Pageant Amendment

Okay, so about that last essay... I may have gone a bit overboard with the factual liberties. Basically, I wrote that years ago, back when I had aspirations of a book about a hap-hazard aspiring young actress trying to make it in the big city and the witty, inspirational tales of her tragedies and triumphs. And while that idea has not been fully abandoned, it has certainly been pushed to the back of the line for more substantial goals like getting the dog to stop walking me!


Anyway, the essay is definitely about your old pal Queenie, but before she was a character of reality.

Bottom line: I do not now, nor will I ever, have breast implants!!

I did employ duct tape and padding may times during my theatrical career and while rather uncomfortable, I have never been interested in a permanent fix to my flat-chested problems. On top of the fact that fake boobs always look fake, I have found that an inflated chest just accentuates my inflated upper arms, making me look rounder all around, and trust me friends, I don't need any help.

Everything else in the essay is absolutely true....tragically so in fact. My poor friends forced to fill seats in those unair-conditioned auditoriums can attest to every gory detail.

Pageants

In honor of this past weekend's festivities (Congrats to Miss Michigan), I present for you an essay on my own pageant experiences (factual liberties taken at random). Some of you have read this before, but for the humiliation alone it's worth a second pass, don't ya think? Had I the time to look for the photos I might even post a few images of the debacle, perhaps if Queen Mum ever gets her scanner working she can do you the favor of posting pictures of the hot pink cupcake dress...


I hate standing waiting in line for auditions. It’s like being in the wings watching the contestant before you do her talent program-- you just know you’re better than her, but it still makes you nervous to watch, you never know with those judges. I mean I was by far the best contestant in not one, but two preliminary pageants in the Miss North Carolina system, yet I managed to lose with flying colors. No seriously, I had the best talent, you can ask any one of my friends, and I was the smartest one there too- you tell me who else can use the word ‘existential’ to answer an unrehearsed question? No one, of course. But did the judges care—not in the least. Did that stop them from crowning a heifer with a bad dress—no it did not. All told, I suppose those pageants did help prepare me for my career, I mean you have to get used to judgement and rejection in New York, and I've been getting judged and rejected since age 3, and in a leotard and tights no less.

How do you know when it is time to get out of pageants? If you have stuffed yourself into a lavender one-piece bathing suit and rubber-cemented it to your behind, your shiny sausage thighs parading around on a stage six feet off the ground, and just as you turn around and reveal your ass in all it’s cellulite-glory to God and everyone, the music in the elementary school auditorium finally cues up, drowning out the obligatory hoots from your friends and family who are just trying to fill dead air (God bless ‘em) and the song is none other than The Backstreet Boys, “Larger Than Life,” This is the exact moment you know it’s time to get off the stage. Now there is a hierarchy in the talent category that goes unspoken in the pageant community: at the top are opera singers and classical violinists, followed by other instrumentalists, followed by belters, followed by ballerinas, and then the catch-all category comprised of cloggers, baton-twirlers, gymnasts and the other talent-disabled. Now make sure to note that the actual ability-level of the performers is not nearly as important as the category in which they perform, so a mediocre opera singer will trump a fabulous Broadway belter every time. So of course there was an opera singer in that pageant- end of story.

Now I am not stupid, by now I could see that these pageants weren’t working for me, but I knew I had to get out of the pageant business after the next one. Here I am in my hot pink chiffon dress looking for all the world like a rhinestone studded cupcake, singing my face off to “Nobody Does It Like Me,” and I bet they all thank God for that in the end, surrounded by the most hair sprayed, duct-taped, bra-padded bunch of over-grown homecoming queens you’ve ever seen, and never wanted to. Now, about the time we’re all lined-up on the stage and the local dance-teacher-turned-pageant-coordinator is announcing the runner-up, I look around and realize that they’ve called almost all the other girls for the runner-up prizes. They called the girl who sang her entire song in the key of B(e glad you weren’t there). They called the girl whose acrobatic ‘feat’ was not wearing a sports bra and then trying not to give herself a black eye while tumbling. Hell, the first runner-up was the girl who spent the first 30 seconds of her two-minute routine with interpretive glances, followed by hopping backwards across the stage on one toe-shoe.

Anyway, here I am on the back line with a girl who should be doing ‘before’ pictures for Jenny Craig and a tap dancer whose speech was about preventing eating disorders, though as her head was still too big for her body, I don’t think hers was quite licked. So, of course I’m looking around thinking, hey it’s just me, fatty and binge-purge over here, obviously I’ve won this thing, I mean really. So when fatty starts shrieking and crying and hugging everybody, I am a bit confused. Of course by this time, I am so over this whole pageant thing that I am off the stage and in my car on the way to some fried foods before Fatty’s even finished taking pictures. I know every loser,excuse me, runner-up says they crowned the wrong girl, but this time they actually did, and I mean they chased Fatty into the parking lot and snatched that crown right off that bitch’s head. It turns out that Miss Bulimia had won all along, which is not surprising as those sharing their own "triumph over adversity to better the lives of other young women" always have a leg up. It’s like there’s some special scoring system where extra points are awarded based on the severity of your hardship. Eating Disorder—add two points; Dead parent---four points; Bad nose job—half a point. If I had been at Miss America the year that deaf girl won, I would have just gone home from the get-go, because it is clear to me that I just do not have enough personal tragedy to win a pageant (an unfortunate choice in a purple lamee gown not withstanding).

As I peeled the duct tape off my breasts that night and put my push-up pads in a drawer, two things became very clear to me: 1) I was destined for greater things than cutting ribbons at every Wal-Mart grand opening in the tri-county area, and 2) I had to buy some boobs.

So, I packed up my tap shoes and my best sequined gowns and moved to the City. My neighbors thought I was crazy lugging all those dresses up the stairs, but they were worth their weight in silicone, after I hawked them, along with all my costume jewelry, a stereo and a VCR. But these babies were worth every penny. Everybody’s got their gimmick up here, some people have talent, I have tattahs. I am just certain they are going to push me to the front of the line, so far they’ve gotten me pushed in to the back of a few cabs, some bathroom stalls and a futon, but we’re still adjusting…I’ve only had them a few weeks.

Can we please get something on TV?

Dear god, this writer's strike has got to end! I mean if I see one more dance-off, sing-off, act-like-a-jerk-off shows on prime time, I'm gonna stab my own self in the eye!

Whatever these writers want, just give it to them! At this point, the networks have got to have lost the money the writers want in advertising revenue, so just end it already. You're talking about a television wasteland the likes of which haven't been seen since the thing went color! They're showing Friends reruns at 8pm for christ's sake and I think Saved By The Bell is next up to repeat 3 times a day!

And the "reality" shows they've got to fill the space, well you can clearly see they were pulled outta their ass. I mean Michael Bolton and Nick Lachey "directing" show choirs (who by the way sung the most ridiculous songs ever)- puh-leez! And since when do washed up ballroom dancers get to headline their own TV shows- I don't care about these people, I need a plot line!!

And no Golden Globes! Can you even conceive of my devastation not to have a night of fashion to critique? There simply are no words.

However, this is a bit of hope on the horizon. One Tree Hill started up again last week with a double episode. Now I know not all of you watch teen soap dramas, but now they're (conveniently and totally unbelievably) fast-forwarded into "adulthood" after college. Though, in no realm of the universe are you an adult at 22 and own a multi-million dollar fashion empire, but whatever, wealthy is more fun to watch than poverty right?

I share this with you because there's a new episode tonight featuring Kevin Federline, and while that would typically compel me to turn the show off rather than on, there is a chance that the Federline character will perform in a club with a band whose drummer is Prince Rat Boy, my brother never before mentioned because there's too much to tell. Now I don't know that it will be tonight's episode, it may be next week, but I do know that at some point Kevin will play the lead singer of a band, the band will perform at a club, the person playing the drums will be Rat Boy. I will have to confirm all this tomorrow after I see the show, but if you've nothing to watch- and unless you're a total moron who thinks people open opening briefcases is a game of skill- you have nothing to watch, then check out One Tree Hill on the WB channel.

Oh, and you should just continue to follow the series so that later on this season when Queen Mum appears, you'll have a context to understand the importance of the one line she speaks! Okay, well her line isn't so much important, but the scene is so that counts!

How men are like dogs

Now I don't mean this like the whole "men are dogs because they sniff around everyone's crotch and do you wrong and leave you" kinda stuff. I am making a serious statement based on empirical evidence.
For example:

Saturday night, Sweetpotato and I were heading out, leaving a very sad puppy dog behind in the apartment. Right before we left, SP threw her a big ol' steak bone and we snuck out the door. So involved was she in the devouring of said bone that not a whine was heard as we left the building. (Yes, I know, dogs are supposed to be trained such that humans don't have to bribe them but that is not the point here so just stay with me.)
Having successfully satisfied the dog with the bone, Sweetpotato turns to me and says, "dogs are so simple." To which I replied, "Honey, dogs may be simple, but men are barely a step up."
I mean seriously, in addition to a steak, all you need to add are beer and football and you can leave the house for hours!

Sweetpotato rolled his eyes at me as he does to all Queenanisms, and I smiled smugly as I do after creating them.

The next day - the very next day - I had brunch plans with my girlfriends so, alcohol in the fridge, steak on the speed dial, and playoff game on the television, I left the house with the promise to return in 2 hours. One bloody mary turned into two turned into Sunday Funday and the next thing you know I was a bottle of champagne deep and 4 hours late.

Now I had of course let SP know that I was going to stay out because everyone knows that you must submit venue changes, not for approval but for simple courtesy, so he wasn't at all surprised...nor did he really notice. Had there not been a game on, he might have required my presence because of course I am to be his entertainment when he's bored, but- much like a dog with a bone- a man with a game needs no further amusement. The Playoffs may actually be the one event about which Y's have a singular focus.

I'm telling you now ladies, we've only got a few weeks left of this football season, so throw some beer in the fridge and get your shopping shoes on cause after the Superbowl they're back to wondering where we go, with whom, and how much money we spent. So in these last few precious weeks, grab your girlfriends and a credit card and let the mimosa's flow. Oh, and if you can, get them into college basketball I think that's our next big bone in the sporting seasons!