STYLETHREAD -- LET'S TALK SHOP!

My co-intern at the closet company is increasingly obsessed with getting us to do Posh & Becks' closets and she is absolutely right. It would be the best job EVER. Aside from actually meeting them, and designing and installing what would undoubtedly amount to at least 3,000 square feet of black lacquer cabinetry and quilted leather paneling, spending several weeks inventorying and arranging Posh's wardrobe would be one of the highlights of my life. To wit:

Sure, the focus of this past weekend's Italian production of I Know Mothers Cry At Weddings, But Should Mrs. Holmes Be Wailing? was probably supposed to be Kat(i)e's dress. But you don't invite Victoria Beckham, the glorious spice blend known as Posh, and expect her to be wallpaper. No, much like what we think went through Brooke Shields' head when she accepted her invitation to the TomKat Contract Fulfillment Ceremony, you include Posh at your formal occasion because you say to yourself, "THIS I've got to see." And also possibly because she befriended your comatose bride during several shopping sprees and some Paris fashion shows, but mostly, it's because you want to look at how hot her stilletos are while also wondering what new glories she'll pull from that den of wonder known as Her Wardrobe.

Mercifully for us all, Posh did not disappoint, stringing together a buffet of delights more filling for the fug fan than any solid that's passed her lips in three months.

You have to admire her versatility. In the span of one weekend, she showed up as:

1. A crabby school teacher: This strumpet of academia's affection for lip gloss is matched only by her companion's addiction to raiding his grandfather's closet. Bonus: The sweater at least comes with its own lifetime supply of Werther's Originals, so he can toss them into her mouth at her appointed snack times, since she wouldn't dare eat any of the apples left by her trembling students (too much chewing).

2. A yeti. Fear not, PETA, for the jacket is not yielded from animal cruelty -- it's in fact woven from the silkiest, most bountiful man-fur in the Western world: shavings from Alec Baldwin's chest.

3. A cranky pseudo-royal surprised and a little peeved to learn that she is not, in fact, attending a state funeral. Just the death of a family's hope.

And finally:

4. An insane arts-and-crafts fetishist. This one is fantastic. Now, granted, she didn't wear this to the wedding itself; just to some of the paparazzi-baiting festivities beforehand, whatever those were (the official blessing of the pre-nup, perhaps, or free Scientology classes). But there's something so magical about the fact that she ever even put this on at all. She does know the difference between decolletage and decoupage, right? Not to mention that the dress underneath the I-Had-To-Use-All-My-Paste-Or-Else-Ralph-Wiggum-Would-Eat-It sjirt-jacket appears to be sized more appropriately for the closet of Isabella Kidman-Cruise. From several years ago. When she had a ballet recital.

But maybe Posh can use that to her advantage -- perhaps she could use it to push for a starring role in, say, Center Stage II, in which she would arrive at the stodgy American Ballet Academy as a new teacher and try to shake up the stale air by taking her five pluckiest students on the road as a roving band of dancers -- each with their own personalities, outlandish costumes, and hilarious nicknames -- who bring ballet to truck stops, dive bars, and casinos across the country. Peter Gallagher would of course return as the Academy head: "How do you expect to have 1,000 truckers watch you tell us what you want, what you really, really want, if you Don't. Do it. Without UNDERWEAR?!?" And David could get in on the action as the supportive, shockingly virile costumer who teaches her to use a hot glue gun and so much more. 

In all seriousness, though, we can't fathom why Posh hasn't rocketed to larger stardom post-Spice. I mean, if we can allow Jessica Simpson to roam the earth with copious paychecks -- seriously, if I have to see her ONE MORE TIME in that DirecTV ad where her head spends 30 seconds wobbling like a Weeble as she tries to Daisy Duke her way through two insipid lines, I will furiously theaten to cancel my subscription, and then secretly never actually do it because I can't live without the NFL Sunday Ticket -- and if we can anoint Fergie as the comically misspelled Dutchess of the Billboard charts, and if the staff of Studio 60 is actually still getting paid to make that terrible, awful, no-good, very bad program that is snuffing out even Matthew Perry's light, can we not move over and make a little room for Posh? Who cares if she can actually do anything? Outings like this are enough.