Emmy Awards

Because I KNOW you were wondering:

Unfortunately, the rumor that I owe an armoire bearing a strong resemblance to this dress is not at all exaggerated.

So, we've given the erstwhile Miss Veronica Mars a hard time around these parts, to the extent that I actually checked to see if she had her own category (and if this entry had gone the other direction, I suspect she would have gotten herself one). But lo and behold if she didn't show up at the Emmys wearing a dress that works on her wee proportions, in a beautiful, flattering color, which doesn't appear to have been purchased at Granny Gretel's Dress Emporium and Denturteria:

She is working it. Even Adrian Pasdar behind her appears to be thinking, "thank God that little Veronica Whoshername girl pulled out the stops tonight! I wonder if I can get her to talk some sense into Hayden. Speaking of attractive people, I'm certainly a handsome man, aren't I? I am. Debonair, even. Not many men my age can grow hair like this. I suspect I'm actually out-tressing Dempsey. He's here tonight, don't you think? I'm going to find him and pay people to debate which of us have a better head of hair. Watch out, Loverboy. Here I come."

Sara Ramirez is a dish. Every episode of this past season of Grey's Anatomy caused me pain, because Callie is a) so cute b) so saucy c) so loaded d) so trapped in a relationship that's doomed to failure because -- oh, God, I can't get started on George right now, since I just talked myself into not canceling my Grey's season pass, and I don't have time to have that conversation with myself all over again. However, there's something about this dress that just doesn't light my fire and I can't quite figure out what it is:

Empirically, it's a perfectly serviceable gown. I just feel like she's both looked better, AND less like a bridesmaid. Also, I really really really really want to go up to her and poke my finger through that hole over her hip. I bet you twenty bucks that by the end of the night, almost everyone she knows -- and several people she does not -- will have come up to her, drunk, and prodded her. She is going to have a wee, finger-shaped bruise right there. In fact, if I were her, after a drink or two (or even just if the ceremony got boring), I'm pretty sure I would start at prodding my hip myself.

At first, I couldn't decide if this look frightened or thrilled me.

Ultimately, I decided on the latter, in part because she no longer looks so frail that I'm afraid an errant elbow from somebody's PR rep will snap her in half. But mostly, I decided that I cherish the hair. That is a seriously ballsy big coif -- and not in that way where you suspect she had three people backbrushing it for an hour before using four cans of hairspray. No, it's almost a bit regal, like she's a secret Scarlett O'Hara fangirl.

So, Heidi Klum would look good in a potato sack cinched with baling wire, obviously, although that sounds both stabby and scratchy, but I feel like she kind of outdid herself here:

Do I love the hair and makeup? I don't know. Do I wish Seal had properly fastened his tie and collar? Yes. Are they still one of my favorite couples? Yes, especially since he brought his own camera, which I always find charmingly normal. Do I want to run up to her, distract her with something shiny, and somehow manage to talk her into trading her dress for what I'm wearing (jeans, a tank top and a UCLA hoodie -- extremely chic for the red carpet, no? Very Deconstructed Post-Collegiate Athletic Fan, VERY au courant, tres, tres merveilleux, darlings, perfect for fall, you MUST have it.)? Yes. Yes, I do. I want to wear it everywhere.

Hayden Panettiere looks AMAZING...from the neck up. Hard for her not to, really -- she's so pretty and young and nubile. Which is why I question her decision to raid Little Dakota Fanbelt's closet:

While I absolutely applaud her decision to go modest and demure, if I were as young and nubile as she is, and heading to the Emmys, and recently broken up with my boyfriend, I might have gone for something a bit less Napoleonic Courtier in the Third Trimester and something a little more self-contained.  Although perhaps this is all part of her plan: she wanders into the awards and takes a seat near a dreamy young producer (or assistant, or actor -- it's good to be open-minded about these things), who promptly trods/sits on her dress.

"Oh, I'm so sorry" says the dreamy young man.

"It's no problem at all!" says Hayden.

"Say, aren't you....?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I am."

"I love your work. Tell me all about Jack Coleman."

And thus begins a beautiful new relationship. Clever. Very clever indeed.

If I've learned anything about Vanessa Williams since she took her job on Ugly Betty, it's that she likes to make sure you see her on the red carpet. Well, okay, I've also learned that she's much better with bitchy humor than the abomination A Diva's Christmas Carol previously indicated -- in which, for real, she ended the movie by telling a baby, "Nobody pees on the Diva" -- and that whatever she's doing to look so fantastic at her age, it's working. I hope she e-mails me her secrets, and that they involve a strict eating plan mostly consisting of Diet Coke and cake.

She's toned it down follicularly since the Golden Globes, but her dress is no less pregnant with drama.

The little angel and devil on my shoulder -- although the devil is really just one of many, dispatched by his posse to represent them in this argument because they're on a dinner break -- are locked in an endless debate about whether this is so nutty it's amazing, or just way too much.

ANGEL: It's a gorgeous color on her!

DEVIL: Sure, but several relatives of Big Bird had to die to make that skirt possible.

ANGEL: Oh, relax. It's just bold. It's soap-opera bold. You love soap operas!

DEVIL: Only the ones in which Satan possesses psychiatrists, murderous she-male blackmailers hold a town hostage with its evil deeds, floating heads in powdered wigs make fun of the town witch, and people wear eyepatches despite not being pirates.

ANGEL: Well, this dress would look great in one of those.

DEVIL: It looks like the top part is molting. That thing is going to shed itself stupid all night long. You'll always know whether Vanessa's been in your bathroom stall.

ANGEL: Hmm. That's true. And I am kind of allergic to feathers.

DEVIL: See? You'd be in big trouble if you were sitting next to her.

ANGEL: I'm SURE she packed some Claritin in that purse... But wait, you know they're not REAL feathers.

DEVIL: So what? You're faltering. I WIN.

ANGEL: Fine. I admit it. The first time I saw it, I wondered which showgirl wedding in Vegas was missing a bridesmaid. Happy now?

DEVIL: Yes... Although, hey, at least she tried. So many other people looked boring.

ANGEL: Let's just go open a bottle of wine and watch Center Stage.

So yet again, a vicious battle within my brain ends in a stalemate and a ballet movie. However, now that I've had a soothing glass of shiraz and Jodie Sawyer has changed her entire costume and makeup without ever actually leaving the stage, I'm leaning toward siding with the devil. Vanessa's dress was a delicious idea that, sadly, turned out a little trashier than I like to see her.

My first thought when I saw Jenna Fischer at the Emmys was, "Yay, I'm so glad her broken back is better. I love her."

My second thought, unfortunately, was, "Too bad she was styled by Bed, Bath, and Beyond."

Also, I keep being distracted by Jane Krakowski in the background, where she's looking fantastic and pointing at some dude next to her. I like to think Jane is saying, "Remind me to ask Jenna how much that thing cost -- I NEED that shower curtain for my guest bathroom."

There's a fairly painful commercial running right now for Martha Stewart's new line of stuff -- obviously not effective, since I can't remember what store it's being sold at -- in which Tim Gunn is eagerly holding up bedsheets to a woman's body and crowing about what awesome fabric it is for a dress. And of course Martha has to stroll up and look at him like he's an escaped mental patient, separating him from his poor victim by dragging him off to kitchenwares and rolling her eyes that maybe he'll get ideas for hats from her pots and pans. And wacky ol' Tim trots on after her, cooing about how much he loves hats. While we all sympathize with that in this post-Dynasty era of humorless millinery, the commercial makes me yearn for the days when people didn't ask Tim Gunn to do anything beyond Project Runway, because I feel like he's too polite to say no when everyone loves him so much, and that's what leads to ads like that.

Elizabeth Perkins, though, has made me wonder if the ad is more of a documentary than I realized.

The longer I frowned at this picture, the clearer it became: This is what you'd get if someone asked Silly Ad Version Of Tim Gunn to make an Emmy dress for Ma Ingalls using only what he can find in Martha Stewart's kitchen collection. Even Elizabeth seems vaguely hacked off that she's wearing a tablecloth, as if a photographer just asked her whether the coordinating napkins are sold separately.

I get what Gina Tognoni was going for; really, I do.

It's a statement, yes? It's her way of saying, "I was roped into coming here," right? I mean, that's got to be it. Because I can't think of any other good reason to wear a dress that makes your left breast look a good three inches higher than your right.

Okay, I thought of one: Her ugly stepsisters locked her in a cupboard to keep her from shopping, and a cheerful pack of mice had to make her this dress on the fly (which would also explain all the other random pieces of fabric hanging from this thing). But I'm pretty sure that's not the case. I mean, everyone knows the Three Blind Mice don't do awards shows, and they're the only rodent tailors I can think of who would let a girl out of the house in a gown that looks like the right half of it mysteriously shrank.