Excluding, of course, George

But I live in D.C. and D.C.’s style is best personified in a peach Anne Taylor suit, unfitted Eileen Fischer jacket, an anemic hosiery shade and Merrill walking shoes.

You see, this is a city where Watergate was broken, wars have been declared, wire-tapping is rampant, and the biggest crime of all? No fashion sense. We’re situated right between New York and Miami, yet somehow Christian Louboutin jeweled heels and Narcisso Rodriguez fitted skirts aren’t dropped from the sky like food rations.