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 at a nonprofit and is just about finished writing her first novel.

Filtering by Author: Eden Marriott Kennedy

The State of My 51-year-old Body As Witnessed By My 14-year-old Son

The Hair

Me: "I am so tired of looking this way. Maybe I should try to grow my hair again."

Jackson: "Your hair looks good short."

Me: "Really? Thank you."


The Face

I bend down to kiss him goodnight; he bites my cheek and won't let go.

Me: "Goddamnit, Jackson, if you draw blood I will kill you."

He begins sucking on my cheek like a moray eel.

Me: "Goddamnit, Jackson! I cannot go to work tomorrow with a hickey on my face!"

He bites harder, then lets go and looks at me.

Jackson: "Oh my God, there's a crease!"

Me: "Yeah, I'm old, my skin doesn't just bounce back to its normal shape if you do shit like that."

Jackson: *shrieks*



Arms in a Sleeveless Shirt

Jackson: "Stick out your arms."

I stick out my arms.

Jackson: "Now wiggle them."

Dies laughing at the way my upper arms jiggle.

Me: "Goddamnit, Jackson."



Jackson: "Mom, come into my room, I need to show you something."

Watches me climb awkwardly out of bed in a nightdress, gives my ass a horrified look.

Me: "I saw that look."

Jackson: "What?! I didn't say anything!"



"Your knees look like butts."



Looks at me wearing yoga shorts.

Jackson: "Your legs look . . ."

Me: "It's called cellulite and it's totally normal."

Jackson: (silence)

Me: "Trust me, I will never leave this house wearing yoga shorts."

Jackson: (politely) "I like your long yoga shorts* better."


*I'm pretty sure "long yoga shorts" are actually yoga pants



Me (walking into his room): "Jackson, I need you to take out the --"

Jackson (yells at my house slippers): "WHAT ARE THOSE?"


After seeing the Bill Cunningham documentary and being sort of jealous that he wore the same blue jacket every day, and then reading that article by the fashion editor who bought five of the same blouse and slacks for work, I've been wondering if somewhere in the world there waited for me an outfit I could commit to five-to-seven days a week. AND THEN IT HAPPENED. Last month I was cruising the J. Jill sale rack and out leapt at me a dress that, in person and on my person, is the perfect, roomy, pocketed dress equivalent of the Cunningham blue jacket. I seriously considered going to the website and buying four more of them but in the end settled on just buying one more because the fabric is too heavy for summer in an office in an old building without air conditioning. And because I am not Chairman "Let's All Wear The Same Jacket Forever" Mao, there will no doubt come a day when I am so sick of those dresses that I will want to douse them all in gasoline and burn them on the barbecue.

So then I continued on to eBay and bought all the black cotton dresses.

I have zero problem wearing used clothing.

Technically, the one on the far right is wool, and I'm here to tell you that the best time to be the only person to put a lowball bid on a wool dress is in the middle of summer. They are, from left to right, Eileen Fisher, Banana Republic, J. Crew, Hanna Andersson, and another J. Crew and three of them have pockets and they all fit because the sellers posted the measurements, thank you, sellers. I have been curious about Hanna Andersson forever because the catalogs are like a children's fantasy of adorable clothes that you'd wear to a gingerbread party in the parlor of the nicest grandma who loves you more than anyone who ever wore sparkly clogs, and she gave you those clogs even though your mom said they were too expensive. So it was nice to find a H. Andersson dress at cut-rate eBay prices and discover that the quality's really good and who gives a shit if you're wearing a cosy, shapeless black sack? It's a shapeless black sack with pockets.

So that's what I've been up to, gearing up to do a full Georgia O'Keeffe (she's another one, everything in black or white, lots of shapeless smocks, oh my god, SMOCKS) while the ghost of my mother looks back at me from the mirror and says, "But don't you want to wear a little color with that?" 


Mr. Wazz-ma-tazz (after he peed on the rug) (he was ashamed, but I blame the increased dosage of diuretics)


I, as a completely sane pet owner, both sing and talk to my dog pretty much constantly, because obviously he understands me in ways other cannot. I often find myself standing in the kitchen rinsing the dishes before they go into the dishwasher with Peewee sitting nearby, gazing at my ankles while wondering why I throw out so much food that could be going quite comfortably into his mouth.

"You're allergic to chicken, Peewee, so stop sending me your mind thoughts!" I'll say.

Peewee will perk up his ears. He heard his name.

"I know you love chicken, Peewee, but it gives you itchy scabs," I'll say. "Itchy scabs are the worst. Right, Peewee?"

And then from the living room Jack will say, "Right, mom, you're the best."

I'm starting to think that someday Jack will understand me as well as Peewee does.

Garden party Wee

Free Fruit

Somebody gave us a box of oranges -- that's what people do in California! Give each other free fruit and wait for tourists to ask us for directions to the beach. So someone gave Jack this box of oranges and said, "They're juicing oranges." I looked at them very carefully but the only clue that they weren't fit for straight eating was that they weren't all-the-way-around orange. In fact I'd go so far as to say they were partially green, which seemed kind of a racist way to divide oranges into "eating" and "juicing." But when I finally peeled one to eat I discovered that it also had seeds, so I guess America wants its eating oranges to be sexless and monochromatic and then we feed our despicable seeded multicolor breeding oranges into industrial juicers and to hell with them. 

(As an aside, I prefer my orange juice to be pulp-free in my little evening cocktails* but there's an old market by the beach that is my number one destination for fresh-squeezed daytime orange juice because I'd swear they just throw the oranges in whole, peel and seeds and all, there's no other way to account for how three-dimensional it tastes.)

* Half orange juice, half fizzy water of choice (Pellegrino for those who like a less-aggressive bubble), and one shot of Hornitos tequila, served over ice in a clean glass and stirred with a room-temperature spoon

So Peewee's had a rough ride this month. He's turning eight in September, which for bulldogs is like, "Welp, I guess he'll be dead soon." He's been slowing down some, and we thought he was gaining weight due to his longstanding refusal to walk more than half a block in any direction, but when I took him in for a check-up the doctor ended up taking 3.2 liters of fluid out of his abdomen. So my dog wasn't fat, he was just turning into a stoic, furry water balloon.

Black is so slimming.

The doctor wanted to see him for a follow-up a week later, where he pulled out another 1.5 liters of fluid. Peewee is now so fluid-free I can feel his spine. I'm taking him back next week just to make sure we've got his meds sorted out (we've upped his diuretics and his kidneys seem to be able to take it), and when I do I'm imagining driving home with a sentient bag of organs that growls when you play tug with it.

Wrapped up like a birthday present.

Honestly, we all expect to wake up one morning and find him dead. We will then go through an appropriate period of mourning and then the plan is to get a dog AND a cat so they can be friends, but it's hard to think about that when the Wee is begging for half of my ham sandwich or snoring softly on the floor with his paws tucked under his chest. 

Oh, Peewee.

Perhaps because of all this I have become unaccountably attached to an Instagram account for a rescue in L.A. called Road Dogs, and when the woman who runs it asked for help running her Twitter and Pinterest accounts, I waved my hand in the air and said ME ME ME, PICK ME. So I'm here to ask you to follow Road Dogs on Twitter and Pinterest for lots of heartwarming rescue success stories (and the occasional, "Wow, people suck."). 

With Jackson going into high school (I KNOW, IT'S CRAZY, HE'S A FRESHMAN) and my novel finally being sent off to be read by The People Who Could Change My Life, it felt like high time for me to work full-time once again, thank you, Craigslist. So I put on my cherry-red Fluevogs and went interviewing. The first job I interviewed for was to be my own boss, i.e., supervisor of the branch I've been working at for five years already. I will frankly tell you that not getting chosen for that hurt, but it would have hurt a lot more if the woman they chose instead of me was doing a terrible job, which she isn't, she turned out to be the better choice, I am sort of weirdly pleased to say. So that sucked for a week or so and then I got over it, but then I still needed to find another job. I applied for some part-time jobs in the hopes that I could stay at the library and work two jobs, but nobody called me back so I went and found one, single full-time job that I will tell you more about once I start. I am very sad to leave the library (very!) but I'm looking forward to being able to walk to work, unless we up and float away when El Niño hits this year (which is predicted to be like "a river falling from the sky"), in which case I might spring for a bus pass so Jackson and I can slosh to the bus stop together in the morning and then take off in opposite directions toward our new adventures.

My favorite moments from Jackson's middle school graduation yesterday

1. Blowing up balloons the night before graduation in a last-ditch effort to make up for all the years I did zero volunteering at school. I got assigned to balloon detail with two sixth-grade girls and their grandmothers, one of whom was a salty old sailor who maybe would have preferred a nice cocktail somewhere to blowing up balloons with me. At one point she chided the girls for not blowing up their balloons to the full extent of their potential. One of them had a small, squishy balloon that she was batting around in lieu of developing a work ethic and Salty Gran looked at it and said, "You need to blow harder, that ballon's retarded." I was in some sort of ballsy mood and said to her, "We don't say retarded any more, we say developmentally challenged," and Salty Gran raised her eyebrow at me and said, "Oh, really?" I doubt I opened her eyes to the linguistic nuances of our time, but it did give me some insight into the woman I'm going to be in a couple of decades when some smart-ass tells me, "Oh, we don't call them robots anymore, we call them extra-humanoid-Americans," and I'll be like, "Okay, well, your extra-humanoid-American needs to pump my hydro-gas a little faster, I am on my way to get my head frozen and the cryolab does not reschedule missed appointments."

2. The fifth grader who was standing at the door to the gym handing out travel packs of tissues, and who looked at my all-set-to-start-sniveling face and said, "Do you maybe want two?"

3. Unsuccessfully repressing my sobs while Mr. Reed told everyone how loyal my son was, and how he told the truth instead of just saying nice things to make people like him, and how much he loved his family, and how his teachers had to peel him off my leg every morning in pre-kindergarten.

4. Delicious cake at ten in the morning.

5. Having one of Jackson's classmates, a really wonderful girl who got up at 5:45 to get her makeup on (her makeup was perfect), come up to me as I was leaving and say, "I like your tights!" It was chilly and I was wearing mustard-colored tights with red shoes and other clothes, and I said, "Thanks! I got them at Macy's, they're HUE." She smiled politely, so I continued, "H-U-E is the brand," as she continued to give me a polite, fixed smile, so I went on, "They're great, they have a lot of colors, although these are like five years old," and then I realized that despite her ongoing smile, the light behind her eyes had gone out so I said, "Okay, then! Congratulations!" Apparently she didn't expect me to start telling her every single thing I could think of about my tights? I don't know how girls talk to each other, it's an ongoing problem for me and I imagine things are just going to get weirder as we move on into high school and Jackson starts warning people before they meet me: "Just so you know, my mom is going to take everything you say as an opportunity to treat you like a library patron who doesn't understand Google."

Some of these kids will never see each other again.

6. The school secretary reminding me of when Jackson, at age five, asked if she could come over to our house for a playdate.

World champion school secretary and black-belt shoe collector, Mrs. Loster.