Watch out Serena, there's a new diva in town

Dear Roger Federer,

Congrats on your 14th grand slam title! You really are at the top of your game right now and are deserving of all the kudos you are receiving. You are truly a Renaissance man, with all of that skill on the court AND now budding fashionista! Who knew! You have propelled yourself into the highest ranks of dandy gentleman—James Brown, the Pope, and Sargent Pepper.

Such bold Fashion choices you have made...White and Gold lamé, headband, waistcoat, flowing comfy pants. It takes a man with certain type of confidence to pull that off. Also it's a wise move to have your logo all over every article of clothing as well, you travel a lot and things can get misplaced. It's just like writing your name in your underwear for summer camp, only in gold-lamé stitching.

But it's the bag I really need to talk to you about. That is one fancy accessory, it seems like you have a new one for every grand slam that you compete send this one to me. Summer is finally here and I need a new pool bag. Imagine how jealous everyone would be if I had a white and gold Roger Federer original by my side, holding my fluffy Egyptian-cotton towels, SPF 45 and gossip rags. Fabulous.

As for phase 2 of your glamorous make-over, I'm thinking: Scantily clad servants fanning you, maybe a throne (definitely a throne, with your logo at the head), oooo—a cape (with your logo on it) and perhaps a fancy ring (also with your logo), so that when you vanquish your foes, they can kneel at your feet and kiss your fancy ring. Just throwing out a few ideas. Drop me a line I've got a million of them.

Glitter for the street urchins.

Dear Eva Longorrhea,

Don't bend over!

Not even if Felicity Huffman throws a pancake on the floor in front of you. Not even if Tony Parker drops a handful of diamonds. (Okay, you know what? If Parker drops the sparklers, you go ahead and present your rump like a baboon in heat, just scoop up the ice! What was I thinking?) But I digress.

What I'm saying is, you are a lady of means (even on all fours, scrambling for diamonds) and you deserve a whole dress. I am a but a poor lass, begging for alms in the street. 'alf a fancy dress is more than I've 'ad in me 'ole life! (Oh God, apparently I'm also an 19th-century Cockney!)

Now get up off the floor, have a word with your stylist about hem length and send me the shimmery, rainbowy half dress, poste haste. I need to wrap it around Tiny Tim for warmth. You believe me, right?

Bless ye, kind lady!

His and Hers Glitter: Dita at Eurovision


Psssst, Dita,

Hey, I'm a nice girl who likes to help a sister out, so I have to tell you: Your boobs are showing. They are. A little bit. It’s cool, though. I think I have a safety pin. I don't even think that guy next to you saw anything! Say, by the way, I notice your hooters seem to have a touch of the fairy dust where it counts. And now that we're conspiratorial galpals and we share everything, I have to ask: Can you please give me those pasties? I don’t care if the sticky has already worn off. I will just superglue them onto me. That’s how bad I want diamondboobs.

Here's your chance to help a sister out, Dita. I'm counting on you. Thanks.

HIS TAKE (or Nancy's missed opportunity):

Psst "Alex Swings Oscar Sings!" dude,

Oscar (can I call you Oscar? You must be Oscar, right? Cause you're singing and not swinging), LOVE the pants!! Dita is definitely rocking her sparkle teats and she is a lovely drink of water. But let's talk about you for a moment...bravo. Bravo, I say, at your choice of costume! You and Miss Dita are shining (quite literally) examples of the theory to emphasize your best features. I am happy to tell you that Eurovision finally has seen some class upon it's stage. But Eurovision won't last forever and the whole world (except America, of course [side note: HELLO, can we please air this in the USA, please! Come on! Who do I have to blow in programming to get this on the air?]) has already seen these mirrored beauties, so let me have them. I know that I'd have bit of extra manscaping to do, you know down there, but I think they'd be a big hit at the dog park.

Domo Arigato, Mrs Obam(o)

Dear First Lady Michelle Obama,


'K, you know what? I haven't written lately because I haven't seen anything I truly covet. I want to thank you, thank you, Mrs. Obama, for waking me from my greed lethargy with these spiffy kicks. I mean, check you out! You're the wife of the most powerful and coolest world leader on the planet, but you're not swanning in the background in shapeless pastels or stomping around in mannish separates, are you? Nope. Not you, Michelle. (Can I call you Michelle? Cuz I feel like I can.) You are out in front, glittering in cardigans, whooshing in twirly skirts and taking care of business in neato coats. And of course, telling D.C. how it is while wearing...shiny silver and pink sneakers. Wanna be BFFs?

Know what? We should go for margaritas, don't you think? Margaritas...and then J.Crew! Yessss! Um, can you get a Secret Service guy to be the designated driver?

Normally, this is part where I ask for the coveted item, but I'm not going to do that this time. I'm simply going to ask if I can borrow them one time when we're hanging out. Cool? Cool!

Call me!

Inglourious Basterd Boots

photo: Vanity Fair

Dear Mr. Brad Pitt,

Let's get this out of the way...I'm not totally against the 'stache. You are, after all, frickin' Brad Pitt and you've seriously won the genetics lottery. It's dashing in a cheesy Clark Gable-esque way and I'm sure Angelina likes the added stimulation (if you know what I mean).

But I digress. Kudos to the stylist for this look, it's retro in a sexy, stylish way. It makes me think that Inglourious Basterds will be very stylie in deed. But I'm thinking that these are not the clothes one wears for child rearing, and honey, you've got a a lot of spawn running about. The thought of some rug rat puking all over those fine leather boots makes me nervous and queezy.

I offer the only logical solution...hand them over to me. I'll take really good care of them and keep them away from errant bodily fluids. While you are at it, just hand over the whole outfit. I may not wear it all together like you are, that's a lot of look. But let's go through this together: boots—hot, check; corduroy pants—nice, check; sweater—lookin' good, check; Scarf—not my fav, but check; socks—kick-ass with those boots, check; Jacket—winner, check please! Love them all, I'll be waiting patiently by the post box.

Hey you know what? I'll throw in babysitting the kids while you and Angie go out for a burger (please make Angie eat a burger). Deal? Deal.

Green liquid leprechaun pants

Dear Mr. Sasha Baron Cohen / Borat / Bruno,

Jak sie masz? While I'm sure that these green sparkle jeans are played for laughs in your newest movie: Bruno: Delicious Journeys Through America for the Purpose of Making Heterosexual Male (which is an even better title then Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, which until now was, if not the best, then definitely one of the longest titles ever.) I think we need to look at them for their fashion-forward glory that they will bring to the mainstream. Soon everyone across the globe would be wearing shimmering, colored foil pants and every day will be a disco. Can you imagine? The disco-days would be upon us. I imagine world peace and religious tolerance all because who can hate while disco dancing the days away? Imagine if all wars had to be fought in green sparkle pants... I just did and let me tell you, war has never been more fabulous. Maybe we could solve all the aggression in the world with a disco dance-off, I bet we could. So sign me up for the new shiny pants world order!

Listen you've already done your part, you've introduced them to the world. Now it's my turn to wear the pants (so to speak). So pack those liquid lovelies on up and ship them on over to my house. Peace can start with you and me!

Oops, she did it again in one day: TIGHTS

Britney, do you see your legs?

More to the point, how can you see anything but your gloriously twinkle coated pins!

Is this distraction why you, uh, augment your, apply predestined musical sounds...oh, bother...lip sync? I don't blame you, girl. If I had a black sky of scintillating stars covering my lower half, I wouldn't be able to remember to breathe while I talk, fuggedabout "hit me baby one more time," you know?

Britney, I want, I need, I HAVE TO HAVE those tights. Can you possibly bear to part with them?

(Oh, can I have the shoes too? They look so good and obviously go with the tights and I like to get the whole outfit at once when possible. Saves time in the morning when you don't have to fuss with matching.)

I'm not that innocent,

I can see myself in your...

Dear Britney,

Indeed, you are "back."

Only someone who is a "back" as you are could wear a shiny metal bodice to such stunning effect.

But now that you've had a turn at being "back," I want to be "back" too, cuz I gotta have that bodice.

I picture myself moving metallically through life, feeding the dogs, making pancakes, pumping gas, CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, my liquid metal torso deflecting everything from mosquitos, ketchup and lint to...bullets! Divine! I'd be able to put in my contacts simply by looking down! Pretty and handy! You could run on the carpet and then touch me and, ZAP! Electrical shock! Such fun at parties!

Please, Brit, right after you get home from the tour, you bubblewrap that thing within an inch of madness and send it my way. Oh, get your dad's permission first.

I'm back, too, bitches! Zap!

Save the raincoat, save the world.

Dear Zachary Quinto,

You've been Tori Spelling's BGFF, an evil brain-eating Syler (on a show that had so much potential and seriously f'd it up big time) and are now a young Spock, on a Star Trek reboot that looks kick-ass.

Congratulations. I mean it, seriously. I'm a big fan. So look let's get to the point, I'm also a big fan of your coat. There I said it, you didn't have to scalp me and root around in my grey-matter to find out. Obviously you have it all: career, sexy eyebrows and the power of levitation, so what's this coat to you? Donate, please!

Live Long and Prosper!

Weeping Madonna (and child)

Dear Madonna,

I see you over there. I see what you're doing. Calm down.

You've flung yourself on the bed, bawling, and you're using that young man to wipe your nose. (Some of us use kleenex, by the way.)

When I said I wished you'd give me your slinky, pull-it-up-or-pull-it-down, zip-zip-zippy dress because it reminds me of a cool, similarly adjustable dress I coveted in the 80s, I was in no way implying that you are old or culturally irrelevant. I don't know where you get this stuff.

Are you not Sticky and Sweet? Do you not still rock a leotard? Have you not put Malawi on the map? Did you not make out with Britney? And Justin? And A-Rod? See? You're still THE QUEEN.

Now put the young man down, give me the dress, and I'll take you out for an ice cream cone. Okay, a human growth hormone shot. Or a Kabbalah water. As you wish, my lady.

Zip, zip, zip!

I am a danger to myself. The jacket is the answer.

Dear Mr. Calvin Klein,

Noticed your new jackets on the runway, and as I do have a tendency to fall unexpectedly and am often covered in bruises—I do appreciate padding a garment in order to to save one from one's self. Some believe this is self-harm, but I beg to differ—I am really just that clumsy. A "special" person such as myself needs just such a "special" person jacket (preferably in blue).

Now Spring is fast approaching and I'm sure you are having the staff ready the Hamptons Estate, so what good are these coats to you? The air temperature is rising, and this is way too much jacket for a balmy Long Island eve. I'm sure you have a few sample's lying around and you shouldn't hesitate to send one my way. I would boast to all of my friends how gracious you are, how youthful and macho—a rare man among men. Then I'd ask them to punch me in the arm as hard as they could just to see if I could feel it.

Bear hug to Lizzie Grubman for me

Posh Blot

Dear Posh,

Let's compare lives:

I eat pizza.
You saw pizza in a movie once. (Vulgar.)

You have a record number of Hermes Birkin bags.
I saw a Birkin bag in a movie once.

You have a lovely, drapey, ink blot of a dress with a flowy, oozey train that makes you look like a stylish Rorschach test.

I sometimes forget to cap my pen and get flowy ink blots on my clothes that make me look like a nerd after an SAT test.

See? We have ever so much to talk about.

Why don't you come over for lunch (don't worry, we'll just stare at some salads) and bring that dress? Pop it into one of those Birkins...I just want the dress, I promise I won't try to steal the bag. (Psych! I totally will try to steal the bag. I'm going to say, "Did you hear Prada is doing a line for Target?" and while you swoon I'm going to kick the bag under a table!)

And yes I know the dress isn't my size but I can stop eating anytime I want, don't be a bitch.

Air kiss!

Economic blues? Go orange!

Dear Mr. Secretary of the Treasury,

If your financial skills are as good as your tie-picking skills, then you've made a fan of me (IRS problems be damned!) Maybe with all the money you saved by cheating on your taxes you had just enough extra scratch to invest (wisely I might add) in that uber-tie pictured above. Deficits can be scary, but safety-orange is just the thing to calm the masses.

But let's be realistic, that tie has been all over every news outlet for days now—you can't wear it again. There's only one thing to do—roll that baby up and send it to me! Carefully though, we all know how hard it is to get wrinkles out of fine silk. I think this is an economic plan we can all get behind!

Give Obama a kiss from me!

Big British Hats!

Dear Duchess Kiera Knightly,

First of all, big congrats on the promotion to Duchess. That ought to get you to the front of the line, if you know what I'm saying.

Second, I'd like to call attention to your head ornamentation, what we commoners call hats. Now that you're royalty, you probably need to go get fitted for your crown and will not be needing the two wide-brimmed beauties pictured herein. So you know what's coming: Gimme. I live in California, which=sunny, which=protection needed for my lily-white skin (plus they would look fierce with my Uggs). You, on the other hand live in England, which=tea, crumpets and gloomy skies. And don't give me any bs about rain. Are you really gonna trot out a feathered hat in a deluge? Are you ever gonna be in a deluge? No! Your horse drawn pumpkin carriage will whisk you from place to place while mice sew your dresses at home and your tiny feet rest comfortably in glass slippers.

That might be a different story, I'm getting all mixed up. Let me get back to my point: Please have your Secretary of Hattery forward me these toppers. I'm an American; you know I'm just gonna keep asking til you do it.

Hail, Duchess.

My bloodshot eyes need some diffusing

Dear Mr. Transporter-man,

You need to transport those sick shades right over to me, pronto. Look we all know you can kick my ass. You ooze testosterone, you smolder and have abs of steel. These are all very good things, so why must you have it all? You can always snatch a new pair of shades from your latest movie. So don't be a crank and send these cracking stunnaz over to my house.


I love your frakin' dress, toaster.

Dear Ellen Tigh, Fictional TV Character from BattleStar Galactica,

Where'd you get that dress? I didn't see any consignment shops on New Caprica. And don't take offense, but you don't strike me as the stay-at-home-and-sew-from-a-Butterrick-Pattern type of gal. (Boozy.)

So where'd you get it?

If you can't come up with a simple answer and, since you are in fact a TV character--a TV character who only looks human but who is really a pale replica of humanity known as CYLON... a CYLON in a wicked hot dress!!-- I doubt you have an answer at all. Then I think you should, you really should fold that frock up neatly and put it in one of those space capsules made out of titanium and have it shipped straight to me, c/o Planet Earth, Human Race, U.S.A! Woot!

Give it to me and my relentless interrogation will stop, Ellen Tigh, and you can get back to your life, whatever that is, because you're not only a fake person who is a robot but you're also on TV which is fake, which means none of this is real.

Except the dress. The dress is all too real.


It puts the lotion on it's skin-coat

Dear Mr Eric Kim,

So far this year there is nothing so sweet as your motorcycle jacket. It is a work of art, that should be hanging in a museum. I hate you for making me feel this way. Slightly out-of-control, on the verge of laughing or crying—I can't decide. Is this what they call hysteria? Are you making me hysterical at the sight of your buttery, caramel-colored jacket?

Let's face it, this model doesn't deserve to wear such a perfect piece of outerwear. He can't appreciate it's perfection. He probably can't even spell perfection. I on the other hand, would never take it off. I would sleep in it, go to the gym in it and even make love in it. Hell, I will make love TO it. Slow, sweet love. If only you would send it to me. Heck, we're both in the same city, I'll stop by and pick it up.

[finger phone] Call me!

In need of a fabulous Hair Hat Helmet

Dear Mr. Duckie Brown,

I don't live in a cold weather climate, but after gazing my eyes on your dazzling pom-pom hat, I'm considering a move. In truth I hadn't heard of you before but am now worshiping at the altar of Duckie. Any designer who thought to himself, "With all the troubles in this world, well, the only solution is pom-pom." Guess what? I got a fever! And the only prescription.. is more pom-pom!

Now Spring is fast approaching and I'm sure you have a lot of orange pom-pom hats left over and what in the world will you do with them? I have an idea. Box one of those babies up and ship it on over. I'll shout out for the world to hear, pom-poms should, nay, need to be bigger than one's head.

Plus as a person who is follically-challenged, you could consider this a charitable action. Duckie, take pity and help a brother out.

bro hug

In possession of a rock.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

You've been talking about your high stress level making you so thin. I sympathize. And I'm not one to just talk the talk; I'll put my money where my mouth is. Or, more specifically, I will put a Big Mac where your mouth is if you give me your necklace and earrings. I might even be persuaded to throw you a McNugget or two. C'mon. You know you're just gonna lose the necklace in the bottom of your giant handbag where it will moulder with four empty lighters, a balled up pair of black leggings and a few now-empty ziploc bags that used to, what was that? Then, the next time you see that delicate, twinkly, too delicious sliver diamond, as you call it, it will have MAC VivaGlam smeared all over it and a Mento stuck to one side.

Should such a pretty bauble suffer such a Lohanical fate? Give it to me to hold until you feel better. I promise I'll give it back.*

*If you can pass a few simple tests...

So, just tell the hotel Concierge to call Fedex. They'll handle all the details, k?

Heavy, heavy ears. Let me ease your burden, sister.

Dear Angelina Jolie,

With all you do for the U.N., the poor of the world and your own diverse brood of wee ones, why must you burden your tiny self with such heavy earrings? Please, woman. You've done enough.

First of all, have you seen your neck? It's like a pencil for God's sake. I can only imagine that today, the day after the 09 Oscars, you are laid up in Namibia wearing one of those halo contraptions that broke-neck surfers always get themselves into. The headache must be intolerable.

Let me help. Let me give back.

Just pop those earrings into a bubble wrap envelope and have Brad run them over to the post office. I will wear them all the time when I am doing good works and if they make me ache with the burden of my own selflessness, then so be it!


Leslie's Dress/reflective garment

Dear Leslie Mann,

Did you see the Oscars last year? OMG, Renee Z.'s shoes!

But today I am writing regarding your reflective dress from last night's Oscar celebration. Shimmery, shiny, throwing-planes-off-their-flightpath-iridescent. My pupils are still dilated from the impact. Oh yeah, your dress is the Zellweger Glitter Shoes of 09! Are you thinking what I'm thinking? I bet you are! If we put your dress with Renee's shoes, we'd have the hey-you-got-your-glitter-shoes-in-my reflective-dress, no-you-got-your-reflective-dress-in-my-glitter-shoes..hey, wait,-they-taste-great-together" moment of the decade.

And I'm the gal for the job. You and Renee...well, you have things to do, meals not to eat and such.

Why don't you just send me your reflective dress (UPS is fine) and I can take it out three sizes and then pair it with the Glitter Shoes? Good? Right?

And I already asked Renee for the shoes so that's, like, pretty much a done deal.

Thanks Leslie Mann.

P.S. Do you have a sequined clutch?

Hey there, sweet feet.

Dear Renee Zellweger,
I am a poor country girl.
Last year, I saw you walking down the red carpet at the Oscars in some disco heels that changed my life.

Well, they would change my life if I had them. Did I mention I am a poor country girl? If I had your Christian Laboutin mirror-y, glitterrific pumps, I would wear them in my poor country kitchen when I make meatballs. I would wear them when I got my Netflix out of the mailbox. Hey, Postman Bob, did my shiny feet just blind you? Careful! Drive the mailtruck slowly for a few blocks until your eyes readjust. I would wear them when I folded my burly husband's tee shirts while softly singing a church song.

Anyways, I was thinking those shoes look like they pinch. You're a big movie star and not some country girl so you shouldn't have to tolerate such nonsense. I can handle pinching because I am a woman with strong legs who can lift a cow if needed. And I'd like to do it in those twinkle toes shoes. If you get them in Fedex today I could have them by Wednesday so I could wear them with Leslie Mann's disco ball dress from this year's Oscars. Which means I have another letter to write. What an outfit! Dear Leslie Mann...