Mr. Boat Shoes

"THE TIME WILL COME WHEN IT WILL DISGUST YOU TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR."

- ROSE KENNEDY 

I've always known I should have been a Kennedy. I have everything I need to make the grade: high aspirations, a penchant for pills and alcohol, an enchanting smile and captivating persona to aid me in talking my way out of trouble and charming lovers into my bed, a deep appreciation for simple New England beach-front cottages that resemble mansions, an inherently selfish nature and a love for any boy that smells like a large trust fund and boat shoes.

His pants are the same color as what I'm after. 

That said, I decided to start this blog after I recently read a few snippets from the notes and diary entries written by Rose Kennedy and donated to the John F. Kennedy library and museum. Rose had 9 kids and an asshole for a husband so she clearly was short on time, but she made the effort to chronicle her life using whatever was around. Some of the best stuff she wrote was scribbled on a calendar.

How do you not want to emulate a chick who makes this her Christmas card?

Rose was no idiot. She knew what she had going on with her family. She knew they were batshit and she knew they were sparkly and she knew they had that je ne sais quoi.

Ditto.

Yes, I may be lacking the Kennedy DNA. And large sums of cash. And the ability to buy Chanel in bulk. And the cult following. But only for now.

And what I lack in the financial area, I make up for in life experiences. Everyone in my family, immediate or distant, is derailed; completely unpredictable and ridiculously narcissistic. All of us. No exceptions. Not one. We are the Kennedy's, minus the plane crashes and the Shrivers and the political crap.

And minus the little beach-front cottage.

And if Rose could find the time to write down her little pieces of wisdom and immortalize parts of her life, then why can't I? And why shouldn't you read it? 

I can and you should.

This blog something I've wanted to do for a long time, and yesterday, when I came across the five drillionth Facebook post advising young people like myself on what to do with regret- right after reading Rose's diaries- I knew it was time. The awesome regret post looked a whole lot like this:

Recognize it? No? Because it's everywhere.

Not to be mistaken for this lovely little sentiment:

What if that "something" was first-degree manslaughter?

Or this one:

Shut. Up.

I am acutely aware that Facebook is awash with corny crap like this and that's why we should all delete our accounts immediately. But the "no regrets" posts are really killing me. I understand the fundamental idea behind them. I know all the wistful, pretend hippie/hipster lovelies out there want us to remember that everything happens for a reason; that I should live confidently with my decisions, knowing that I made the best choices I could and gave life my all.

SUCH A LOAD OF CRAP.

Anyone who is severely lacking in the regrets department is/was also a patient in a maximum-security psych ward. Charles Manson? He had no regrets. Ted Bundy? Could care less.

But maybe there is something to be said for seizing the moment; writing down the little crap that makes my life as hilarious and tragic as an old Judd Apatow movie. When I'm old and lay dying on my Cali-king bed in Manhattan, surrounded by the sweet scent of rich and the few loved ones I haven't managed to alienate, I want to know that some museums are fighting for the sole rights to display my life story.

A life story absolutely brimming with regrets.

So I'm jumping on the Rose Kennedy train and chronicling all the ridiculousness that is my life. Which is due to increase monumentally at exactly...now. I just broke up with my boyfriend, and as any Kennedy lady can attest, if they had 99 problems, asshole men were at least 97 of them. But guess what else they can tell you? A man down often equals a newer, shinier dude.

JFK was worth an estimated $30-90 mill when he died. Most of which was tied into a trust fund. With his siblings.

Aristotle Onassis? $500 million of his very own dollars at the time of his death.
Well done, Jakie O., well done.

Long story short? Now that I'm single it's time to start acting like the Kennedy broad I should have been: try to find some inner peace, present a facade of dignity, start a freaking charity and snag my own personal Mr. Boat Shoes. Game on.