Domo Arigato, Mrs Obam(o)

Dear First Lady Michelle Obama,

NICE FEET!

'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 vocal...um, 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,
xoxoxoxox

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!