Eden M. Kennedy

mission accomplished, pal

Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a 1973 Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works a straight job and is just about finished writing her first novel.

Peach Pits

Well, everyone seems to be up in arms about what they're going to wear to BlogHer, and so I thought I ought to buy some new deodorant.

Last year I pulled up to the hotel in a five-hour-old cloud of armpit funk and said, Alice! Melissa! First, let me give you both a big, nasty hippie hug. Now, hop into a few cubic yards of air that smells exactly like my armpits and let's go get some snacks!

The conversation was a little strained at first, maybe because I wouldn't roll down the windows or turn on the air conditioning, and when I did give in and unlock the doors they did that kind of walking-running thing to get a head start into Trader Joe's. Eventually I found them reviving each other with the cleansing scents of tequila and pinot grigio.

In my extremely weak defense, though, I live in this fog-bound little community where it never gets very hot? I see the news, I know the rest of you are sleeping in front of a sad little two-speed box fan from Sears, but I think today it didn't get over 75 here. I even wore a sweater for a little while this morning.

My point is, having lost the knack for stink management, I blithely spend my mornings swabbing my armpits with organic lavender water. (Around here there's really no need for much in the way of a shower, either, unless it's to exfoliate a little. But a butter knife works just as well.)

But! I'm going to take pity this year, and henceforth decree that at BlogHer my armpits will smell of fruit. Specifically, peaches. No need to thank me!

Anyway, since Jack and Jackson are still not back from "camping" -- camping with ROOM SERVICE -- I took the opportunity to do a little shopping this week so that I wouldn't be showing up at the conference in last year's jeans and promotional t-shirts. I went and bought my very first piece of designer gear -- a sleeveless creation that my mother would call a "shell" -- which in this case is hot pink and steel gray and has a little label inside that says Marc Jacobs. Even at half price I paid too much for it, but it is silk, after all, and I fit into a size eight. Which reminds me.

Dear Clothing Manufacturers of the World:

I'd like to know why, when I go into the Gap I'm a size 10, at Banana Republic I'm an 8 or even sometimes, for God's sake, a 6, and in a bathing suit I appear to be a 12 or 14.

Can you explain this to me? Because it makes catalogue shopping FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.

Your friend,
Mrs. Kennedy

And then I went to Nordstrom, which is where you go when all your bras look like someone's been using them to slingshot cannonballs at the Confederate Army. A girl who was probably still a fetus when I was hitchhiking through Belgium with an Army surplus duffelbag and one pair of boots -- in her cradle the Gods of Breasteses bestowed upon this girl the gift of Superpower Tit Vision, because she took one look at me and said, "Please don't tell me you think you're 36C. Everyone thinks they're a 36C and practically no one is."

Ladies and gentlemen, I am sitting on the couch writing this in the most comfortable size 34D bra known to womankind. This little freak of nature sold me two Wacoals, a Natori, and a Chantelle, but I think I'm going to take back the Chantelle because it itches. And anything that costs $65 better goddamn not itch.