i put the "ill" in "hill" ... my nametag adds the "h"

I've made it no secret that I disdain what passes for "fashion" on Capitol Hill: the dowdy suits, the Dockers, the square-toed loafers, the flip-flops, the wrinkled button-downs, the pleated khakis...damn, I really could go on. But alas, you've suffered through my DC fashion rants plenty of times before, so there's no need right now to reopen those proverbial old wounds (although, it's true that every ill-fitting suit I see does, indeed, send me ever-so-slightly closer to the actual edge of mental breakdown -- It. Is. That. Bad. Here.)

Likewise, I've made it no secret that I have a job that sentences me to the Hill roughly three to four times per week. And I'll be damned if I let this rip in the space-suck continuum embrangle me in its gnarly, Crocs-commuting clutches!

Which brings me to the third non-secret of this blog: I am a bit of a narcissistic jackass, who is obsessed with fashion, in general, and tight pants and sweatervests, in particular.

So, with this trifecta of ridiculousness, there's only one possible direction this essay can go from here: outfit amour-propre!

I've been asked (um, by one person) what exactly I wear when I go to the Hill. Well, the answer to that is complicated as it depends on the event, whom I might possibly get face-time with and how hellish the weather is that specific day. Sometimes, if I'm going to be seeing a certain sharp-bone-structured someone, I am forced to wear a suit. I hate those days. Luckily, that's not usually the case, so I get to be a little more liberal with my "business attire" on the whole. In fact, since I'm a reporter, I wouldn't even say that I wear "business attire," save for the occasional brush with Secretary Cheekbones. Overall, however, it's often not necessary for me to be as formal in my clothing choices as lobbyists, staffers, lawyers or those other white-collar, sometimes more high-profile Washington jobs. (Rest assured, however, when I do wear a suit, trust that it is well-fitted and all-around fly. That's right. Fly.)

So, back to the question: What do I wear to do my duty of counteracting the ass-backwardness of the Hill's general fashion sense? Well, I predictably do what I do best -- tight pants and sweatervests.


Full disclosure: I snapped this picture a couple of weeks ago (actually, exactly two weeks ago). I know this because, if you notice, I shot it using my newly procured phone, which is now dead thanks to the shambles of roughly one week ago. You also may notice I now own a full-length mirror. Well, I actually own three (I wasn't kidding about that whole narcissist thing), however, not one is hung up yet as I'm retarded when it comes to doing anything requiring a modicum of handyman skill. So, not only am I unable to position the mirror to see my head and feet at the same time, but I also have a gigantic hole in my wall, which since I'm an admitted DIY idiot, I have no idea how to fix. *sigh*

But lack of home improvement skills aside, let me tell you what the hell I'm wearing in the above-posted photo. The pants are Ben Sherman, bought at Filene's Basement (I love this brand of slacks and wear them quite often). The sleeveless cardigan is kimchi & blue, bought at Urban Outfitters online (I wear this a lot, too). The blouse is, um, Forever 21, bought online (don't scoff, they make some quality stylish cheap sh*t there). And the shoes are Boutique 9, bought at the Nine West outlet in Leesburg (surprisingly, they're pretty comfortable, as well).

So, there you have it. This is how I roll to the Hill. Sharp, n'est-ce pas? (I know...a little boring, I suppose, but I'm forced to turn the dial from 11 to around, say, seven, in the presence of middle-aged government types from whom I'm trying to extract state secrets.) Of course, no matter how tight my pants and how sweet the sweatervest, it all takes on an air of je ne sais tool when I'm forced to don my criminal mug-shot-looking press-pass nametag to signify that I do, indeed, belong there. *shudder*