Grey's Anatomy

So of course I watched Grey's Anatomy last night like pretty much everyone in America, and I was reminded of how irritating it is that this whole show is based on the totally ridiculous premise that Dr. McDreamy would ever in a million years be attracted to Meredith Grey. I mean come on people, just look at them for christ's sake. On a scale of attractiveness she's maybe a 4 on her best day and he's every bit a 9 on his worst. Their entire relationship flies in the face of centuries of psychological studies, all of which have found that 4's pair with 4's and 9's pair with 9's and if an exception is made, it will never be the man who's trading down- to be sure.

Since the first man crawled out of his cave and grunted, men and women have found themselves attracted to those of a similar scale, and certainly the Patrick Dempseys of the world have never found themselves trapped in the squinty gaze of a lifeless anorexic. I mean look at him, look at his ex-wife, look at Meredith...."one of these things is not like the other."

And don't give me that crap about how Meredith is supposed to represent the Everywoman, and he's attracted to her soul and they have a deeper connection or some such nonsense. I mean all she does is whine and mope and make that "ugh" sound. Plus she screwed over cutie-patutie Chris O'Donnell last season for the flip-flopping McDreamy who had a wife!

Anyway, the real problem with this show isn't the casting of plain folks but the ineptness of the makeup department. Seriously, can we get Meredith a hair-do at least? She looks like 1970's Farrah Fawcett with a low-flow shower head, and you know, a highlight or two wouldn't kill the girl. They might also try putting make-up on her pasty skin, and while I appreciate that they were trying to get her some lips, the collagen has now rendered her mouth expression-less, which I suppose suits the rest of her face. Oh and while we're on the subject of grooming, do you think McDreamy could pick up a razor once in a while? He's the head of neurosurgery, not a grunt in the ER, they schedule things like cutting open a brain, so stop with the "I've been at the hospital for 3 days straight and haven't had to time do anything but drink coffee and save lives," crap...he don't got it so bad.

All I'm asking for is a little reality in my fiction, is that so much to ask?

Men's Fashion Faux Pas

Okay, so I don't often write about men's fashion faux pas because, to be honest, simply getting dressed is often a struggle for the Y-chromosome. But I know I have a few male readers at least, so I'm going to take the time today to speak out about the bad tie epidemic that is running rampant through the streets of Manhattan.

This morning on the train I was sandwiched between two offenders. The first was duded up in his grey chalk-stripe suit, Gucci loafers, stark white shirt and ....Cotton Candy Pink Tie. Oh no, honey, you are not half so cute as you think you are, getting all in touch with your feminine side. The only circumstance for which one should ever don a shiny satin tie of that hue, is if they are a member of a summer wedding party and the Martha-Stewart-loving, country-club-attending, bitch of a bride wants to make everyone in her wedding party look asinine in hot pink. The tie should never be re-worn in decent society, I don't care what your acrylic nail wearing Staten Island secretary tells you.

The second offender was dressed a tad more conservatively in an almost navy blue pinstripe shirt with a plain white collar. Let's stop right there. Two-tone dress shirts are, in my opinion, ridiculous. It's unclear why one wouldn't want the collar of their shirt to match the rest of it, but apparently Ralph Lauren thinks it looks pretty good and who am I to discount the fashion sense of a menswear icon? Anyhoo, on top of this blue pinstripe shirt was a red and green PLAID tie. Now I don't know who started this whole "plaids and stripes can be worn together" nonsense, but it simply ain't the case. I do not care what those idiots on Sports Center are wearing, they are former athletes, trust me when I tell you - they ain't got no fashion sense. The print aside, in what realm of the universe does a Christmas tie get worn with a Hanukkah shirt? At least get your color families together, for christ's sake!

Look, I get that you boys don't have quite as many fashion options and maybe feel that your work attire is a little dull, but seriously, the suit has been a staple of the corporate wardrobe since the invention of the pant and it's really okay, you don't need to "spice it up." Chics dig guys in suits...trust me, Sweetpotato wore suits on all our first dates and look what a prize he got;-)

Not too bright

The thing about coloring your hair when you're over 70 years of age is that well, we all know you're coloring your hair! Now y'all know I'm not one to throw stones about highlights, hell I haven't seen my natural hair color in so long it's become one of the mysteries of the world. But all I'm sayin is, if you are of a certain age and your hair is thinning, it's probably best not to dye your few stands of whispy hair a carrot-orange color, lest your white scalp gleam through in a most unfortunate manner.

So I'm on the train this morning, where I find all my best blogging topics, and here's a woman, about 3 days older than water, with her Joan Collins sunglasses and bright orange hair, fully done up with all her makeup and such, but her balding head was justa shining through. Come on now, I know all sorts of things go on with your body as you age and, to be sure, I shall be punished severely in my maturity, but you don't need to color everything in for god's sake!

And this goes for everyone...if you got it, flaunt it, if you don't...just try to hide it as best you can! For example, if you have a big nose, don't part your hair in the middle. If you have a big ass, don't wear high-waisted pants. If you have ugly toes, don't wear sandals. These are very basic way to save yourself from Dear Queenan's reign of ridicule...not that you're ever actually safe. I'll find something to say about you regardless, but folks just gotta stop makin' it so easy!;-)

It ain't over til it's over

Sweetpotato has broken the rules. I have made it very clear that football watching shall be limited to one Sunday per week for the viewing of one and only one team. Since said team was eliminated during the first round of the play-offs, the fact that two - count em- TWO football games were shown on my television yesterday, preventing me from watching "Grease: You're the One That I Want," was highly unacceptable.

Now can someone please explain to me how during regular season you can hate a team with your dying breath, yet in the play-offs you're cheering for them like you're their native son. Look, I have resigned myself to the fact that Sweetpotato will continue to foster this deep and abiding love for the Giants, having been brought up in the stadium and all, but to all of a sudden be cheering on some team from Indianapolis is just asinine!

Haven't I sacrificed enough? I gave up every damn Sunday since September to the Pigskin gods, and this devotion was supposed to be over by now but appears to have expanded to include any other team that's playing. No one consulted me on this! I thought the rules were, you picked one team to cheer for and hated all others, and yet it appears you pick one team to cheer for and secondary teams to cheer for just in case yours ain't playing. Ridiculous!

I guess I just don't understand all this fan behavior because my father, King Daddykins, wasn't into professional sports when I was a kid. Then one day, sometime during my high school years, he decided to take up NBA-watching, or more specifically Michael Jordan watching, and thus began screaming at the television like every other man in America. His viewing has expanded to other sports but since he didn't grow up with any team's allegiance, he just cheers for whoever everyone else isn't cheering for (as is so typical of his nature), and watches random games when he can't find anything around the house that needs to be painted, rewired, planted, mowed or cleaned. As he has now refinished every square inch of our house and yard, his football watching has taken on a greater frequency.

So you see, never being around a true "fan," it's been rather difficult for me to grasp the ideologies governing the mind of the hard-core football watcher. It is clear now that I underestimated the level of insanity of the season ticket holder, or perhaps it was head trauma suffered during their pee wee football days. Whatever the cause of the malfunction, it's clear that I'm not getting outta this football season until the fat lady sings....I should have started warming up earlier;-)

Another Don't

Have I ever told y'all how I feel about folks who wear sunglasses on the subway?

ASSHOLES!

Now look here, not only are you underground, but whoever you are cannot be that damn important if you're taking public transportation.

On the train this morning there was a girl who thought she had her look to-ge-th-a. I mean all the way from her skin tight jeans to her short, white, faux-furred jacket, this girl thought she was Jenny from the Block. She had her long acrylic airbrushed nails, her hair extensions, her orange bottle-tan, her knock-off Chanel bag...I mean the whole nine. Oh, and it was only NINE in the morning! I don't know where the hell she thought she was goin', but clearly she needed to shrowd her identity. I mean this girl was standing on a dimly-lit train, 50 feet below street-level, tryin' to protect herself from UV rays? I don't think so, honey.

This girl was a fool, plain and simple. I don't care how cute you think you look, unless your name is Jack Nicholson you may not wear sunglasses indoors.

Now y'all know I hate to criticize, and I'd just die if I hurt someone's feelings, but you know I really wanted to say to her...Honey, this is the New York City subway. No one knows who you are and really, we couldn't care less! (PS, the position for JLo has already been filled!)

A pat on the back

If y'all recall, ever since Sweetpotato and I had a little kitchen battle, I have not even touched a pot or pan. I mean, if he's gonna go showin' off all the damn time, making things like wasabi-crusted scallops and peach coulis sauce, I surely am not gonna get in his way. You see, when I think of making a meal I run through the cheapest, healthiest ingredients with the least prep time, and usually end up with a take-out menu. When Sweetpotato decides he's gonna make dinner, it's like a religious experience or something and he paces about the kitchen stirring and flipping and tasting and BRAGGING.

My god, I have never in my life has so much to say about anything I've cooked and, to be sure, I have plenty to say. Last night he made a delicious blackened ribeye with roasted butternut squash and stuffed portabello caps. You wanna know how good it was...just ask him! I mean it was good, I'm not gonna lie, but you'd thought he discovered fire or something the way he way goin' on.

Of course, isn't that just the way with the Y-chromosomes. They can take what's been considered a chore by every mother in the world and turn it into a wondrous event, winning them praise and adulation. And do you know why Y's enjoy cooking so much? Because they don't wash a single damn dish! Oh no, Y's don't cook and clean, they get enough praise for one and leave then other to whoever falls behind them. Sweetpotato thinks we have a lovely little arrangement - he cooks, I clean and I cook, I clean...Queenie don't play that, so Queenie don't cook.

To be fair, I don't really mind washing the dishes if he's gonna be cooking such fabulous dinners...funny how hard it is to hear him congratulating himself with the water running;-)

Golden Globes 2007

Look y'all, I am so sorry not to immediately criticize, trash and belittle the celebs at last night's Golden Globes but today was a rough one and besides, there wasn't really anyone to write home about. As I have said in the past, television stars tend to behave themselves, lest this is their only time on a red carpet and they're forever shown on the pages of Star Magazine in some postmodern abomination for which their stylist will never be forgiven.

There were, however, some serious Hairtastrophies!!

Now every women knows that immediately following a break up is not the time to make any drastic hair changes. Poor Cameron clearly missed this lesson in relationship rebounding, and some how thought it was a good idea to die her hair black. I'm sure she wanted to make one of those "I am single, hear me roar" kinda statements, but I think she shoulda stuck to the time-honored short-skirt-and-lotsa-cleavage-don't-you-want-me-back look.

And, am I crazy, but was Heidi the tale of the little Swiss girl, or the tale of the marginally talented British chic with unfortunate taste in men? Yeah, Sienna honey, the braid thing ain't for the red carpet, or for anywhere but your audition for Maria Von Trapp.

Can someone please get my girl Reese the memo about bangs? Oh honey, you can't seriously be showin up to the Golden Globes with straight strands and blunt bangs. Hell I gotta flat iron, I coulda done that! You're supposed to look like something at an award show, not like you're grabbin a few things at the Target.

Oh but nothing... NO- THING can explain why on earth the beautiful Vanessa Williams would let someone do that freak Halloween costume thing to her head! I mean, on her t.v. show my girl looks good, and then she's gonna show up on the Red Carpet lookin like the Bride of Frankenstein, it's just not natural. Even I have suffered from post traumatic hair disorder whereby I was unable to communicate my dismay to the hairdresser for fear of speaking lest I might cry, but I was only going to the grocery store, not to flaunt myself in front of 7 million photographers and the waiting eyes of the entire continent! You can't seriously turn around in that hairdresser's chair, see that fro, and think anything other than ... Dear God, MAKE IT STOP!!

Elevator Pitch

Dear Elevator Talkers,

What makes you think that sharing an elevator necessitates the sharing of any other information? Just because we're trapped in the same box for a minute and a half doesn't mean we need to be best friends or anything. It's an elevator not a G.D. cocktail party! Why is it that you all feel it necessary to comment on something and can't simply ride in silence like a normal person? And why must you insist on commenting on, of all obvious things, the weather? It's cold outside...really? Is that why I'm wearing a coat and scarf instead of a freakin' tee-shirt? It is January for christ's sake, it's supposed to be cold. Moreover, since I have lost my teleporting abilities, I have just been outside myself and I know exactly how cold it is, thank you very much.

Elevator riding should not be a social situation, hence the installation of television monitors in most major buildings, so that we can concentrate on mindless factoids instead of our mindless companions. I have only 10 floors in which to locate my keys, recover from hat-hair, and get myself together before being dumped into the abysmal frenzy of my office, and I do not choose to spend those precious moments discussing the weekend forecast with a person I have never met nor will ever see again.

Please exercise the courtesy of shutting the hell up! I know you can do it, it is but a brief interval in your inane babbling. Silence is good for the soul and even better for society. And if I can do it, to be sure, it can be done!

In circumstances where talking is necessary, such as a mechanical failure or the apocalypse, certain allowances can be made. Otherwise, push your button, face the doors, and try to act like you got some home training.

Sincerely,
HRH (her royal highness) Queenan Potato, silent rider

Grease is the word

Dear Lord, it's as if I've died and gone to heaven...thank you reality television for bringing me "You're The One That I Want," the new talent competition whose winners will star in Grease on the Broad-way. It's like American Idol times 3 cause you've gotta be what we in the industry (ha!) call a triple threat - singer, dancer, actor. Well okay, to be fair, there's very little "acting" per se in Grease, and the songs aren't so much complicated as catchy, but there certainly is dancing.

The applicant pool is significantly smaller than Idol because of the dancing bit and because it's the first season (please God let there be a second), which makes some of the contestants actually qualified and not all tone-deaf folks desperate for attention, like the mile-long line of Idol contestants. Not to worry though, there are still plenty of crazy talent-less folks whose friend pool is so shallow they actually let them believe they can sing.

Now y'all know I'm not watchin' this cause I've got stars in my eyes, but more because I like to make fun of folks. I have long since given up the stage to folks who can actually get up on it, but I have waited in the audition lines in New York and I am certain there is enough talent on this tiny island to cast a musical as benign as Grease, but how else can they actually get folks to come see it for the 900th time? Every high school in America has put this show up in their gymnasium, not to mention however many times it's already been on the Broad-way, so having America track the outcome is a great way to drum up business. And it's not like it matters even if they suck, cause you know the producers got this cast locked down with actual Equity talent, so the understudies are bound to take over after opening night.

It's on Sunday nights on NBC and, if you can believe it, they have found an even more obnoxious host than Ryan Seacrest. Billy Bush from Access Hollywood is the guy interviewing the contestants and on top of being an idiot, he is the most arrogant prick on the face of the earth and I really wanted to stab him in both his eyes immediately. I'm gonna need y'all to catch a few episodes cause I know I'm gonna need to speak on it as the weeks progress, plus you're only missing The Apprentice, which I won't even allowed to be taped at my house lest that billionaire bastard get a rating number outta me.

Oh, and make sure you catch the opening song because it really is the most awful and absurd rendition of the title song that has ever been! It's FABULOUS!!!

Red Velvet Review

I know you all have been waiting with bated breath all weekend to see how Queenie's night out on the town went, and since I wouldn't want to disappoint you dear readers, I do have a few things to say.

First of all, we had a FABULOUS time! All the girls gathered at Red Velvet's place for a few pre-game cocktails and of course a slice of delicious red velvet cake. **(Note how pretty both my Red Velvet's look above) While it remains an inferior cake on my list, when covered in cream cheese icing and homemade praline crumbles, you'd be surprised how tasty anything can be. Red Velvet was of course showered with gifts and hugs and all those warm and fuzzies that she most definitely deserves, being the fabulous Red Velvet that she is. Then we gathered our scantily-clad selves up and over to New Jersey. I mean, we didn't really go to New Jersey, that would have been a travesty of gigantic proportions, but we did make it all the way to 11th Avenue, which is close enough for me.

It was truly an educational experience for me, being in the "club district" and all. I mean you're basically waiting in line (for those unfortunate folks who actually have to wait in lines) with a prostitute on your left and a party girl on your right. The only discernible difference between the two is that one gets paid in cash, the other in cocktails- otherwise they both just look cheap.

Now, I realize I don't go out that often, but did I miss the memo about club attire? It seems that the dress code for guys is the fitted untucked Oxford shirt, which on anyone other than Nick Lachey just looks like they bought their shirt 2 sizes too small. The women all appear to be in obscene mini skirts and halter tops that leave little to the imagination and everything to the plastic surgeon. Whatever makes you feel good honey, but I can promise you that in a sober state you'd be pulling on a pair of tights faster than you can say cell-u-lite.

My girls and I looked amazing as you can see, so we just sailed right on in the club and were dancing our asses off before the trashy folks in line could even make a move. We met up with Red Velvet's new baby, who was just precious, and wearing a blazer which only proves he has some sense. You know Sweetpotato wouldn't think of leavin' the house without a jacket, but of course Sweetpotato would rather die than step foot in a club in the first place...probably why I love him so much;-)

It turns out that in dimly-lit place where all the inhabitants are at least 3 cocktails down, my arms don't seem quite so fat..of course I was a few cocktails down myself so it's hard to say. Oh, and of course you don't know which one I am anyway, and I'm not tellin'! I will say though, when the music's good and the company's even better, little things like flabby triceps don't seem to matter so much. Who knows, I may need to start going out on a more regular basis, like say, twice a year or so. Oh and I think I rediscovered my affection for vodka too, cause you know Mimosa's are great and all, but for the Manhattan nightlife scene, it's be drunk or be bothered and y'all know (say it with me now)I just can't be bothered;-)

Red Velvet

A very good friend of mine is celebrating her birthday today, so of course I offered to bake her a cake, cause y'all know I don't believe any milestone should be passed with out a carbohydrate in its honor. So I was thinking of all the lovely recipes I haven't made in a while, when she hits me with her personal favorite...Red Velvet.

What?!?! No one's favorite cake is red velvet, no one even really eats red velvet...and I'm from the South for Christ's sake!

The last time red velvet cake had any notoriety was as a bleedin' armadillo in Steel Magnolias, and even then it was relegated to the car port!

I mean, if you've never made a red velvet cake, and unless you were raised in Georgia I can't imagine that you have, you must understand that this cake contains ingredients barely meant for human consumption. However, it does usually come covered in cream cheese icing, thank God. Hell, I'd eat a couch if it was covered in enough cream cheese icing.

So this friend, we shall henceforth refer to as Red Velvet, is also quite the social butterfly, and has decided that for her birthday she would like to go dancing. (This is of course code for: put on low-cut top and make men want me, and I fully support that and all attention-getting activities on one's birthday;-) Of course, being the Manhattanite that she is, Red Velvet is suggesting one of those downtown clubs famous for not letting anyone in. It's quite the scene from what I've been told, naturally I have not been there, being more of a sports bar kinda gal myself. Alas, you can take the girl outta the South, but you can't take the peanut-shell-covered-floors outta the girl. Now you know these clubs are the kinda places where you've gotta hoist the twins up front and center and sausage yourself into your tightest jeans and teeter around in those stillettos that look fabulous and feel like you're walking on glass after 2 minutes. And you know all of said outfits involve the exposing of the tricep, and you know I suffer from acute upper arm edema, so it's monumentally unfair that I would have to expose my flabby flesh in the dead of winter and look like the fat married girl beside all my single friends and their stick-like appendages!!

However, seeing as how it is Red Velvet's special day, I am trying to adopt a mantra to help me cope with this and similarly trying circumstances I'm sure to encounter over the next 12 months: 2007 is not about Queenan.

That didn't sound right to you either, did it?

Bedtime

Anyone who has read my blogs for a while know the love/hate relationship I share with my dog. Winnie came into my world as a small, precious puppy, a perfect little snuggle bunny with sad eyes and floppy ears. Well now she's still got floppy ears but that's about it. Her eyes laugh at me as she hops onto Sweetpotato's lap, winning his affection before she saunters into the kitchen and pees simply because she can.

I have been waging a campaign against this moronic mongrel for over a year now to get her to behave like a damn DOG. But every night I find her head on the pillow beside my own, snoring louder than any human and immovable as a ton of bricks.

But this week I finally win a battle in my war of the kingdoms, Sweetpotato and I are now the proud owns of a Queenan-sized bed!! I know, can you imagine, 2 full-sized people and 1 fat-assed dog in a full-sized bed for over a year now! It's amazing we're all still alive, especially as my thought of pupicide increase every morning I wake falling of the bed as Winnie stretches sideways across the bed. When I bought this bed I made sure the box spring was extra tall and with the pillow-top the bed sits pretty high. So we set up the bed, and as soon as Winnie heard us trying to straighten the sheets, she runs at break-neck speed into the bedroom, careening off walls for leverage, and she leaps up to the bed and .... Denied!

So there I am dancing around the room as Winnie repeatedly attempts to mount the bed and each time bounces off the extra tall box spring and crashes to the floor. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to laugh but seriously, if you'd been bumped for a 4-legged fatty for over a year, you'd be a little amused too.

My new bed is so comfy and I was just settling in to the most stretched out sleep of my life, with Winnie peering over the edge of the bed, trying to stretch herself onto my pillowtop, and then out of no where....I don't know how she did it, but with a thump I felt a large furry mass hurl itself onto my bed. And there she was, standing on my hair, smug look on her face and eye taunting me as if to say "the Bitch is Back."

A Milestone!

Well, I thought I'd never see the day, but here we are with Dear Queenan's 200th POST!! After over a year of blogging and slacking and getting yelled at and blogging again, I have given you 200 reasons to procrastinate at work! You're welcome.

In honor of this auspicious occasion, I'd like to reflect back on some the ways I have enlightened you over the past 19 months.

I have given you many lessons on everything from:
Sports
to
Animals
to
Shopping
to
Etiquette
to
Travel
to
Dating
to
The Y-chromosome
to
Advice

Seriously, the wealth of knowledge is staggering and that I have donated all these literary gems to your edification and amusement is nothing short of miraculous, really.
Enjoy the little trip down memory lane and here's to 200 more inspirational posts;-)

Day of Mourning?

Can you believe this memorial nonsense goin on today? Banks closing, mail undelivered, even the damn stock market has the day off! Of course those fools made so damn much money last year, they just want a va-ca. I know, I know, he was a president, and even if ol' Gerald wasn't elected to office, I suppose he deserves some special attention in the event of his death. I suppose it's kinda nice the way Americans celebrate their commanders in chief, though everyone is remembered more positively after their out of office a little while. Hell, we may even call to mind a few niceties about our current president by 2030, but I wouldn't hold my breath.

What I find most disgusting, is that, for the past week, the death of President Ford has been trumped by that of James Brown. I realize the man was an icon and all, but "Sex Machine" did little to promote foreign policy, ya know? All the news coverage has been showing throngs of folks standing in line to see his body up in Harlem, talking about how he inspired them and all. Of course, the Rev. Al Sharpton, the biggest media whore in the free world, was all over the place talkin' about how he didn't have a father, but he had James Brown. Give me a break. James Brown was not what you'd call a good role model, hell he made Ike Turner look like a nice guy!**
But that didn't seem to stop the news channels from their endless coverage of the mourners. My God, they held his funeral in an basketball arena, poor ol Ford's gonna be lucky to get a full church!

Which reminds me, I have an issue with folks waiting in line for hours upon hours to look at the dead body of a celebrity. I mean, if your grandmother dies and you wanna say farewell, knock yourself out, but why in the world you'd wanna look at the corpse of someone you've never met is totally beyond me.

If you are truly mourning today, then I offer my condolences. But if you are sitting your ass on the couch watching Regis and Kelly cause you don't gotta go to work, then I offer you my butt to kiss!

**- denotes material borrowed from Sweetpotato who thinks I steal all his good lines and never give him credit