NOTE: This conversation runs backwards! For the benefit of regular readers the newest comments are put at the top.

Music Playing: Miss Marychild's Dance Orchestra with Got a Date with an Angel

Mysterious or Direct: Suit Yourself

The first is really not a hat but a cowl, which lends a girl a divinely mysterious air, don't you think? The cowl and matching dress are of sinfully soft mulberry cashmere wool, (gloves matching in color, of course), with silver paillettes covering the head and shoulders. It is simply perfect for those quick little visits and delicate errands about town when discretion is demanded above all else: a girl can dart quickly in this outfit, like a trout in a brook, while maintaining perfect decorum and style and drawing the least possible attention to herself.

Just as soft and elegant, but direct, even somewhat bold instead of mysterious, is this grey flannel envelope-fold hat with bunched veil in front. One can wear it straight or at a provocative tilt, as one's mood dictates. The shoulder bag (which does not show), is of matching grey flannel. A shirtwaist dress in red silk completes the ensemble - note the ornate cowgirl pockets with pleats and the oversized buttons. Though best for afternoon shopping in elegant stores, this outfit will also serve for luncheon at the Russian Tea Room or the Ritz-Carlton, but stay below 58th. Street unless you have your dressmaker broaden the shoulders a bit, as uptown fashions are still terribly Eastern Kadorie! I do wish I could draw you pettes a fashion map of Gotham, but styles change so quickly these days and the boundaries themselves are always moving so one can no longer rely on the old, comfortable division into East Side and West Side fashions! Besides, that's why I have a job, explaining all this to you! NORMA

Our Lady of Aristasia

Suddenly we remember that the world shouldn't be all trivia and materialism; that there must be higher things. Yet where can we turn. The Pit-Catholic church, as you say, contains nothing of this any more. It is as mundane and trivial as the rest of the Pit, and often seems to be bending over backwards to be more Pittish than the rest. In any case, for some of us the worship of a masculine Deity (or rather, of Deity under masculine form and symbol) is psychologically very difficult.

For many of us, whether originally Catholic or not, the image of Our Lady is the Western form of Deity in Her original feminine form; the image most suited to our modern, Western souls. Many of the titles ascribed by the Church to Our Lady are simply those given to Dea from the Earliest times: Queen of Heaven (ironically, the patriarchal Hebrew prophet Jeremiah rebuked the people for returning to the worship of the Queen of Heaven centuries before Christ), Star of the Sea, Seat of Wisdom.

It is under this form and image, robed with the blue of the Heaven and crowned with stars, that many of us return to the love and service of Dea, who was from the beginning, is, and ever will be.

CARMEL

For Elizabeth Ruth

Buttons And Bows

Don't bury me in this prairie
Take me where the ce'-ment grows
Let's move down to some big town
Where they love a gal by the cut of her clothes
And I'll stand out in buttons and bows.

I'll love ya in buckskin and skirts that I've homespun
But I'll love ya longer, stronger
Where your friends don't tote a gun
My bones denouce the buckboard's bounce
And the cactus hurts my toes
Let's vamoose where gals keep usin'
Those silks and satins and linen that shows
And I'm all yours in buttons and bows.

[Instrumental]

My bones denouce the buckboard bounce
And the cactus hurts my toes
Let's vamoose where gals keep usin'
Those silks and satins and linen that shows
And I'm all yours in buttons and bows.

Gimme Eastern trimmin' where women are women
And high silk hose and peek-a-boo clothes
And French perfume that racks the room
And I'm all yours in buttons and bows
Buttons and bows!
Buttons and bows!
Buttons and bows!

MEHITABELLE

Cheryl says Hello

Cold Weather Song

Baby It's Cold Outside

Blonde: I simply must go
Brunette: But Baby, it's cold outside
Blonde: The answer is no.
Brunette: But Baby, it's cold outside
Blonde: This welcome has been...
Brunette: How lucky that you dropped in.
Blonde: ...so nice and warm.
Brunette: Look out the window at that storm
Blonde: My sister will be suspicious.
Brunette: Gosh, your lips look delicious
Blonde: Big Sister will be there at the door.
Brunette: Waves upon a tropical shore
Blonde: My maiden aunt's mind is vicious
Brunette: Oo, your lips are delicious.
Blonde: Well, maybe just a cigarette more
Brunette: Never such a blizzard before
Blonde: I've got to get home.
Brunette: But baby, you'll freeze out there
Blonde: Say, lend me a comb.
Brunette: It's up to your knees out there
Blonde: You've really been grand
Brunette: I thrill when you touch my hand
Blonde: But don't you see
Brunette: How can you do this thing to me?
Blonde: There's bound to be talk tomorrow
Brunette: Think of my life long sorrow...
Blonde: at least there will be plenty implied
Brunette: ...if you caught pneumonia and died.
Blonde: I really can't stay
Brunette: Get over that hold out
Both: Oo, Baby, it's cold outside

Doesn't that warm you through and through, pettes? Such gorgeous seduction songs are just what hits the spot on a blustery day, don't you think?

Love, MISS BARBARA

So Nice To Be Back

The first thing I did when I got back was have a voluptuous hot scented bath, and soaked and steamed and scrubbed and creamed away the trials and tribulations of the week. And then I got dressed up (don't you just love this full silky skirt?) and came here. And I have to tell you, I really wished I had a garter belt and stockings, I did feel like risking that, but I hadn't any. Which brings me to a delicate problem. I don't think I ever had a 27 inch waist, and the shops that sell such things as garter belts seem to assume that only slender girls would want to wear them. Any suggestions?

I had to page through the archives to get caught up, and was struck again at what a charming and various company you are. Elizabeth O., Miss Fox, Alice, Diana, so nice to hear your voices, even echoing in the Archive. Miranda, I am breathless to hear about further develoments with the librarian.

Oh Karen, my eyes welled up when I read "I'm finally starting to think I can be pretty again." Darling girl, we here all know how beautiful you are. You can only be doing the rest of the world a favour by showing them, too.

Carmel, I was very intrigued by your thoughtful comments on feminine Catholicism. Would you consider expanding a little on that topic, perhaps at the Feminine Academy? I was raised Catholic, too, and something in me yearns for... well I don't know exactly what for - something high and holy that I only dimly remember glimpsing, and that I haven't found anywhere else, certainly not in the Pit-Catholic Church.

The discussion about strength and power, and my recent adventures, have made me think about what strength really is. Obviously, there is physical strength, which a girl certainly needs, whether trekking in Amazonia, working in her garden or hestia, or carrying her purchases home from a particularly successful day of shopping. But when it comes to describing personality, I do not think it is a quality so much as it is a quantity. I have met some very "strong" persons who, trust me, were nobody you would want to emulate. If a person seeks just to become stronger, she may well end up like that.

I think we often use "strong" to convey the idea of being faithful and true to one's principles or nature, and not being put off or overwhelmed by contrary or alien forces. In that sense, "strong" just means faithful and true, and strength is integrity. And indeed, someone who is true to herself is also strong, but that's just the result of her integrity. Anyway, that's what I think.

Ooh, so much thinking hurts the brain. Yes, thank you, I'll have another of those delicious frothy drinks. I do hope someone will sing us another song.

ELIZABETH RUTH

More On Vulnerability

I spend most of my evenings, 'cept for these breaks, behind a light blue Dutch door in the little check room in the Cocktail Bar vestibule. It's not a bad job, really,'specially in winter when everypette has a coat, a wrap, a muff or a stole - or often all four (though they usually keep their stoles with them) - so tips can flow quite generously. Then I also get to listen in to all sorts of interesting conversations and gossip: people must think hat check girls are just part of the furniture!

So last week everypette was simply buzzing about something called vulnerability, and whether certain dresses, or stockings, even, make a girl vulnerable, or not. Well, I am not certain just what "vulnerable" means, though like most big V-words, like Vibrant and Voluptuous and Vivacious, it sounds very blonde.

Now, it appears that some of the patronettes come from a distant place called The Pit. They seem rather different - they talk different, their clothes are quite different, their make-up is sometimes sort of funny, but I can tell they are trying to be very good when they come here to the Aphrodite Cocktail Bar. They sit on the famous Target Bar Stool and cross their legs like real girls, maybe even hitch up their skirts and show an inch of lacy slip hem perhaps, but I never see any stocking-tops or suspenders! They wear strange stockings called tights, or pantyhose, sort of knickers-and-stockings all knitted together into one seamless garment that's all shrivelled and tiny 'till a girl puts them on, then they stretch. At least that's what I hear. I couldn't put anything shrivelly onto my legs!

Well, if I was them, if I was these new girls, I mean, I would stay away from any such thing as these pantyhose or tights-kind-of-stockings. Why, they sound just like a cellophane candy wrapper, a girl would be covered from navel to toenails in an impervious membrane (sometimes us blondes do manage words of more than three syllables, you know, so don't dare think I'm not blonde). Why, a girl wrapped in such a cellophane wrapper could never know the meaning of "vulnerable"! See, real vulnerability is based on risk in the presence of trust, that is, almost absolute trust in decent, honorable behavior and etiquette among girls: a girl is at risk, so to speak, but also almost completely safe at the same time. That is what makes vulnerability so very exciting, instead of something frightening and to be avoided, the way these Pit-pettes seem to avoid it by armouring themselves in these one-piece impervious wrappers. This cellophane wrapper idea is like wearing a suit of chain mail all the time, just like armour. Why, a girl could never flirt in chain mail, because there is no potential for even the teensiest bit of danger: one is as safe as a bank vault at night in a building surrounded by barbed wire and searchlights and yapping Alsatians ... I could never live that way, in high-security clothing.

See, I have told you all these intimate things, yet I am not the slightest bit worried. I am protected by the almost perfect etiquette of a Normal culture, not by some artificial cellophane wrapping that takes all the fun and excitement out of being a girl. Here in the Aphrodite Cocktail Bar I feel vulnerable simply all the time and never worry the slightest bit about it! I like to flirt!

EFFIE, HAT-CHECK BLONDE

Mad Money

Hears something about Miranda and the new Librarian What you say?? You think she's asking her to stay after to memorize?? Oh dear. And here I told her to go ahead and go!! I do hope she's alright!!

Sincerely,

ELIZABETH O.

What Happened at the Library

She didn't even look at me when she said "Hello Miranda," and there wasn't a smile in her voice at all. I knew in a moment that I was in trouble. But how? I looked at the clock. I was exactly on time. I was dressed in my prettiest dress. Did she expect me to be in a school uniform? The silence was almost unbearable as I waited and watched her walk to the oak library door and turn the open sign around to tell the world the library was now closed. Then she walked back to me, slowly and confidently. I was standing up as straight as I could, my hands folded in front of me, my head bowed slightly.

"Miranda," her voice held no warmth.

"Yes, Miss?" my voice was a tiny little warble.

"Miranda, yesterday some of my acquaintances reported that you were speaking about me in the Cocktail Bar. Is that so?"

"Yes, Miss."

"As you were speaking about me, you mentioned that I had commented that you were reading the Sue Barton nursing books, did you not?"

"Yes, Miss, I did."

"Miranda, what exactly did you say that I called this series of books?" "I can't remember, Miss."

"Can't remember? Think harder, young lady."

"Miss, I think I said that you called them "Flippery," Miss. Isn't that what you called them, Miss, the other day, when we were talking. Remember, you asked me to..."

"That will be quite enough, Miranda." Then she handed me a Concise Oxford Dictionary and asked me to look up the word "flippery."

Well, I did, and wouldn't you know it, no such word exists. So then she asked me to look up "frippery," and that is a word, you see, and I had just remembered it wrong, and then she told me I had to write out the word and the definition one-hundred times. So I sat down and began copying from the dictionary as she straightened the library. And when she was ready to leave she said, "You can finish those lines at home, Miranda. I will see you next Tuesday." And that was it. She never did look at me once. And I put on that nice dress for nothing. Boo hoo. But, actually, I think that if I am more careful with what I say, she and I will probably get along just fine. But, here I am, rambling on again, and the more I talk, the more I might make a mistake, so I'd better stop for now. Bye friends all! Bye. And don't feel too sorry for me. It wasn't as awful as I first said. And I did get to be alone with her for a little while, didn't I? But, an any of you girls tell me why little blondes always get these terrible crushes on teachers and usherettes and librarians? Why is that?

MIRANDA

Catholic Aristasianism?

We should realise that in Catholicism, saints are of two kinds: 1) individual people who lived and attained in life what the Hindus call Realisation and 2) Archetypal Realities or Divine Aspects, akin to Aristasian Janyati or Angels. This is why the excision of saints from the calendar by the modernist Roman Catholic "Church" on the grounds that they did not historically exist (in deference to the profane "historical method") is so wrong.

In point of fact, the division between the two kinds of saint is not as hard- and-fast as I have made it sound. A saint may well be both an historical personage and an universal principle, since the nearer an individual comes to Realisation the more perfectly she will incarnate Universal Truth rather than her personal individuality. But clearly the historical existence, in a particular earthly time and place, of a saint such as St Bridget, who is before all else the feminine fire-and-solar principle, is a matter of very secondary importance.

But I digress. All I am really saying is that a Catholic may, if she wishes, perform the purification suggested by the sagette under a Catholic form. Indeed, with the Catholic Eclipse of Vatican II and the complete subordination of the Church to the Pit, - after which it is doubtful whether the New Mass is a valid Mass, or even whether priests ordained since the Council, according to the new rite, are validly ordained, and therefore are priests at all - there would seem every reason for a feminine Catholic to consider a private cult of Dea as the Virgin Mary and the female saints as Her Janyati.

Just a thought I put forward for your consideration.

CARMEL

Heels, Schmeels

All these shoe ideas are just my opinions, of course, but Karen, if you are an apprentice at high-heel wearing, I suggest working your way up the inches slowly, and I also recommend wider heels, rather than spikes. They are simply easier to get used to, for those of us who graduated from "Hiking Boot U."

Love,

DIANA

High-King Boots

Puzzledly yours,

LUELLA

A Remorseful Brunette - The Day After

But, mirabile dictu, it seems that Veronica really is sweet on Madge, whom, you remember, she managed to kiss not just once, but twice only two weeks ago during a late walk down Bottle Alley. Veronica is disconsolate and Harriet is trying to cheer her up. We join them now, the next afternoon, in their flat (for they, too, are flatmates).

HARRIET: Don't take it so hard, old girl. Plenty of other blondes in the ocean, you know.

VERONICA: Yes, plenty, but none like Madge! Oh, Harry, I could just kick myself for having all those hot toddies! I'm never going to drink again, cross my heart and hope to die! >sob!<

HARRIET: There, there, Ronnie, no need to go to extremes! First thing you'll be swearing off smoking, then pinching comes next, I suppose, then stolen kisses. But look, in all seriousness, you do surprise me: I had no idea you really felt that way about Madge. And here I thought you were just looking for another notch on your gunstock! Gosh, you should have said something sooner! VERONICA: Well, I was trying to be very, um, well, very brunette about the whole evening, you know: devil-may-care, plenty of other blondes in the ocean, stiff upper lip and all that.

HARRIET: Golliwogs, Ronnie, sometimes you sound almost blonde yourself. Look, if you really feel that way about Veronica (and I must admit, she is temptingly yielding), there is another solution, but you had really better be serious!

VERONICA: Serious? Of course I'm serious. Why, what ever do you mean?

HARRIET: You know just what I mean. I mean if you really are serious you had better be prepared to follow through and be willing to give up the life of a gay bachlorette-about-town. That means, um, being completely faithful, a proposal, a ring, an engagement (if the ring is accepted), wedding announcements, an actual wedding, honeymoon, babies, staying at home in the evenings - the whole shooting match! Are you that serious, Ronnie?

VERONICA: (Sniffling) Yes, I think so. I don't believe I've ever met a blonde I love more than sweet Madge. I can't get her out of my mind for a moment; she inhabits all of my dreams! If she had worn that red ribbon in her hair last night I would have proposed to her on the spot, I am such a sucker for a blonde with a red ribbon in her hair!

HARRIET: Look, Ronnie honey: all is not lost. Those two are very young - can't be more than twenty, I'm sure. They were probably both rather frightened, though I must confess, I took Amanda to be the more frightened of the two. But that's quite beside the point. Here's what you do: send Madge some chocolates with a coy little card (with darling petit-point flowers intertwining along the borders - blondes love that in stationery, you know), apologising for last night. Blame it all on me if you like. Tell her about how you would like to see her with a red ribbon in her hair. Tell her you dream about her all the time, that you are heartsick to think you may have offended her, that she is as radiant as the dawn, that kissing her is like touching a rose and having its velvety petals fall apart. Tell her ... tell her the truth, and, if it is Dea's will that you and she are a match, I promise she will not hang up on you when next you call her.

VERONICA: Gosh, I do like that bit about petals falling apart ... Um, have you any ink, Harry sweetie, I think my fountain pen's dry and I'm out