If this were not a bra top, I might be more tolerant.
But it is, so instead I’m cranky. Also, I don’t think the skirt part does anything flattering for her pelvis at all, so that’s another strike. You KNOW how I feel about pelvic flattery. And now I wish John Slattery would be revealed to have some kind of pelvis-thrusting addiction so that we could all start calling him Ol’ Pelvic Slattery, but I suppose that won’t happen. At least the purse reminds me of the packaging on an individually wrapped mint — a giant one, clearly — and so the idea of her tearing it open with her teeth later and then gnawing on a Certs the size of a Frisbee is giving me wonderful mental images to make up for the fact that Ol’ Pelvic Slattery is not a real thing.
Then this happened for the actual show:
That is a very nondescript pinkish dress whose sole point in life is for you to see through to her knickers. Perhaps I should be congratulating it on achieving its one and only purpose, therefore going 1-1 on its agenda and allowing it to retire with no regrets. Instead I just wish they’d gotten a shot of her walking to see what that abominable front slit did to stir up trouble.