Poor J. Simp. She doesn't look half bad, but you want to forestall tabloid covers calling you a Sad, Desperate Spinster who CAN'T STAND that her sister got married and sprogged up while you're still Desperately, Sadly Searching For Love, don't go out in a black gown and a sad expression. You are only giving US Weekly a photo to run on the cover of the JESSICA: STABBED IN THE HEART, AGAIN, AND THIS TIME IT REALLY HURT issue. And while we're on the subject, can I just say how ridiculous it is that every magazine in Hollywood seems to be peeing themselves with horror over the fact that J. Simp hasn't managed to get married again yet? She's not even 30! She had a terribly painful divorce! LET THE GIRL DATE AROUND. The earth will not stop spinning on its axis, throwing us all into everlasting darkness and terror, if Jessica Simpson has a few years of confusing relationship troubles LIKE EVERY OTHER PERSON WHO EVER LIVED.

And thus concludes the entry in which I defend Jessica Simpson.

She looks about as happy as I would, if I were forced into this:

It's like formal wear for prisoners in an old-timey movie about lady chain gangs. All she needs is a ball and chain and a sob story.

I think Simon Cowell is a great judge on American Idol. But I'm beginning to suspect he is a lousy boyfriend.

Half the advantage of dating him -- you know, aside from private jets, and the fact that he will go with you to the local beauty supply store on a Saturday afternoon (which I once witnessed them doing together) -- should be the brutal honesty. You know, the idea that if you so much as brushed the fabric of this jumpsuit with your elbow, he would roll his eyes and say, "I'm gonna be honest with you: That is absolutely terrible," or maybe, "If that's what you're gonna wear, then you'd better pack your bags tonight, because that's not going to be enough to keep you in any competition except for Survivor: M.C. Hammer's Harem." So either Terri Seymour made the mistake of not consulting him here, in which case she needs to install a videoconferencing terminal in her closet for when he's out of town, or Simon was only PRETENDING he could see her from behind the piles of "Bleeding Love" profits he was counting on the bed -- in which case, he had better hope that wall of Benjamins is whirling-stiletto-proof.

"WHAT UP, MTV nation, I am BACK!"

"It's me! Lindsay! Star of Mean Girls and and Freaky Friday and... let's skip a few here... ah yes, those commercials for the MTV Movie Awards! And Ugly Betty! And now I'm working on something else!  It's this movie about... stuff! GOOD stuff! Stuff where I don't play a stripper who loses all her limbs, or anything! I think! Anyway, I'm back and I'm in cute shoes and my pupils aren't weirdly dilated and I need my roots done, because I'm REAL yo, and I totally DO NOT CARE that my mother and my sister are trying to get famous by talking about me all the time on their dumb show. I am NOT bothered by the fact that they have their own press appearances and paparazzi attention, and like, I SO AM NOT EVEN WORRIED about the fact that more people have talked about my sister watching grainy footage on the Internet that CLAIMED to be me having sex, than they have about my current career prospects! IT'S FINE. I don't need to resort to any dumb publicity stunts for people to talk about me, like having a reality show, or wearing really short skirts that might blow up if a gust of wind magically comes by at EXACTLY the right moment, or... ahem, i SAID, IF A GUST OF WIND MAGICALLY COMES BY AT EXACTLY THE RIGHT MOMENT... Dammit, Samantha, I gave you ONE JOB... oh, ah, here we go:

You know how it goes: It's a Monday, one weekend just ended and the next one is SO VERY FAR away, and I haven't had caffeine yet. Ergo, I have been staring and staring and staring at this photograph, wondering if there is ANY possible way that I have hallucinated it in my weakened condition.



I mean... tell me honestly: Did I sleep through an apocalypse? Did a new world order declare a pox on willowy blondes, forever dooming them to weird shirts that don't fit? And why do I feel like her boobs are secretly angry robot eyes? Is it judging me? Is it going to replicate? Will a plague of cruel silver corsets rain down on my house later today and make me wear them with gladiator sandals and leggings? Does the new villainous race of cyborgs that clearly just took over our planet REALLY want to dredge up memories of Aeon Flux?

Most importantly, will a Diet Coke make this all go away? I think I owe it to myself to try.

Yes, we DID go see Sex and the City before lunch today. Don't judge. We had to know what happened to Stanford! Also, we had to chat about it for New York magazine:

JESSICA: Speaking of old men, did Noth have something done? He looked different to me.
HEATHER: He looked freakishly well rested. Like he'd just woken up from the world's longest, most rejuvenating nap.
JESSICA: I prefer my Mr. Big to be more facially rumpled.

WARNING: There are spoilers in this column, so if you haven't seen the flick yet and you want to go in clean, save it until later or only read the first half. DOUBLE WARNING: This movie is going to make you want to buy shoes. TRIPLE WARNING: Clicking on this link will take you the rest of the column.

[Photo: Splash News]

LAUREN CONRAD: Lo?

LAUREN "LO" BOSWORTH: Hmmm?

LC: What do you think about these jeans?

LO: About Marines? I loooove Marines! So handsome! And patriotic!

LC: No. My JEANS.

LO: Beans? I love beans.You know, they are extremely good for you.

LC: JEANS. MY JEANS. MY JEANS THAT I AM WEARING.

LO: You have lovely genetics, sweetheart! What about that Spencer, huh? What a meanie!

LC: LO. I am trying to get an honest opinion from you. On the subject of my dungarees.

LO: Look over there! ELVIS!

LC: Lo. Please.

LO: Honey. I love you. You are so pretty. And your hair has been looking AMAZING lately...

LC: But?

LO: Maybe not entirely the most flattering jeans you ever wore? I saw that US Weekly article about your beach body, so I know you are a tiny little thing composed solely of muscle. But they're maybe making you look just...a little....hippier than you usually are? You know? Just a little. But in a hot way! You're still hot! I promise!

LC: So these jeans make my butt look big? Is that what you're saying?

LO: Big? No. Not BIG. BiggER than you actually are? Maybe.

LC: I knew it. Damn you, fashion!

So, That Movie Of Which You Might Be Faintly Aware premiered in Rome last night, and this Italian actress decided to attend in... well, see for yourselves:



I don't even know what to say, except:

a) I think my best friend in eighth grade owned those shorts;
b) I am pretty sure that is not actually a real blouse, but in fact a jacket that's being misappropriated;
c) this is what Bai Ling is going to wear to her wedding reception someday;
d) PLEASE GOD don't let Tara Reid see this. Putting that much pressure on one solitary button really seems like her kind of party, and if her puppies get to barking, I don't think it would be strong enough to fight them off -- if you get my drift.

And of course NOW a really filthy Milkbone pun is running through my mind, and I have to put it aside because Intern George wants to make Breakup Gimlets to toast his renewed bachelorhood and there is no room for any mental image of Tara Reid in this scenario. I'm not even sure how this became about her. She is everywhere, yet nowhere. Kind of like the direction of this post. George, make mine a double, please.

I know, I know, but hear me out:


[Photo: INFDaily.com]

I am not a fan of that bag -- it's cute, but a little bit too Welcome to Junior High! May I Slam Your Head in a Locker? for me -- but I have a weird obsession with bright pants, and I think I might....really like these. Listen -- I hear you. I do. They're very 80s and sort of the color of pistachio ice cream and they're kind of silly and I RECOGNIZE that my fondness for bright pants is maybe a little bit ridiculous and....look. I know. She's wearing sea foam green pants and she's NOT swanning around the country club, twirling a strand of pearls around her index finger and eyeballing the tennis pro. She's wrong. They're wrong. I'm wrong.

Dear Andre Leon Talley:

[Photo: Splash News]

THIS is how to make Jennifer Hudson wear a metallic. Not some tweaked gold bolero with a popped collar that looks like it was made out of Wonka Golden Tickets.

Kisses,

Heather

P.S. Okay, so maybe her makeup is a little too shiny in combination with the dress, but otherwise, I think she looks great. Much as revenge is a dish best served cold, her cleavage is a meal best served HOT.

P.P.S. Also, the figure she cuts is totally badass. If J.Hud were almost any other young star, she'd have wasted away to a size two by now -- even America Ferrera keeps needlessly shrinking -- so I'm thrilled she's healthy and sexy and wearing clingy clothes.

P.P.P.S. And I love her sassy bob.

P.P.P.P.S. "Sassy Bob" sounds like the name of a really terrible hair salon that has a karaoke bar in the back. Which actually automatically makes it a hilariously amazing hair salon. Can someone please open that?

Maybe I'm crazy, but I rather like this. She looks like an elementary school Valentine, the kind you would make with red construction paper and paper doilies and Elmer's glue. Except, you know, less smeared with fingerprints, graham cracker crumbs, and glue detritus. Presumably. On the other hand, why is her bodice so m-f-ing crooked? I want to run over to her and yank it up and to the right.

KARL: Hustle, pet. Tonight we RIDE.

KATE: I'm coming, I'm coming, I just... people want photos...

KARL: Photos are lens vomit. You pose for ART. It's like I told Victoria: "You are a still life with melons. BE THE BOWL."

KATE: Okay, "art," then. They want me to let them take some art. How does the dress look?

KARL: Like a swirl of pain. Agony on a cracker as painted by a drooling child. But SHINY. I would drink you if you came with a bendy straw.

KATE: Only a bendy straw?

KARL: Do not pester me. There are stupid questions, and tonight the answer is YOU. How is my jacket? Does it gleam like a gun-toting seal?

KATE: Actually, it kind of does.

KARL: LOOK ALIVE. I think he's got real bullets. Do you need your hair, or can the maid have it for a casserole?

KATE: Ha ha, um, why don't we go inside? These shoes aren't super comfortable. I'm not sure about this plastic stuff. My boyfriend always says...

KARL: Pish. Your boyfriend is life's dental floss. BRUSH.

KATE: He's great, though. He just doesn't like the shoes.

KARL: Poison him and make a necklace of his teeth.

KATE: I trust his opinion.

KARL: Trust is a drunk driver's highway, darling. TAKE THE BUS.

KATE: An open bar will help. It MUST help.

We got a lot of e-mails suggesting that, by wearing blue shoes with an orange-red dress, Katie Holmes might have taken leave of either her vision or her senses.

To me, the color scheme actually makes weird sense with the theme of the event. Wonder Woman certainly didn't shy away from mixing primary colors, for instance, and Superman and Spider Man could never be accused of favoring subtle palettes either. What gives me greater pause is the way this is executed: The pointy, high-cut shoes are a bit clunky for my taste, appearing almost like an afterthought and akin to those heavy old pumps of the 80s that her mother probably gave away fifteen years ago, and she's got the same problem Nicole Kidman had at the Oscars, with the long necklace hooking like a noose around one boob. As for the dress, it photographs with a strange plastic sheen --  like Katie had it made at one of those factories that makes the fake grass you put in Easter baskets, and strands of which, if you have offspring who are anything like I was, you will still be finding down the side of the sofa and stuck to the curtains four months later because the aforementioned kids liked to run around the house wearing the green tufts like fright wigs. (True story. And for added drama, Easter baskets sometimes make great fake bonnets. In case you were wondering.)

I think my problem can be boiled down to: I don't love Mrs. Holmes-Cruise in strong reds, or at least, not when she's got such a chiseled, structured haircut that competes with the dress for total domination over her face. That gown is screaming so loudly for attention that the rest of her becomes mute. Which she's probably used to in her family life, given that she spawned one of the cutest celebrity kids in recent memory and is married to a couch-surfing zealot, but which she shouldn't have to put up with when it comes to her wardrobe. Her pretty face deserves better than to be an afterthought.

INTERN GEORGE: Hello, Giorgio. Julia, you look lovely.

JULIA: So do you, George. Happy birthday!

GIORGIO ARMANI: BIRTHDAY! HOW DELICIOUS! LIKE CHOCOLATE FROSTING ON SKIN!

GEORGE: Funny you should mention that, because... I mean, are you WEARING chocolate frosting? You look awfully tan. Like, abnormally tan even for you.

JULIA: Actually you both look sort of unusually brown tonight.

GIORGIO: I AM A CHOCOLATE-FROSTED CAKE OF A MAN! PUT A CANDLE IN MY EAR AND BLOW ME OUT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

GEORGE: Yeah, Sarah bought me some bronzer for my birthday. I'm not sure why.

GIORGIO: Because you are PALE! LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE WASTING AWAY BEFORE MY EYES! SOMEBODY PLEASE BURNISH THE GEORGIE!

GEORGE: Is he talking to himself now, or me?

JULIA: Sometimes I can't tell.

GIORGIO: GOOD BOY!

JULIA: Go on, George. Go with the man.

GEORGE: Pipe down, Roberts. Maybe he's talking to YOU.

GIORGIO: QUICK, SOMEBODY, SQUEEZE SOME SUMMER ONTO HIS FACE! PUREE A YACHT AND SPREAD IT LIKE PASTE!

GEORGE: Oh my GOD, if I put on any more bronzer, people will start calling me Leatherhead for REAL this time.

JULIA: Let's just back away and go get some champagne. We have much to celebrate. You're looking great, everyone's forgotten about your last movie already, and you have an exciting internship that affords you new and wonderful mail-answering, foot-rubbing, and mixology opportunities every day.

GEORGE: Perfect. On three, let's escape. 1....2...

GIORGIO: WHEEEEE!

GEORGE: Close enough. RUN!

Dear Piper:

Bai Ling and Bjork are undoubtedly super and in many ways heroic, but creating a Bjorkling cocktail with a splash of Sharon Stone and a shot of Arquette -- while an impressive feat of mixology -- is a REALLY loose interpretation of the Met Ball's chosen inspiration. If it turns out that you're not observing the theme but are, rather, simply living out your passion project of giving Princess Leia a Gatsby-esque upgrade... well, you might sell it better if you smiled. And blotted your lipstick.