Reunion Update

So I'm just about 3 weeks away from this reunion thing I'm attending and the situation is getting serious. Last night, for example, I spent a good hour pouring over pictures of myself in tanner, toner times and lamenting aloud on the injustice of aging. I mean, there was a time when I could have a picture taken from any angle without flinching and every pose wasn't centered around S.A.P.P (strategic arm in photo placement)...I'd put my triceps right on out there and not risk nausea when the pictures were printed.

There was a time when tube tops didn't require a second thought and bikinis weren't worn under moo-moos. There was a time when getting a tan was a spectator sport, as in I allowed spectators, but now tanning is confined to an ultraviolet tube at $20 a pop. Obviously I have to start up the sunless tanning, with only 3 weeks and not a pound lost, my only hope is to camouflage the fat under a layer of bronze, and this tinted lotion is pooling between my fingers, leaving a lovely orange-fungus look to my hands. At least with the tanning bed, even if everyone suspects you bought it, you can still maintain the illusion that you recently returned from a weekend in Cabo; whereas, the uneven orange stains lapping around your ankles tend to shatter that idea.

For the life of me, I cannot understand what happened. I mean my face is as lovely as ever, if a bit fuller, but the body...not so much. So maybe I didn't drink quite so many glasses of wine back then, and I certainly hadn't discovered Mimosas. Oh, and there were probably fewer nachos and more salads in my diet, and I did live at the bottom of a very steep hill and walked to class everyday. But other than that I was exactly the same, so where did the pounds come from? It is certainly a mystery, one that I doubt can ever be solved. It seems as a reward for graduating and getting a real job, nature immediately plants a good 15 lbs. on you so you can add gym time to your list of daily obligations and waistline to your list of stressors. Of course once you're sucked into the corporate world, you haven't the time to lose those pounds, so 15 turns into 20 turns into 25 and after that it's just goodbye low-rise jeans, hello elastic waistbands. I can finally afford designers jeans, I just can no longer get in them...the world is so cruel.

The reunion saga continues...next week tanning, then begins the hunt for the perfect illusion outfit. You know, the one that pretends it's not trying to hide your ass, though it clearly is, and is accessorized so well you're just sure no one can see past your fabulous shoes and matching handbag. Yeah, looks like I'll be breakin out the ol' credit card for this one, but it will be well worth it to spend the weekend ass-agita free!!

The Short

Y'all saw American Idol a couple nights ago, with this little chippy flouncin around on the stage with about 6 inches of clothing on? I will set aside commentary on the appropriateness of this outfit for a more important discussion...when was the last time I wore a short?

At this point, it's hard to say. There was a time friends, when my legs looked that good. Now, I was 14 and had the gym teacher from hell, but short-shorts I could wear. In fact, I wore shorts right on through college, until at some point that little bit of fabric rubbing between my thighs began to chafe, and the skin above my knees starting looking lumpy.

You know I used to wear quite a few backless tops myself, back when my back was tanned and tones, not the pale flub that it is today. It seems my world has gone from tanks and shorts to sleeves and pants in the blink of an eye. They say youth is wasted on the young, which I assume is supposed to be some commentary on ambition and vitality, but whatever. Great thighs are wasted on the young!!! My god, if I had the body I had at 18 right now, I'd be hell on wheels. Back then I didn't have time to get myself into trouble, I had a freakin curfew! I remember exercising like a fiend to get down to 118lbs (from 123) for no particular reason. I tell you, I haven't seen a number on that scale in the 120's in years. If I weighed 123lbs. right this minute I'd be arrest for public indecency...I'd walk down Fifth Ave naked as a jaybird, just because I could.

Alas, the short is no longer part of my wardrobe and has been replaced by the"short of grown folks"- the capri pant. Not really any cooler than jeans on a hot day, but exposing your shins to the air is apparently supposed to trick you into believing they are. For those unfortunate folks with cankles, I suggest the longer leg, lest you look like a sausage in clothing.

It's like I always say: if you got it, flaunt it, and if you don't, just try to hide is as best you can!

Post St. Pat's

It has taken nearbout all of my inner strength to haul myself outta bed and into work this morning. Yesterday, found me laid out on the couch for the entire day with the curtains drawn, not once venturing into the sunlight. Saturday was a long, hard St. Patrick's Day, and, though I survived, it was just barely.

For those of you who've never been in New York on March 17th, let me explain that come rain, sleet, or in this case buckets of snow, the Irish will come out of the woodwork to celebrate. My god, there were folks throwin' up by noon! I saw a grown man fall off a bar stool before 5pm, his eyes like tiny slits and his head lolling from side to side. Every person you meet is decked out in green, and not the tasteful green tie you see on the parade commentator, but head-to-toe, non-matching shades of the brightest greens they can find, topped with tacky plastic hats and Mardi Gras beads in shamrock shapes. Bagpipe troupes blare in and out of every bar and the Guinness flows like water (hence the exceptionally long lines for the bathroom).

Folks make the most exceptional asses out of themselves....it's totally fabulous!

Sweetpotato is a spud of the most Irish sort, so of course we lead the charge, though with mimosa's and light beer to ensure we actually made it through the night. And while I had intended to make Irish Soda Bread and eat corned beef and cabbage, a few hours into the mo-mos and nachos and egg rolls sounded ethnically appropriate. (As per usual, Fashionslave forced loaded nacho consumption upon me when I should have had a hummus platter because she is the size of my right thigh and doesn't rip her jeans trying to stretch her way into them.) Nevermind, I do despise dieting on national holidays....any nation will do.

Today though, I'm back to Diet Pepsi and yogurt, trying to wrest the toxins from my bloated body, having vowed yesterday to give up booze...at least until Friday.

So, Happy Monday everyone...let the de-tox begin!

Follow-up

Well kids, Cinderella is back to sweeping the floors after an evening of fine dining. My cab turned into a pumpkin at the stroke of 1:30, and man am I paying for it now! But it was well-worth the hangover and the bill, to get to play grown-up for an evening. I'll be damned though, they didn't even have tartare! I was fired before I was hired over a dish they don't even serve anymore!

Whatever. It's not like Queenie was ever really cut out to wait on others, I got pissy anytime someone ordered more than one beverage. Irrational, yes. Controllable, no.

So afterward, we popped into a piano bar to see one of my musical theater friends for his birthday. Sweetpotato was the only straight man in the place and can you believe, he's the one that wanted to stay longer! Piano bars are a strange New York phenomenon, wherein, every gay man or theater hopeful (basically one in the same) gathers late at night to sing showtunes as loudly as they possibly can, in an effort to prove their talent to the other hopefuls. There's often a great deal of alcohol involved, which is certainly why 'Tater was so enamored. It's almost like living in a musical- everyone bursts into song, the same song, in perfect 4-part harmony with the occasional dance step thrown in for good measure. And I mean these folks know EVERY song, from EVERY musical...EVER. Sadly, most won't ever stand on a Broadway stage, but after midnight in a Manhattan piano bar, you'd never know.

They are not for the faint of heart, so I suggest you steel yourself with vodka before entering, lest you run screaming from the bar with the chorus of Oklahoma! repeating in your head.

All in all, it was one of those great New York nights- pay more for one dinner than your electric bill in July and spend the evening in a parallel universe where everybody sings along!

A bedtime story...

Once upon a time, there was a lovely, talented young woman with flowing blond hair and a beautiful, if round, face. One day, she packed her twin bed and her paltry wardrobe into the back of a U-Haul truck and with her two friends headed north to the great city of New York, to fulfill her destiny of stage stardom. She arrived to the bustling metropolis with no job, no contacts, no savings, and enough cash to pay the rent...once.

Sure that she'd be employed within a week, the young woman wondered why her parents' faces looked so stricken as she pulled out of the driveway, for she knew that with her skills as a waitress, she'd have no problem finding a job.

And so after setting up her bed in someone else's room, and hanging her "closet" in the hallway, she left her 200 sq. foot apartment and set about enquiring at every restaurant in Manhattan for open server positions. Many restaurants and many rejections later, she was given the opportunity to train at a very fancy place in Hell's Kitchen, owned by a famous chef, and run like an army regiment. Full of energy and ready to prove her worth, the young woman dutifully memorized the menu, folded the napkins, and followed the other servers around for 3 days until she was suddenly told not to return because she'd dared to ask the definition of tartare. While a mistake, to be sure, we must remember that the young woman came from a land where everything from the sea was deep-fat fried and the idea of raw seafood brought visions of food poisoning and lawsuits to her head. Alas, her question was punishable by firing, though in truth she'd never even been hired.

Undaunted, the young woman struck out again on the streets of New York, determined to find her way through the pitfalls of the gigantic city and pay her rent without having to sell her plasma. Quickly, she found another restaurant that was, while extremely entertaining, not the most lucrative place to be employed.

After over a year of struggling against insane bosses, long audition lines, and poor tippers, the woman left the restaurant/actor world for the corporate one, trading late nights for early mornings, and tips for wages (though the overall impact on her bank account was negligible). It was around this time, that the young woman met a handsome prince who wined and dined her, and taught her that tartare was not only safe but delicious as well. Their love grew until one day he presented her with a beautiful ring and asked her to be his wife. He flew her across the ocean and danced with her under the stars in a land so beautiful she could hardly believe her good fortune.

All this time, the woman had been working her way up that corporate ladder until finally, just as she was about to throw in the towel and sell junk on the side of the road, she was granted a fabulous promotion with a salary to match. On that day, the young woman and her handsome prince returned to the restaurant where she was let go the week she arrived in Manhattan, but this time her name was on the reservation book and she would be the one waited upon. She would order the most expensive thing on the menu, perhaps even the tartare.

Yes tonight, with happily-ever-after firmly in her grasp, she will celebrate her own kind of fairytale and she will pay the bill. All this to prove, with four and a half years, lots of determination, and a few Visa cards, there's really nothing one can't accomplish.

And that, boys and girls, is why it is so good to be Queen.

Worst Idol Ever

Is this just about the worst season of American Idol EVER? I tell you what, if I didn't have DVR and couldn't fast-forward through half the performances, I'd just quit watchin' altogether! The boys, God love 'em, don't have a shot in hell, and the girls might have a few contenders were it not for the two black powerhouses dominating the competition. I mean Lakisha Jones can just flat sing her fat ass off! It's alright, honey, she a big girl and I'm pretty sure she knows it. However, it remains unclear if she knows how to dress for it.



Mini skirt....probably not the right answer.

And then we have my personal favorite, Ms. Doolittle. Lord knows this girl has got it goin on, but last night's song choice was dull. She sang some nonsense from The Wiz, and as long as we're on The Wizard of Oz adaptations, I'd like to introduce a little ditty...."If I Only Had a Neck." Such a shame when talented folks look like bobble-head dolls.







No one else really bears mentioning, save Mr. Phil Stacey, who I think has a better shot as an actor. Aren't they holding auditions for The Mask 3?
















So, um, about his head...I assume he was loosing it, so he just shaved everything off, which, let's face it, works for very few folks. I don't know the answer for the prematurely bald who also have large sticky-outty ears, but the word Rogaine comes to mind. And bless his heart, there is not a cool bone in his body...not a single one. At least when he gets booted, he can go home and sing lullabies to his daughters, babies can't tell if you're a cornball until well into their third year.

D.C.= Dull City

Here I am, here I am! Did y'all miss me? Well I had a busy, yet lovely weekend down in our nation's capitol. It's basically a nice enough town, except for those damned traffic circles! I mean, how the hell are you supposed to get off of em? There appear to be two lanes and yet they suddenly branch off, leaving you sitting in the middle of moving traffic searching frantically for some sense of order. And just when you survive the roundabout and get yourself back on a straight path, what do you find but another circle! They've got one every 500 feet or something, it's totally ridiculous and not at all conducive to normal traffic flow.

Say what you will about Manhattan, it's a grid, plain and simple. We manage to keep our points of interest lined up in square blocks, so if you find yourself turning in circles it's your own damn fault, not that of the city planners.

And speaking of points of interest, I really should sight see from outside a car window at some time. I assume there are some historical points of interest that should be observed by all Americans, but I haven't yet managed to take in any monuments up close. Odd, that my employers wouldn't want me to tour the White House on their dime...of course, they are British, so maybe not that odd.

The fashion down there is most unfortunate though. It's as if all the little politicians are afraid to wear color, lest their right to tax payer dollars get revoked. Everyone in the mall looked like they stepped out of a Talbot's ad. Now I have never understood the sweater tied around the shoulders look, but have accepted that it works for tennis playing country club members in Cape Cod. However, to see a woman shopping at 10 am on a Saturday morning in a pressed oxford shirt, pearls, pumps, and a sweater (black of course) hanging round her neck, not a racket in sight, well that's just a bit too much. I swear their closets must be the easiest thing in the world to navigate- black on the left, white on the right, and for an accent color, in the middle hang shades of grey. Every ear sports a 1-carat stud, every ring finger a 2-carat Asher. The parking lot is full of Lexus and Mercedes emblems, and I was just about ready to v-o-m-i-t. I knew you had to sell your soul to become a politician, but I didn't know you had to sell your style too. Obviously, I wore the brightest colored, least conservative clothes I could find, that wouldn't get me kicked outta the building. Lord but those folks needta learn about cocktails and carbohydrates; they must be suffocating down there under a cloud of Chanel no.5.

I realize we need a place to head our government, and I know lots of folks would consider it an honor to work there, but I'm just happy to have made it home with my individuality intact. Y'all can keep your traffic circles and your desperately dull fashion. Up here, we like our streets straight and our people twisted!

Where's Queenie?

So I didn't have the time to write to y'all this morning because I was frantically trying to catch an 8:29 train to outer Mongolia, also known as New Jersey, in the middle of a blizzard. Okay, blizzard may be a slight exaggeration, but there was snow and my suede shoes are ruined. Why was a wearing suede shoes in the snow? Excellent question...because I had to schlep it out to the ends of the earth for some work meeting and nobody told me it was gonna snow all day on March freakin' 7th!

So I was a little blind-sided by the weather and nearly lost a toe or three to frostbite, as I hobbled into a Panera Bread to rub my feet with the hottest cup of tea on the face of the earth. Why is it that hot water in restaurants is always scalding? I mean, you can't actually consume the (undoubtedly overpriced) beverage for so long you've forgotten you even wanted it!

All that to say...today was freakin cold and I would have much rather been writin' y'all my tales of weather woe from inside a toasty office building, rather than braving the elements on a train platform.

As for the rest of the week, I'm off, at an ungodly hour, to lands unknown- but I'll give you a hint: it's the city of pricks... from the phallic monument in the center to the little ones runnin' around the House of Representatives. Ha! That's right folks, our nation's capitol, Washington, D.C. Y'all like how I make those little political jabs as if I give a damn. That's what too many episodes of The West Wing will do to ya. I would seriously elect Martin Sheen in second, but in light of the fact that no one in politics is actually that witty, intelligent or morally guided, I choose to stay out of it as much as possible.

So y'all have a great weekend and I shall return on Monday, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, ready to regale you with tales of my travels.

The Sleeve

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition...according to the New York Times Style Section, knowers of all things trendy, this spring is all about The Sleeve!!!




Just look at all those lovely arms...wait, you can't see them? That's right, you can't! I have never been so excited to begin a fashion season in my life. Just imagine, a spring without the anxiety of the tank top, a summer wrapped in light cotton fabric. I can wave at someone across the street without fear of knocking over some short passerby. It's like that old deodorant commerical, raise your hand if you're sure, but this summer it's raise your hand if you've got fat arms cause we can't see 'em!

The style gods have answered my prayers with the sweetest kimono tops you've ever seen, and just look at that jacket on the left...cute as a button! So long, skinny-armed girls with your halter tops and strapless dresses, you can give your hand weights a rest cause this season's not about you and your toned triceps. No, this season is about the rest of us being cute and comfortable and covered up! Don't get me wrong honey, there are still plenty of parts of myself I don't mind exposing, but my fat arms have never been one of them. I'm not sure how the sleeves will work in the sweltering heat of the summer, but they're a risk I'm willing to take in the name of high fashion!

Reunions

In approximately 6 weeks I will be attending a reunion of sorts at my collegiate Alma mater. Naturally I'm thrilled to visit the campus, though my overwhelming emotion surrounding the trip is one of anticipatory nastiness. I mean let's just be real here a minute. I don't care how these folks have been, I care how fat they got. In the grand scheme it doesn't really matter to me that the person who annoyed me with every breath she drew is finding success in her career. It does, however, concern me a great deal that she's making copies in a doctor's office for minimum wage.

While I realize this type of behavior is considered petty and unbecoming in polite society, that these are the feeling of which no descent person speaks out loud, I would like to challenge that notion on the basis of it being simple human nature. The urge to see the girl who pranced around in midriff tops and mini skirts being the apple of every guy's eye, now wearing a double-digit pant size is a completely natural reaction and one for which I feel no shame. This urge lives in that same dark place that makes it impossible not to want to check out your guy's ex, just to make sure you're prettier and/or thinner than she. You can't blame yourself for feeling such urges, for they are simply out of your control. It is survival of the fittest, after all, and if you're not the fittest you'd best find some reason she's not either!

Naturally, I have begun taking the steps necessary to ensure that while shit may be talked behind my back, it will be that of jealousy and not that I don't look g-o-o-d. Since I only have 6 weeks, I must take a rather strict approach to readying myself for public slaughter. This morning I stopped a Girl Scout Cookie just moments from my lips, and yesterday found me unable to finish my entire bottle of champagne, stopping short at a mere 5 Mimosa's. My routine now includes slathering myself with tinted moisturizer and if that doesn't work, I have an appointment next week at the tanning bed. Don't start with me about melanoma, I have seriously fat arms to shade and you know tan flab is better than white flab without exception.

Wardrobe being another very serious consideration, I have already scoured my over-stuffed closest and declared not a single item fit for the fabulocity I must project. There are but a few dollars I can squeak out of my Visa, and yet in case of such an emergency I must consider opening a new card. What's a little extra debt when faced with the opportunity to evoke the ire of all the formerly-hot fatties in their JC Penny Best, while you strut along in your designer duds, as if $300 isn't too much for a top you'll wear once. Nevermind that the shoes, belt and handbag are all borrowed - possession is 9/10ths of the law, is it not?

For in the end, it's not the memories you shared, the good times you had, or the lessons your learned that draws you to a reunion; it's the unmitigated desire to have aged better (and of course thinner) than the rest. You can spend your time trying to be a better person or you can simply look like one. The former, is far more time consuming and in the end, you can hardly tell the difference!

Dolly Parton called...

...she wants her look back!

Oh dear god, oh dear god...what has happened to Kellie Pickler?!?! I don't know who this poor girl has got managing her, but she needs to fire them quick, fast, and in a hurry.

Cutting her hair was a mistake to be sure, but curling it up like a blond football helmet, well that was an error of gigantic proportions. America already has one Dolly Pardon, and she is all the sweet Southern trailer trash country music needs. Look at Kellie up there justa singing her little face off, looking like she just got off the set of 9 to 5, polyester dress and all.

You mean to tell me, in all of Hollywood they couldn't find Kellie a single stylist who didn't shop at Forever 21? Look how it's justa a pullin across her thighs....ladies, on what planet would you leave the house, let alone go on national television, with your dress stretched to the seams?! Y'all think the front view is bad, they did pan around to the side and as much as I hate to say anything ugly, Kellie needs to lay off the fried okra for a minute.

Now if you watched American Idol last night when Kellie performed, you'd have seen the worst makeup job since KISS. They had so much damn brown eye shadow on her, the girl looked cross-eyed! Not that anyone really noticed her eyes above those new boobies she had nearly layin on the floor. She said she'd been spending all her new money on shoes...yeah sure...except for the 5 K that went to your plastic surgeon.

Oh it was just a travesty beyond on comprehension. How someone so young and cute could allow herself to be so shameful shorn, I cannot fathom. Maturity don't wear well on you, Kellie, and for the first time I'm gonna say that extensions maybe be the only hope.

Gone to the Dogs

So last night I'm outside my apartment building trying to balance my suitcase, gym bag, purse, and person while searching for my keys in the cold, when what strolls on by but two little dogs. And yeah, I meant strolled as in pushed in a baby carriage! The lifestyles of canines in Manhattan is so ridiculous, you folks sittin on your couch out there in Wisconsin with your big ol' Labrador sleeping by the fireplace can't even imagine.

I mean, pet owners in the City give "taking the dog for a walk" a whole new meaning. These fluffy little white things barely pass for dogs in the first place. And after the money spent on training and grooming and clothing, you coulda sent a kid to college anywhere else. Yes, their mutts are dressed better than half the humans in this city. I just saw a pug wearing a shearling coat! Fur wearing fur....what would PETA say about that?

Now what would be the purpose of having a dog so helpless he can't even walk for himself? Just have a baby if you wanna push a stroller so badly! Not only have you crazy rich women created these needy little monsters, but every sane person that sees you strolling your dogs down the street knows you're a complete psycho. What do they do all day, you ask? Why they eat, sleep, and allow humans to adore them...what else would a dog do? And you can just forget about a game of fetch or burying a bone in the backyard, these puppies are far too well-bred to degrade themselves to dog-like behavior.

This town has always been a divided place, the haves and the have-nots. I was okay
with being a have-not, it was simply my temporary station in life, before my literary prowess elevated me to an Emmy-winning household name. But, honey, if I gotta be a have-not and some whiny mutt gets to be a have... something is seriously askew!

The Upper East Side has gone to the dogs... looks like it's time for this bitch get outta town.