The funniest thing about the outfit you directed me to Kaboodle is how it makes me think of Japanese Pachinko. If you started at the neck and drop a silver ball, where would gravity bring it. (Feminist will want my head on a stick for objectification, but come on….what is fashion after all!?)

Based on the inverse proportion of biblebelt sackcloth vs. sack knowledge, I think Rick Warren better watch out if I ever get to bible thumping.

You ever notice the girls with sack knowledge who don’t advertise are always the ones all the boys are talking about. I’ll always remember this one girl. Sweetest person ever, even though in my time she was labeled with the d*rtbags. She rarely talks about sex, but OMG, you should hear the boys swoon over her craft!

As for the door knocker types, I have had some experience with girls of such persuasion, and without exception, have found that those most ardently enamored of Jesus are also hotter than a 2 dollar pistol if you can just get past the sackcloth veneer. Such passion is simmering all the time … but oh, the baggage …

As for the flauntier types you mention, my experience there is that, with a couple of notable “nympho” (more high school parlance) exceptions, they tended to have calculating, mercenary hearts. Makes me think of Lily Tomlin doing her Laugh-In cheerleader routine –

Touch me touch me
Touch me touch
Touch me touch me
Touch me touch
…
That’s enough touch me touch me
Touch me touch

Agreed on the Cinnabon / Prehistoric Princess Leia hairdo: it’s like the first headband-less headphones.

Your comment is prodding me to get on that entry I have been meaning to: “Girls who can’t deliver what their outfits promised.” The ones dress like a muddy Aguilera always turns out to be secret bible thumpers (look at Bettie Page).

But the ones who walk around town in a burlap sack and knock on your doors for Jesus will always send you home in a wheelchair.

I might suggest that you wear your style with a bit more allure than Ms. Hathaway — who I would luv to see, out of sheer curiosity, in something racier — or even something butch — just to see if she could escape her on-screen asexual typecasting. Must intellect trump feminine wile for her type? Why not both? And the hair — that’s where she really needed work. Anyway, I thought of you yesterday as I watched June Allyson in Executive Suite. Those skirts! Infinitely more elan than Hathaway while still exuding that perky, facile wholesomeness that makes you wanna rush down to the bank to take out that 30-year mortgage, knowing the home will be immaculate and the martini glass perfectly chilled after your long day of office hardball, and June always up for a spot of romance.