By FAR my favorite Christmas TV Show when I was growing up was,
Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. I think this could have been the origin for my
predilection for Happily Ever After! So many incredible messages about the
human condition and the resilience of mankind encapsulated in this forty
minute cartoon.
I was digging around some old boxes of childhood memorabilia the
other day and I found my diary from when I was 18. I have to admit that my
Christmas Wish List hasn’t altered all that much:
My Wish List at 18My
Wish List at 50
Yes, I am still dazzled by sparkly, pretty things and secretly
hope that any of them might somehow find their way under the tree! What might
surprise you is that my understanding and desire for Peace on Earth and Good
Will towards humankind hasn’t evolved all that much. My parents indulging a
whimsy once or twice a year didn’t warp my belief that the ultimate gift would
be to live in a world where everyone was safe and had what they needed. Needed,
not wanted. All year I am reminded of the goodness that thrives in the hearts
of people. One simply has to be as willing to look for it, as they are willing
to look for the bad.
I have long since defined myself as a Humanist. Not a
Christian. Not an Atheist. But a believer in humankind.
What is the phrase? Turnabout is fair play? Handily spun by Mr. William Shakespeare – I say handily because he is/was a man (we presume) and it is a catchy phrase. A few weeks ago, I touched upon the subject of women’s foundation garments. And yes, today I will talk about, but not touch upon (for the sake of this blog) men’s underclothes. I would like to quickly point out an obvious and well known fact: there are double standards. I think they need to end.
While most women shoot for some facsimile of this:
Many men seem to be able to get away with this:
I've been happily married for twenty years, so no, this isn't the rant of an unhappy woman. This is merely my perception of the truth, that cultural expectations allow for this:
There is a great deal of discussion these days on metrosexuals. If you are unfamiliar with the phrase, here’s a handy-dandy definition from Dictionary.com: a heterosexual, usually urban male who pays much attention to his personal appearance and cultivates an upscale lifestyle.
So we are seeing more of this:
But there is plenty of this, underneath that!
What am I getting at, you might be wondering? My goal is to persuade each and every one of you to dare to purchase any of these, and say no to the dreaded Tighty Whities.
Why? Because. Because the only time you see Victoria Beckham smile is when she is thinking of this:
And I have a strong suspicion (and have done more than a little bit of research) that given a loving nudge from the love of his life, your man is willing to go there.
Early
this summer, housebound and in between the edits for Prosecco & Paparazzi
and beginning Cognac & Couture, I began a book, called What We Know, We
See. It is about the connection of two souls who never really understood each
other. Too many words have remained unsaid and the couple know each other by
actions and deeds. And while that sometimes is for the best, in this case,
years have passed, and the silence is still disquieting.
I
hope you enjoy this snippet. The book is in the very rough stages – really rough,
actually – but it speaks to me, and what I think love might be, when one can
only take cues, because the words that are spoken are so in contrast with
actions that they render the speaker virtually silent.
Overlooking
Puget Sound, August 21, 2015
I have a thousand thoughts to share, and as I sit
here, amongst the mess that is my office, I wonder if I ever will. That’s what
happens when one falls in love with a complete stranger. One wonders a great
many things. A stranger connotes many things.
A person who does not know us is inherent in the
problem. A person we do not know. A person who is a complete puzzle. Rather
than recount what I do not know about you or you about me, it is easier to say
what is known. But that is not what I wish… not what my heart wishes, to focus
on.
From the first moment – the first synchronization of
heartbeats, the first hello – to the last email, I have been lost in a dream of
possibilities. Yes, I wake up from time to time. I clatter to earth when razor
sharp words are bandied about. You are with her, doing something normal,
everyday’ish. I crash to earth when you do something, like travel to
places I may have been. I find my heart and my brain straining to place you on
the map, locate you on a corner, imagine you inside a restaurant, wonder if you
are picking a Malbec or a Bordeaux. That I know these things. Regrettable.
I asked you, “Is this real?” Your answer was
instant. “Yes.” My heart leapt. We are real. We are not just a fantasy that I
have concocted. We are. For a few
fleeting minutes, or was it hours, that was enough. But then uncertainty sets
in. Right now, this very minute, we are living very real lives, that are worlds
apart, so infinitely different they cannot be compared. So, how real can we be?
My real. Your real. That we breathe, that we sleep, that we eat, that we drink.
That is what we have in common.
Silly girl that I am, I have found myself lost in
fantasies many times where you boldly take my hand, walk down the street beside
me, kiss me, are seen with me. Then you get in your car and drive away to do
crazy things, like shop with for snow tires, purchase patio furniture, go on
vacation, plan tomorrow with her. Jealousy. It isn’t something that I am proud
of, but I am. I am jealous. Yet this morning when I woke-up to the fondling
hands of my lover, I didn’t turn him away. How could I? He has been my world,
he is my world, he is my link to all that says, ‘I am.’ Silly girl that I am, I
think of you as his hands slide across my body, as his mouth tastes me, and I
know that if I try just a little harder, I will smell your scent in the air.
But a line must be drawn somewhere and here I draw it. Of all things, why your
scent? A mystery.
I bend and sway in the wind, as if I have no worries
in the world, but I have once again transformed myself to be someone’s whim. I
move and bow at your command and I slowly grow too unfamiliar with myself. This
is what I fear the most. That I am unrecognizable to myself. I have lost myself
so many times before. “Are we real?” I do not know. Perhaps all we are is the
manifestation of what we are looking for when what we have is not enough. A
card trick, a sleight of hand. Magic.
Why did you pick me? Did you think I was strong
enough to withstand this jealousy, this torture? Or did you see me as someone
who was malleable and pathetic? I once felt powerful in your arms. You wanted
me so much that I had power, I had appeal. I am now… not. But to reveal all
this to you – can I? No.
My path is certain, my compass points true, and the
words I spoke one autumn day are truer than ever, “I am loyal to a fault.” You
will never know how much I wish I could change this. These rules of society, of
religion, of love. They shroud us, eventually. Once they were comforting and
promising. But now, in a world where people live far too long, these words,
these vows, they are only the words of people who couldn’t fathom life that lasted
forever. All our words and actions are recorded, to be replayed over and over
for many generations to come. The things that we do, good or unseemly, are never
to be forgotten.
Is this real? Yes. Can this be real forever? I do not know. Neither do you.
The dandelion bows to the wind and the seeds take
flight, and though the promise of another flower is sown in damp soil, our
love, I fear, it withers on the stalk.
Today most bloggers take to their keyboards about Friday
night’s attack on Paris. I think it would be virtually impossible not to – this
is akin to September 11, 2001. A country devastated, its people feeling unsafe
and unsettled, mourning the loss of so many innocents, not knowing what’s
coming.
What can I bring to this subject that is new, different, or
otherwise? Honestly, I don’t know. I just think back on the memories I made in
this beautiful country, and its capital city over the course of my life and all
I can think of is its beauty, its mystery, its joie de vivre.
I was about nine years old the first time I went to Paris.
My siblings and I dutifully shuffled along behind our parents and oohed and aahed
at all the right things – the Eiffel Tower, The Arc de Triumph, the Louvre… I’m
guessing the Seine and a handful of other things. To be honest, these are
pretty vague.
What stuck in my head was this:
·People sitting at cafes drinking coffee and
smoking and laughing. Mostly laughing. Engaging with each other.
·Women dressed beautifully, gliding down the
street, going somewhere and that
somewhere felt like it ought to be fabulous and where I needed to go, as well.
·One single glance into a boulangerie forever
cemented my love affair with all things bread and pastry. Since this past
spring, when I gave up gluten, I have many a time wondered how people in France
could possibly go gluten-free. I can only assume that gluten intolerance doesn’t
exist. Which makes me wonder if many or any French people are lactose
intolerant. I can’t imagine anything stranger.
My father introduced me to Edith Piaf that summer. My love
for her will last a lifetime. A woman whose pain and determination allowed her to sing
the words to this song like no other.
For myself, I wanted three things to happen. I made a wish
list for myself. I wanted to buy lingerie and perfume in Paris. I wanted to visit
the ancient Roman Pont du Gard aqueduct which crosses the Gardon River in
Remoulins, in southern France, and picnic. (Weird maybe, but in college I wrote
a paper about Pliny the Elder and this seemed like something he would do.) Thirdly…
I wanted to fall in love with a Frenchman and stay there forever.
I didn’t marry a Frenchman from France, but I did have a
fling. Does that count? On the streets of Paris I met a lovely boy who took me
to a bar next to the launderette where my clothes whirled about, and proceeded
to dazzle the pants off me.
Well past the years that I would wander into a dark corner
in pursuit of l’amour, I still find myself passionately in love with the city,
the country, its people. There are endless people clacking away on their
keyboards saying the same thing, and my only hope is that the citizens of
France and those across the world who lost loved ones in the attack on Friday
night, feel our love, because I know they are too busy, too sad, to read our
blogs.
Alrighty
then! Today we are taking on shape wear, underwear, foundation garments, personal support
systems, brassieres, pantalettes, or whatever else you call the layer between
your skin and your outerwear.
Not to get
too personal, but do you look like this?
OR this?
Under this?
Many years
ago I read some romance novel and the heroine hoisted herself into her bra and
slipped into her matching panties and the earth sort of spun out of orbit for a
second and then settled a little wonky on it’s axis. I dashed to my dresser,
peeked inside my undies drawer and realized I had nothing! Nothing! Functional,
plain, somewhat distressed (okay, mostly manky) underwear lay limp in the drawer.
True, no one
(cause I was a young teen) knew what my under garments looked like, but I suddenly
became a tad bit obsessed. Not because I had been indoctrinated by unrealistic heroines that I couldn't possibly emulate, but because there was something, to me, inherently womanly and feminine in slipping into a delicate and functional layer, that was private.
Because you
can look like this
OR this
While granny panties are making a strong comeback and there a few catchy phrases surrounding them (if it is possible to surround them) - I think with most of todays fashions you'll find yourself camouflaging a lot of excess material. I mean, they make low-rise underwear!
Really, the
only person it should matter to is you, I sincerely mean this.
Then came the
day I got a roommate from Paris. That was a wake-up call on many fronts. The book, French Women Don’t Get Fat… well, my roommate was the
quintessential Frenchwoman. She could eat buttered baguette with Brie every day
of her life and not have an extra ounce on her. Of course in addition to being petite she was well
groomed, a fashion plate, funny, smart, and… well, what else is there for her
to be?
One day,
about two months after she moved in, she received a parcel from her mother. She
opened it, and pulled out matching bras and panties. That’s it. No homemade
treats, no photos of the family, no mementos. Undies. Just as I was
about to ask her why, she passed me a stack. I slid the material between my
fingers, I tugged at the waistband, I feel the velvety soft straps of the bras
and I was convinced. The French know what they are doing. I passed the stack
back, and she said, in her lilting and elegant voice, “Mais non! These are for
you. Ma mere sent you a gift for making me feel so welcome.” (Make sure you
roll your “r’s” and speak through your nose as you read this, maybe mutter a
little ‘unh, huhn-hunh.)
While writing Cognac & Couture, which takes place during Fall Fashion Week in Paris, I had the opportunity to explore the world of French lingerie. You should take a peek at this link, French Lingerie! To be fair, there is gorgeous lingerie to be found worldwide.
So! What is
the moral of this story? Treat yourself. Get measured. Wear what fits and what feels comfortable. Wear what speaks to
you, what you need… and then when there are days where the world tries to make
you feel like this
It’s a toss up. To be honest I was trying to decide between
writing a blog about shoes or comedy writing. Why? I dunno. When
confronted with these conundrums I always turn to doing a little research. I’m a very
visual person, so when I see something, things gel and I can get some focus. I went
in search of inspiration on the interweb. Shoes
and travel related topics kept
popping up on the screen, not comedy writing. I decided to listen to my inner
voice – persistently warbling on while my brain somersaulted
into action – telling me what to write
about. (In truth, I think the coffee kicking in helped a bit.)
Let’s start with shoes. I love them. Have you met a girl who doesn’t?
I am currently obsessing over these!
My first legit job was selling shoes at Payless Shoe Source. I
was so nervous. I mean honestly, what did I know about shoes? Other than the
fact that I loved them, what made me an authority on shoes? My first day was a
Saturday in November, somewhere around the fourteenth of the month. It was
soooo long ago it is a bit difficult to remember, but it was so momentous that
I remember that much. I can’t remember my first kiss. Kinda sad when you think
about it.
Anyway, the manager put me on the sales floor and I trolled
the vacant back corner, which was where the men’s department was located, and proceeded
to straighten shoe boxes and keep myself busy doing pretty much nothing. A few
men staggered in and out, prodding at shoes, and looked at price tags, before stuffing
their hands in their pockets and leaning back, looking quite contemplative. I quickly
came to understand that meant that the ratty shoes they were wearing sufficed
and my sixteen-year-old insights weren’t going to budge them.
Seriously? I don't get this.
When I eventually mustered up the courage to wander into the
women’s department (99% of the store), I strategically picked the
quintessential little old lady; blue hair, frail, short, big smile, who rested her
bony hand on my forearm and called me “dear”. I figured I could be honest with
her and she’d be patient and understanding. Within thirty seconds of chatting
with her, I told her I would ask my manager to assist her. It turns out she had
some major foot issue and in my teenage mind, that little old lady and her
foot deformities were way out of my league. I am not proud, but I will admit,
that I was not looking forward to seeing what was ensconced inside her shoe. I kept
a wide berth the rest of the time she was there.
It was not lost upon me, even at that tender age, that if you
had a foot deformity, shopping for shoes at a budget chain was not a good
idea. As I write this blog the thought gels that many a foot deformity has
evolved from wearing certain shoes, discount or spendy. But for the most part,
women will withstand pain, comparable to childbirth, in order to wear a rocking
pair of heels.
From previous blogs you’ll know that I subscribe to evolution
and trying to understand why our ancestors selected mates with certain
tendencies. Why do men pick women who like, no, love, high-heels? Really, it’s
their fault when you think about it.
Taken straight from the Urban Dictionary: Fuck Me Shoes: High
spikey and cutaway women's shoes. Often abbreviated to FM shoes. Please note
that flat shoes were NOT mentioned. If you think I am making this up,
please refer to this really well written article:
How does traveling fit in to this? No matter where I am, what
my budget is, once I’ve managed to make my way through the by-ways, museums,
tourist traps, and authentically amazing sites, I always hit shoe stores. There
is something absolutely decadent and exquisite in caressing a pair
of Giuseppe Zanotti heels in Rome or Christian
Louboutin’s in Paris.
In case you’re wondering, the first
thing I bought with the money I earned from working at Payless Shoes was a pair
of Ferragamo’s! I even took up ballroom dancing so I could justify buying more heels!
✮
(¸.•´✶Hello scary hoppers! I’m so thrilled you’ve
stopped on my page today. As your TREAT I’m giving away an ebook copy of The Cat, The Crow and The Cauldron
to every single one of you. It is currently #4 on Amazon for Anthologies and #10 on Amazon for Holiday Fiction. Anyone can get their copy. All you have to do to
collect my prize is LIKE my FB page and Follow me on Amazon.
So now that you’ve gotten
your treat, comment below with your favorite Halloween candy. I really love
Flake Chocolate Bars. Can’t get enough.
Remember what you
have to do, or I will find you. I will take your candy.
Thanks again for visiting me, and if you’re new
to the Halloween Book Hop you can start over on the event page and hop to all
of the 130 authors giving out treats and tricks. Happy Halloween! https://www.facebook.com/events/474319562772748/ Remember this...
I believe that most of us are very curious about what makes
others tick. What moves, motivates, and impedes us? What makes us smile? Makes
us cry? Over the last few years I have hosted a number of author interviews on
my website, but instead of asking them questions about their books, I like to
ask questions about the person and find out who they are, because their essence goes into their work as an author. Today, I
thought I would ask myself some of these same questions. But first, let's start with a song! Cause' there's nothing quite a well crafted to song to make me smile... Brad Paisley, Ticks. He's everything in a songwriter and singer that I want to be as an author.
How would your best friend describe you?
We call it ADOCDD. It’s
true. Attention Deficit Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Disorder. But in a fun,
you-never-know-what-you’re-gonna-get kind of way. Loyal. Hardworking.
Your most embarrassing moment in four words.
Middle-school, pee,
basketball practice.
Actually the real question calls for three words, but since
I am the author and host, I can change this to four.
Most unexpected question a reader has asked you?
Is it hard to write
sex scenes? Well, I wouldn’t say it is the easiest thing to talk about, but no,
they aren’t hard to write.
What is the biggest lie you've ever told?
I convinced a rather
sweet boy, when I was in the eighth grade, that I had been raised in a convent.
I would have left it at that, but he persisted with questions. If my memory
serves me, this is the entirety of what I told him, “I had wanted to be a
Catholic nun from an early age, convinced my parents to let me enter the
convent, and had lived amongst an order that had taken a vow of silence. I had
only recently realized that wasn’t for me, and was now attending public school
for the first time, and my clothes felt strange to me, as I had been wearing a
habit for several years.”
What makes this truly
funny is that at the time I lived in a very small town and had gone to the
school the previous year. I think I was irritated he hadn’t noticed me, so I
created this wild story to see when it would become too absurd or when he’d
remember I’d been at the school for quite some time. Neither of those things occurred.
I recall letting this go on for a week or so, and then finally fessed up to the
truth. He wasn’t angry with me, he was disappointed that it wasn’t true.
Apparently my fictional self was a whole lot more interesting to him. It was
quite the blow to my self-esteem.
Full Disclosure: I
apologize to the girl in the sixth grade that I convinced I was blind. I know,
I know… overactive and very strange sense of humor.
Have you ever been in trouble with the police?
Yes. Was it my fault?
No, of course not. More than once? Yes. But to be fair, loads of strange and
amazing things have happened to me in my life, so these incidents were just par
for the course.
So, have I scared you
off or am I more interesting? I’d like to think that when combining the
aforementioned overactive imagination with my disclosure, that you are
intrigued, that you want to send me an email and ask me to elaborate.
Have you ever gotten into a bar fight?
Yes, hasn’t everyone?
The scene was included in a book I wrote. One goddess, three men, a bar in
Amsterdam, and all hell broke loose. I was the friend who pulled the goddess to
the floor and crawled along the floor, under the table, to get us the heck out
of there. One of the men’s friends, a lovely man named Thijs, helped get us
home. I swore to never travel with her again. I haven’t.
What is your biggest fear?
Every parents fear.
Something will happen to my children. I cannot bear the thought.
What do you want your tombstone to say?
I hate to ask, but
will you water my plants while I’m gone?
If you were an animal in a zoo, what would you be?
A hippopotamus. I love them.
Hiphopopotamus
vs. Rhymenoceros
Do you have any scars? What are they from?
I have many. The best
one, the one that will make you squirm a bit, is the one just along my hairline,
near my temple, where part of a badminton racket got stuck. Yup, it’s true. Not
my overactive imagination. 1970, worn out rackets, two brothers playing
badminton, one little sister in the way, one long trip through the German
countryside looking for a doctor, one scar about an inch long.
What’s your favorite line from any movie?
Smile and wave boys,
smile and wave! Why? Cause sometimes, that's all you can do.
Interested in the author interviews? They are available on:
www.celiakennedy.weebly.com/interviews
It absolutely boggles my mind that there are people,
all over the world, going about their daily lives, loaded with extraordinary
talent. I can assure you that if I had even the slightest inkling that I could
sing like this woman, I would be belting it out, everywhere!! Everywhere. Okay,
maybe not, but I can’t sing like that, so we’ll never know.
What inspires me? Some people really do have the courage to
lock the front door, drive their car, park it, get out, and walk through a door
that could change their lives forever. Their passion, the core of who they are,
cannot be suppressed and it feeds me.
If you have a passion and a talent for something,
let it loose, let it go, the worst thing that happens is you’ve tried, had
faith in yourself. The best thing that happens is that you go to work happily,
every day.
It’s
been two weeks, and I’ve gotten past it.
Today marks the two week anniversary since the
harrowing event of turning fifty years old. I just wanted to assure all of you
who haven’t arrived at this auspicious mark on the timeline that you will
survive. Perhaps even thrive – have a magical experience where you feel
empowered by reaching half a decade, set goals for yourself so that the next
fifty years are vastly superior.
Ha-ha!! Okay, I got a little overzealous. Superior? Yes. Vastly? Maybe not so much. While
I can easily believe that the content of my character will continue to improve,
I sit here with a bottle of muscle relaxants for persistent muscle cramps in my
lower back and buttocks. IF sitting still breaks parts of me, what happens if I
decide to take up skateboarding or rock-climbing?
It’s
been four months, and I’ve blown it.
I gave up wheat, sugar, all artificial foods and
additives in June, and I’ve never felt better. BUT, it was raining hellaciously
on Saturday, here in Seattle, and blah, blah, blah – my son and I had a great
bonding experience over burgers, fries, milk shakes and… yes, doughnuts. In one
afternoon, I threw caution to the wind and consumed all forms of additives,
fat, sugar, and wheat.
I’m not gonna lie, it tasted really good. However, I
think what made it absolutely worth it was hanging with my son. I’m all about
seizing the moment, and if eating 15,000 calories of my sons favorite food
gives me the chance to sit down and have a heart to heart, I’m gonna do it.
Some of you may be thinking, “Why didn’t you just
have a salad, skip the shake and doughnut?” The answer is, “When in Rome…”
Salad would have created an environment of mom and son, where what you really
want is friend to friend. Sometimes, you just have to throw yourself on the
grenade.
It’s
in one week and I’m so nervous.
Prosecco and Paparazzi releases October 21st!
Yikes!! I think I could release a thousand books and feel nervous every time.
You put your heart out there when you upload a book.
He
reached out gently to the rhythmically beating red orb, the means through which
her life and love was created. She waited, sweat beading on her brow as
butterflies flittered about her belly. She waited for his reaction. Would he lovingly
caress the red orb, and give her a, “There, there.” Or, would he caress it and
say, “Wow!! Amazing.” Or, the third option? Grab it, squeeze it tightly, wring
it out, and leave her gasping.
Yup, I’m just a little bit nervous. But, if you'd like a little taste, check out chapter one on Wattpad.com - http://w.tt/1gp7Fnu
Just before I say goodbye, another video for you to
watch. Another Sam…
I love this dichotomy. Two vastly different people, two dreams, two paths intersecting.
