A team needs to be tough to take down the Red Wings...

And I don't think it will be led by "Cindy the Kid."

Next year, Caps, next year...

Where's MY reality show?

I live in an expensive neighborhood, after all. And my life - as this rare glimpse behind my usual veil of privacy will demonstrate - is scintillating.

Audrina-esque, even.

Call it Dishwater Blonde Middle-Class Mafia *

6 p.m. I leave my job as a Power Player in Montgomery County. I walk towards the Metro only to be attacked by...a downpour of monsoon proportions.

6:15 p.m. I duck for cover in the nearby Safeway. As a Cultural Connoisseur, I pick up the latest issues of In Touch and Harper's Bazaar in case it's a long wait under the awning. Chat with neighbor from shop down the street.

6:30 p.m. My Fashion Sophisticate ensemble from H&M drenched by the downpour, I board the Metro for Friendship Heights/Mazza Gallerie.

7 p.m. As a Philanthropic Leader, every so often I Rub Elbows With Prominent People and try not to look like a hussy while doing so. This guides my shopping mission of finding a little Washingtonian shawl or jacket to wear over a sundress for an upcoming dinner.

7:45 p.m. The only thing that doesn't make me look cougar or Amish is $900. Empty handed, I Easily Move to the Diverse Social Circles of my apartment building.

8 p.m. Now changed into Steve & Barry sweats, I pop a workout DVD into the computer and flip the tv back and forth between Olberman and EuroNews.

8:30 p.m. Watching an expose on the plight of the Roma people during my crunch routine is just too much. I flip around for lighter fare, only to find...a "Real Housewives" marathon.


* The Sicilian ancestors will be proud.

There are scores of cool, accomplished women in DC

But the greater world may never know it thanks to this upcoming reality show. Similar to its NYC, OC, NJ and Atlanta predecessors, "Real Housewives of DC" likely will cater to every cheap and easy stereotype fitting to the region:

- The Botoxed Potomac trophy wife

- The Middleburg horse-farm heiress and her Argentine riding instructor

- The Georgetown hostess who hides a flask of G&Ts in her Lilly Pulitzer twinset

- The strident, Ann Taylor-clad workaholic. A lawyer, perhaps? Maybe a lawyer who emasculates her husband? Pretty daring and original, that.

- The helicopter mom with a Lexus minivan covered in Harvard/Yale/Princeton stickers. Maybe she's married to a lobbyist or elected official who's never around to share the parenting responsibilities. Maybe she hides her resentment and thwarted ambitions behind a tightly clenched smile. Wow, there's ground that's never been covered.

- A strumpet. Because there's always a strumpet in any Real Housewives mix.

- A cougar. Because there's always a cougar, too. Grrrr, young intern.

On the bright side, as with the Atlanta show, I predict there will be non-white women in the cast, just to reflect the fact that the city is not only 55.6% black * but also home to a wide range of non-WASP nationalities. (Yes, even in Northwest.)

Says ET Online:

The executive vice president and general manager of Bravo Media, Frances Berwick, told ET that they are looking to cast "Washington D.C.'s influential players, cultural connoisseurs, fashion sophisticates and philanthropic leaders."

Berwick said cast members would be "the people who rub elbows with the most prominent people in the country and easily move in the city's diverse political and social circles."

The writeup promises great things. But would the true "connoisseurs, players and philanthropic leaders" really subject themselves to a casting cattle call and "Jon & Kate"-style scrutiny? Would they have the time and inclination to be filmed for hours every week at the mercy of editors itching for a staged cat fight?

I think maybe not.


* Like any respected news source, I get my statistics from Wikipedia.

An Open Epistle to the Unknown Commuter

Yes, you on the orange line this morning at the Court House stop.

The train was full. Crammed-to-the-gills, Tokyo-style, sardine-level full. In fact, the sheer laws of physics - specifically the placement and displacement of human matter - precluded your entry into the car.

But you are a Very Important Person traveling to a Very Important Job - a position much more important than the jobs of us 800 or so peons. So, rather than wait for the train just two minutes behind the full one, you jammed your briefcase/yoga mat/oversized Kelly bag into the door.

The metro driver cajoled, ordered and pleaded. The doors opened and shut nearly ten times. But you remained stalwart. "Don't you know who I am?" you might have thought or muttered to the recalcitrant door.

Like an insolent lawnboy soon to be dispatched to the INS by your omnipotent hand, the door did not obey. In fact, the entire train defied your wishes and soon refused to operate, spurring its driver to disboard us all.

And we were all late to work.

I never saw you, up in the front car, only heard the metro driver call out your presence. But I've seen your type on many commutes. You sprawl out your legs into your seatmate's personal space or fan out the contents of your briefcase across the entire seat during rush hour. You jabber loudly into your Blackberry in the morning silence. You shoulder aside all in your way in the rush to the turnstile.

Thank you Fairfax/Arlington Power Player for violating the social contract of public transportation. If you were really as important as you thought you were, your last name would be Obama and you'd be commuting in a motorcade, not a subway car.

Help!

Crab nite in Cleveland Park

A weight limit on the Supreme Court?

I watch enough reality TV, read enough trashy tabloids and witness a sufficient number of Alli commercials * to realize these things about contemporary American society:

- That the most impressive achievement a woman can ever mark is to give birth and lose the baby weight in record time.

- That a health and medicine section in Borders will be 95% diet guides, 5% books covering all other known medical conditions.

- That Jessica Simpson would have never made the cover of Vanity Fair if she was still rocking those unfortunate high-waisted jeans.

But surely some places are sacred. Surely in the Supreme Court, justice should be blind and the key qualification for serving should not be "looking like Heather Locklear in a black robe."

"Justice may be blind, but not when it comes to weight. Paul Campos reports on the bizarre campaign to find a woman to replace David Souter on the High Court—as lonas she’s thin."

Read the whole thing here.

Particularly interesting, the "it's all about health" argument:

At The Washington Monthly, a commentator claimed to have employed a more scientifically rigorous method: “To all the short-sighted libs who are clamoring for the youngest-possible nominee... Right idea, wrong methodology. You want someone who will serve the longest, i.e. with the greatest remaining life expectancy—and that involves more than simple age. I tried assessing their respective health prospects, and ruled out all who even border on overweight. Best choice: Kim McLane Wardlaw, whose ectomorphitude reflects her publicly known aerobic-exercise habits.”

Under this rationale, Madonna's personal trainer should be appointed to the bench - and use that bench as an aerobics step for twice-daily cardio conditioning.

* The A stands for "Ask your doctor about the oily discharge"...otherwise known as involuntary poo.

Pens 0, Bobbleheads 2

Yet again, things are good for the Russians...



As well as for our previously lovelorn bobblehead...

"Forget Varly, he's a child - I want YOU back..."



"She's a strumpet tchotcke - but I love her!"

***shrug*** "I'm a beaded doll, why are you asking me for
advice?"





"What do I do with her, clay one?"

"Send her over to Crosby before game 3 - I hear she already
distracted Malkin with her feminine wiles."



Read more of the Bobblehead Chronicles here.