SADDLED WITH THAT Y CHROMOSOME, HE THINKS IT'S A ... CHICK THING : ONE GUY'S OPINION.

Byline: Glenn Whipp Daily News Film Writer

The calls started coming a couple of weeks ago, once Rosie O'Donnell announced she was bringing her talk show to Los Angeles for five weeks.

``Glenn, hi, this is your mother. Just calling to check up on you and ... um ... can you get me tickets to `Rosie'?''

Or this one from my wife's youngest sister: ``Hey, Glenn. How are you doing? It was really good seeing you at Christmas. I wish we could get together as a family more often. So ... how about getting us all tickets to `Rosie'?''

Now, ordinarily I might chuckle good-naturedly at such requests, honor them and then ask for baked goods in return. However, this was different. This was Rosie.

And I hate Rosie.

Maybe ``hate'' is a little strong. I don't get her. I don't understand why my mother, my wife, my wife's four sisters and every woman I know just plain loves Rosie O'Donnell and wants to bask in the glow of everything that is Rosie. Me, I watch her talk show and I'm irritated. All it takes is five minutes and all that blather about Barbra, Broadway and ``my Tommy'' (as in Cruise), and I'm running to the other room for cover.

It dawned on me recently, though, while listening to Rosie gush forth about Anne Rice and the Gap and the musical ``Gypsy'' that, as a man, I'm not supposed to get Rosie O'Donnell, much less like her. It's a chick thing, like drinking hot tea or spending an hour rummaging around Bath & Body Works or Garden Botanika. It's beyond my realm of understanding.

Now, as you can imagine, this realization came as a great relief. I could shun Rosie and be OK about it. It also explained away a lot of other show-biz sensations that have baffled me for the past year or so. I understand and - more importantly - I accept these things now for what they are: curiosities completely lacking any appeal for those of us who have the Y chromosome.

``Party of Five'': I'm in touch with my sensitive side. I like a good cry just like the next guy. I almost lost it when the Packers blew the Super Bowl a couple of weeks ago.

What I don't like are television shows that wallow in misery week after week after week. ``Party of Five'' is the most blatant offender and belongs in TV's Maudlin Hall of Fame, right next to ``Little Tragedy on the Prairie.''

In the past four seasons, we've seen the Salingers orphaned and battling alcoholism, miscarriages, drug addictions, mental illness, aborted babies, aborted weddings and, most recently, the Big C, cancer. What do you do for an encore? Nuclear fallout?

Guys have enough to worry about, what with receding hairlines and expanding waistlines, without having to watch Charlie go through chemotherapy and see his perfectly crafted face stubble fall out. It's just not much fun. So, ladies, go ahead and watch. I'll be in the other room with a beer watching Drew Carey.

Obsession With Angels: You turn on the TV and you're ``Touched by an Angel.'' You go to the movies, and some actor is sprouting wings. You go to the bookstore, and there's an entire section devoted to angels. (More than 100 nonfiction angel titles hit the shelves last spring alone.)

You go to the mall and there are angel figurines, T-shirts, posters and coffee mugs everywhere you turn. You watch a Victoria's Secret commercial and there's a winged Tyra Banks wearing a new line of ``Angel'' lingerie. (Hey, maybe this isn't so bad after all ...)

Guys - even those of the God-fearing persuasion - could probably go through their entire lives and not give angels a moment's thought. It's not that we don't believe in the existence of higher beings who give us guidance and help us through life's daily grind. We do. It's just that we have a different name for these creatures. We call them ``wives.''

Fiona Apple and Jewel: At some point in his life (usually college), every guy has dated a woman who spent her days sitting around, swilling down coffee and committing every spare thought to a spiral-bound notebook. Fiona Apple and Jewel are just like these women, only they've set their journal entries to music, made a ton of money and brought back bad memories for men the world over.

Jewel I can handle. After all, she did sing the national anthem at the Super Bowl and had the decency to wear a low-cut blouse while doing so.

But I've been stuck at too many traffic lights next to angry teen-age girls who are screaming along with Fiona Apple songs. It's unsettling. And it makes me wonder about my old college girlfriends. God help me if Fiona has access to their notebooks.

I Love/Hate Ally McBeal: Up until a month ago, ``Ally McBeal'' was just a blip on my radar, a show that came on after Monday Night Football. A pleasant diversion to be sure, but usually one that could be ignored.

Now I can't escape from Ally because she's on every magazine cover with an accompanying article about why Ally rules and/or stinks. Women won't miss an episode of this show, nor will they miss an opportunity to bad-mouth it. The conversations are a study in schizophrenia.

``Did you see Ally last night? Could her skirt be any shorter? But didn't you just love her jacket? I am so sick of hearing her whine about how she wants a man. I almost cried, though, when that guy told her he wasn't interested. Could she be any more unsure of herself in the courtroom? I just love her vulnerability. Did you see the way she drinks her cappuccino? So sexist! Do you think men would go for me if I did that?''

And on and on it goes. Guys watch the show, shrug their shoulders and think, ``Unisex bathroom. Yeah, right. In my dreams.''

There's the rub. Men see Ally and see a TV character. Women see her as a living, breathing embodiment of the female gender. Get over it! And stop carping about Ally's hemlines. If you had her legs, you'd be showing them off, too.

Jenny McCarthy: This name might come as a surprise, since Jenny has the type of assets that are supposed to drive most men crazy. But then she opens her mouth or, even worse, scrunches it up, and the whole thing quickly goes to hell in a handbasket.

Guys (those of us who are over 18 and have let our subscriptions to Playboy lapse) simply do not like Jenny McCarthy. NBC executives found this out when they paired her god-awful sitcom with the odious ``Men Behaving Badly'' on Sunday nights. It bombed.

In desperation, NBC moved ``Jenny'' to Monday nights, placing it in the heart of their ``Must-See Chick TV'' lineup. It bombed there, too. It turns out that women dislike Jenny just as much as men.

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Photo: Rosie O'Donnell