Boys night out

In my quest to understand the opposite sex I have discovered yet another gap in the DNA chain of the Y-chromosome. Something happens to it around age 30, and proteins gradually start to build around the communication lobes of the brain. Slowly men begin to settle down and look for constant companionship, giving the appearance of growing into a mature adult. This is not actually the case, for no matter how many responsibilities they shoulder during the daytime, a night out with the boys still leaves them behaving like the drunken frat boys they will always be.

It's almost as if the idea of 4 hours of acting like a drunken asshole with a bunch of equally intoxicated pals is enough to outweigh the torturous hangover that will waste the entire next day. And once upon a time, they could do it, they could show up to work with 3 hours of sleep, pound a few cups of black coffee, swallow half a dozen Advil and be ready to it again by 5pm. The problems is that now, 10 years after their keg-stand championship, they need more than caffeine to recover and refuse to acknowledge this fact. What neurons aren't jumping the gap up there boys? It is not fun to spend an entire Saturday praying for death on your bathroom floor. There is a statute of limitations on public vomiting, and it runs out with your college graduation.

This may not be scientifically founded, but I am fairly certain that intelligence is inversely proportionate to the number of Y-chromosomes in a room. At home, with a female, they can see the folly of consuming multiple tequila shots on an empty stomach. They can even admit to the fact that they are too OLD to behave in such a collegiate manner and vow never to repeat such actions. But the next night, surrounded other Y's, they belly up to the bar as if their stomachs were lined with Teflon. And there's the tiniest little bell ringing in the back of their mind, "remember how bad this makes you feel, remember how much trouble you'll be in tomorrow, remember..." but of course that's drowned out by the sound of their own voice ordering more shots.

Alas, they land again beside the toilet, if they're lucky enough to even find their way home, and begin again the ritual prayer said by all who fail to take their age into account when ordering drinks: Dear God, I promise I will never drink again if you will just make the room stop spinning. I swear.



And so rarely does God answer the cry of the intoxicated. You could say it's not really fair because you know He created this defunct DNA, but then he tried to rectify the situation by creating women to help them bridge their neurological gaps. Sadly, the Y's are just too dumb to know better, and X's are too smart to care.

Star...why hast thou forsaken me?

I have been so turned around and scattered this week, that I was only just this morning able to pick up the Star Magazine at my local newstand. Can you believe that? I nearly missed...nothing! Abso-freaking-lutely NOTHING!!! I find it hard to believe that with all the spouse-swapping, coke-snorting and wardrobe-malfunctioning that goes on in Hollywood, all Star magazine had to talk about this week was a bunch of pregnant celebrities. Seriously, I don't not need to know that Angelina at 6 months pregnant has gained twenty pounds and still weighs less than I do right now. No really, I'm fine with without that knowledge (oooh, except that Katie Holmes is one of those barge-type pregos, which is fun for me)

And the biggest disappointment of the week... Knifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Come on now, you mean to tell me with all the reshaping that goes on amongst the starlets, the best you could do was Nicolette Sheridan's lips? What about Bruce Jenner's nose for christ's sake?! There have got to be a pair of implants that have yet to be exposed, don't ya think? You can't possibly compare some shiny plumping lipgloss to a brow lift.

I mean to tell you, this is one of the most disappointing Stars in a while. The well must be runnin' dry out there in a big way. Now to be fair, there were some nice "before and after" shots, and there's nothing like a good picture of a fat celebrity slimming down...unless it's a thin one chubbing up. Now that just makes me grin from ear to ear.

Well friends, I'm sorry but even Queenan can't get blood from a turnip, so the celebrity slams will have to wait until next week. Not to worry though, the Oscars are in 9 days and counting!

Skating with Celebrities

I know you're thinking...how have you not mentioned this before, but really I was hoping that if I did the old "head in sand" it might just go away! Alas, this ridiculous spin-off of Dancing with the Stars has gained momentum with the Swanson Scandal. I mean seriously, who'd a thunk there was a single straight male ice skater in the universe, let alone one with enough libido to commit adultery. Here we learn that all men, no matter how "artistic," follow their thingys around. Whatever, that mess is for God and their therapists to decide.

Now, back to this horrific program. Who in God's name thought it would be a good idea to have folks who can't skate doing jumps on the ice? I know these folks haven't worked in a while, but is that any reason to fall on your ass in front of America? Did your sinking careers and canceled television shows not embarrass you enough? And who are your agents and why aren't they fired?!

Seriously, you're talking about people whose entire faces have been "touched up," getting splattered head first onto a frozen pond when they can't haul they fat asses in the air. It sounds like a huge waste of money to have that nose re-done for the third time.

And to have this program run in the same season as the Winter Olympics, you know, that big event where actual athletes compete to win honors for their country. I know it interrupts your regularly scheduled programming and all, but at least when these folks fall down, we don't laugh outloud!

It is absolutely pitiful how desperate former celebrities are for attention. Can't you just take your re-run residuals and live quietly in suburbia, instead of trying to win back the spotlight by eating bugs, learning the mambo, or going to fat camp on TV? This skating crap is the last straw. If it gets to Celeb Roller Derby, I'm throwing my TV out the window!

The Long Weekend

So I had yesterday off of work in observance of President's Day, or as it's most often known National Half Off The Lowest Price Day in department stores around the country. Having that extra day on my weekend is really quite terrible for my morale. By the time Tuesday rolls around I'm so used to laying on my couch with regularly scheduled feedings that I can hardly make it to the deli to buy my coffee without feeling overwhelmed.

And I know what you're thinking, "My goodness Queenie, you are a lazy shirker!" But really that's not true. I understand the value of a hard days work, I just would rather someone else be doing the working. It's not that I want to be a kept woman, I just want Sweetpotato to pay all the bills so I don't have to have a job.

Think of all the things I could accomplish in a day if I didn't have to spend 8 hours rotting in a cubicle. I could finally buy that eye cream I've decided I need to combat the crow's feet I can feel forming with glare I give. I could finish that book I've been trying to get through for the past six months (I'm a bit of a retarded reader), and maybe even create some semblance of organization in my closet. Can you imagine the cakes I'd have time to bake?! Not to mention the birthday cards that would get sent on time, the thank you notes that could get written, my god I'd have my Christmas shopping done by August!

People underestimate the value of a stay-at-home girlfriend. I keep tellin' Sweetpotato he'd be so much happier with me around all day to remind him not to leave his cups all over my livingroom. I have even promised to have dinner ordered and on the coffee table by 6 every night.

Alas, no one seems to appreciate my talents as a lady of leisure. So Happy Tuesday everyone...now back to work!

Crazy is as Crazy does

You know the thing about crazy folks, they often have no idea they're crazy. I'm not talking about the man screaming "why are you such a whore?" as I walk fully-clothed down 47th Street, nor am I speaking of the woman at the crosswalk having an argument with her invisible friend. Those are regular crazy folk, and they can be found at any bus stop, post office, and park bench in America. Granted, they have become more difficult to detect ever since the invention of the cellphone head set, which makes everyone seem as though they're talking to themselves, but they're relatively harmless.

Now your average delirious oddball is necessary for society, they keep things balanced and are fun to talk to if you're ever alone at a dive bar. But the full-out, totally twisted, psychotic lunatic... not so much. I have been accused of telling a tall tale every now and then, and to be sure I have been known to exaggerate in the past, but as long as I live in New York I will NEVER have to make up a story again in my life!!

Now I have recently encountered the most normal-seeming person who has subsequently introduced me to four different identities, each with their own voicemail! I mean it's one thing to wave at ol' Crazy Bob stilling fightin' Charlie's from the war and working at the gas station, but it is entirely another to unknowingly carry on communications with folks who don't exist. It could make one doubt their own sanity. And I know you're sayin," Queenie, how stupid are you to fall for this?" But I am telling you, in New York everyone's just a little bit crazy, so sometimes it's just hard to separate the Carrot Top's from the David Berkowitz's. You know ol' Ted Bundy was considered quite the nice guy, up until they found all those body parts in his back yard.

I guess that's the thing about sociopaths, they're great dinner companions, just so long as you dine in very public places. But, again, if not for the truly crazy, how would the rest of us excuse our little idiosyncrasies? God bless the crazies... but keep them on the other side of the street!

What would you like for dinner?

Ya'll will not even believe what I had for dinner last night. I was forced into this place, lodged deep in the heart of Bohemia, whose niche was macrobiotic food. MACROBIOTIC. What the hell is that and why would I want to relive the nightmare of chemistry class during dinner?!

To be sure I still cannot tell you what macrobiotic is, but I can tell you what it is not...tasty. There were at least 50 items on this menu, and not a one of them fit to eat. The food came out looking like an unwashed garden of root vegetables and the stuff that grows out of the cracks in the sidewalks, and it tasted, well yes, basically like a piece of grass that had been trodden upon. There was not a single potato, tomato or eggplant on the menu. Why, you might ask, would these deliciously healthy items be omitted? Oh, well they're toxic of course! The menu even had a long paragraph explaining the poisonous vegetables, can you imagine? I mean, if you have to devote half a page of your menu to its own explanation, you might want to consider serving something else.

Now, you know my first reaction when faced with adversity, dining or otherwise, is to order a cocktail as quickly as possible. Of course all they had were beers I'd never heard of and organic wine. "Organic" being code for "tastes like dirt." And forget having a nice roll with your meal, all their breads are made of spelt, which is possibly the least appetizing word in the English language.

My companions had no problem with any of this, as they chewed, and chewed their undercooked piles of roughage. Of course these are the same people who have rocks fastened to their cell phones with electrical tape to ward off cancer. All those crazy folks studying oncology are just wastin' their money, when apparently all you have to do is rub a stone on your face and you're cancer-free!

Finally the meal, such as it is, has finished and I make my escape to the subway via the deli. I mean what good is eating healthy if you can't celebrate with a little Rocky Road?

V-Day

It's D-day, boys and girls, or should I say, V-day. Love is in the air, and so is the smell of desperation as men all over the country are placing last-minute calls to the florist and dashing madly to Hallmark. If you have not purchased a gift yet, you are not alone...but you are an idiot. Valentine's Day being one of the most commercial, greeting card-driven holidays in existence, you must make your selections at least two weeks in advance, lest you find yourself giving your Sweetheart a card reading "For a Special Grandmother." If you're finding nothing left at the store, try this e-card , it's cute and promotes heart health, and well, it helps a friend of mine too;-)

Now you know my old saying, "nothing says love like a diamond," but if you don't have one yet, you're obviously not going to purchase it today, so let me give you another sound gift idea - CHOCOLATE!! Sweetpotato (who by the way is an excellent gift-giver, and I'd like to thank his mother for that)woke me up this morning with a big ol' heart-shaped box of Russell Stover, and I couldn't have loved him more than if he'd put a 3 carat solitaire around my neck...okay, well maybe a little more, but not much.

You see, most women fantasize about watching a sappy movie in their pjs while taking bites out of every chocolate in a gigantic box. Not a particularly hot fantasy, but a very real one. However, we cannot actually buy our own box because the guilt of even holding 5,000 calories you intend to share with no one, starts a pulsing sensation in our thighs. Hence, fellas, you are the only ones who can satisfy our sweettooth and alleviate our distress, because if chocolates are a gift, we can't possibly hurt your feelings with a refusal. You see, with this one present you can not only fulfill your Valentine's obligations, but simultaneously say to your sweetheart, "I don't care what the scale says baby, you don't need to lose an ounce."

What women in the world can resist a man who thinks she's too thin and therefore needsto eat balls of fudge? And if you're real smart you'll go back tomorrow and buy the leftover discounted boxes to save for the next time you don't respond correctly to questions about our size, shape, or how we look in last year's swimsuit.

Happy Valentine's Day - may you dine out, drink wine, eat chocolate, and start your diet again tomorrow;-)

Southern Hospitality

In case my sweet Southern drawl doesn't translate to print, I am originally from the great state of North Carolina. Not "the Carolinas" as my Yankee in-laws continue to refer to the land of my birth, but NORTH Carolina. South Carolina being the inferior Carolina, we prefer not to be lumped into a single entity. Anyhoo, my Southern friends and I are always trying to explain to folks up North that in the South A) we do have running water and B) we're not quite as slow as you think.

Of course, then you go and try to rent a car. I have rented cars a few times in NYC and every time you hand over your credit card, they ask you if you want insurance, you take the keys and go. Not so fast in ol' N.C. I mean to tell you this man at the counter must not have seen a soul all day, bless his heart, cause he took one look at the birthdate on my license and launched into a 15 minute diatribe on how he has observed a population surge around the years 1972, 1980, and 2000, which has led to overcrowding in schools, an insufficient number of teachers, and the construction of new facilities. Well, maybe he didn't put it quite that eloquently. So this was followed by a story about one of his teachers in the 7th grade having to teach 8th grade as well, and you know "she didn't normally teach 8th grade," so this made quite an impression on him. Now during this time he was holding my credit card but couldn't seem to talk and swipe, so my quick trip in to pick up my car lasted about a half hour's worth of rambling.

And the whole time I'm thinking how there's not a single counter in New York, be it deli, DMV, or doctor's office, where anyone wants to speak more than three words to you. I mean first of all, no way their first language is English, and beyond that, when you have to fight through a mob just to place your order, no one needs to mention overcrowding.

But I guess that's just Southern hospitality for ya...and it is contagious you know. I took Sweetpotato down there once and in two days my hardened New Yorker was waving at folks just driving by. He even said "ya'll" a few times, though he'd never admit it in mixed company. I'm not sayin' it's fun to be carried into a Subway car by force of a swarming mob, nor is paying for a bagel you don't like and didn't order because the screaming deli guy scared you into a hurry the best way to start your day. And of course "Ya'll" will always sound more lovely than "yous guys," and the sweet tea is worth the entire trip....it's just that the trip will have to be cut short if I'm gonna return this rental car and make it to the terminal on time!

And while I love Dixieland and all her charm, I can't help but wonder if we might have won the war if we'd been as concerned with shooting the Yanks as we were with waving at 'em.

Nothing Says Love...

There's a big day coming up next week, and I'd like to do my part for my male readership. Recently I received a solicitation for my Royal Advice from a young man who was facing the ultimate question...What do I get my girlfriend for Valentine's Day? Now this particular couple has been together for a little while, but I feel my advice on this subject is irrefutable in all circumstances.

Here's what I said....

Well now, you have quite the holiday coming up. This is very easy honey... jewelry! Nothing says love like a diamond. You don't have to go all crazy and get some huge ring, in fact proposing on Valentine's Day is just about the cheesiest act ever recorded. But every woman, no matter how she might roll her eyes in public, fantasizes about opening a little velvet box on Valentine's Day.

Whatever you do, for the love of God don't go to K-Mart, or Sam's Club, or any stand-alone kiosk in the mall! That crap is not jewelry, and it has about as much value as tying a rusted nail around your neck. The heart-shaped pendant is not an option if she is over the age of thirteen, and I hope for your sake, she is. I don't know your budget, but regardless, simple and elegant is always the best choice, and comes in a variety of price ranges. If you've been with her for two years you should know her taste, so go to a reputable jeweler and pick out some nice diamond earrings or if that's too much $$, go to a chic shopping destination and select a nice silver bracelet.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, purchase anything with an electrical cord. Appliances are not gifts! One year my daddy gave my momma a food processor for Valentine's Day, and it has taken 15 years and quite a few gemstones to lay that one to rest! Oh, and nothing practical. This is not a practical occasion. Your soul purpose in this relationship is to spoil her. Running shoes, oil changes, Playstation games and other item considered "necessities" by the Y-chromosome are never to be considered.

And by the way, we can pick out our own underwear, so don't bother visiting Vicky's.

So basically, think the opposite of anything you'd want - spa treatments, manicures, and other methods of pampering will suffice, but are secondary to the diamond.


I tell you, a little gold gets you a long way my friend. Do yourself a favor and a lay your credit card down today!!

Grammy Re-cap

Oh Say, Did You See?

I am so sorry, I normally like to do my weekend re-cap on Monday, but I was still in recovery from the Superbowl, or at least the entertainment portion. Every year I wait excitedly for the National Anthem, and every year they drag out some mediocre has-been who attempts to sing the world's most difficult tune in the middle of a reverberating stadium filled with screaming fans. And this year, sadly, was no different. Now you've got the country's most powerful and inspiring anthem sung in quivering hicups by a sexually confused performer who should have retired after the cotton commercials. And Aaron, honey, can we please do something about that growth on your head. I don't care if it's connected to the largest artery in your face, it is not a "trademark," it is a mark of the beast, so let's get it removed, okay?

And Lord, Aretha. The woman can sing, there's no denying that. Now if her lungs had half the capacity of her stomach, that'd be quite a feat! Looks like when she left the stage she headed straight for the buffet, and hasn't come up for air too often. And once again, folks can't even dress up for important events. There she was in some pants and a little tee-shirt (and by little you know I mean size-of-a-grand-piano-cover). Could put on a dress or something, I mean the song's only 2 and a half minutes long, and then you could get right back into your spandex, I promise. And then you know she had to wear the jacket. Ya'll know I have no problem with fur, I mean the animal's dead, what does he need it for? Anyway, if you're gonna wear fifty-seven carcasses that I know cost you about a go-gillion dollars, you should at least make sure they don't look like nappy acrylic from JC Penny.

So now you have the warbler and the wailer, add in the gospel choir and the time-delay, and you have the most atrocious rendition of our National Anthem since Roseanne Barr. I mean they slaughtered that poor song. I couldn't understand a damn word they sang, and I've had that song memorized for 25 years. Couldn't ABC get Whitney Houston off the crack-pipe long enough to give us a nice rendition? The Superbowl's only about the snackin' and the singin' for 90% of the viewers anyway.

All that to say, I was less than pleased with the performance, and therefore declare that I will absolutely not watch football again, for at least 8 MONTHS!! (Hallelujah!)

Are you ready for some football?!

This Sunday I am havin' a bunch of folks over to watch the big game on our ridiculously large television. The gathering is disguised as a Superbowl party so Sweetpotato will have friend's to play with, but on my side of the room it's gonna be a "Thank God Football Season Is Finally Over" party!!! After months of having my livingroom taken over by grunting beasts (and I am not even speaking of the players), I finally get to spend a Saturday sport's caster-free, and not a moment too soon. I mean to tell you if I had to watch one more second of playoff games I was seriously gonna have to seek psychiatric help for my rage issues! I would also like to have my boyfriend back, and be able to plan an activity that doesn't include a widescreen or a remote control. You know, the entire sport just doesn't make any sense. Why on earth would you give the ball to a guy who runs right in the middle of a pack of other guys? For the love of god...Go around! These fools have obviously been hit in the head too many times.

Now the Superbowl I don't mind, hell any event involving beer and bar food can't be all that bad. There's nothing like a chicken wing to turn an obnoxiously barbaric sport into an enjoyable afternoon. Of course because it's on a Sunday, I will be drinking Mimosa's, out of respect for the holy day you know. So my plan is to stay in the kitchen as much as possible, (not preparing food or anything like that, cause you know I'm having it all delivered) so as to avoid the screaming and other act of idiocy that plague the Y-chromosome during sporting events. Oh, and also to be nearer the party platter, but that goes without sayin.

I just cannot wait for next weekend, just to wake up free from the chains of the NFL. No frantic phone calls about the trading of fantasy players (which you know I believe to be the most inane activity ever conceived), no arguing with the referees who surely must be able to hear you through the television, no former players still trying to master the English language speculating with unwarranted authority in atrociously flamboyant attire. By the way, someone needs to get ESPN the memo because plaids and stripes should not now, nor should they ever, be worn together. Additionally, the new big-tie-with-printed-shirt phenomenon is less "trendy" and more "I'm getting ready to jump out of a mini car and get a pie in my face." But I digress.

I'd like to raise a glass to the end of the 2005-2006 football season. Here's to Saturday's in the park, Sunday's watching a movie, and the return of my Sweetpotato to the land of the living. So let's bid a farewell, however unfond, to the gridiron ...may he rest in peace.

Lindsay

Today is Wednesday, and you know what that means...the new Star Magazine is out! Now children, let's all open our text books to page 44 to learn about drug addiction. On this two-page spread of the pop disaster Lindsay Lohan, you can either read about her latest pole-dancing exploits, or simply follow the photo diary of her cracked-out existence over the past six months.

Now she was cute and all when she did her little bubble-gum music, but then you know she had to cross over into acting because well, that's just what you do. I mean you don't expect her to let Hilary Duff get a skinny leg up. Lord knows those two have been having the fiercest bulemia battle in history. But like all young stars (and I use this term in the loosest manner) she had to take to the drink, and the pills, and then the powder, and it's just a downward spiral. When you find yourself in a strip club at 2 am with Kate Moss, you might wanna take a step back before you end up living in exile in a foreign nation.

Now I would never wish anyone harm, and you how I hate to talk bad about folks, but aren't you just waiting for her to crash and burn? I mean what would be the loss - another lip-synching C-grade teen princess turned fashionista? She gets more press for attending boutique openings than for her "art," cause if you really think she wrote any of her songs then you need to put down the crack pipe too. And I know, her life is so tough, her parents are divorced and she feels torn - welcome to the life of every second child in America. At least you have a minibar to console you.

Of course I want to say to Lindsay, get yourself together honey, but in reality whether she is or not makes no difference in her overall societal contribution. So I would like the tabloids to please keep their eye on the clock, because her 15 minutes should be just about up!