Misc. Awards Shows

Is Amber Valletta pregnant?

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No, I'm not being sarcastic. I am genuinely curious. Google refuses to tell me. If she IS, she certainly looks comfortable in this roomy gown, although I am concerned that the pattern may cause seizures in those around her. And if she's not, she herself may have a seizure of rage when she discovers that people are wondering if she is. Oh, roomy gowns. You're so comfortable...and yet so rife with the potential for hilarious baby-daddy misunderstandings.

Oh, PETE.

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REALLY? You look like PeeWee Herman's denim-obsessed cousin, Levi. Did you truly believe the kids would choose THIS? Did you? THEY HAVE EYES, PETE.
Do you think this outfit is supposed to be symbolic? Like, that Paula feels trapped -- bound by the whipping, chafing chains of being on a high-profile national show like American Idol and having to meet everyone's weekly expectations that she try to look younger and stranger and more in-tune with These Kids Today every time she makes an appearance? To the point where all the stress and pressure chills her to the elbow and forearm bones?

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Or do we think she's just still a total loon by nature?

I think I vote the latter.

Get ready for the return of shoulder pads, guys. According to the New York runways, they're hot for fall; according to Mary-Kate Olsen, they're hot for NOW.

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These aren't even that extreme, but on her they're like tiny little end tables glued to her shoulder, on which someone taller could rest a cocktail during the party. I'm not sure I'm ready to revisit the times when we all looked a helmet and a mouth guard away from throwing a block or sacking the quarterback, but if my shoulders could be in service of, say, Intern George's margarita habit, then maybe I can get on board.

Oh, RACHEL WEISZ. She's normally so pretty, but this weekend...well, we had some issues. Let's start with her look for the Vanity Fair party, AKA Night of A Million Networking Moments:

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I saw this on the runway like two days before she wore it -- this sounds so glamorous, but please believe me when I tell you that seeing it on the runway was book-ended by, like, spilling coffee all down the front of my Gap turtleneck and being serenaded for twenty minutes on the subway by a man who seemed to specialize in soft, yoga-inspired flute-jazz that did not, in fact, make me want to find my deepest chakras but actually brought me to the brink of flute-inspired MURDER -- and it looked much better there than it did on her, even with the white tights and shoes.  I've been trying to figure out why for like the last three days, and I think it might be HER shoes. I love the dress, but I think the cut of the skirt is fighting with the strappy strappiness of the shoes, and, as that ancient proverb taught us, when your lower body can't agree, truly fugly you might be.


And then we had the ensemble she threw together for the Independent Spirit Awards:
Sheryl. Sheryl, Sheryl, Sheryl. SHERYL. You are debunking your own lyrical statement that if it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. Because I think this IS that bad.

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If you thought we'd be too consumed with the Oscars to notice that your petticoat is showing underneath that skirt that looks like an ancient world map drawn by someone who thought we floated in an ocean of blood -- or that you are wearing a bright white bra as a shirt -- then you were sorely mistaken. WE SEE ALL. Thanks, in part, to you wearing a transparent sweater. It's kind of like playing Hide and Seek by standing behind a lamp. Remind me never to tell you a secret, because it seems you're not great at keeping things under wraps.
OKAY, KATY PERRY:

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We're ALL LOOKING AT YOU. Are you FINALLY HAPPY? If we all agree that you deserve as much attention as it is possible for the planet to give, will you cease and desist molesting poor innocent Hello Kitty and LEAVE US ALL ALONE FOR FIVE MINUTES? Thank you.

PS: Also, please stop dressing like a banana. It's ruining breakfast and that's nearly all I've got left.
I do so love a redhead in blue; I'm just not sure I love THIS redhead in THIS blue.

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Not that there's anything wrong with the shade. In fact, it's rather fetching, but for the strange spot near Amy's left armpit. (And the hem, too, I see. Did someone attack her with a fiendish eyedropper?) My beef with the dress is how it manages to be both boring and a bit haphazard at the same time -- almost as if she woke up one day and barked at her stylist, "I love this shirt. Make it into a cocktail dress, please. The tighter the better." So the stylist ran out and sewed a skirt onto it, and Amy smiled and wore it to do the cleaning with all her roach friends from Enchanted, then shoved it back into her closet until the BAFTAs rolled around, at which point she grabbed it and said, "I love this dress. Make it floor-length. With a FISHTAIL. SO FRESH." And voila.

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"HELLO BITCHES! I know. I know. You don't need to say it. I LOOK AWESOME. And WHY? Why do I look so awesome? BECAUSE I AM AWESOME, THAT'S WHY. I was dancing around my hotel room today to the Christian Bale Temper Tantrum Dance Remix -- that kid is so misunderstood, I need to remember to fax him a little poem I wrote about him -- and thinking to myself, 'Sharon, enough with the frocks made from the shredded loins of wee rodents and the bralessness and the terrible eye-makeup that makes me look like I was assaulted by the new boy working the Benefit counter and the wearable/edible pintas and the hat made of corn chips. In this time of massive economic suckery, the world doesn't need Sharon Stone 2.0: The Courtney Love Years. It needs Sharon Stone 1.0: The Sharon Stone Years.' And so I'm BACK, bitches. BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER. Lock up your menfolk and hide the scotch, because I am here to stay! PS: I wasn't sure about the hose with this, and then I was like, WHO CARES? I'm Sharon f'ing Stone."
It's a miracle, you guys:

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Kylie Minogue, who could probably fit into most people's coat pockets, looks almost TALL. I love the dress on her, think the hair is a huge improvement over her bleached-blonde locks of yore, and want the shoes so badly that I am tempted to offer her some kind of trade. Like, my house. Maybe we could do a temporary swap: She can move in next time she's in Los Angeles for however long she needs it, and I will live in my car and wear those shoes all over town and warm myself with the sun's rays glinting off their sparkly gloriousness. Sounds fair to me.

Separately... is it just me, or is this pretty much what Madonna thinks she looks like now?

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