DeeDee's Room

You can't prove she's not Marilyn reincarnated. (You really canít!)

DeeDee is a wife and mother, a collector of kitsch and women's history, and a blogger on vintage living.

Same as it ever was.
Today, October 15th, bloggers everywhere are publishing posts that discuss poverty in some way. By all posting on the same day we aim to change the conversation that day, to raise awareness, start a global discussion and add momentum to an important cause.

What's a sex kitten got to say about poverty? Read and find out.

Matthew McConaughey got his son's placenta to bury under a tree. This lady had a medical examiner on call to take her mom's donated brain for scientific study at the time of her mom's death. But me, I couldn't get my newborn son's umbilical cord or placenta stored for medical purposes.

Then again, that would have required my then-husband's support and he didn't want me to have the pain medication (too expensive) nor would he get me something to eat after labor & delivery, which meant 36 hours of not eating (because he was too tired). So it shouldn't have been surprising that he wasn't willing (too exhausted from watching me labor & deliver) to support me in my position with the doctors about our son's (perhaps costly) medical tissues storage.

But it was surprising that even though my then-husband wasn't there to flatly refuse tissue storage, his absence spoke volumes. Enough to put the kabosh on the conversation. And since it wasn't a topic then-husband was willing to bring up with the docs, it just couldn't happen.

This could be a short muse-y, but not amusing, post if I just left it at that. But I can't.

An open letter of apology to past boyfriends -- or at least it started that way.
Since this issue was brought up in the context of safety, I will not be entering into the political debate of whether or not owning guns should be legal, or what restrictions &/or permits, if any, should be placed upon gun owners. In fact, I am not even going to quote statistics from any source other than my own little head. I do this to hopefully stick to my main point, and not to run on & become convoluted in my quest to cover 'everything.' It's hard for me to do this, so if nothing else, admire the effort.
Dad doesn't even participate in surveys regarding abortion. All dear Dad replies is, "As a man my opinion doesn't matter; it's not my body at stake here." As they argue and cajole saying they simply want his opinion, my dad insists they just received it -- his opinion is that his & any other man's opinion just doesn't matter because no man would have to live with, by, or under such legislation.

It aggravates those trying to get the survey forms filled out; but endears my wise father even more to me.

Dad will, of course, discuss such issues when invited by "we girls" (my mother, sister &/or myself). He and I have had many a discussion on the matter of women's reproductive health, abortion, and related medical and legal issues. And Dad will vote his pro-choice stance to ensure that women have the right to control their own bodies. But normally he remains mum on the subject.

However, one time Dad spoke out...

I completely forgot I had this item to discuss until I found 'it' buried on my desk here.
Gracie's been sick, and still not up to her best, so I'm helping with the high-fives this week... Can you see where she left off and I start? *wink*
The 'news' services are awash with the story that Sean Young has entered rehab, but most of them, as usual, miss the real story.

Sean Young is mainly remembered for her personal life, rather than her films. Some say that this is because she made few good films; others that her psycho behavior is more memorable than her body of work. But most only hold this view for two reasons:

#1 because that's what James Woods wants you to think

and #2, Woods has worked very hard to make sure Young can't make films.

Here's the real story...

The Menninger Clinic asks if your technological gadget obsession is hurting your relationships...
Reading of his death today I realize I am not a fan, at least not in the traditional sense.
I once had a boyfriend, sort of. It became clear at a certain point, dancing with him in a club while he stared at some other woman, that either I could chase him (and compete with this girl) or I could give him an ultimatum.
Your wicked smile and dark shiny hair were in my dreams last night.
Years ago, when I was just 18 or so, I came home to find my mother and my aunt sitting at the kitchen table with very serious looks on their faces. While I don't recall just how I was told that my Aunt Vicki had been diagnosed with cervical cancer, I do recall what happened minutes later...
I go shopping for used car parts and discover more -- too much more -- about the vehicle's previous owner.
So the other night I went from horny to crying in 12 seconds or less. I'm used to going from horny to angry or crabby so quickly (you know those blue-ovary moments well, right kittens?). Well this was Wednesday evening, and arousal fell away as quickly as I-35W -- followed by shock, tears and fears.

I don't want to sound like my watching from home, my television viewing was any where near as horrific as those who were there, but let me tell you something, I was freaked out.

One cannot compare disasters, catastrophes -- not in the sense of loss. And I'm not trying to say who had it worse or anything like that. But there are things here with this bridge collapse which strike me as familiar in a terrible way.

Obviously a community of writers will suggest writing as a means of expressing your emotions. But what if you don't have a column for such expression? Or what if where you do write, it would be inappropriate to vent or moan?
How many times have you heard that 'time heals all wounds' - and wanted to slug the chipper lil person who said it to you?
You can learn much from TV. Honest.

Take the long-lived Friends TV series...

(Note, I am just including transcript from the story line that I think offers a value to those in Heart Break Hotel.)

Ending a relationship can be as traumatic as loosing a partner due to death.
Ginger or Mary Ann?

Why are women always pit against one another, either directly in competition for a man, or the subject of public/viewer talk as to which is 'better?'

It's glowing rectangular surface beckons even if I cannot see it.

The firm mouse sits there, waiting for my hand to control it and direct it to the box where I will pour out my most intimate thoughts unencumbered by sight, by name or any other thing which would limit me.

A greatly simplified (but not so brief) look at sex, history and the great threat of masturbation.
A year ago watching ABC's The View, I heard conservative Elizabeth Hasselbeck agreeing that the parents of gradeschool children should have the right to advance notification, if not out-right refusal, of books with homosexual themes...
Some dreams take a lot to die.
With humor we've sexualized women to the point of denigration; next came our daughters. Now we're after our sons.
Not your typical "love lost" story, but...

On August 15th of 2006, my 17 year old daughter moved out of my home. No ordinary parenting moment, this was not classic empty nest syndrome due to my daughter maturing and moving out on her own to fly solo: My daughter moved into a 24/7 care facility group home.

The following is a silly conversation between Gracie & I.
The most important thing to know about retail shopping is the status of the employee. This isn't a real job -- they have rich spouses or parents to support them in the lifestyles to which they are accustomed -- it is just a cute thing they do for fun.

I know. I was one for years.

The following is a conversation between myself and Gracie.

We started off with a discussion of victimless crimes, and somehow, this happened.

Reason number one why I don't give raisins out for Halloween.
As women, we have issues with Public Displays of Bodily Functions. PDBF covers a multitude of problems, and likely is a primary cause in many women having difficulty with orgasm; but for today, I'm going to limit my discussion to one area in which we women have the most resistance: using the potty.
At 15 I was still playing with Barbies by day and masturbating to my poster of Barry Gibb at night.

But one book helped me safely cross the line between girlish romance and womanly knowledge.

I've discovered lots of things as estate sales over the years. The things I see tell me much about the lives of women. But sometimes, it's the things you don't see which tell you the most... Or leaves you with the most questions.
When I married the first time, I didnít take my groom's last name, much to the rumblings of not just the groom, but several members of his family.
At first I was going to write this as an anonymous person. It was going to be about my personal experiences. It was going to be about the emotional & physical sides of the issue, about the personal feelings of one particular human, with one particular experience.

But it's precisely the hiding, the personal shame that I wish to address. So I will not hide behind the status of anonymous, and I will dare you to step up & acknowledge not just the personal side of this issue, nor just the facts of the issue, but to stretch yourselves & perhaps publicly make a statement of your own.

This column would be much better if I could have jotted it all down when I thought of it... But as I was driving, that was not possible -- and then I was also on 'Mommie Duty' so once I was home, writing still had to wait... But I did my best to preserve this as I wrote it in my head.
When living with your teenage daughter makes everything a controversy.
A walk on a nice summer day reveals these little vignettes of love.

Do I really see them, or am I just a romantic who fancies love everywhere?

I've had a love and hate relationship with my hair for as long as I can remember. Well, certainly as a toddler I didn't give it much thought, but somewhere in my teen years, when I became aware of hair as more than something to suck on, or to be managed by my mother -- when I really thought about and tried to control my hair, I've had issues with my hair.
While most women would gladly give up their monthly cycle (even the most devout goddess worshipers wishes for the day when she need not stain her favorite panties, or worry about both her bedding and her partner's response to her blood, deal with hormonal acne, or other issues of menstruation), we do not happily leave it...
My children are art critics.
I once made a partial living as an artist. It wasn't the 'partial' part that drove me to stop, it was the way folks reacted to 'my art.'
The day with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law continues with sex toy shopping & more...

(If you missed it, start with Part One!)

My sister-in-law, Erin, lives out of state. Recently she and her fiance came for a visit. While here, she & her mom, my mother-in-law, cooked up a plan involving me...
While I may not have any answers to 'what makes a woman,' recent events made me recall my 40 years worth of thoughts about 'when you become one.'
I am alive, & well, living in Fargo. The horrible fact is that despite the wrong decision by the court to not let my son move with me, I am doing well.

(Republished, 2 years later.)

Once upon a time, America was the land of entertaining at home. I know because the wonderful world of movies tells me so.
Since my daughter started her period, I have had some weird stories in my mind, and brought to my attention... So, naturally, I must share them with you here. *wink*
I want to change my name to Brandy. Cuz I'm a fine girl. What a good wife I would be....
Mid-process of court dealings (battery & divorce), I asked, "Is there justice in Sheboygan?"

(Republished on the two year anniversary.)

"We're (women) our own worst enemies a lot of the time, but I still blame men."
~ Janeane Garofalo ~

Sometimes it is so easy to blame men. Usually this is because they are to blame. *wink*

I was, am, a fan of Elvis, but not one of those crazy spoon collecting types who makes yearly pilgrimages to Graceland or anything.

Come to think of it, that would be normal. This is probably weirder than that...

Should a senior in college date her professor?
And apparently we love that.
About a year ago my Auntie M passed away. Auntie M was my maternal Great Aunt, the wife of my Motherís Fatherís Brother. Nearly 90 when she passed, simply from Ďold age,í there was little remarkable about her death. But her life is another story.
I found out a few years ago that most of my family predicted I would end up with an older man. I presume this was due to their belief that I would need to be take care of -- this because I also discovered in the same conversation that they also thought that I would end up in a cult.

...my family may not have the best or most accurate image of me...

*ahem* Iíll continue now...

Republished on the two year anniversary of "the incident."
Once upon a time, I was a virgin. Embarrassingly, I cannot tell you exactly when that changed.
What does living with big breasts mean? Can you live without them?