Fashion Resolutions

Happy New Year friends! We're another year older, but judging from the mess I see out on the streets, we're not a heck of a lot wiser. I just don't understand how year and after year, folks can keep committing the same fashion crimes. Have you not picked up a magazine since the Reagan administration?


So let's make a few New Year's Resolutions, shall we? Not those ridiculous "I resolve to go on a diet that ends mid-January and somehow results in the gaining of 5 pounds," resolutions, but resolutions that will actually result in the betterment of society.


Let us resolve to only wear clothes that flatter our figures. This means NOT wearing pants that fall too far below the waist, resulting in the overspill of your muffin top, nor pants that fall too far above the waist, resulting in the ballooning out of your muffin top within the fabric.

Let us resolve to only wear shirts that fall past the waistband of our pants so that there is no flap of skin showing for all the world. I don't care if you do look like Kelly Kapowski (before she got the got the boob job and chunked up for 90210), this is not Saved By the Bell, this is real life, and here in real life, we keep our midriffs covered (mostly because in real life we also don't often look like Kelly Kapowski and more like the muffin from Resolution 1)


Let us resolve to BUY CLOTHES THAT FIT!! If this year, you find that your size 10's no longer button with ease, then carry your happy ass to the store and buy you some 12's! It's alright, it happens. The crime is not in the gaining of the weight so much as in the pretending that you didn't. Even if you intend to lose the weight, and on the off-chance you are among the 5% of the population who might actually do so, you cannot go around in the meantime with your pants pleating horizontally across your thighs as the seams hold on for dear life. You'll feel so much better not having to live with the fear of ripping fabric when you sit down...not to mention the money you'll save on yeast infection cures.


Let us resolve to only wear shoes we can walk in! I don't care how amazing you look standing stalk still, if forward motion makes you look like Bambi On Ice, then get a grip and give up the heels! You can go from Hot to Hot Mess with the turn of an ankle honey, so until you can work a red carpet like Victoria Beckham, learn to look fabulous in flats!

And finally, let us resolve to Be Fabulous Every Day! I'm not sayin' you gotta dress to the nines for a quick trip to Target, but let's give it a little effort shall we? There ain't nothing sayin you can't be fabulous in a track suit (assuming you've followed all the aforementioned rules in the selection of said suit). I just can't stand these women I meet who profess to have all these clothes, shoes, handbags, and jewelry but "just don't have anywhere to wear them." Give me a break honey. Boots were made for walking and if the only place you walk is around the grocery store then wear your boots to the grocery store. Wear your diamonds to the soccer game for god's sake, but wear your damn diamonds! You have 2 choices in life- wait around for someone to take you some place fabulous, or bring the fabulous with you to some place! It's completely fine to be the best dressed person in Denny's, but it is completely unacceptable to be the worst (I mean, it's Denny's, the bar ain't set too high). And for goodness sake, put your face on before you leave the house, or at least draw your eyebrows on. You don't have to wear full-on warpaint but you absolutely cannot be fabulous without eyebrows.

If we all work together, we make a difference in 2009!
xoxox,
Q

Baby On Board

Well friends, I've got some big news...about 8lbs. of news to be exact. That's right, Sweetpotato and I are having our very first TATER TOT!!

Couldn't you just die!? Lord knows the combination of our genes will certainly produce the most delightful little specimen of humanity ever, but there's more...

The baby is a MINI QUEENIE!!! Now you can die AND go right to heaven, cantcha? I mean 'bout the only thing better than a world full of Queenie is, well, a world full of 2 Queenies. I had always meant to wait for the the big surprise, you know the moment the doctor catches the little thing and proclaims, "It's a Girl!" But then I got to thinkin', what if it's not a girl? What if, in some crazy twist of fate the universe slips from its axis and I give birth to a Y-chromosome?! ** Now this, is not to say that those of you who have little Y-chromosomes runnin around your house aren't happy as clams, and I do intend to have a little football playing mongral for Sweetpotato one day, but I have always intended to have a daughter first and I felt that if the universe had gone and screwed up my plans, I should be prepared! I mean, I have routines to choreograph and tap shoes to buy. The Queen Mum has already taken all my old sequin-covered recital costumes out of the attic, and just as soon as she can walk, the little one will be in dance classes just a tappin away! My grand plan is to pop out a few of these lil Taters, teach them all some song and dance routines, and take my show on the road! By god, I'm gonna revive the Vaudeville if it's the last thing I do...just call me Mama Rose!

Alas, all is right with the world and in early February, I am going to bestow upon the world one perfect lil' girl with one very large attitude.

How do I know she has an attitude? The obvious genetic predisposition not withstanding, this fetus has refused to cooperate for even a single instance since her conception. As I lay on the doctor's table, belly covered in blue goo and trying desperately to identify any of the organs the technician is pointing to on a screen of fuzzy grey blobs, the only thing that seems clear is that the baby is not cooperating. So they roll me and poke me and try to coax the child to turn over or uncross her legs or move her hand so we can measure her face, and she ain't having none of it. She keeps those legs locked and her face covered. I was afraid she might be shy but then I realized that she's just not ready to be seen. I mean, her momma don't go out the house without her face on and here this child's face isn't fully formed! She's certainly not posing for pictures with eyes out of place.....who know vanity was genetic?

Since then, she has proceeded to be the most disruptive house guest I've ever had. I can't hardly roll one way before she's rollin' the other, and no seated position pleases her Mini Highness. What does please her, are long bouts of jumping followed by kicking, followed by trampolining on my bladder, only at bedtime of course, unless I'm in a movie theater, restaurant, or meeting room where it might also be uncomfortable and distracting. I mean I know she's just practicing her ballet, but really, it's not workin' for me. No matter, I'm keeping a list of all the sacrifices I've made for Mini Q, of which I shall remind her daily when she is of a sufficient age to feel guilt and remorse.

Number 1 on the list....the abstention from alcohol. Now I'm not sure that this quite qualifies me for sainthood, but surviving a holiday season without booze and without alienating half my friends and family deserves some sort of recognition, to be sure. I mean, I haven't had mimosa in 8 months, and it's near to the point where I'm finding plain orange juice actually refreshing! Hell, by the time you cut out every "unrecommended" beverage, it's basically water or water and my insides are just about to rust from all that mountain spring goodness.

Alright, I'll stop my moanin', it's not that I'm not pleased as punch to be carrying this little bundle, but I didn't want y'all to think pregnancy had culled my complaining and turned me into one of those goo-goo-eyed mommies who days were filled with chirping birds and rays of sunshine. No, no, friends, I'm still hearing sirens and seeing fashion faux pas, just now from a much WIDER perspective;-)

New Year's Eve- can't be bothered

So about now, I expect all y'all are beginning your preparations for this evening's festivities: painting your nails, buffing your feet, beating your hair into some semblance of an up-do, and sausaging your bunnies into double-ply spandex in hopes of hiding the bulges in last years party dress. Well that's what I would be doing if I were participating in New Year's Eve.

But I am not. I have called it all off. Obviously I can't stop the clock from ticking and I will even attempt to remain conscious until midnight, at which point I will nudge Sweetpotato, surely snoring on the couch beside me, we will kiss, toast a glass of over-priced champagne, and quickly call it a night.

It's not that I don't appreciate Auld Lang Syne and all that end-of-year sentiment, but honey, New Year's Eve has got to be be the most over-blown holiday, or maybe tied with Valentine's Day. Billed as the most romantic nights of the year, both holidays have been created to bring maximum disappointment to women everywhere. Think about it- in both cases a single day is built up to the point where anything short of a prince on a white steed whisking you to a land far, far away is considered a failure.

Given the unfairytale-like nature of real life, there are only 3 possibly outcomes for a woman on New Year's Eve:

Option number 1... the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming never arrived.

Option number 2... the evening ends too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out.

Or the most common ending is a hybrid of options 1 and 2 whereby the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming arrived but is too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out. In option 3, no matter how poorly the evening ends, the morning to follow is ten times worse with more tears, more headaches, and most assuredly, more vomiting.

There simply are no "When Harry Met Sally" scenes, where men run through the streets and burst into the glamorous gala (where you're conveniently beside the door looking fabulous) to profess their undying love. The most you can hope for is a fumbling grope and a slurry attempt at a compliment as you help him into the cab.

Dress it up any way you like, but the new year will still begin hung over a toilet, bad dancing on filthy bars, sobbing confessions in bathroom stalls, professions of love to total strangers, and other cringe-worthy visions dancing in your throbbing head.

But go on with your plans for a fabulous night on the town, honey. Queenie will be waiting for you in the morning with open ears and unsympathetic tongue.

For my Mother...The NAG

My lord if that woman won't get off my behind! It's a good thing my backside has spread enough to accommodate my mother and her incessant nagging. She has been on me like a rat on a Cheeto to blog and I just can't take it anymore! Of course this is why she continues to "remind", for the rare moments when one of her children are actually nagged into submission. My brothers, having developed male-pattern deafness at a remarkably early age, are never at risk of caving to any requests, no matter how often repeated. My sister is lost in a cloud of teenage-dom that basically requires disobedience to any direct request. Leaving me, the farthest away and yet the only one who occasionally listens. One more instance of my overall perfection... but I digress.

So I know I'm neglecting y'all, and I'm real sorry but it simply can't be helped. Apparently when folks pay you to work for them, there is an expectation that you will use your hours of employ to accomplish tasks related to said folks. As the beginning of my auspicious career consisted mainly of finding ways to amuse myself on the Internet in between manicures, you can imagine the shock my system received when I realized I was runnin' the damn place and had a nigh-on a full day's work to do! Let me tell you, my fingernails are in a sad state and I fear my cuticles may never recover.

It's not that I don't think of you often. In fact, every morning on the subway I encounter some fashion tragedy, social retardation, or general stupidity and I think, "Queenie, you've got to post 'fore these fools get out of hand." And yet everyday between the subject of my disdain and power button of my computer lies a passel of problems so pressing I can't hardly check my horoscope before I gotta start savin' the world.

I do have lots to tell y'all and of course my list of complaints is miles long at this point- sufficed to say that no folks be actin right, including my damn dog who now sleeps with her head on the pillow between us like a full-out human. My hubby still puts the "sweet" in Sweetpotato, but lorda mercy if he can't find the laundry hamper with both hands and a flashlight! Someone has deemed the empire waist so last season I can't hardly find anything to cover my ass, and football has once again ruined my park-strolling plans for fall. It is a wonder I even get out of bed in the morning.

So here you are Mother.... 6 months to think and not a single nice thing to say. I might be worried about my psyche, if I could be bothered.

Cupcake Fairy

So yesterday I was just in the most foul mood, reasons unclear but hardly important anyways. And just as I'm explaining to someone how I'm on the brink of really havin' a meltdown, the clouds part, the office door opens, and there stands a delivery man holding a half-dozen cupcakes with my name on them! And suddenly, all is right with the world.

I just can't express the mood elevation powers of a well-baked cupcake with perfectly swirled icing on top. It used to be just chocolate, but now any sweet treat can just shut off my bitch switch in a second (Sweetpotato wishes someone had explained this to him 4 years ago, poor spud).

Who is this mysterious Cupcake Fairy? That it's a woman goes without saying right? I mean a Y-chromosome could never pull off such a clever trick, nor do the Y's fully appreciate how a sugar rush can change the course of your existence. I mean, there's just about nothin' the right combination of sugar and lard can't cure.

Now the truly remarkable thing about this Cupcake Fairy, is that she's British, which means that she managed to have my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery delivered at just the moment I was about to snap off someone's head, and she did it all from another continent! And yet, I can't get my Chinese food delivered with a pair of chopsticks from 5 blocks away. This only proves that most people are morons, but the Cupcake Fairy is a genius.

So the lesson we've learned today kids? Cupcakes cure many ills, and if you have a particularly foul-mooded co-worker, I'd say a session in the kitchen is in order. Of course my favorite recipe remains Strawberry Cake (which of course makes perfect Strawberry cupcakes), and you can find it in my lil recipe book. And if by some miracle you don't have any bitchy co-workers, most likely indicating that you work from home, take this time to practice these cupcakes for any upcoming birthdays. Someone might be havin' one in 5 days and 45 minutes and 30 seconds...approximately.

And thank you, Cupcake Fairy...you may have saved my life yesterday-- or atleast that of my computer screen. (okay, so the "saved my life" part was a tad dramatic, but the computer screen was in serious jeopardy)

Back from the Beach!

Have you missed me? Sorry darlins, but I was off on vacation with my Sweetpotato to beautiful Puerto Rico! Being a beach girl, I can just lay in the sun for hours, readin my book, sippin my cocktail and generally ignoring the world around me. My poor hubby, well he turned into a Sweetpotato French Fry inside 2 hours and had to abort the beach mission in search of shade. I can't say I really noticed he'd gone ;-)

Now the thing about taking a beach va-ca before it's summer in your hometown, is that you have to try on all your sunning outfits while in your winter skin. I tell you, this little trip was a much better idea before I had to strip in the Lord & Taylor dressing room in March! Word of advice: Never go into a dressing room with double mirrors. If God had meant for us to see our asses, he'da put eyes in the back of ours heads!! Honey, some things are just better left undiscovered. For example: I did not need to discover that the width of my ass can no longer be contained by any one swimsuit (not even a Large size). I have always been a Medium, looks like those days have gone the way of my career on The Broadway...not gonna work out. I have always considered the Large bathing suit one step away from wearing shorts and a tee shirt to the beach. Of course now that I am a Large I will have to amend that idea to assuage my cognitive dissonance so that I can continue to wear a bikini.

I really was dealing with this whole expansion quite well until I got home and flipping through my US Weekly, found this picture of Heather Locklear, taken last week. She is Forty-Six-Freakin-Years-Old! It's simply against nature. I don't know who she sold her soul to, but I want his number.

So this is where I give up, I mean from the lounge chair no one can even see my backside, and if I keep my legs slightly bent in that sexy come hither manner you see on tv, then no one can really see the full spread of my thighs anyway. I position my book directly over my gut and if the glare from the sun hits you just right and you're forced to squint, I look just like this!

The Bachelorette Party

So this weekend will be filled with boas, cocktails, and stripper poles...yes friends, I'm attending a bachelorette party!

Bachelorette parties in New York are a tad different than they are down South...for example, brides don't wear Life-Saver-covered tee-shirts reading "A Buck A Suck," praise God. Up here we don't try to make our party expenses back by whoring out the bride. Not that it's all that much more sophisticated...there are still plenty of humiliating bar "tasks" and of course the bride must distinguish herself with a veil of the cheapest fishnet quality. And in any region of the country, the evening will inevitably end with falling down, throwing up, tantrum having, drunken dialing - or some such combination of regrettable behavior.

Often the party attendees get roped into the trashy dress code and poor behavior, and while I cannot promise that I won't over serve myself, I have made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances will I don any trashy bachelorette attire. To put it simply: I am too old for puffy paint. Also, I do not wear wife-beaters in public.

And this is not a smug-married thing, really. Do you see how ridiculous these poor folks look? This is supposed to be your last hoo-rah, and you want to spend it in an oversized tee-shirt with condoms taped to your head and penises hanging from your neck...I can't think of anything sexier. I have never purposely gone in public looking like as asshole (that short stint in the pageant circuit not withstanding), and I will not do it on someone else's behalf! I just don't feel that you have any more fun in a bar when you look stupid. Sure, the bride needs to be recognized in some way, but the rest of the party members should look like regular bar patrons (or in the case of this weekend, a little better than regular bar patrons;-)

Of course that finds me once again in the struggle to look fabulous and hide my fat arms at the same time. It's my own fault I guess for breaking the cardinal rule of friendships and surrounding myself with people smaller than me. I mean not a damn one of em is bigger than a size 4...which I haven't worn since I was 3. Not to worry though, a little arm flab has never stopped my fabulocity (though I do need to invest in some sort of tanning situation because white flab is the worst). I would post pictures, but as you know- what happens at a bachelorette party, stays at a bachelorette party (men are confused enough as it is!)

Caution: Falling Names

I mean I can't hardly watch American Idol this season for all the name-dropping! Every time Randy Jackson opens his mouth it's a shower of celebs, and now Paula's joining in too. Um, being the assistant to the choreographer of the music video of the original artist has absolutely nothing to do with how well a song was performed by the 20-year-old farm boy in front of you. Why do you feel the need to tell us? Do you think your opinion has more weight because you taught a pop star how to step-touch while lip-syncing 20 years ago?

Randy is the WORST though. Every damn song is, "Journey, good band...I played with them," or, "That's a tough song, I worked with Whitney on that." Okay, maybe the first season when nobody knew who the hell you were, you felt like you needed to prove you actually knew something about the music industry, but at this point, what are we 7 years later, WE GET IT! Not only do we get that you've worked with some pretty major artists, we also get that every name you drop is during 80's Week, so basically, these artists haven't been relevant in 20 years! In fact, we don't hear much from Steve Perry these days because he realized he was old and rode his multi-platinum ass off into the sunset, which is exactly what you should do. But no, you spent too many years just outside the spotlight, didn't you? Now that you're recognizable you're gonna wear your ridiculous jewelry and make your asinine comments until they wheel you out on a gurney!

Randy and Paula may know all these famous folks, they may even have their numbers in they cell phones, but does anyone answer when they call? Doubtful.

Something to talk about

I asked a friend of mine a simple question the other day and by way of an answer she launched into a 10-minute saga about some ex-boyfriend and some new girlfriend and who knew what about whom and how they found out and what that meant in the grand scheme of her world. When she was through I said, "so, did you want to come to dinner tomorrow night or not," whereupon she realized she'd gone wa-a-ay off topic and apologized for the soap opera.

I said,"honey, if we didn't talk about folks, what would we talk about?" I mean seriously, I live for other people's drama, it's totally fascinating. I realized during my pageant days that, try as I might, I just did not have enough personal drama to keep things interesting. Had I a single relative in jail or rehab I might have stood a chance at a crown. The closest I've come is a brother asking for bail money for peeing in public, one swipe of a credit card and that was all over, didn't even get to visit him in lock-up.


Thank God I have such a large family, they provide hours of conversation...when they're not around of course. But since most of them have been behaving recently I've been nearly without gossip. Hell, if Britney Spears ever gets her act together I don't think I can go on living. I have dedicated my Internet existence to talkin' about folks, what else would I discuss...Politics? To be sure there's nothing of interest there and what little there is will be beaten to death in Congress. Religion? Y'all know I'm still attending The Church of St. Mattress so I can't really expound on more than thread count. Myself? Well now there's a topic on which I'm truly an expert but I've found that at a certain point perfection needs no further discussion;-)

I say all this because I think some of you out there may think talkin about folks behind their backs in unkind, but honey you can be sure they're talkin about you behind yours. That's why talkin was invented. It's not nasty, it's natural, scientific even, to observe the world around you and report back on your findings. You'd be a poor student of life if you returned close-lipped.

And don't worry that talking about folks you know makes you a bad person. The oldest and strongest friendships of my life are centered around the idea that talking about each other makes us superior to the others and a concerned friend simultaneously...an illusion which somehow keeps us all on speak terms.

It's like I always say..."if you can't say anything nice, come sit by me." Gossip has created more friendships than it's ended, and hell, if it ends a friendship that's just something more to talk about!

And the award for worst dressed goes to...

Dear First-Time Academy Award Attendees,

Perhaps you have been so busy producing your Oscar-nominated masterpieces that you have been unable to process anything going on in the rest of the world, but for your information, the Academy Awards are a dress-up event! The Brits were of course the worst offenders, they almost always are (something about the constant rain must turn the fashion-conscious side of the brain into complete mush).

Poor Marketa Irglova (winner of best song along with Glen Hansard). You're speech was precious and we're all very delighted that your dreams have come true...yadda, yadda. Um, did you forget to tell the person doing your hair that you were attending the Oscars and not your 4th grade piano recital? I know you were an unknown, sitting in the back, nobody interviewing you, but could you maybe have mentioned to whichever highland cousin was getting you dressed that you were actually performing on stage in front of 1 billion people?!? Surely such exposure warrants a touch more than a few twists of a curling iron that fell out 3 hours before. Some hairspray perhaps? Clearly you and Glen didn't get the memo about the last-minute venue change from McDougal's Pub to the Kodak Theatre. I know y'all are on a shoe-string budget, but you do realize in this country you can rent a tux for $80...I'm nearly certain the producers would have loaned you the cash.




Dear Tilda Swinton,

What the hell is wrong with you?! You have shown up to the most glamorous night in Hollywood wearing nary a stitch of mascara! You are not an attractive woman, your skin is positively translucent, your teeth crooked, and your eyes bugged- you are not the person to go au naturale to an internationally televised event. I know in your native land pasty is a way of life, but even your side of the pond has bronzer. And what's with the Kool-ade orange hair? I really don't understand, is the goal here to make yourself look as unattractive as possible, because if so...congratulations!!




Also, maybe the next time you're nominated for an Oscar you might mention that to your stylist so that she holds some gowns for you and you don't end up grabbing a trash bag as you run out the door, throwing it hap-hazardly about your frame in the limo. Who am I kidding, you drove yourself over in an MG Midget, hence the wrinkled mass of fabric. Again, if you would mention to someone that you are not only nominated but sitting in the front of the auditorium, perhaps they could find you something better than a Hefty bag, or at least take an iron to the damn thing!


The rest of you are off the hook for the moment, so distraught am I over the above offenders. If I recover later today I'll take the hachet to the rest of you.