Nowhere was this more obvious than in yesterday's Madonna-rific installment. The best part wasn't the mash-up of "Borderline" and "Open Your Heart," or the Cheerios' stilt spectacular set to "Ray of Light" — though both were pretty awesome. It was the way students decked out as Madonna during her various phases flitted past in the background of the hallway scenes. A tiny touch, and one unnecessary to the plotline, but that attention to detail — perhaps even more than the soaring ballads and the wicked banter — is precisely what makes "Glee" so great.
Photo courtesy FOX
Continue Reading "Gleeking Out: No One Gets Those Details Quite Like 'Glee'" »

D.C. HAS LONG been lambasted for its lack of fashion sense. (Example: I'm still getting irate mail about a column I wrote weeks ago suggesting women stop pairing pantyhose with summer sandals. Ladies! If you insist that you need the hose, then just wear it. But don't be surprised when people quietly snicker at your questionable style sense.)
But you know who's worse than Washingtonians when it comes to matters of attire? Washington's tourists. Now that our city is overrun with the map-wielding, backpack-toting, stroller-pushing masses, it's clear there are communities in America that dress much, much worse than we do.
Here's what I spotted during a brief sojourn to the National Mall recently: a sports team ensemble that included a logo-emblazoned hat, shirt, shorts and socks. Mullets. Fanny packs galore. White tube socks. Light-washed denim from head to toe. Foam visors. A T-shirt suggesting the wearer "Just Did It" (classy!). Scrunchies.
It's obvious D.C. is no longer at the bottom of the fashion barrel. (That distinction now belongs, based on an informal survey, to Florida.) Now, if we could just get you pantyhose lovers to stick to closed-toe shoes.
Photo by Jim Watson/AFP/Getty Images
MY LEAST FAVORITE trend lately (other than, ick, jeggings) is the proliferation of cheap-chic designer collections. I can hear your protests now: "What? But it's a chance to own a little Sonia Rykiel/Anna Sui/Rodarte for just $19.99!" That I can't argue with. But I can argue your money is better spent on something else.
The real magic of designers like Jean Paul Gaultier — whose collection for Target (right) hit stores last month — or Zac Posen — who arrives at the big bull's-eye later this month — or any of the top designers who joined up with mass retailers en masse, can't be replicated in a cotton dress produced for pennies in Asia.
I have no doubt Mr. Gaultier et al picked out the scratchy fabrics and sketched the looks themselves. But their genius as designers is found in the way they artfully construct a perfect seam, handcraft their own fabrics or whip up a confection of a dress that falls just so. Those things are lost in the discount version — along with the uniqueness of the designs, which inevitably show up on every girl between here and L.A. Sure, there are a few gems in these collections, but let's face it: A cheap blouse is a cheap blouse, even with a fancy name inside.
Photo courtesy Target
CALL ME HOPELESSLY nostalgic, but I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge a major event happening this week: the release of "The Baby-Sitters Club: The Summer Before" ($17, Scholastic). A prequel to the long-running book series — a seminal part of my mid-'80s childhood — follows the earnest middle school sitters in their delightfully lo-fi world. (Telephone landlines! Flashlight Morse code messages! Kid-Kits!)
But my tweenage-level excitement over the book — yes, I asked for an advance press copy and devoured it in about an hour — isn't just about a touching trip down memory lane. The BSC introduced me to my first-ever fashion icon: the artistic, almost avant-garde Claudia Kishi. (And I'm not the only one: The hilarious and popular blog Whatclaudiawore.com has been waxing on Miss Kishi's outre outfits for three years now.)
I wouldn't be the fashion lover I am today without that early encounter with Claud and her hair combs, lace-up sandals and dangly fruit earrings. (Also deserving of accolades for their style influence: Jessica Wakefield, Sassy magazine.) And while you might not find me in, say, alligator barrettes or polka-dot high-top sneakers, Claud's passion for both kicked off a lifetime ambition in me to dress a little less Kristy and a little more crazy.
TO THE GOOD citizens of D.C.:
Spring has arrived in our fair city, and along with it come cherry blossoms, legions of confused tourists and a list of seasonal fashion faux pas so long it could probably fill three columns. We shall shorten it to the most serious offenses, spotted in just the past week. If you are — or someone you know is — a warm-weather fashion victim, it is time to seek style help.
» Unkempt, overgrown toenails: Ladies, if you only get a pedicure once a year, now should be the time. Until then, please stop exposing your scary talons.
» Yellow, crusty toenails: Dear men, pedis are not just for women.
» Denim shorts on guys: No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
» Flip-flops as daily commuter footwear: Seriously, your nice work suit looks supremely silly with rubber sandals flapping at your feet.
» Strapless mini-sundresses: Ahem, it is only 70 degrees out there. Not 90.
» Pantyhose with open-toed shoes: Please just don't.
» Bra straps under tank tops: There is a vast world of alternate supportive undergarments out there. Explore it!
» Tube socks with bright white sneaks: Sorry, Dad. They've got to go.
EVER SINCE THE Situation, JWoWW and the ridiculously coiffed "Jersey Shore" crew gave a final fist bump in January, I thought nothing could fill the trashy TV void in my life.
I was wrong. Enter the CW's "High Society" (Wed., 9:30 p.m.), which debuted last week with a flurry of fancy fashions and behavior so outrageous it would make Snooki blush. The escapades of New York socialite Tinsley Mortimer, left, and a cast of obnoxious characters — trouble-making heir PJC; a legion of unfailingly rude, perfectly dyed blondes — give a rare glimpse into the lives of the rich and wannabe-famous.
Ultimately, it's not the heavy partying and catty gossiping that makes the show so watchable. What's fascinating is the glimpse into how the other half dresses: the closets full of designer duds, the consistently perfect coifs, the insanely high heels. When bow tie-clad PJC gets a $25,000 advance from his trust fund, he immediately calls up several designers and demands they send over all their latest pieces. Subsequently, he throws a drink in a woman's face at a party. Which brings us to a new reality idea. Who would win in a fight: JPC or Sammi? Now that we'd TiVo.
Photo by Jamie McCarthy/Getty Images for Samsung
AFTER A LONG, late Oscar night, I met a friend Monday for caffeine and a recap. We covered the highs (Sandy Bullock, so cute) and the lows (Why was George Clooney acting like a jerky jock in a high school assembly?). And then, the big question: "Who," my pal asked, "wins Best Dressed?"
Pause. Long pause. In the sea of strapless Cinderella dresses (Miley, Penelope et al), and strapless columns (Maggie G., Kate Winslet, etc.), no one great gown really stood out. I flirted briefly with naming Sarah Jessica Parker's daring Chanel sack dress, which should be commended for its originality if not for its look. (Butter yellow? Ick.) Finally: "Meryl Streep looked good, except for her hair," I said. My friend agreed: "It was very pretty and age-appropriate."
And so puts a cap on awards season 2010, when benign traits like, sigh, "age-appropriate" win the style game. Has the red carpet become so routine that we're no longer bowled over by a beautiful dress? Or has A-list status become so tenuous that stars play it way too safe? In any case, in a night made extra-exciting by the unexpected sweep by "The Hurt Locker," what a disappointment that there was no fashion equivalent.
Photo by Alberto E. Rodriguez/Getty Images

THE ONGOING FALLOUT from Gatecrashgate — which I think we ought to rename Tackygate, because, frankly, that's what the Salahis' behavior was — continued this week when beleaguered White House Social Secretary Desiree Rogers, above, announced her resignation.
Rogers has been vilified for mingling with guests instead of manning the door when the Salahis dropped in uninvited to November's state dinner — a criticism that strikes us as entirely unfair, but that's another column for another day. What makes us saddest about Rogers' departure is the blow it serves to D.C.'s style scene — and to fashion-loving professional women everywhere.
Rogers' arrival (along with her closet of Comme des Garcons, Halston and other hyper-stylish labels) was a breath of fresh flair in D.C.'s monotonous mix of ill-fitting suits and boring dresses. But more than that, she showed that a woman could be at the top of her field without having to hide her love of fashion. In a city where ambitious, professional women often feel they should dress to blend in, not stand out, it was a welcome change — and one we hope lingers, even after Rogers leaves.
Photo by Bill O'Leary/The Washington Post
VOGUE EDITOR ANNA Wintour is oft vilified for her ice queen persona and — thanks to a deliciously frosty performance by Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada" — unrivaled ranking as World's Bitchiest Boss. But while Wintour's withering gaze can make even the most lauded designer quake in his Gucci loafers, she's recently begun to expose a side of herself that is wholly sympathetic — and maybe even a little bit sad.
Nothing has been more revealing than the excellent documentary about Vogue, "The September Issue," released on DVD Tuesday (we suggest you spring for the special $30 Barnes & Noble version, which offers exclusive behind-the-scenes extras). On the surface, the film doesn't do much to refute Wintour's "Nuclear Wintour" nickname: For most of the film, she's cast as the humorless counterpart to colleague Grace Coddington's happy creativity. But closer inspection reveals a surprising isolation.
Yes, she's revered, but you have to wonder: Does she ever just grab a beer, kick back and have a good laugh? It might appear that she has everything — right down to subservient assistants and next season's Prada — but it looks pretty lonely at the top.
Photo by Bryan Bedder/Getty Images
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