Halloween Help

Since today is Halloween, I'm going to give a little free advice on last-minute costume selection for those of you, much like myself, who just couldn't be bothered over the weekend. You see, I find that when it comes to costume creation, folks fall into two distinct camps: those who are creative and those who are devils year after year. I have never been the most original when it comes to playing dress-up, but there are a few rules to which I strictly adhere that I find will at least ensure that I'm not the most predictable or redundant person at the party.

First of all, under no circumstances should women go dressed as anything that requires a foamy or furry suit. Abandon any outfit in which you are certain to find yourself sweaty and unable to move about freely, no matter how funny you find the character, leave the anamatronics to Walt Disney.

Secondly, always select costumes that require a glamorous application of make-up. Covering one's face in colored paint is only acceptable if you work at the circus (and let's face it, there's a little something wrong with grown people wanting to be clowns). Even dark angels and punk rockers can look relatively attractive with outlandish make-up that's applied correctly.

Finally, be sure to select a costume that accentuates your shape and/or gives the illusion of breasts (for those of you who have breasts, just make sure they look good). This does not mean you need to dress like a Playboy Bunny, which is probably the most overdone costume ever and inevitably makes the wearer look like they're trying too hard. It's a thin line between titilating and trashy.

Naturally I suggest going as a Princess, no gruesome make-up, a form-fitting dress, and most importantly you get to wear a crown. Above all, just make sure you look good and show little skin. And for God's sake, bring a jacket when you go out because there is nothing attractive about beauty queen with frost bite trying to chase down a cab is shivering stillettos.

Cinderella

I had a party last night...and it was fabulous! I mean, there were cocktails and chocolate fondue, what could possibly be better? And for once, I didn't have to spend time drawing folks' attention away from the main event because the evening actually was about me (been waiting my whole life for that). And of course I had on my fabulous new sparkly top, which I pick out all by myself and paid way too much for. (Listen Sweetpotato, don't you worry about how much...you have 2 - count them, 2 - flatscreen TVs) Even my hair behaved itself last night, really the whole evening was quite remarkable.

But like all good things, it came to an end. At the stroke of midnight, my top lost its luster and my glass slippers were KILLING me (okay, so they were really platform knee-high boots with a 4-inch heel, but you get the idea). Alas, my glass carriage turned into a yellow cab and I was the Bell of the Ball no more. So today is a little sad for me, back to scrubbing floors and playing with the little mice (metaphorically speaking of course, ya'll know I don't scrub floors). I would like to thank everyone who attended for laughing during my toast at all the right times and for being such good sports. It's now up to you and your computer how far I go, so please keep reading, keep laughing, and for god's sake keep forwarding to everyone you know!!!

Dog Days..and Nights

I awoke this morning to the most atrocious bags under my eyes, a fact which repulsed yet did not surprise me, as my sleeping habits of late have been rather disrupted. Why, do you ask would someone with such a fondness for her mattress find herself sleepless night after night? One word...Winnie. She is currently the bane of my existence and the love of Sweetpotato's life. He just had to have a puppy and I consented, under protest, because I have found that providing him with playthings makes my life so much easier. Now I have never really had a dog before, so of course I am trying to communicate with her as I would a human, which is considerably less effective than screaming and throwing things, actions which have become common around my house these days. You see somehow I have managed to adopt a 4-legged version of myself. There cannot be a single occurrence in our apartment that does not center around her. If, for some reason, she is not the center of everyone's attention, she will shit on the floor and smile at you while she's doing it. If she even so much as thinks Sweetpotato and I are about to kiss, she will run from the farthest corner of the apartment and stick her nose directly between our faces. This has made the past few months exhausting, so we usually fall into bed at an obscenely early hour.

Somewhere between 1 and 3 am, I am awoken by the whinings of an impatient puppy, who for no reason other than she wants me to suffer, has decided that she will need to be awake now. At first I let her out thinking she needed to use the bathroom or didn't feel well, but now I realize she just wants to be in the bed. Unfortunately, we live in an apartment complex and can't just allow her to bark herself back to sleep, so I open her crate, whereupon she immediately leaps on to my side of the bed and proceeds to make herself quite comfortable, leaving me with approximately 4 inches of mattress. I spend the next 4 hours fluctuating between sleeping with her face on my mouth or being jolted awake by her paws climbing on my head. Then, when she is ready for me to be up for good, she slaps at my cheek with her front paw and sloshes her tongue all over my face. Truly, the apartment can only handle one high maintenance bitch at the time, and I thought I'd cornered that market. I had thought dogs were just supposed to fetch things and lay on your lap, not use your body as a jungle gym and destroy every shoe in your closet. To avoid any more unpleasantness, I leave Sweetpotato's sneakers on floor to distract her from my Prada's, lest I have to shoot her and leave the bloody carcass in his bed, Godfather-style.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the double bed, sleeps the one who actually bought the damn dog, oblivious to the war being waged a few inches away between a mutt, a Queen, and her much-needed beauty sleep.

Fair Weather Vegans

I can appreciate that people have different tastes. I mean some folks like chocolate, some like vanilla, as long as you all like ice cream that's fine. I do not, however, understand these alternative nutrition lifestyles. I mean, if you don't eat meat, what do you do at a barbecue? But, alright, I'm not trying to get the vegetarians all up in arms, if you don't want your pulled-pork you can just put it on my plate, I don't mind. Now vegans, they are another matter altogether, though, again honey you eat or don't eat whatever you want and it's just more steak for me (and you know how I like a good piece of meat).

However, if you are going to have some sort of moral objection to eating cows or chickens or other animal products, I do feel that you should hold firmly to these convictions or just don't bother. This weekend I was out to dinner with some folks, one of whom was what I call a fair-weather vegan. I am quite certain I saw her eating a cream-based pasta and something else made with butter. Looks like her devotion only exists when she's not hungry...kinda like my diet only exsists when there are no Krispy Kreme doughnuts. And while the other people at the table found her skewed consciousness respectable, I was internally smirking at her ridiculous rouse. Between you and me, I found it a all particularly offensive because this girl appeared to be using the veganism as more of a weight-loss tool than a way of life, which of course made my want to stab her in the eye with a dull utensil. Alas decorum and dessert prevented me from paying her any further attention. But all I wanted to say to her was, if you want to create a meal plan in which restaurant dining is difficult, then you need to either stay your ass at home or stop proclaiming your allegiance to a doctrine you can't follow cause you're not fooling me.

Apprentice Reality

So ya'll know I hate reality television, or maybe you don't know but let me tell you that I have no interest in seeing grown folks eating bugs, living in communes or swapping spouses. Unfortunately, I do occasionally view an episode or two because Sweetpotato has a fondness for a few of these inane shows, and of course, he is the only one who can operate the remote. Hence, I found myself watching The Apprentice- Martha Stewart style, and I have to say that Trump never need worry about losing contestants to her! I mean seriously, you made a salad dressing. Congratulations! You have now proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you can run a multi-million dollar company. Right. Now, the wedding cake episode at least had carbohydrates for extra merit, but seriously these tasks are ridiculous... but not nearly as ridiculous as her sidekicks. Martha's daughter does a decent job of emulating the stoic Carolyn of the first Trump season, thought she should perhaps enquire about Carolyn's hair stylist. The old guy, however, is a joke. He makes the most insipid comments and you cannot convince me that he has any real idea of what's going on. And by the way sir, you do not look distinguished holding an unlit cigar, you look dumb. I'm sure someone told you it would be your little "trademark" and all, but in reality, you look like the 15-year-old trying to fit in by pretending to smoke a cigarette.

I do fell badly for the contestants though. I mean, you know they thought this would be just like the other version where if you win you actually get a reward. Trump's got his folks flying around Manhattan, playing rounds of golf, picking out pearl earrings and dining in fabulous restaurants. Martha's folks are spending a gray, rainy day hoisting giant sail in the murky water of the Hudson River. What kind of reward makes you perform manual labor, outside, in the cold? I'd just as soon be on the losing team, at least the boardroom is dry!

Whatever, I suppose. In the end, yet another caddy idiot will be given a figurehead position as the president of the terrycloth division or some such, they'll have their 15 seconds of fame and fade off in to oblivion, as all good reality stars should, until MTV resurrects them for some Reality Star Challenge show, where they can once again prove themselves to be an asshole. Doesn't it just make you long for the old scripted sitcom? And so I have to say...Martha Stewart's Apprentice -- you're fired.

A Word Of Caution

Okay, so mimosas are the "offical cocktail" of Dear Queenan and as such I would never say a disparaging word about them. I will, however, offer a word of caution about their consumption, in hopes that you, dear readers, may avoid the disgraceful behavior leading to the utter humiliation under which I am forced to survive until the foggy memory of old age renders Sweetpotato forgetful of my actions. You see, I feel that mimosa-drinking was what Saturday afternoons were made for and I will cling to this belief with my dying breath; however, I do think it is ill-advised to enter into heavy consumption when one has relatives visiting for dinner- even if those relatives are your more fun-loving aunt and uncle, out-of-town guests over the age of 50 should probably not be subjected to your totally inebriated states if at all possible. Use caution when drinking any alcoholic beverage that could be mistaken for a juice drink, lest you find yourself sitting in a bustling Time's Square restuarant unable to form complete sentences or hold you head upright for extended periods of time. I understand that at some point I was actually sleeping at the table. That, by some divine grace, I did not face-plant into my food is a mild consolation considering I couldn't even begin to guess what I ate...I recall a doughnut, but then, that could have just as easily been a dream.

And of course, Sweetpotato wasn't drunk and of course he remembers everything I did and said (which thankfully wasn't much as I usually attempt to keep my answers monosyllabic when in danger of slurring). From his reports, these were not my finest hours, and I prefer to remain ingorant of the details. Somewhere around the time we left the restaurant I believe I became moderately coherent, enough to say goodbye to my aunt, uncle and their nice friends from Long Island, who I had just met and on whom I was undoubted making a smashing impression, or a smashed one at any rate.

And so friends I just wanted to issue a warning statement- not against drinking mimosas, I would never say anything so drastic. But, just in general, if you have plans to dine with people twice your age to whom you are related, you might want to avoid inviting them to dinner then blacking out and leaving your boyfriend who has just met them to take care of the order, the conversation, and making sure you're not drooling on your arm. For while these stories might be amusing now, especially to your boyfriend (who is probably exaggerating the accounts anyway,) I trust they will not be half so humorous in 10 years when you are once again the laughing stock of Thanksgiving dinner. Bear that in mind the next time you drink champagne on an empty stomach... and maybe we'll stop using straws from now on;-)

Rainy Days

There is absolutely nothing more disgusting than trying to get to work in New York City in the rain. I'm not sure who they're pissed at, but this "wrath of the gods" weather the world has had of late is really disturbing, I mean at the rate we're going, Oprah may have to call off her nation-wide pedophile hunt and start writing personal checks. (Don't you just love how celebrities are always "donating" huge sums, but only through their production companies or the free stuff they get from corporations...but I digress.) So while the rain is bothersome in itself, it's made ever-so-much more annoying by the use, or misuse rather, of the umbrella. Now look folks, none of us want to get wet but seriously, we cannot all fit on the sidewalk at the same time with 3-feet of vinyl and steel ballooning around us. Disregarding the outliers, most of us are about the same height, hence we hold umbrellas at about the same level, so how do you suppose we cross paths in a restricted space without gauging each other's eyes out? Perhaps you could raise yours or I could lower mine or we could just plow right into each other, rip our umbrellas and curse the other for ruining our suede bag all the soggy way to work? And why is it men feel like they get to carry these huge golf umbrellas? I don't see any putting greens on Third Avenue, so you can use a $5 piece of crap like the rest of us and stop taking up an unfair amount of umbrella real estate.

I'm sure that when my socks finally dry out I won't feel so belligerent toward that bitch who shook her umbrella dry on my feet, but until then I remain emphatic that people with no home training should stay in their apartment, and that no one in this city should be allowed to operate an umbrella without a license.

Yoga

So this morning I participated in one of the dumber events of my life…a yoga class. Realizing that I have never shown an interest in those mind/body-type exercises before, it remains unclear why I thought this would be a good idea, but at this point in my life I have just started accepting my random acts of lunacy as par for the course. Now I have recently begun to tire of my regular workout routine, which takes place in a dungeon-like gym with a cast of characters that would frighten even the most dedicated of body-builders. Not only has my routine become, well, routine- consisting of hour after hour of jogging in place on a souped-up hamster wheel, but my exercising companions are highly obnoxious. The men, thick-necked meatheads who can probably lift weights larger than their IQ, lounge about the machines in no rush to leave their social scene no matter how inane the conversation. A word to the wise here- if your neck is bigger around than your thigh, it’s time to step away from the bench-press and go get yourself a life.

**On a side note, I have never understood why skinny people continue to frequent gyms. It’s highly disconcerting to find yourself huffing on the Stairmaster beside a perfectly manicured freak of nature who’s barely glistening in her tiny sports bra and rather inappropriately skimpy bottoms. I mean really, if you’re not even going to pretend to do an abdominal workout, do we really have to see your midriff? People who have 12% body fat should leave the treadmills to those of us who really need them and go eat a piece of cake. If, by the grace of God, I had been blessed with one of those stick-like frames, you could sooner find me on a bar stool than a weight bench. But alas, it’s all in the genes, and no matter how many pairs I try on, my ass still doesn’t seem to fit.

Anyway, back to the yoga, I saw a sign for Hot Yoga and assumed that was the hip place so I signed up for a class. Yeah, turns out “hot” doesn’t so much mean “popular” as it does “excruciatingly, ridiculously sweltering.” When I enter the room and discover it is hotter than the tenth level of Hell, I figure the air conditioner must be broken at first. Curiously enough, my fellow classmates don’t seem bothered by this at all. They’re all lying peacefully on their mats, breathing normally as I gasp for air and run toward the windows, which by the way, are firmly shut. Obviously I’m in the pre-class sauna, designed to warm the muscles before moving in to the cool yoga room. I wish.

Now for those of you who have never attempted yoga at all, it is a series of movements designed to place your body in the most uncomfortable, unnatural and completely unflattering positions ever conceived. Not only are you expected to twist your limbs as if they were not comprised of bones, but you are to do it with a peaceful expression on your face, while breathing through your nose and ignoring the sweat drenching your entire body. I am sorry, but please don’t talk to me about finding some sort of inner peace while I’m holding my leg over my head in a room that’s 110 degrees. Why don’t you talk to me about finding a ceiling fan, before I stab you in the eye. I’m not sure what phys-ed class you took, but nausea and dizziness are NOT normal and should result in the end of your workout not a commendation for your backbend. Now this guy’s talking about touching your head to your knee to flush out your A-Semicolon, which is apparently both a punctuation mark and an internal organ- a dirty one at that. . Of course it is true that you can block out thoughts of the world during yoga, which would be very calming, if only they weren’t replaced with gasps for air and prayers for salvation.

Though they promised I would leave feeling energized and invigorated, I can barely make it up the five flights to my apartment, and very seriously consider calling the paramedics, but by the time they made it up all the stairs I’d be a goner anyway. So, I lay there directly below the fan, considering my Last Will and Testament, until my heart begins to beat normally. I stand on the scale, figuring I must have sweat off at least five pounds, only to find I have not lost an ounce. So now I have actually paid money to stand swooning in an overheated room in 80-degree weather and attempt to contort my body in the name of exercise, only to find a short time later that my dreams of a red-carpet figure are still unrealized and in addition, I can no longer stand upright. For every muscle that stretches must contract, even those you never knew you had.

Alas, there is no easy answer to exercise, but if my choices are over-muscled meatheads and their pencil-thin girlfriends turning a weight-room in to a club-scene, or lean-bodied contortionists channeling energy and strength in a supportive environment…you’ll find me on the treadmill.

The Sounds of the Subway

So this morning in the subway I passed this same woman I often hear singing in one of the long echoing tunnels of Grand Central Station, and I felt the shudder of years of auditions ripple down my spine. Now I have nothing against singers, ya'll know I moved here to be on the Broad-way (and we see how well that turned out), but I do have an issue with talent-less folks accosting my ears at 8:30 in the morning. You see, there are many talented people in this town, which might explain how I ended up sitting behind a desk instead of dancing in front of an audience. The competition, however, was not the reason I turned in my slippers for stilettos, there were reasons much more excruciating than that. First of all, whatever it is that makes those people get up at 6 a.m. to wait in an audition line, well, I just do not have it. Aside from the fact that it's 6 a.m., I don't do lines- period. Also, I hate actors, pretty much without exception, so waiting for five hours with Sarah Elizabeth Brighten (formerly Becky Weinerstein- apparently ethnic is out, but three names gives you that extra something- stupidity, I think it is) while she warms-up way too loudly with Celine Dion, is just not going to work for me. Rest assured that while her Heart Will Go On, her career certainly will not. These unfortunate folks are actually the reason I never made it in the theater, I couldn't even make it in the waiting room. A word to the wise here: just because your momma thinks you can sing, doesn't really mean you can. In fact, I bet you got all your talent from her... and she's tone deaf.

Which brings me to this morning, where I found myself listening to the a-tonal wailings of some random subway performer. Don't get me wrong, there are many underground acts that I enjoy, like the Pacific-Islander-looking man who sings the Ave Maria to a background track every Sunday morning on the NRW line. While I love his voice, his repertoire is limited to this one tune, but then, when your audience changes every 3 minutes, you don't really need new material, now do you?

This woman, unfortunately, has a wide range of songs, all of which she sings without regard to key, pitch or tone. I do applaud her attempt to support herself with her talents and all, but she would actually need to have a talent in order for this to work out. And as I ascend the stairs to begin my day imprisoned in my fluorescent tower, I hear her begin "Killing Me Softly," and I think to myself...oh if only you were.