A View From a Broad by Bette Midler Read Free Book Online Page B

nuisance vanity can be. But I was saying, in actual point of fact, what’s most important is that when she reaches inside that colorful little case, a woman will not be met by the sight of an ugly medicinal-looking device designed as if pleasure were a sin, but instead by a lovely, artful item designed specifically for pleasure. . . . Well, speak up. What do you think?”
    But before I had a chance to let her know, Cecily raved on.
    “I’ve already decided on several themes I thought might translate jolly well as design lines for the sets. I’m thinking particularly of a line I call Miss Liberty. I will have the bust of the famous bronze statue painted boldly on the diaphragm, while the refillable douche dispenser will be in the very shape of the great lady herself. On the case I would have a full-length portrait of the Torchbearer. Think, darling, what that would mean to a woman. After that, I’m considering a series based on other feminine interests such as Louis the IV Furniture, Lovers on the Run and of course, Famous Women of the Twentieth Century. And here, my dear, is where you come in. You see, I think your portrait would look simply smashing on a diaphragm. Your hair would so nicely fill out the circular design of the device itself. Don’t you agree? . . .
    “Of course,” Cecily continued, hardly giving me a chance to comprehend what I’d just heard, “there’ll be no more calling things diaphragms and douches. I’m going to call my items DIDOs, after the famous queen.”
    Somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to recall that Dido killed herself unloved and untouched, but I thought it best not to mention that to Cecily.
    “You see,” the indomitable woman went on, “names are everything. Not just for people. For things too. Take death, for example.”
    “Death?” I queried, failing to see the immediate connection between death and feminine hygiene.
    “Yes. People are afraid of death, so they call it by every other name they can think of. They talk about pushing up the daisies, or checking out, or croaking, or popping off, or hopping the twig,or cashing in one’s chips, or joining the Choir Invisible. Death by any other name is sweeter. Juliet, darling, beautiful though she may have been, failed to grasp an essential truth.”
    Oh, Cecily, I thought as a slowdown in the hat bobbing indicated she was finally coming to a halt, what a scamp you are! Then when I was certain she was through, I told her I’d consider everything she said and fled out the door, my mind reeling.
    My but it had been an edifying afternoon! How I regretted that my three yentas had not been there with me to listen and learn. They were in their hotel rooms, with shades drawn, recovering. London, you see, had proved to be a bit rough for them.
    As you may remember, I had promised to see to my girls’ cultural refinement, and towards that goal had surprised them with tickets to a special National Theatre matinee of Hedda Ga-bler. But the tickets went unused. Worse than unused. Sold. For a dank afternoon in an East Thamesian bar where the hapless girls were arrested for attempting to raffle off some personal items they had snatched off my dressing table. Unfortunately, a few of those items were illegal in Great Britain, so the girls got more than they bargained for. A trial date, for example.
    The remainder of my troupe were adjusting to life on foreign soil with varying degrees of success. My band, as usual, didn’t know where they were, so there was nothing for them to adjust to. With the notable exception of my drummer, Doane, who nearly blew himself up one night trying to get the water heater to work, they remained as unruffled and inscrutable as ever.
    And then there was Miss Frank. Considering my dresser’s puritanical aversion to Pomp and Grandeur, I had feared that upon our arrival in London, she might very well take to her room and limit her communication with me to reproachful notes full of apocalyptic