Whatever happened to mail order laudanum?

While standing at the bathroom sink, cleaning shit out of a pair of little boys' "Bob the Builder" underwear, I contemplated the state of divahood. It's not an easy job. For one thing, there's a lot of competition, especially when there's a small child in the house. All four year old children, male and female, are natural divas. It's all about them. Even when it's all about you, it's still all about them, and they have the lung capacity and lack of self-consciousness to force the issue. And if you're a diva who wants to produce something other than attitude, the difficulties are tenfold. Did I want to be scraping underwear with my thumbnail? No. I wanted to work on my masterpiece of fiction. But how does one go from one to the other, especially when shit must always take precedence? I took to my bed (not having anyplace to put a chaise longue) to figure it out.

Shades pulled, child ignored, I went through my options. I can't afford a maid and/or nanny to take care of the messy details. I can no longer get mood altering drugs without getting off my butt and going into the city. Or possibly my doctor. I don't plan on having anymore children, so I'll never achieve the point of critical mass when they can start taking care of each other. Or, for that matter, the point when I am so truly overwhelmed that personal fulfillment and divahood are distant memories. So just what can I do?

Then it hit me: it all comes back to state mind. I may want to produce something besides attitude, but a diva IS attitude. If I'm going to be scraping underwear, I can paint that thumbnail a gorgeous purple, add tiny rhinestones, and look at something pretty while I'm doing it. Taking to my bed is a wonderful idea and I should do it more often. In fact, I needn't get out of bed at all on weekends. With my notebooks, fountain pen, magazines, and the boys to bring snacks and brew tea, I'd be set. I'm also thinking flowing clothes might help. I can stalk around the house in harem pants and beautifully embroidered tunic tops, using elaborate hand gestures.

And if all that fails? Well, there's always gin.

Loretta

Loretta shared an office with me in graduate school where we taught entry level English. She endured my tasteless Airboy posters, my fuzzy raccoon slippers, and my psychotic student stalker. I enjoyed her Chagall prints and her calm and practical outlook on life. I always thought she'd be one of the ones I stayed in touch with, but one day she just slipped away. Her email stopped working and she was no longer at the same company. Snail mail crawled back.

Every so often, I Google her name. There's a Loretta in Ohio who's a socialite. There is a backpacking and kayaking Loretta in Michigan and sometimes Canada. There's an environmentalist in Pittsburgh (Loretta always did love a challenge). There's a notary public at some big corporation, too.

All these alternate lives. But where is MY Loretta? The Loretta who supplemented her student income by penning titles like "Hot Eager Neighbor Girl" for lonely truck drivers and urged me to do the same? The Loretta who introduced me to red wine with pasta and had an irrational affection for a smart blond Yooper boy who broke a bit of her heart? (You were too good for him!)

Where are you, Loretta?

The Godfather

Every so often, I feel a need for a fix of "The Godfather." Perhaps it's the masculine side of me. Perhaps it's just the need for escapism, where one can lose oneself in a really great story for a long time. It's a classic. It has the fantantic lines. 'Leave the gun, take the cannolli.' The classic scenes. Who can forget the horse's head in the bed?

But what is this need for escapism to an old favorite? For me, it's almost like pulling on a familiar pair of slippers and a favorite sweater. Comforting. Resassuring. And it's also a reminder just how high the bar has to be for new 'favorites' to be. A tough standard. How can new actors match the performances of Pacino? Of Duvall and James Caan? Diane Keaton was lumious in a serious role. Ah, and of course, Marlon Brando.

This movie, like a fine wine, is one to be savored. And every time I watch it, I come away with something new.

Just color me an old fashioned gal.

Love
Kennedy.

Isabella and Kennedy at Large

It is strange times indeed every time when Cousins Isabella and Kennedy get together for any kind of outing. We are lucky enough to live close to each other, so a get together is a fairly regular occurrance these days.
However, when the two of us are together, we seem to scare small children and animals and the moon hides her lovely face or blushes red. Creatures of the night come out to play and otherwise normal people blurt out their most deeply hidden secrets.

We have heard the life stories of complete strangers, have been followed by love-lorn young men and women alike and been befriended by the cyncial and world-weary. The town we live in is so uber-concsious of itself, so hip, yet so seldom do people ever connect, and yet when we Cousins dare to wander out, it is as though the air is magnetized and all those people who need to find their polar North gravitate toward us, as though their compass is pulling them onward.

This may sound prideful,yet I don't exagerate. Isabella and I often look at each other and ask "Why?"

Perhaps the gleam of our Diva state radiates? Or is it the fact we are ready to kick butt first and take names later? Posing is too time wasting and as for being hip, well, who has time? Being real is much easier.

Isabella and I will have to get the rest of the Cousins to come and visit. The town will definitely burn then.
Love
Kennedy

That time of year

Oh, the joy of Fall, the thrill of the change of seasons and the titillation of Halloween. Every year we Divas have a wonderful excuse to dress up and let our true natures just burst on out. For me, the excitement is always the lure of wearing the most outrageous lipstick I can find and the excuse to wear fishnet stockings.

I was recently walking down the street, past a costume store with a friend. He joked about buying the French Maid's uniform for me if I would dust his house. I told him I be happy to do it, as long as I get to wear the fishnet stockings. From there, the conversation went downhill.

What is it about certain items of underwear? The corset, the stocking, the garter belt? Old fashioned and yet so sexual. Pantyhose may have liberated out mothers, but all indications point to the de-sexualization of our wardrobes.

So, roll on Halloween and the excuse to roll out the wonderful sassy underwear and our wicked sassy selves.
Love
Kennedy