Limerick Wednesday

I'm the oldest and creakiest diva
Might need to start taking Boniva
But I've traveled to France,
Had mucho romance,
So for all us old broads, I say Viva!

I don't look like I did at 19,
Fake tits and nose jobs ain't my scene,
But invisible blogging
Is better than jogging
Does my ass look too big on this screen?

All this aging shit gives me the blues
Only things that still fit me are shoes
I'm one massive wrinkle
When I laugh now, I tinkle
When my daughter looks at me she moos

Menopause gives me hot flashes
My sex drive quite frequently crashes
I need a new lube
A jumbo-sized tube
Cause now all I'm getting is rashes

My favorite color is black
It's at least half the clothes on my rack
But it makes my thighs smaller
Since I can't grow no taller,
To get thin I'd have to smoke crack

So I slap on a little mascara,
Coat my flabbiness with aloe vera,
Put on my bikini,
and drink a martini
And dream of the French Riviera

So ladies, let's all have a drink
It's better than paying a shrink
We'll flirt with the pool boy,
make plans with our sex toy
and paint our toenails Nipple Pink!

Ethiopian pygmies

Since this silly blog is about being a diva, martinis, and shoes, and associated superficialities of modern female life, I am posting today to testify to the stupidity of drinking and sunning.

I broke two diva rules this weekend. These Rules are not formally introduced in the Rules of a Diva (coming soon), but I'm thinking of adding them as a warning to diva-potentials.

One of the broken rules involves drink mixing. No, not the kind where you come up with a funky new martini mix called "Dirty Panties" but where you choose your source of alcohol for the evening. As in, Do Not Mix Beer and Hard Liquor. I broke that rule, and this diva paid.

I woke up the next morning with the sensation of a horse standing on my head. Beside the horse was a horde of tiny Ethiopian pygmies, battering my skull with their little drumsticks and wailing something along the lines of "aaaAAAAAAooooAAAAAuhhhhhhhAAAAOOOOOuuuhhhhh," which did not grok. I lurched out of bed and begged the pygmies to go away, but they tied me down like Gulliver. I sucked down some advil and water and crawled back into the prone position.

The next rule I broke was trying to cure the hangover by sunning myself by the pool. You know that sensation that your hangover is finally gone, and you feel OK but your mind is not working at its usual warp speed? I loaded everything up and went to the pool, armed with a gallon of diet coke, ice, and pretzels to soak up the remaining alcohol.

I failed to put on sunscreen, of course. I forgot what it was for. I looked at the bottle and I swear I thought, "I don't need moisturizer today. I haven't even showered." I FORGOT WHAT IT DOES. People! I survived the hangover only to attempt self-immolation by sunburn.

So in the interest of diva management, I am attempting to come up with a new rule to add to the book, something like "Diva Rule #x.2: Do Not of Mixing of the Beer on Vodka, or the Pygmies will Burn Your Face to Dead Hurt."

My first real post

Diva Rule #1: Shoes



Diva Rule number one is shoes. Must have shoes. Lots of shoes. Lots, lots and lots of shoes.

This is of course due to my recent adventure at the Nordstrom's Half Yearly Sale. Walking into the shoe department gives me a tiny frisson of excitement, as if I'm about to meet a lover, which in a way I am. A tiny leather lover that will caress my feet and change my life into one that is Glamorous, Exciting, and decidedly un-midwestern. No Keds, in other words.

So I bought a pair of black patent leather wedge sandals with the CUTEST black polka dots on a beige linen heel. Um, and the matching pair in red. Because I bought um, five cute tops in the other department, as an act of charity which I will explain shortly.

Which brings me to Rule Number 2 for divas: Save the world from bad fashion. To be a diva, one must Dress Well. No, you don't have to wear Nanette Lepore or Prada or any such name-hogging twit designer. Your clothes must make YOU look good. We don't give a shit where the clothes come from, as long as they show off the body that is uniquely yours.

Anyway.

I bought five tops off one rack at Nordstrom's. They were sitting there, all lonely and sad on their little rack, and swarms of women were walking RIGHT BY them, ignoring them, and I felt their pain. They were MARKED DOWN! And lonely! And cute, and their self-esteem was low because no one was buying them and so I took pity on them and bought a few because I am sensitive in that way. Also they were stretchy enough to cover my boobs, which coupled with the cute print was enough to enhance the curves without giving off whiffs of KFC. I felt like Albert Schweitzer, but my friend was kind enough to point out that I don't look quite that old.

Here is my ode to Nordstrom's Half Yearly Sale (with apologies to Emma Lazarus):

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled materials yearning to clothe me,
The wretched refuse of last year's fashion bore,
Send these, the stainless, cargo-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the closet door!

Birth of a diva

Divas are born, not made. There are only a few of us; many may wish to become divas but hey, evolution has its limits.

This is the meeting place for the divas: biographies, pictures, and stories to follow. Also look for the "Rules of a Diva," coming soon.

Ciao, dahlings.