February 2007 Archives

Hola, bitches!

Admit it, compadres, you all sort of love me now. You love it when I show up wearing something not even royalty could pull off that well, you love it when Marc has color in his face, and you LOVE that you cannot figure out why I am so happy all the time. And yet, I am. Look at me! Do you think silly skinny Reese could wear all these sparkly things without one of them snapping her collarbone? NO. Do you think Celine Dion could wear this? NO, because when she pounds her fist against her chest, she would break it open on all these jewels. Do you think pointy little Jennifer Garner could get her hands on anything this awesome from Ben Blahfleck? NO. Whatever you're thinking -- the answer is NO. I am rocking this dress as only I, Jennifer Lopez Noa Judd almost-Affleck Anthony, could ever do. And I don't care if you think I'm pregnant. MAYBE I AM. Or maybe I just wanted to leave room for when I go eat a Double-Double with animal-style fries later tonight -- did you ever think of that, smarty cows? Marc loves things animal-style, although when he's saying that, usually he is drinking from one of the household rats we have in the attic. Anyway, pregnant, not pregnant, whatever, it doesn't matter to YOU. First, I will look hot either way, and second, I floated in here on a cloud of glamour, and SECOND, I am bored of your talk. Marc, vengame -- let's go stand next to Cameron Diaz and make her cry! HA HA HA HA! I'll show YOU how to be elegant, you rangy, mangy surfer person!

This is something delightful to me about Suzanne Somers. It's not leftover sentimentality from a childhood of watching Three's Company, because even at a young age I found her character irritatingly dim. If I were Jack Tripper, I would have spent all my time down at the Regal Beagle so as to avoid having to make the effort to communicate with her. I am not secretly also running a website called Go Thighmaster Yourself -- a fact which is, tragically, immediately apparent. I have never read either her book of poetry, or her 2004 publication, The Sexy Years: Discover the Hormone Connection - The Secret to Fabulous Sex, Great Health, and Vitality, for Women and Men, although The Sexy Years sounds like the name of an awesome Justin Timberlake retrospective produced in approximately 2023. In fact, I have no idea where this affection comes from. It just is. However, I have no affection for this:

This is what happens when a bridesmaid's dress meets a craft store fanatic: tragedy, and enough rosettes to last any woman's lifetime. Also, dyed to match shoes. However, that enormous chestral-ruff does seem like it would come in handy if you ran out of places on which to set your drink.

I don't mind this dress, in theory, but something about the way it hangs on Kerry Washington makes her look kind of bloated and large. And we're sure she's not. Because, seriously, no one in this town has eaten solid food in two days.

It bugs me that the illusion netting is bunching up on the side, and the entire line of the gown just swallows her whole. What is it? She just broke up with David Moscow -- is this going to be another Brady-Moynahan story, but without the hot quarterback and the supermodel third-wheel? Is there something fertile in the water in Los Angeles? Or was Kerry just the victim of a waist-gobbling gown?

I guess we'll find out soon. However, we may have already lost interest. What can we say? It's just not potentially soapy enough. Get back to us when her presumed-decapitated high-school sweetheart turns out to be the father.

Apparently, in Hollywood, there's a party for people who didn't get invited to the Academy Awards, and they get all dolled up in their finery and congregate to watch the telecast together. It's like the Red Carpet, Jr. Which is both sweet and maybe a little sad, like it's the overflow audience for a talk show that just missed the cut, except with better clothes. Still, these parties probably had a killer open bar, and who are we to imply that anyone should refuse it?

Certainly not when they look as divine as Jennifer Love Hewitt did.

This is a woman who's historically had a lot of trouble dressing the boobs and the hips without making herself look ten pounds heavier than she is. So we're thrilled to see how this dress skims her in all the right ways, putting a little cleavage -- okay, a lot of cleavage -- on display and giving herself graceful, clean lines everywhere else. She's even got a soft, romantic updo and her bangs are out of her face, an elegant change from the everyday for her.

Whatever Ross McCall is doing for her, he obviously does well, and so we hope he keeps doing it. Maybe he's The Fug Whisperer -- he sees her fug when she can't, and he helps it cross over into the light so that it leaves her alone and she can get on with her life without worrying that a possessed peasant top is going to throw itself at her and bind her to it for an entire afternoon.

Whatever it is, well played, both of you. Just don't go any further with the Mystic Tan.

Debbie Gibson appears confused. Is she at an Oscar party, or does she think she's heading to another stint on So You Think You Can Skate, Celebrity? or whatever that show is called?

Actually, I think I can explain what's going on here. I recently read an article in which Debbie explained that she's been obsessed with Liberace ever since her electric youth. She, in fact, owns his famous white, mirrored piano.  Clearly, this gown is a salute to Liberace, with the white and the spangles and the cape-y draping and the flamboyant enthusiasm. She probably has a candelabra in her purse. But sadly, this sort of look works only in her dreams. I feel that it would be in her best interest to shake her love over to Barney's and find something else to wear, because if this dress, out of the blue, found that it had a beat, that beat would be a foolish one indeed.  I'm sure, like most of us, all Debbie wants is for someone to love her. But how, I ask, can she find someone to get lost in her eyes if they're staring at her dress in horror? Think about that, carefully, Debbie.

We understand why Penelope Cruz changed out of that magnificently show-stopping feathered ball-gown (tough to pull off unless you play the hair, makeup, and accessories to perfection and know how to strut a red-carpet with panache, which she does/did): To be sure, that train would be a nightmare to negotiate at a party. It'd be brown by the time the night ended and half the feathers would be stuck to the bottom of people's borrowed shoes. But still. If my collegiate Spanish classes have stuck at all -- and let's hope they have, because my parents would probably be pleased to see me using at least ONE skill I studied in college -- I can say this: Penelope, vuelvate to the limo and hide there until someone brings you a coat, okay? Because this is not an acceptable follow-up to that red-carpet spectacle. We've covered dresses over pants. Dresses over leggings. And dresses over heads. But dresses over other dresses? That's a new one.

It's like she took a slinky nightie and belted a tube-dress around it. I wish I could've seen this without the distractingly disco attachment. As it stands, we're left to wonder what madness drove her to this, and also, what happens if we tug on the tassels. Does the silver part roll up to reveal a hilarious message? Does her limo show up to sweep her away? Does a shower spray spontaneously appear over Orlando Bloom's head wherever he might be?

So many mysteries.

Back in the day, I was deeply into Adam Brody. I was even given a tee shirt reading "Mrs. Seth Cohen." This was Season One of The O.C Adam Brody/Seth Cohen, who, as I'm sure we all remember, was almost too cute to bear, unlike latter seasons' iterations of the character, who became almost too aggravating to deal with, especially since it seemed that Cohen was totally phoning it in. I'm of the belief that you have to give a show more than 13 episodes before you're allowed to feel like you're too awesome for it, myself. But that's all neither here nor there. What is both here and there is my theory that Brody is either deeply depressed about something, or honestly does think he's too painfully cool for school. Check it out:

Kid, it's the OSCARS.   At least shave your neck. 

It's not so much that I think Rachel Griffiths looks especially pregnant; rather, I just don't know many people who caress their abdominal region unless they're invested in the contents of their uterus. Perhaps she's merely regretting ordering the risotto. Or maybe she ate too many tiny egg-salad sandwiches at the funeral she just attended for the demise of the far better, more flattering outfit she had planned to wear until her cranky child put it in the microwave. Indigestion is rough. Maybe the good people at Tums should start co-sponsoring these parties -- after all, "Tums" backwards is "Smut," and that's kind of appropriate, don't you think?

Our love-hate relationship with Cate Blanchett's fashion sense is rather well documented in the GFY archives, so we're always excited to see what she's going to wear on the red carpet -- adore it or abhor it, we're never indifferent, and that's at least one victory right there.

This year, "love" won. And so I present a series of affectionate haiku-style poems dedicated to her achievement.

Cate loves metallics
like I love potato chips.
But, can't wear those. Boo.

Sexy iron sheath
makes Camelot wish chain mail
could look this gorgeous.

She's a tall, frosty
steel-wool milkshake, minus the
wool. Plus chocolate.

Fair skin is in, yay!
Ditch the bronzer, orange freaks.
Cate proves paleness rocks.

Out of Diet Coke.
Sad. Tortured. Crushed. Off-topic.
Cate: Bring me one? Please?

Guess it's errand time
For Intern George. Cans, please, love!
Plus, I should post this.

I know Jenna Jameson is a famed porn star, and therefore we shouldn't anticipate that she would abide by the standards of normalcy applied to much of the rest of the sentient world. But, something's gone awry there. Consider Ms. Jameson at the Big in '06 awards late last year:

Boobalicious, and certainly not all-natural by any stretch of the imagination, but she's still a pretty girl and you can see why she's had such a long and, er, active career.

So we were rather alarmed to see the condition of her face at an Oscar afterparty this past Sunday night.

Oh, what a journey it's been for Jennifer Hudson.  I'm not talking about her journey from American Idol to the Oscars or whatever. I'm talking about the journey through fug that she took on the night of the Academy Awards.

See, according to Page Six, her stylist Jessica Paster "got her a beautiful gold Roberto Cavalli custom-made," but Vogue's Andre Leon Talley, who's been helping style her as well, allegedly had a fit when he heard about the Cavalli and made her wear his choice.  This:

Because a girl totally wants to look like she's wearing something that might have been spotted in the background of the Thriller video on the biggest night of her life.  She also totally wants to have the hem of her shorty bolero hit her at the widest spot of her chest, making her look way bigger than she actually is. Oh, also? If she could find a color that totally makes her look washed out and boring? That'd be great.  What's up with ALT?  Did Anna Wintour crack him over the head with a thigh-high boot during a confrontation at the office, thereby knocking the chic out of his head? Did spending a lot of time with Jennifer Hudson lead him to secretly, passionately hate her, thereby leading to this act of sabotage? Does he really just love lame?

But J Hud -- good for her -- managed to pull it together over the course of the evening, working it first in the red dress she performed in, and then changing into what I assume is the Cavalli for both the press room and the after-parties:

Meryl Steep is, as we have said again and again in this space, awesome in so many ways. She is, of course, a great actress. She seems like she would be fun to socialize with. We still want her to adopt Lindsay Lohan, but she should feel free to add Britney Spears to that list, if she likes. But, girl, what is the deal with this?

She's giving us her blessings, which means a lot  as she is apparently some sort of high priestess or shaman-type-person judging from the holy vestments she's working. 

Today, apparently, has inadvertently become the day that I squint at my computer screen and ask the people on the TV if SoandSo looks pregnant to them. So far, none of them -- not Martha, nor Amanda Woodward, nor anyone on The Hills -- has answered me. But in this case, I don't think I need outside confirmation:

I mean, am I right? SMG totally has a Prinze, Jr. Jr. in there, right? Because, while no one is a bigger fan of the comfort and ease of the Floaty Waistless Goddess Tunic than I am, this particular dress really only works if you've got something to hide. So let's all send a hearty pre-confirmation congrats to Smidge and her man: their child will surely be quite cute, and will probably be able to kick my ass before kindergarten.

It's not so much the outfit we have a problem with; given Rose McGowan's history, we're just lucky we aren't being treated to a full moon, so to speak. No, our issue here is, sadly, with Rose's face. Why is she styling herself in the image of the older, squintier, and frequently less moisturized Teri Hatcher? It's alarming. It doesn't even look like Rose. Maybe this is where we find out that years ago, back when she was manning his flesh puppet, she sold her blood to Marilyn Manson for use in a devil-summoning ceremony, and her payback is premature Hatchulation. Let that be a lesson to you, kids: Don't give Marilyn Manson any of your bodily fluids. Are you listening, Evan Rachel Wood?

Though I am loathe to start rumors, and don't want to be one of those people who is all, "THAT TOP IS TOTALLY BLOUSE-Y! SHE MUST BE KNOCKED UP!", would you not agree that Katie Holmes appears to be conversing with a currently fetus-sized, bodily-contained  little Cruiselette here?

"Don't worry," she seems to be saying, "soon we'll be inside, where there are shrimps on skewers." I don't really think she's pregnant again, but there's something about all the layers on this number -- which I was neutral on until I spent some hard time with it, back when I was trying to figure out it she was bump-ified, but which I've since decided that I actually rather like, despite the fact that it somewhat resembles fantastically glamorous window treatments in the bedroom of a spectacularly pampered, quite beautiful, but generally aggravating baroness -- that implies she's got something uterine going on.

It's less apparent in some of the other photos, like this one:

Oh, Lauren Hutton. Even when you try not to be nuttier than a pecan pie, you still can't help yourself.

Even though your skirt looks like an enormous cartoon fish vomiting up its own membranes, we appreciate that you deviated from the Shaman of Ojai vibe you projected in 2006 -- which you shouldn't have loaned to Meryl Streep, but let's not digress. The effort at dressing up did not go unnoticed; it's just a shame you dumped ketchup all over your front and had to cover it with a ladies' seafoam stretch tee from Talbot's.

The whole experience must have been incredibly traumatic. If we'd been through it, we surely wouldn't have brushed our hair, either.

"Hi! Listen, we haven't talked in a while -- not since that whole "Scientology rocks!" thing, really, huh? I guess you didn't find that so amusing. Which is fine, although I should point out that nothing brings back your sense of humor like a nice, thorough auditing. It's fun! It's like a colonic for your SOUL. Anyway, I know you guys have been wondering a lot of things, like why John's hair looked like he glued Dick Clark's scalp to his own, or why John was allowed to participate in Wild Hogs on my watch. Seriously, though, do you think I could've stopped it? Johnny is so light-hearted and free -- nothing would keep him from a freeing nude romp in the wilderness. He once told me he likes to live every day like he's in A Room With A View, and who am I to stop that? But, if you must know, I totally wasn't even around. See, on a Church mission, I was dispatched to live a fun double-life as the arm-candy to a New Jersey drug mogul who's been squiring me around the mall social scene, with occasional side trips to his giant Miami-based yacht, "The Tom Cruiser." I suggested the name; can you tell? Anyhoo, were having a gay old time -- I was telling Mr. Yacht all about L. Ron and soul colonics -- and then, poof! Suddenly I remembered I was supposed to go with John to the Oscars. I didn't even have time to change out of my animal print. I just hopped a plane and met him on the red rug. So, you see, I wasn't really around to stop him from his biker mid-life crisis fantasy flick, but with Norbit sucking all the joy out of Eddie Murphy's life, I don't think anyone even noticed Wild Hogs, and anyway, it's William H. Macy who looks the most desperate to pay his tithes -- er, I mean, his rent. But I'm back in town now and I promise I'll do what I can to make sure John doesn't publicly straddle anything for a while. Deal? Deal! Now, does anyone have some AquaNet? My hair's not NEARLY big enough."

Let it never be said that we are unable to change our tune if the song we've been singing goes off key. In this case, the old saw "Maggie Gyllenhaal, What The Hell Are You Wearing?" has suddenly gone totally off the rails:

That is awesome, and I love it.  All her everything is in the right place and she looks appropriately formal without looking predictable or prom-y. The navy and the black are chic, but she still -- refreshingly -- looks sort of  unusual without giving the impression that she picked up her outfit at the Hipster One-Stop Irony-In-Dressing Shoppe.  Also, Peter Saarsgaaaaaaaarrrddd is rocking his best  "Sure, There's Something About Me That's Mildly Threatening, But You Think It's Hot, Don't You?"  Which is an excellent accessory, I think.

It's great that Nicole Kidman decided to wear a color this year, instead of her usual white or flesh-tone, which only serve to remind us all how bland and dull she is these days. However, listen up, Nic:

a) We wish you were still a deeper redhead;

b) We're very sorry that you only came upon this dress because you were recently, tragically near-decapitated while ironing the life and moisture out of your hair, and needed an outfit that would help hold your head atop your neck;

c) Seriously, please, Nicole, bring back the red hair, because it will help you look more alive;

d) Consider doing some sympathy-eating with your pregnant pal Naomi Watts, because if you lose any more weight, you will be able to slip through the space between closed doors and the doorjambs, and your husband might resent that loss of privacy;

e) Try not to have your head lopped off again any time soon, okay? You can't wear choking, constrictive neck-bows to everything. Isn't that why your hubby Keith rarely strays from wearing his shirts unbuttoned to his sternum?

f) Stop with the Botox. [Hey, it had to be said.] If you aren't careful, Naomi's baby will mistake you for a doll it can drag around everywhere by the arm, and that is rarely an enjoyable way to pass the time.

Thank you. Have a nice day. Although make no mistake, we're still in a bit of a fight over Bewitched -- I'm not going to get over that one for a while, Nic, and you're just going to have to wait it out. Be sure to tell Michael Caine that he's not off the hook, either, okay? Just because my father faintly resembles him, he thinks he can get away with anything. Not so, faux-Dad. Not so.

At least I can think of one nice thing to say about Anne Hathaway's enormous black bow.

Just kidding. I totally can't. It's huge and it's glaring at me. It is as if one of Sarah Ferguson's famed hair-bows from the late 1980s went rogue from her storage trunks and attacked Anne on the red carpet, resulting in a giant Dark Mark of Shame that's tagging her for impending doom. What's more, it's hitting her body where the dress is the least flattering to it, and all I can think of is, "Surely SOMEONE could have loaned her a body-shaper." Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled she walks among the living -- the normal, flesh-carrying ladies of the world -- but, honey, there's no shame in getting a little help under your lace-curtain gown. And with a massive, angry black bow dragging your chest down to your navel, you need all the extra help you can get.

At least it's not bigger.... wait a second, that's a compliment, right? So what if it's so backhanded you can practically see the marks from my knuckles imprinted on it as I whipped my hand across its inky folds. At least the bow isn't devouring her entire body. Phew! I did have a nice thing to say. The dress didn't make a liar out of me. My mother will be so proud.

What is the DEAL with Eva Green? She was so hot in Casino Royale, but every time she appears somewhere under the auspices of playing herself, she shows up looking like she's an emissary from the undead:

"Beware, human lifeform! I have come to this place for one purpose and one purpose only: to drain your puny corpse of its sweet, salty nectar.  Don't try to escape me, for my living corpse never grows tired and can not be outwitted. I will feast on your brainmeat tonight... tomorrow night... or the night after that. Whichever. But know this! Whenever you lie down to sleep your human sleep, I will pounce! Whenever you close your eyes to think, I will bite! Whenever you look away from your glowing, anemic computer screen, it is I who will standing outside your window. As long as it's dark out while you're working, because I can't leave my apartment until nightfall. But these are details, MORTAL, details. Details that I will work out whilst slumbering the breathless sleep of the undead, details that can not prevent my coming for you. MWHHAHAHAHAHAHA. Also, you should know that, being undead, I can't ever check my hair in the mirror. In case you were wondering. Anyway. WATCH OUT. Your sweet existence-fuel is mine!"

Alas, all that time baking under the fluorescent lights of The Office has cooked Rashida's noggin. She should never have BELIEVED John Krasinski when he told her they'd turned the Oscars into a picnic. Did she really imagine Peter O'Toole would consent to sitting cross-legged on an ABC promotional beach towel with Evangeline Lilly's face on it, munching on tuna salad, sipping weak Mimosas out of tiny plastic cups and trying to figure out if there were ants up his pants or whether his skin was just dancing from the illicit excitement of Jennifer Hudson's boob popping out? I think not. He would NEVER risk getting a chunk of tuna caught in his dentures.

My Favorite Actress of the Past, Diva of Forever Faye Dunaway strikes again:

It was all going so well until we hit the knees, and then it was all downhill from there. I'm just not sure what the thought process was in deciding to purchase this particular gown. "Let's see... kooky ruffle at my knees! Then it sucks in again.... and then, SMASH CUT to a kooky ruffle at my feet! I won't be able to walk AND I'll look like an extremely formal toilet brush! It's PERFECT!" Listen, Faye, my love, my dream mentor, the woman I want to take on Janice Dickinson in a cage match (nothing against Janice, I just think it would be awesome): No ONE wants to look like cleaning paraphernalia, formal OR casual. Especially at the Oscars. Not even you.

At least Cameron ditched the awful red lipstick and softened up her hair color, although we wish she would get it the hell out of her face:

But otherwise, this is kind of an uninspiring sequel to her strangely bridal post-breakup dress at the Golden Globes. Well, that's not entirely true -- it has inspired me to plug in my iron. More than just the strange sailor neckline, I hate that she looks like she's sewn herself into an enormous linen napkin. Thank God they don't serve a meal at the Oscars, or else we could have been in for an incredibly awkward confrontation when an absent-minded Jessica Biel wiped her mouth on Cameron's collar, and Cameron responded by ramming a champagne bottle in her ear and screaming, "Try to work THAT off by running stairs, bitch!" And then, we're all catfights in lily ponds -- totally our cup of tea, actually, and our money's on Cam (definitely a hair-puller, she looks like she might also be a biter) but when all's said and done, Cam will need a hell of a lot of Oxy Clean to get out the stains. Perhaps she should've let them sponsor her by selling some ad space on her train.

Heather and I only saw one elbow of this outfit while watching the red carpet coverage of the Oscars, and yet we knew: It was Sally Kirkland, she of the generally outrageous, Plant-Earth-inappropriate, Endora-from-Bewitched-inspired wardrobe. And so it was:

Seriously, that is SPECTACULAR. In fact, I don't know that I can even say anything that would add to the experience of experiencing this. Just gaze upon it while you eat your lunch, and toast in its healing, wacky rays. I think that's what she's saying, here, in fact: "REVEL IN MY WACKITUDE, PHOTOGRAPHERS! And catch my new magic show at the Stratosphere at 5pm and 7pm nightly."

I was endlessly charmed and amused by Kirsten Dunst whipping out from her purse a crumpled copy of a magazine ad in which two M&M candies are impersonating Joan and Melissa, and asking Lady Rivers to autograph it (and then, after digging through the bag and pulling out blister pads for her brother's feet, exposing his secret shame, she went on what we hope was not a fruitless hunt for a pen). The whole piece of tomfoolery only furthered our suspicion here at GFY HQ that Kiki is not only a good sport but probably fun for a night on the town.

Sadly for her, I though, I was neither charmed nor amused by her dress.

I'm a little overwhelmed, to be honest. There is so much happening here. If this were an episode of Deadwood, I would need to watch it twice, once with the subtitles, just to keep up with what the hell that genius Ian McShane is going on about for so long.

For one thing, as ever, I want to hoist her boobs up a tad higher -- look into pulleys, Kirsten, if bras aren't to your tastes. But the rest of it really just makes us wonder if she borrowed this look from a 16-year old Icelandic rodeo clown who is her nation's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest this year. We have the frivolity of feathers contrasted with a prim neckline, and detailing that veers from vertical faux-fringe to the look of creepy tentacles of frost you sometimes see creeping along airplane windows when you fly at a high altitude during the winter. It looks as if it would shatter if she, say, tripped on her feather fireworks and bumped into George Clooney on the... Hey, wait. WAIT A MOMENT. Maybe that is her whole master plan. She's going to slam into Intern George hard enough for her clothes to break and drop off, all in the hope that he'll sweep her off her feet and carry her away in his burly, strapping, medicinal embrace. Clever, Kirsten. Clever. But if he calls in sick tomorrow, we'll know who's responsible, and do you really want to be the reason this one-man hug machine can't do his holy work? Do you? For once, think long and hard, Dunst. And then do the right thing. Listen to whatever instinct possessed you to wear this dress, and do the opposite.

I love how Lisa Ling has been all, "I want to make documentaries and do serious news! I'm so glad I'm not on The View anymore!" and yet... will make an exception as far as her disdain for entertainment reporting goes in order to host the Oscar pre-show, which is as fluffy and shallow as it gets. Now, a girl has the prerogative to change her mind, Ling's post-View work has definitely been both valuable and educational, and... you know, who turns down the Oscars? So I get it. "I'm over entertainment reporting.... unless I might get to meet George Clooney" sounds fair enough  to me. It's just a shame that La Ling decided to dive back into the fluffy world of the red carpet in her old prom dress:

There's something about the fabric that gives the impression that she's somehow got a black tablecloth (much as we had at my junior prom, the theme of which, I believe, was, in fact, A NIGHT AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS. Now I'm scared) stuck in the back of her minidress, while he uneven bodice and hem give her that, "I totally just made out with my date in the limo! AWESOME. I wonder if I should let him stick it in" look, perfect for when you're going for that whiff of '92. It screams Serious Journalist Has Fun On Her Day Off, no?

Keisha Whitaker is a lovely woman, and this canary color looks pretty on her. So we were all set to like this dress, or at least be open to its potential.

And then she turned around, and we learned our lesson about thinking nice thoughts.

Usually, we spend our weekends lazing around while Intern George makes us martinis, but on Sunday we're making an exception. The good folks at New York magazine's Web site have invited us to live-blog the Oscar ceremony, and since Intern George already asked to take the day off (something about washing his hair; we're not sure), we figured we might as well strap on our cranky pants a day early and do some Sunday snarking.

If you're so inclined, then, check in with our running commentary on either the home page or the Daily Intelligencer's main page on Sunday starting when the ceremony does -- 5 p.m. on the West Coast, 8 p.m. on the East -- or just drop by when it's all said and done.

Then we'll be back here on Monday, as usual, to get down to the real nitty-gritty of fugging the Oscar fashions. We are salivating with glee, and also, at the sheer amount of pizza we will probably consume. Hey, a bitch needs her fuel.

Oh, Rowell. Aside from how completely insane your configurations of hair are on the set of The Young and the Restless -- I will often yell at my TV, "Dear GOD, what HAPPENED to her HEAD?" -- your real-life batty, hatty mischief never ceases to amuse.

Are you sure you want to quit Y&R, there, V? What if it jeopardizes your bottomless cranial decor budget? Oh, the humanity!

Seriously, I think Joan Collins wore a full-size version of that hat on Dynasty. She would not approve of a miniature. Go big or go home, that's our Alexis's motto. Perhaps it should be yours also, Victoria. Want me to flag down your driver?

I miss Halle Berry's kicky short haircut, the one that was practically her signature for such a long time. Not that she can't rock a full head of hair, but the pixie was cute on her and she is one of those rare individuals with a perfect face that can carry off that sort of cut.

However, that's really the only thing I can say about her that isn't a bit disgustingly glowing. Obviously, I don't know her personally, but...

... the woman sure can wear a dress. It'd be very easy for that neckline to look overly constrictive, or to push things down or up or out in an awkward way, or even to sit low enough that the effect is slightly droopy. But not on Halle. Of course. Everything looks properly lush and plump and fluffed, and the sheen of the dress is stunning against her lovely skin.

Bitch.

Damn, I can't even work up a nice, satisfying resentment of her, no matter how hard I try. I'm just happy for her and I kind of want her to take me shopping. Now, as I said, I don't know her, so maybe she's a complete nightmare and likes to wash her dishes with bourbon and eats nails and uses kittens to scrub the bathroom floor. I don't know her life. But it certainly is a pleasure to watch her wear clothes, and she manages to do it without exuding any kind of arrogance -- there's not really any of that "Yeah, I'm hot, you envious sadsacks, and I KNOW IT, so SUCK ON YOUR SORRY ASSES" stuff going on,  nor any desperation for attention; she just seems to go out there and quietly glow and avoid making a spectacle of herself. She is her own best accessory, and she's developed a real knack for picking clothes that enhance her rather than wear her.

Like I said: Bitch.

Sigh. Still isn't working.

[Source]

Okay, Granny Barton, turn up your hearing aid and have a listen: When Julie Andrews tore down the drapes and made them into children's clothes for those crooning moppets, she had the benefit of some very high-quality fabric to use in her forced improvisation. Do not try to achieve the same effect by rip down your cheap-ass mangy old kitchen curtains. For one thing, it's completely unflattering. And for another, when you are skipping around a Swiss mountainside -- yes, we noticed your Frolicking Sandals in your hand there -- it's far too likely a gust of wind will catch your flimsy tent minidress and blow it up over your head, unveiling your girlie mysteries to whatever eager cows, goats, or roving bands of close-harmony singers might happen to be cavorting alongside you.

And chopping up your great-grandmother's good napkins just to make an ill-fitting vest seems a bit unnecessary. Is this all some kind of rage issue against your home decor? Perhaps you need to go stand in the time-out corner at your nursing home. Or be banned from Friday Bingo until you stop wearing flimsy household objects. I'm going to have a word with your minder.

Let's get one thing straight: I love Jennifer Garner. I love her, I love her relationship with Victor Garber, I love her and Ben Affleck together, I love it when she's on with Martha Stewart. I love her.

I do not love her in this, sadly:

Obviously, this is not the fug that symbolizes the end of the world. Neither of her nipples are visible, she isn't wearing a bucket on her head, and she hasn't got, like, a dildo strapped to her jeans like a tail, or something likewise tasteless and horrifying. It's just so...dreary. She looks like Mary Poppins, if old Mare fell into a deep, deep depression , stopped cleaning nurseries via magical means, and was no longer charmed by her whimsical carpet-bag. Try a spoonful of sugar, J Gar, and a little bit of color. Please!

I have a love-hate relationship with Victoria Rowell's choices in headgear.

Specifically, I hate that she doesn't have a royal wedding to attend or a posh horse-racing event on the horizon, because those are just about the only contexts in which crazy hats belong. I love a good, gloriously freaky noggin adornment -- Royal Ascot is my Mecca -- but I find them a little random and frightening in the wild.

Victoria's latest crazy offering is strangely wee. And while there is nothing wrong with wee things in and of themselves, I do find it a little bizarre that she's pilfered the hat off a Madame Alexander Mother Of The Bride doll and worn it out on the town. It brings up so many questions, like, say, does she walk around all night feeling a constant tug on that side of her head? Does she get paranoid that it's going to fall off? Does she have to un-bobby pin it if a spontaneous singing of The National Anthem breaks out?

I blame Chloe Sevigny. Why? Because I can.

Occasional fug-victim Lady Victoria Hervey has reappeared at a recent party Radar magazine threw here in Los Angeles:

She's so colorful and festive, like a pinata! A pinata in a dress that really, really makes me want to run over to her, distract her with something shiny, and then quickly adjust her straps so that she doesn't flash the entire party when she leans over the buffet table to grab some mini quiches. The way this fits, too, it wouldn't just be a boob-flash, I fear -- we would be able to see from sternum to shoes, and if there's one thing we've had enough of around these parts, it's flashing. In fact, I'd like to declare a moratorium on accidental-on-purpose nudity at least through the rest of the awards season. A girl just needs a break from nip slips, crotch shots, bum cracks, and what I fear is the next step in this staircase to total public nakedry, wang peeks.  I mean it: I appreciate the male form as much as any other girl, but if C-list man-starlets start strutting around in loose-fitting dolphin shorts or something, I will just lose it. So, please, Celebrity America. For the next few days, please keep your personal business under wraps. That includes making sure that your bodice hasn't drooped so far down your chest that we're a half-second away from being able to flick a Red Hot into your navel. Thank you.

What is wrong with Orlando Bloom in this picture?

A) He just woke up from a 12-hour nap;

B) He just woke up from a 12-hour nap, which he took on the floor of a bar he'd been drinking in for three days straight, and when he woke up his hair was glued to the floor by a paste made of vodka and beer so they had to cut him free;

C) He just woke up from a 12-hour "nap," taken because he borrowed Tom Cruise's Flowbee and it was a little too hefty for him and it flew out of control, conked him in the head, and knocked him out cold;

D) He just woke up from a 12-hour nap and saw girlfriend Penelope Cruz in her brown-bag dress and said, "Don't worry, love, if I show up with bedhead this raging, nobody will notice that you look like you came free with purchase of the jumbo-sized Jack Daniels bottle."

We hope the answer isn't D, because if it was, well, he failed spectacularly. Together, they look like the ingredients that might've led to B. And, frankly, B doesn't necessarily preclude C, as without the crutch of mild insanity, one would be most likely to use a Flowbee while still under the thrall of Captain Morgan.

So perhaps, in some combination or other, the answer is All Of The Above.

Oh, Penelope:

You're such a delicious dish: why would you serve yourself in plain brown paper wrapping like this? It it perhaps an environmentally conscious statement on the  wisdom of using paper rather than plastic bags at the supermarket? Because I was always taught to bring my OWN bag, and therefore, you should be wearing a green sack that reads WHOLE FOODS on the side.  In other words: NICE DRESS, TREEKILLER.

Okay, first of all, let it be said that I know Emmy is in a fashion show here (The General Motors TEN show, which...I kind of don't know what the purpose is of said show, other than to show off new GM cars and....something something charity something. Anyway), and probably didn't pick this out for herself. Although I don't know how these fashion charity hoo-has work. Maybe they brought her in one day and showed her a bunch of stuff and she said, "I WANT THE GIANT ORANGE ONE," and then swept out. (My perception of her may be influenced by the fact that I overheard someone at Fashion Week dishing about having to deal with her for a shoot, and that someone called her "an 80 year old diva in a 25 year old's body." Anonymous Mag Staffer was NOT a fan.) But whether she picked this out herself, or someone (who hates her) picked it out for her, this is a bit too Orange Julius, don't you think?

She would taste just DELICIOUS with a Southwest Chili Dog! Where is my straw?

Times are depressing for a lot of musical acts that are, or were, near and dear to our hearts here at GFY HQ.

Obviously, for starters, Britney's in rehab -- which, although the best place for her right now, is still no less a reminder of her whole mess of problems -- and Whitney might be on her way back but she's still been off the musical radar for a long time due to Bobby Brown and the emaciation and the bad wigs and the alleged interventions and rehab. Our onetime betrothed (both of us, and indeed also just about every girl from the Wham! generation) George Michael can't not get arrested, Elton John only ever comes up for air if he wants to shoot off his mouth about someone, Scary Spice is having that nasty little paternity brawl with Eddie Murphy, Madonna may or may not be stealing babies, Freddie Mercury is still dead no matter how hard we pray to a higher power that we'll wake up and find out he's just fine and ready to go on tour again, J.Lo (yes, J.Lo -- don't look at me that way; "Jenny From The Block" is REALLY freaking catchy) is getting booed off the stage at Berlin Film Festival screenings of Bordertown, Bret Michaels has decided he must resort to lady-hunting on the set of his own reality show, Lionel Richie can barely concentrate any more on all his ceiling-dancing because his daughter's up on DUI charges and may still need to be asked to eat, Julie Andrews still hasn't gotten her voice back after that botched surgery and probably never will, Olivia Newton-John has a suspiciously missing and presumed-dead boyfriend and the tragedy is almost certainly derailing any plans for the Xanadu revival at the Hollywood Bowl we are CERTAIN she's been planning, and sweet God, we have NO EARTHLY IDEA what has become of Kenny Loggins.

And that's just what's coming off the top of my head. Why, God? Why all the trauma? Why is MICHAEL BOLTON the stable one?!?

Thankfully, in times like these, the big lug up above -- or whoever's pulling the strings on this thing -- sends us a sign. A calming beacon we can use to brave these tumultuous seas. And that beacon right now is Tina Turner.

Every day, writing for Go Fug Yourself teaches me something fresh. For example, I didn't think I needed to see any proof of why running around town in what amounts to a romper might not be an attractive idea, and I was fairly sure I didn't require further convincing that a nice, thorough mirror-check before leaving the house is always a spectacular idea.

But, silly me, it's always worth seeing proof.

Thanks to either the bagging or the weird tricks of the light achieved by this startling formal-shorts onesie, Maria Menounous -- a lovely young entertainment reporter whose figure is tough to ruin -- looks rather like she's packing heat. The horseshoe on her belt buckle hasn't so much brought her luck as merely presided over the birth of a crotch bulge.

So if anyone out there has been pondering destroying all the mirrors in his or her house, this phantom scrotum ought to bring you back onto the path of sanity and necessary vanity. And indeed, lest any of you be sitting at home with marinara stains on your rapidly self-untucking shirt thinking, "FORGET IT. I give up. I'm getting a romper. And I want it made of shiny material so unnatural I could just wipe it off with a sponge next time I spill my pasta," well, then Maria's Mystical Sac of Tricks should be proof enough that this idea can come back to bite you in the ghostnads.

It's a tough enough world out there as it is, ladies. Don't make it worse for yourselves. Be strong, be vigilant, and above all else, don't let Polterwang happen to you.

It's getting a little tiresome to see the otherwise lovely Charlize Theron constantly looking so pinched and borderline duck-billed. It's not a problem she has all the time; just a good percentage of it, so I don't think DNA is the issue. Hard to say what the true culprit is, though: I don't know if it's a trick of makeup, or if she needs a better red-carpet coach to remind her that she can smile a little and still look sleek, or if she is just plagued by chronic canker sores burning their ulcerous ways through her gums. Whatever the problem, I hope she fixes it, because she's too pretty to keep running around looking perma-puckered.

SAMUEL L.: So listen up, here, Ricci. I'm going to tell it like it motherf***ing IS.

CHRISTINA: What? You don't like the dress? Are you kidding me? I didn't get all dolled up in this awesome fuschia gown just so...

SAMUEL L.: Chill out, Christina, you look great, but I'm going to tell you one thing: It's motherf***ing COLD outside!

CHRISTINA: I know, but seriously, I look totally hot, and I just thought...

SAMUEL L.: Listen, I know you thought, "Oh, Samuel L. is a wacky old mess, showing up in that weird motherf***ing argyle sweater..."

CHRISTINA: It DOES look a little bit like you stole it from the notebook of the Physics Club president, who was designing it for their national competitions.

SAMUEL L.: Did I ask for your motherf***ing input, motherf***er? I don't CARE if you think my sweater looks like it's waiting for some snot-nosed 16-year old motherf***er to go through a gangsta-thermodymanics phase, o-motherf***ing-kay?

CHRISTINA: Uh...

SAMUEL L.: And I don't CARE if you're motherf***ing tired of seeing me with motherf***ing hats on, and I don't EVEN care if my coat looks to you like I think I'm in motherf***ing Wisconsin hunting  motherf***ing deer. You get me?

CHRISTINA: It's... a little help here, anyone?

SAMUEL L.: I'm Samuel motherf***ing L. motherf***ing Jackson, okay? And not only do I wear whatever the motherf**** I want, but I look motherf***ing FINE in it, too, because I am a BAD-motherf***ing-ASS. And what this bad-motherf***ing-ass wants to tell you is, you look COLD in your sleeveless dress with your pink frostnipped frozen face, okay? So maybe you should faux-fur-line that motherf***er, or buy a hat, or a motherf***ing mathlete-quality argyle sweater, before your arms fall off. CAN YOU MOTHERF***ING DIG IT?

CHRISTINA: You know what? You're right. It is cold, and my face is about to freeze off. I can dig it, Samuel L., I motherf***ing CAN!

SAMUEL L.: Damn, girl, watch your language. There's really no call for that kind of talk. Lord! Somebody get this girl some mouth-soap.

I'm sure actress Amy Lavere is awesome in Black Snake Moan, and hear (thanks to Google) that she is a very talented musician.  So props for that. I was in Glee Club for four years running and never figured out how to read music. I just stood between two loud people and faked it. People who don't have to fake it are impressive.

However...

I kind of see where she's going with this. It's like sort of flapper-y, sort of Christina Aguilera-y, sort of Big Ed's Deep Sea Fishing Emporium, sort of Mike and Al's Hammockateria, sort of Lulu's Dental Floss Palace, sort of Ye Olde Macrame Shoppe.  Yes, yes: I get it. A brave choice, really.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

I'd been wondering what actress E.G. Daily has been up to since the halcyon days when she stole "Smelly Cat" from Phoebe Buffay, and so I was very intrigued to learn she's been moonlighting as a macigian's apprentice. However, I was saddened by the tragic turn her story has apparently taken, thanks to an unsuccessful experiment with crossing the old "saw a girl in half" chestnut with an invisibility trick, which left poor E.G. forever matched up with someone else's lower half.

Well, so the legend goes, anyway, but I for one am inclined to believe it. Why, if there is a more logical explanation for why her top looks torn off a wedding gown or a prom dress while her skirt is a bunch of sewn-together tablecloths, I'll surely eat my hat. Or at least eat a really big meal somewhere near it.

Okay. That's it. That is IT.

Y'all bitches are trying to make me crazy, right? Is that what this is? Because of my whole blue-in-the-face, "Oh, God, please stop because I don't have that much more to say on the subject and I just want to go lie down because it's making my head explode" vendetta against frocks over trousers, are you just goading me into strapping myself into one of those little white coats that ties my hands around my back? Is that the plan? Well, I have news for you, ladies -- and that includes you especially, Miss Mya, who I'd forgotten existed until you showed up at the NBA All-Star Game in your loud wrap dress over JEANS and ugly straw platform shoes. And that news is: It's NOT GOING TO WORK. You will not defeat me and send me running for a straitjacket. I am stronger than that, and also, I look REALLY BAD in white. So suck on THAT and leave me in peace. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to curl up all fetal in a corner of my house and rock back and forth slowly, brushing the hair of an old My Little Pony I found in a memorabilia box while muttering, "Why... why..." and drawing jolly pairs of pants running free all over the wall. Thank you for your time.

NIC CAGE: Kelly, lemme tell you something.

KELLY CLARKSON: Is it that you were so taken with how good I look in this color green that it took you twenty minutes to realize that, despite how fetching the shade is, it's attached to a set of overalls, and that's only okay if you are a farmer, in the late stages of pregnancy, or trapped in 1996?

NIC: No.

KELLY: Is it that you like me with my hair this length, and you're glad I'm not blonde anymore?

NIC: No, although that's true.

KELLY: Is it about From Justin to Kelly? Because if it is, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring up Captain Corelli's Mandolin.

NIC: That film was a sensitive exploration of...something! Love, or Italy or something! Sensitive! You wore a SKIRT OF TIES in From Justin to Kelly.

KELLY: And I rocked it.

NIC: That's not what I was going to say, ANYWAY, before you get all DEFENSIVE about your TIES.

KELLY: What is it, old man? I'm not going to marry you, either, just so you know.

NIC: You're sassy. I like that.

KELLY: Please don't do this.

NIC: Sorry, I got distracted. I wanted to ask you what you thought of my new look. It's sort of Ghost Rider meets John Wayne plus a little tiny bit of Elvis, because I am obsessed with Elvis and take a piece of him with me everywhere, with just a SPLASH of Stetson cologne. What do you think?

KELLY: I think you look weird.

NIC: Weird? Weird how?

KELLY: I dunno. You're Nicolas Cage. You don't wear cowboy hats. You look like you're going to the funeral of a rodeo clown or something.

NIC: You ARE sassy.  Why don't you scoot a little bit closer?

KELLY: Leave me alone.

My first thought upon seeing this picture: "Dear GOD, I hope Pat Field is wearing underwear..."

We're thrilled for Pat that she's in fighting shape at her age, but that's really more of a swimsuit cover-up -- or a scarf, or a cat-flap at house of ill-repute, or a tube top crossed with a psychedelic welcome mat and turned into the uniforms at a Harry Morton-funded Pink Taco XXX franchise -- than a dress. When you've hit the point where even Carrie Bradshaw would draw the line, you're in trouble. At the very least, Pat, chug some Diet Coke and turn on Passions when you start to get bored with your dressmaking so that you can stay awake, and don't give up weaving right where your crotch needs it most. Be there for your ladypocket; it's been there for you.

What? Like y'all ain't seen a girl having a nervous breakdown shave her head before?

[Photo via Oh No They Didn't!]

I look like an alien, y'all! An alien from planet SPEARS. Or maybe like a....no, like an alien. A sexy, sexy alien.  And everyone can just SHUT UP about how I'm supposed to be on drugs and how I was only in rehab for ten minutes -- I WAS JUST DROPPING OFF A PACKAGE TO THOSE REHAB PLACES, because I am, um....I'm totally working for REHAB MEALS ON WHEELS. It's a CHARITY! -- and how I'm totally losing my custody battle (whatever that even is) and blah blah blah blah. Aren't you happy that I'm not all showing you if the rugs match the curtains anymore? (PS: NOW THEY DO. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA. I'm tired.)

I just wish people would stop paying so much attention to me! Can't a girl get some PRIVACY? I'm just quietly trying to live my life, y'all. I don't know why I have to be FOLLOWED everywhere! It's not like I want all of everyone's attention all the time. Would you say that I'm acting like I want people to look at me? Because I would not.

God, my bald head RULES. I am going to save so much money on extensions and hair dye and shampoo and conditioner and hair spray and more extensions and now I can fire that hairdresser my mother hired after I went on Matt Lauer so I "didn't look like a feral cat."  Whatever, MOTHER, I think feral cats are pretty -- they have blue eyes! -- but now you don't even have to WORRY ABOUT IT. Because lookit, everyone: NO HAIR AT ALL! So SUCK ON it, magazine who said my hair might fall out from over-dying: I'ma STARTING OVER. Like that TV show. Is that still even on? I liked that show. I should go ON THAT SHOW. YES. That is a great idea. I'm going to call my agent right now. I wonder who my agent is.

Okay. Stuff to do. So much to do. So much stuff for me to do. I have to go buff my head and then call my agent about Starting Over and then I need to place ten to twelve heavy breathing calls to Justin and then I need to call J.C Chasez and ask if I can open for him when he goes on tour, just like the old days, and then if he says yes, I need to write some songs real fast and then I need to go buy some beer and then I need to moisturize my tattoo and then I have some other stuff to do that I can't remember and then I need check to in and make sure my little girls are still alive and then I need -- oh, wait, they're totally boys, my bad -- and then I need to go get a sandwich. GOD. I better get on it.

Okay, talk to you later, guys! Bye! Bye! Bye! Why am I so amped right now? Maybe I need to sit down. No. I don't.  Okay! Bye!

LOVE,
BRITNEY.

PS: OR BALD-NEY! HA. I just thought of that. Maybe I should start doing some STAND-UP! HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE? Okay. Bye for real.

Once upon a time, there was a very campy and funny show called Ugly Betty. And on that show, a blizzard rendered the Mode seamstress unable to procure any fabric for an Oscar dress she was trying to make for the next day for Sarah Jessica Parker -- presumably failing to realize that she needn't have bothered because there's no reason to invite Sarah Jessica Parker to the Oscars these days, unless you are seriously thinking that the event won't be complete without the entire Failure to Launch cast present, in which case, strap in, Hollywood, 'cause Terry Bradshaw and his dunderheaded brand of "wit" are comin' to town.

At any rate, the lady ended up making a dress out of old magazines and bubble wrap. This sordid tale ended well, though, because SJP pulled out (or maybe the deal never existed in the first place and was all a manipulation, but that's getting too deep into the wenchy workings of Wilhelmina Slater), and so nobody had to be seen in public wearing a dress that really still pretty much looked like it had been made with a bunch of crap from somebody's attic.

Unfortunately, though, Naomi Campbell may not have realized the episode was pure fiction, and that Project Scottish Seamstress-ing herself a competing confection might not have been wise.

Scrunched-up plastic, some old fabric strips... it's better than a bodice made of cutouts from Mode covers, but it still doesn't look terribly comfortable. Maybe this is all part of some anger-management training: Stick her in a froofy, scratchy nightmare and see how long she can maintain the happy face. So far it looks like she's doing just swimmingly, but just wait until she has to sit down and it digs up into her nethers. Then the Naomi we know and love will come roaring to the fore.

ATTENTION RESIDENTS OF LONDON:

It has come to our attention that Kimberly Stewart is running around your beautiful city WITHOUT PANTS* ON:

BE FOREWARNED.  Making you, therefore, forearmed. Perhaps pack an extra pair of pants or a skirt when you leave the house, so that in the event you see Pantsless Kim, you can TOSS them at her and run. DO NOT become alarmed if you see her sans pants -- this is simply her way of attempting to get your attention or to fool the nearsighted ones of you to believe she is Sienna Miller. DO NOT FALL FOR IT.  Be vigilant! Be strong! She'll be back to Los Angeles before you know it.

*What we in the United States call pants. According to recent email, our British friends use "pants" to refer to undies. I thought y'all called those "knickers." WILL WE NEVER UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER? Anyway. She's not wearing TROUSERS. I have no idea if she's wearing pants, panties, underwear, undies, knickers or any kind of lingerie at all.

I'm beginning to think that Nelly Furtado just can't win with me.

She's not wearing pantaloons. She's lost the bangs. And she's broken through her pouty-face phase, possibly no longer besieged by the collection of foul smells that may have contributed to her sour and snooty expressions. You'd think this would all be a recipe for success, and yet, I'm still frightened by this photo. So what gives?

It's not the dress. I don't love the whole Bedsheet of the Future aesthetic it's got going, but it doesn't outright offend me either; it's basically Switzerland. Well, not exactly -- Switzerland is neutral in its own feelings, not in how it inspires others to feel, and indeed, I actually rather like Switzerland. The chocolate! The skiing! The scenery! The chocolate! Perhaps if she were wearing any of the things I adore about Switzerland, I'd like the whole thing a lot better. In fact, I just watched a special on The Food Network last night about people who made gowns out of chocolate, and models had to wear them down a makeshift runway. I'd love to don the little flapper-style one, assuming I could sport it at, like, an Ice Bar or something, where the chocolate wouldn't melt against my skin and make me a walking food fetish. More likely someone would just discover me in a darkened corner surreptitiously gnawing on my skirt.

So, what I'm saying, and rather badly, is: It's not the dress. And as much as I don't like the shoes -- T-straps make all but the skinniest of legs look chunkier; see also: Beyonce at the Grammys -- it's not that, either. No, unfortunately for Nelly, the problem here for me is her face. Specifically, her makeup. The scarlet lip and the dark eyes look messy and overdone, almost as if she let her child do it for her. The hair looks windblown and dry as a desert. And is it just me, or does her forehead look like it needs to be scrubbed? Possibly twice? It's like she's a bad wax-figure version of Nelly Furtado -- created by a bitter Madame Tussaud employee who can't get "Promiscuous" out of his head and really, really hates the Steve Nash reference, because it's a horrifically clumsy lyric -- that may have accidentally started to melt.

In conclusion, then: Nelly is, as ever, a work in progress, and I need to go buy a bag of those Cadbury's Mini Eggs.

Dear Berlin Film Festival,

Like many film festivals held in countries that are not my own, you often bring to light actresses and celebrities with whom I am not otherwise familiar. I think it goes without saying that this often enriches my life beyond the telling of it, as it does again today, thanks to the impeccable stylings of one Julie Depardieu:

[Insert the holy singing of the angels here.] Thank you, Berlin, for -- during this run-up to the Oscars, when many American and British stars are holed up at a spa wrapped in seaweed, drinking the urine of elk with ostrich dung spread on their faces, praying that the article they read in Virgin Atlantic's in-flight magazine called "Out There Beauty Treaments: THEY REALLY WORK" do, in fact, really work -- bringing Julie Depardieu to my attention.

This photo raised some questions for me. The first one was, "Is this person a child? She's dressed like a child, but she looks kind of rough for a kid." The answer is no.  Mademoiselle Depardieu is a healthy 33 years old, a bit too old to be wearing what appears to be a costume from the Christmas party scene in the Nutcracker ballet. Add to that the bon-bons in her hair, the fur stole and the boots and we've got a case of full-blown crazy deliciousness.

One of the most entertaining things about discovering a new talent is learning about that person's CV, and Mlle Depardieu's is particularly awesome. She is, of course, the daughter of Gerard Depardieu, who was beloved by Americans for about 10 months, mostly, I think, because "Gerard Depardieu" is REALLY fun to say.  She has a few films on her roster which have English titles, and they are, to a man, fantastic, including:  the just completed Cowboy (how delightfully basic!), the TV series Toilet Zone (I'd say I need to know more, but I do not), and, my personal favorite...Poltergay.

So thank you, Berlin Film Festival. Just knowing that there is a movie out there called Poltergay has greatly improved my morning. Almost as much as the hair bon-bons.

At first, we resisted the idea of fugging Imogen Heap. After all, looking insane is kind of her thing -- the Grammys weren't the first time, nor will they be the last. It's just sort of what she does. There are always big skirts and flowers and the fear that something might come wandering out of her head, only to discover the hard way that it no longer lives in an idyllic pasture. She's a British Bjork, but without that endearing Icelandic elfin quality that always makes Bjork seem a bit confused by all the regular-looking goings-on around her.

However, we've had a change of heart.

What caused us to relent? Well, it would be one thing if, like Bjork, Imogen Heap quietly and unassumingly owned her look and walked up the red carpet and did her interviews and that was that. But, in fact, we hear she paraded up and down and up and down that thing with relentless persistence for the entire two hours before the telecast began, just in case the staff photographer from Grandma Sally's Hicksville Gazette and Crop Report somehow missed her the first forty times she did a lap. That's not somebody who is inherently kooky and doesn't care what people think of it -- that's, "Oh, did you look at me? Are you sure? Maybe you should look at me again. Because, I mean, LOOK at me! Are you going to feature me on your show? Or on your site? Are you? Did you catch the stuffed frog I'm holding? What about the grass? It's real grass! And check the parasol! I look like a deranged and possibly drunk woodland Mary Poppins! Anyone want a spoonful of my sugar, baby? HAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm awesome! Look at me! ME!"

And that sealed the deal. Quirky for the sake of quirky isn't a natural personal style; it's just a big ol' calculated mess.

We would, however, recommend to the organizers that the next time the Queen of the Shrubberies is invited to any kind of ceremony, don't seat anyone behind her. It's sort of hard to see past her cranial topiaries, and on the offchance some creature does wander out from betwixt the reeds and become angry that it's been displaced from the forest, it's best not to run the risk that it'll take out that wrath on, like, James Blunt, or else we'll have to hear his new single "You're Rabieful" approximately 45 times an hour until the end of time.

This is one of those outfits where I feel like I can see where it was supposed to go, and I have to salute the effort -- I love loud, bright prints myself, and Joss Stone has great legs -- while still being like, "Girl, not quite."

Instead of turning out all Awesome And Leggy and Young and Fun and Sexy, this took a terrible turn into Drag Queen Barbie territory (I blame the bracelets. And the shoes. And the last missing inch of the hemline). And while the idea of Drag Queen Barbie is conceptually fantastic, both for lovers of Barbie and drag queens, I don't think it's quite the look young Miss Stone was going for.

Things are a little crowded right now so we're having trouble posting updates, but we'll be back as soon as we can!

Continuing on the theme of people we love to like and hate to fug, Hayden Panettiere is delightful on Heroes. Her hair always looks very healthy and pretty, she's a very talented actress, and she's been doing this since she was a  single-digit age and still somehow manages not to be headed down Cokehead Alley. Maybe she's just better at hiding it than many of her Young Hollywood brethren, but regardless, she doesn't give us a reason to worry that we will have to petition for her to go to rehab after she, say, leaves a club with some human dumptruck like Brandon Davis and falls vulva-over-teakettle into the gutter, giving all of us a vulgar window into her private cavern. Thanks for that, Hayden.

And at first, I thought, "Well, everything seems to be in order with this outfit -- move along; nothing to see here." I mean, yeah, it's a tad beachy for New York in winter, but we certainly saw barer outfits during Fashion Week (to the girl who wore short-shorts with bare legs and a tank top: There is nothing about you that we understand). So we were prepared to give a cursory scroll through the other photos and then move along.

Sigh. We should've guessed it wouldn't be that simple.

As I think we've mentioned in this space before, I love Mandy Moore. I think she's extremely cute, and I love all her recent statements about how she's not going to turn into a toothpick (and I hope she's telling the truth - I think she is). But I loved her long before recent pro-eating statements. I loved her in the under-rated Saved! and as the bitchy mean girl in The Princess Diaries. I loved her in Chasing Liberty (in which she gets kind of naked!). I loved her in How to Deal, which is a terrible movie confabulation of two very good YA books by Sarah Dessen (Someone Like You and That Summer, respectively, which are awesome). I couldn't blame Mands for the bad adaptation. It's not her fault! Besides, I had residual love for her thanks to A Walk to Remember, in which she tragically dies. I might watch that every time it's on cable, and I might also cry at the end. But beyond all that, I love her for recording one of the best Pop Songs With A Spoken Interlude In the Middle ever: "Candy." Now, of course, the very BEST PSWASIITM is arguably "Oops, I Did It Again," but it's hard to not be charmed by the words, "You know who you are/Your love's as sweet as candy/I'll be forever yours/Love always, Mandy," especially during this run up to Valentine's Day.  So it always really pains me to tell Mandy that her look sort of didn't work. Although, judging from her face, it sort of looks like she already knows:

Mands looked totally uncomfortable throughout the Grammys, and while maybe her belt is just pinching her, I think she's suddenly become aware of the fact that her dress is made of fabric most recently seen covering throw pillows at a Days Inn.

When I was a wee lass in high school, I -- like many of my classmates, and the rest of the country -- loved Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U." There was much listening to that cassingle while staring out the window instead of doing my geometry homework. (Imagining, of course, that I was looking out on a romantic and rainy heath, across which, at any moment, some desperately handsome Heathcliff-type man would come stumbling, desperate for my adolescent love. The year we did geometry was also the year we read Wuthering Heights.) And if you had asked me what I thought Sinead O'Connor looked like most of the time, I would have guessed that she looked very beautiful, as she was on the cassingle cover, and also very sparsely chic, due to what was obviously a serious case of heartbreak. (I imagined, at that age, that when one was heartbroken, one generally dressed like a wan and gorgeous goth as outfitted by Prada.) And if you'd asked me what I thought she'd look like fifteen years later, this is not exactly what I would have pictured:

Those two girls in the back are with me: "Is she in her nightgown?" "I know it's cold, but is she wearing Uggs?"  "She looks like she just threw her overcoat on in order to run out and get the newspaper." "Oh, SINEAD."

Oh, Sinead, indeed.

You know what, John Legend?

I'm probably supposed to think it's charming to show up with the bow tie undone, hanging languidly against your popped-open shirt which reveals just enough of what looks like a freshly waxed and/or lubed-up chest; I'm sure you expect me to think it's all just effortlessly cool, suave, and macho. But here's the thing: I don't. I find it pretentious, John Legend.

That's right. I said it. You're trying very hard not to try, and it shows. Your paradox bores and annoys me. I feel like you're standing there quietly urging me to think you delicious and sex-on-legs because you couldn't be bothered to do up the tie, and yet, all I can think of is how smarmy you were in your red-carpet interview and how much thought I suspect you put into this, and how many man-hours you spent staring at yourself in the mirror cocking your finger guns at your own reflection before you decided that leaving your second-storey barn door halfway open (with the deadbolt undone to boot) was really tantalizing.

But, the thing is, I don't want to lay you down; I want to pin you against the wall long enough to do up your buttons and make a bow-tie out of those lazy flaps. And I further suspect I am not the only one who feels this way. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for deviating from the classic cool of a tuxedo, but not by simply failing to put it on completely. On purpose. Because you thought it looked really bitchin'. That feels way more like a greasy old nugget from Jeremy Piven's bag of tricks than the kind of stunt you would pull, John Legend. Reload and fire those finger guns again, sir. Be smooth, not stupid.

Carrie Underwood has a habit of showing up at award shows looking like a million bucks on the red carpet and then changing into something that makes her look more like five bucks. Behold:

Red Carpet:

"What a cute girl," you might say. "I love things that are sparkly. She looks sexy and age-appropriate!"

And then:

Brilliant -- a dress and a cushy little tuffet all in one, so when her shoes start to massacre her feet, Miss Muffet up there can just lean backward and sit. Excellent thinking!

We should probably just be content with the fact that Jay Manuel is not as orange as a cheddar omelet, nor clad in enough pleather to render costuming The Matrix IV: Mo' Matrix, Mo' Problems nigh on impossible.

But you guys know by now that we're never truly content, right?

Wicked leopard moccasins, Jay, but no matter how hard you try, the post-party won't get moved to the heyday of Studio 54 -- the design for the flux capacitor got lost forever when Dr. Emmett Brown disappeared on that flying Wild West-era train with Mary Steenburgen in tow. [Oh, God, we wish we could erase that movie from our minds, but every so often it burps itself back up in our brains like chunky, rancid mind vomit.]

Maybe in these flared, leisure-suited times of distress, we can turn to Tyra Banks for a sweet dose of sanity -- don't know if you've heard, but apparently she's deemed herself the voice of a few generations of women, so I personally am dying to hear what it is that we're all trying to say. Take it away, Tyra.

In a split second, the Black Satin bandits had struck again, ambushing Emily Watson on the red carpet with their carelessly wrinkled bolts of fabric and draping it into the baggiest, least flattering outfit their fast-pinning hands could create; then they disappeared from whence they came with the kind of ruthless efficiency one generally only gets (but doesn't expect, as no one expects it) from the Spanish Inquisition. Emily, galled and terrified, could do nothing but stand there and try not to wail at this senseless act of fashion violence. We can only pray these terrible tailoring terrorists are caught swiftly and punished to the full extent of sartorial law -- perhaps, say, forced to wear formal shorts in public, with leggings, a gold-lame swim cap, a loudly patterned spandex poncho, and Ugg boots. On a 90-degree day.

"Hey guys!

What's up? I'm totally running late. My ice dancing recital ran WAY over because I couldn't find my left boot and all this other drama happened behind the scenes, like, you have no idea how crazy it is on the ice-dancing circuit, man, and I totally didn't have time to change out of my outfit so I'm here at the Grammys in a costume designed to convey the drama and glamour of  Swan Lake if it happened at Xanadu, because that's what our routine is -- my partner Fabrizo made the most awesome mash-up called Xanadu Lake and I play a duck that's also a Muse and I die at the end, it's totally touching, and we would have won if I actually knew how to skate, which I don't, as it turns out -- and, anyway, I really hope no one realizes that I was actually supposed to be here in a totally different outfit. Also, I might have gotten my bangs caught between the blades of Fabrizo's skates one of the times I fell down. Do you think they have any alcohol inside?"

When she finds a genre, Sienna Miller really goes for it. First it was boho, and now it's octagenarian: she went from granny panties to Granny's sofa.

Hey, give the girl a hand -- at least she's committed.

And we're back! We had a last bit of fun at Tommy Hilfiger -- a show we didn't expect to pan out into anything, but which ended up yielding a semi-fresh crop of people that did not include Alice Cooper, unfortunately -- and did a wrap-up post with some bits and pieces that didn't make it into the other daily stuff, and then we hopped a plane and flew back to warmer climes.

So what did Los Angeles do to welcome us back? Why, it played host to a 12-hour cold, rainy front, with the clouds settling in almost exactly as our flight landed. Granted, it was a brief moment of misery, but we can't ignore the timing -- we're trying not to be offended by that, L.A., but you are on VERY THIN ICE for that little piece of potential symbolism.

With thanks to the folks from New York magazine's online crew, we're now back to our regularly scheduled fuggings.

The celebrities are continuing to play hide and no-seek, except for the same old faces. We wish we had great first-hand stories of catching Britney in the bathroom hoovering up something illicit, but alas, we haven't seen anything much more noteworthy than Anna Wintour acting blase when Diane von Furstenberg crouched by her seat to chat.

• Jeffrey Sebelia loves Vera Wang.
• Here's hoping Miss J. really does come out with an album; until then, we'll have to keep ourselves warm with memories of him instructing reporters at Badgley Mischka to call the boring blonde singer next to him a muse.
• Man falls six feet out of seat at Y-3 show; people care more about French soccer star.
• Oh, Amber Tamblyn. You can't have it both ways -- either you attend the shows you're fortunate enough to be invited to (like Anna Sui, among a bunch of others), or you deride them as bullshit. Grow up.

We've seen Rachel Zoe around enough that we're pretty sure she's going to start recognizing us, figure out who we are, and have us killed and/or skinned for our impudence. Aside from fearing for our lives and a few really maddening incidents involving subway trains deciding not to run, we're plugging along and heading into the home stretch.

• Rachel Weisz looked super hot at Narciso Rodriguez; we didn't mention it in the piece, but according to the photo sources, the scraggly orange-turtlenecked man with her was apparently her husband, Darren Aronofsky, looking a bit more like a faintly bloated McConaughey than we thought he did. Huh.
• Paris Hilton was allegedly too hung over to show up at Heatherette; conversely, the experience of trying to get into that show was so maddening AGAIN that it drove us to drink.
• Finally, we have a reason to write about the other Fergie.
• A runway show at a venue with a floor made of bathroom scales? Yep: Too good to be true.
• Last year Posh was all for Proenza; sadly, this year, the show lacked Spice. (Har, har. Yes, I am ashamed of what I've become, thank you.)

After two days of freezing temperatures, we realized two things: We are much tougher than we thought, and wearing three pairs of socks at once is really not all that uncomfortable.

We miss updating and are eager to get back to whatever Oksana Baiul is barely wearing, but thanks for your patience. Here's a couple links, just in case any of you still think we're lying about our whereabouts and are actually sunning ourselves in Tahiti.

• Rev. Run sat back and let Betsey Johnson preach fashion to him.
• What's that on your ankle, Michelle Rodriguez? Gotten into some trouble lately?
• Max Azria had the balls to send skinny girls down the runway to a song about how big girls are beautiful. Amusingly wry, or just asshattish?

When Accuweather.com told us that we'd be enjoying the winter-fresh breath of an arctic blast - excuse me, ARCTIC BLAST -- on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, we chuckled a little and assumed the forecast was just going to be wrong. I mean, they're always wrong, right?

Wrong. The weather reports promised increasing misery and subzero windchill, and boy, did New York deliver. We are currently planning to write a book entitled Fahrenheit Minus-10, so named for the temperature at which our exposed skin starts to turn pink, wither away, and fall off into the lap of Anna Wintour as we scurry past her in the tents.

However, we lived. So far, anyway. And we made it to a few more shows.  Here's the latest:

• J.C. Chasez blows Jill Stuart up with his love
• Kim Cattrall was at Carolina Herrera, looking much healthier than when she was Samantha.
• Handbag designer Lulu Guinness waited with the plebes at Matthew Williamson.

Fashion Week has been frustratingly devoid of clusters of interesting celebrities -- well, at the shows we've been to, anyway. So we've been reduced to discussing the follicular issues of Trump offspring.

JESSICA: Who's that guy over there? The press is kind of into him. He's handlng it well, too.

HEATHER: I can't tell. He has really weird hair, though. He looks kind of like an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Oh, it's a Trump.

HEATHER: So, definitely an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Aha, yeah, the girl he's with is Vanessa Trump -- she's married to Donald, Jr.

HEATHER: That must be who the dude is, then. Wow. I guess that right there refutes any argument that Donald Trump's hair is fake.

JESSICA: Seriously. He's clearly passing that mess down the line.

HEATHER: Unquestionably a Trumpian eruption.

JESSICA: Never say that again.

The Trump in question turned out to be Eric, brother-in-law to Vanessa, who kept her company at the BCBG presentation and was -- to give credit where credit is due -- very cheerful throughout the whole dog-and-pony show of getting your photo taken, shaking hands with socialites you probably don't really care about, and watching a bunch of women's clothes come down the catwalk.

Other than that, though, it's been lots of Mary-Lynn Rajskub of 24, with a healthy dose of Kelly Rowland, and a tragic missed Britney sighting at Baby Phat. Until we can update regularly, come visit us at the New York magazine blog via the Show & Talk page or the links below.

• Alicia Keys Is Bored With Tracy Reese, Life: Sunday, Feb. 4
• No, we weren't kidding -- they were actual trash bags on models at Alexandre Herchkovitch.
• Damn you, Britney, for escaping us at Baby Phat.
• Nobody loves heart disease, but that doesn't mean we had to love the Heart Truth Red Dress Collection show, although Billie Jean King waltzing down the runway to "Billie Jean" was pretty outstanding. Almost as good as Katharine McPhee nearly colliding with Danica Patrick at the top of the runway, which caused organizers to change the flow of the celeb models' exits.
• Fashion Week thinks we're fat. Seriously.
• Liked Baby Phat? Then you'll love the fall efforts from Rock & Republic; needless to say it terrified us.
• When the all-musical hour of 24 comes out -- picture it: terrorists unleash some gas that causes Los Angelenos to break into song and dance numbers at inopportune times -- Chloe will be favoring us with clog dancing.

Assuming we can see anything through our layers of coats, scarves, sweaters, and general paranoia about the cold, we will once again be covering Fashion Week for the good folks at New York Magazine's Web site.

This means, sadly, that our ability to update in our regular style will be severely hindered. Yes, there's plenty of shows to see and maybe even the odd party to attend (at which we'll stand in the corner, observing celebrities frolicking together in confined spaces and generally trying to fly under the radar), but aside from that there are a lot of Bellinis with our names on them in the city of New York, and it would be rude to let anything stand in the way of accepting them.

You can catch up with what we're doing, and writing, on the Web site's fashion blog; our pieces are entitled "New York Fugging City." But we'll also try to post direct links and the odd photo here, too, as well as any anecdotes we just couldn't work into our regular work for them, so check back in the hope that we've been able to do that. No promises -- things get kind of hectic over there -- but we have the best of intentions. Which, okay, the road to Hell is paved with those, but honestly, we already have a top-notch table reserved there for us, so it's fine.

We'll return to posting in our regular style on Monday, Feb. 12 -- just in time to mop up whatever messes people leave behind on the Grammy green carpet.

God bless awards season.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: your discusting

I think who ever edits or writes this site must be sooo jelouse of pretty people beacause you must be so ugly that you have to put people down i hope you are really ashamed of yourself.

Dear Friend,

I... I don't know what to say. You have held up a mirror to me, and I have looked in it, and for the first time, I have questioned the glory of what I see. It took one as brave as you to open my eyes -- the reflection I see needs nurturing, my sweet huggable tart, and I hope the person who can do this will be you. And so I beg you: Can you finish what you've started? Will you take that lint-brush to my man-suit and swipe off the fuzz of negativity that is marring its purity of color? Will you then hold my freshly plucked form against yours and swear we'll never untwine in spirit even if we must break arms in reality?

Hoping we can knit the lint into a quilt for snuggling,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: what we think of britney spears aka slutty mc skank whore

Hello. lets get straight to the point. britney spears, you are the fuggliest bitch i have ever seen you fugly ass trailor trash [REDACTED] doorknob whore. ...i never thought i could see anyone dumber than jessica simpson, but then you had that baby (who you have probably dropped on its head a few times already) and that [REDACTED] statue of you givin friggin birth on a BEAR SKIN RUG! GOD AT LEAST GET A CLASSY RUG MY GOD!  by the way we all know your really a brunette, and your a disgrace to american (and tibetan) way of life. have a nice day, try not to get [REDACTED] too many times on the way home from yo daddies kickass trailor.

Dear Friend,

You are a godsend, a tall drink of water in the desert of modern interior design. So few people these days understand the value of a really exquisite, tasteful area rug. And yet here you are, preaching the Gospel, as if you peered into my psyche and saw that it needed the healing miracle of a soft 7-by-9 throw. And doorknobs? I love interesting doorknobs. Listen, I'm about to go out on a limb here, Friend -- would you like to go shopping with me? Maybe a day at the Pacific Design center, where we could stroll arm-in-arm through lush fabrics and floor coverings, and perhaps steal a hug or five in front of some velvet drapes? Please don't say no. I've had a taste of your warm form in my tender arms and to deny me a fuller meal would make this a cold winter indeed.

Begging you'll warm up my discontent into steaming hot satisfaction,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

hey girl

Dear Friend,

When greeted with the brusque, "Hey," some people quip, "'Hey' is for horses"; I prefer, "'Hey' is for horses... that we are riding along the beach, awash in the ambiance, hands clasped, a picnic basket and a wicked embrace on a plaid blanket awaiting us at our destination."

[Of course, that scolding little "'Hey' is for horses" nugget only works if you say it out loud, because obviously a horse's hay is spelled differently and when written it looks insane, and oh, now I fear you think I am a silly stallion indeed -- curse the fact that we're not together, whispering sweet nothings into each other's chests during a torrid clinch!]

I need to know more. I have to know more. Tell me everything. Am I to be your "girl" in some kind of saucy role-play? Will it involve a French maid's costume? Dare I hope we might play some sort of kinky Charlotte's Web, in which we laugh, cry, hug, and learn important lessons about how to do all three at the same time while spending a respectful day without bacon?

Please advise, as I have some skirts that need tailoring.

Ladylike kisses smothered in man-scent,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: Hello George!

Hello George if you want a little pore nice girl ,please enter on your yahoo messenger to talk with me. My id is [REDACTED].

Dear Friend,

Oh, your id. Your saucy, naughty id. We all have one of those salacious ids, just begging us to give in to its every delicious whim. To do that, though, would be to ignore the life's work of Sigmund Freud, and all his blood, sweat, and tears would be for naught. As he's dead and I therefore can't hug his forgiveness for such a transgression, I am forced to suggest that we wait before we fully expose our ids' desires.

Don't be upset, pet. No actual space between us could dull the rich, dizzying potency of our electric virtual embrace. I have but to close my eyes and you're in my arms, adorable little pores and all. Let us live this way, moving slowly toward each other, rather than dive into the pool of impulsive sin and longing that our id is so rapidly trying to fill. After all, to plunge in feet-first would be to get water up our noses. Coughing can really harsh a hug's delirious buzz.

So be strong! We'll find each other in our dreamspace.

Swimming breaststroke toward you through the saucy waters of our love,

G

So many questions:

Is she curtsying? Does she really have to pee? Is she about to pounce on the lipstick that she's forgotten to put on? Is she getting ready to make a run for it back to her hotel room to change, having just realized that she's wearing my mother's dining room wallpaper? Will we ever really know?

Everybody was divided about Vanessa L. Williams' crazy Golden Globes ensemble; people either loved it or hated it, with almost no middle ground. We fell into the latter category, not because we didn't appreciate the divaliciousness she was going for, but because we felt it was too all over the place and too overpowering. The fright wig, the dress, the fur -- we didn't know where to look, but the sad consequence was, we rarely ended up looking at her, even though she was visible from miles away.

At the SAG Awards, however, she toned it down to delicious effect.

The color is utterly breathtaking, and the cut of the dress flatters her fantastic figure. But as alluring as all that is, our eye still ends up drawn upward to her best asset of all: her face. Seriously, she is beyond beautiful. Those eyes, the skin, the smile -- it's all divine, so much so that we're deep into girl-crush territory with her. We already adored her occasionally sensitive, often evil, and always conniving Wilhelmina Slater on Ugly Betty, who is precisely the kind of cool, sophisticated Queen Beeyotch that a Fug Girl could only dream of becoming. We want to shop with her, we want to strut with her, we want to study in the classroom of her suavitude, and we want her obsequious and no-less-cunning assistant to kiss our asses and roll his eyes behind our backs and bring us bagels whenever Willie deems it acceptable for solid food to pass our lips. Indeed, should Wilhelmina ever need a pair of devoted interns, we'd be more than happy to put on our bitch boots and step up to the job -- after all, we can pop a bottle of bubbly with the best of 'em, and that's got to be one of the more important skills for the position, right?

This photo merely enhances our already fiery affection for Vanessa L. Williamshelmina, but it's an excellent example of how sometimes, less is more: Instead of going overboard on the accessories or the dress, she let her very self be the primary, and indeed almost only, adornment. And she positively glows. It's a reminder that I should be prepared to do almost anything, even cut a bitch, to look that fantastic when I'm her age. Not that Vanessa L. ever had to cut a bitch. I mean, maybe she did, and if so I'm sure the bitch deserved it, but... you get the gist.

This is not to say we think she should play it safe every time she leaves the house. We're okay with risks, but not when you take every single one of them at once. The next time she decides she absolutely must scrape something off the road and tape it to her head, we just hope she will display a little more restraint with everything else so that her gorgeous, appropriately aged yet simultaneously young-beyond-its-years face still shines. Although ideally, she would start with giant hair that looks slightly less like it cost $3.99.

As if being a lead actress on a successful television show weren't time-consuming enough, Ellen Pompeo has also apparently accepted a job as a massage therapist and Feng Shui consultant on the Starship Enterprise.

You could hide three Shatners in that tent. While I can understand how all the talk of her weight might be bothering her, wearing a billowing tent and a wooden choker that is all too aptly named really aren't tricking us into thinking she's person-sized.