“Nothing risque, nothing gained.”


And Just for the fun of it:

Jayne Mansfield and Sophia Loren photograph print by Joe Shere 1957


Every patron has a coffee…

The first railcar-style diners popped up in New Jersey in the early 1900s.

New Jersey essentially became “ground zero” for diners.

Railcar-style diners were modeled after rail carriages or sometimes converted from the original train cars into stand-alone eateries. Diners were constructed in factories and then shipped to their destinations, much like mobile homes, and were relatively affordable to purchase at just $1,000.

Once they arrived, the utilities simply had to be connected. Since diners, or “lunch cars,” had to be shipped using a truck or railcar, they were designed to be narrow.

At one point, nearly 95% of the shippable restaurants were manufactured in New Jersey.

Source: Telegraph

And a “Thank You” to Insider.com


The energy you expend


has to be regenerated, somehow.

dievca passed out early and hard, woke up late, and is re-energized.

Happy Sunday to you!


Stop Sign Red + Leather + Corset = Trifecta

Jean-Claude Jitrois Red Leather Corset Jacket and Skirt Decades

♥ A little background music with Loverboy ♥

Corset suit by Jean Claude Jitrois
Circa 1987
Red leather suit
Long sleeve
Corset front closure
Two side pockets
Slight shoulder pad
Decorative seams
Boning in the jacket to create the shape
Winged waistband
Red leather skirt
High waist skirt
Zip and snapback closure
100% leather
Made in France

Size/Measurements:
Size 40
Jacket:
33″ Bust
31″ waist
26.5″ length (from back center to bottom hem)
Skirt:
27″ waist
34″ hips
21″ length

***Click to Buy***


A delicate Peach from the 1940s

Sometimes something delicate is called for in a D/s or Vanilla relationship. A simple elegance that allows participants to drift and dream. Open windows let in the sun and a warm breeze, spring blossoms kiss the air. The soft-touch of sensual silk.
A vintage whisper. 

ABOUT:
Beautiful vintage pale pink/peachy slip c. 1940s. The nightgown is delicate and lovely. It features intricate embroidery along the bodice and butterfly sleeves with beautiful netted lace. Impressive vintage seam work throughout, with three delicate tie-backs on each side to tighten it.

MAKER: n/a
SIZE ON TAG: n/a
FITS LIKE: fits small best

 


What day is it? Ah – Easter Sunday

Photo: Irish McCalla

dievca is prepping late. she forgot about the Holiday.
“and on the 3rd day He rose again.”
So, will NYC rise again? Good question.
All dievca can do is keep hoping (hopping) and work hard.

she sends her best wishes to you for renewal and revitalization.
Stay Healthy or Heal Well.
XO


Census Day – USA!

The Census-Taker ~ Robert Frost

I came an errand one cloud-blowing evening
To a slab-built, black-paper-covered house
Of one room and one window and one door,
The only dwelling in a waste cutover
A hundred square miles round it in the mountains:
And that not dwelt in now by men or women.
(It never had been dwelt in, though, by women,
So what is this I make a sorrow of?)
I came as census-taker to the waste
To count the people in it and found none,
None in the hundred miles, none in the house,
Where I came last with some hope, but not much,
After hours’ overlooking from the cliffs
An emptiness flayed to the very stone.
I found no people that dared show themselves,
None not in hiding from the outward eye.
The time was autumn, but how anyone
Could tell the time of year when every tree
That could have dropped a leaf was down itself
And nothing but the stump of it was left
Now bringing out its rings in sugar of pitch;
And every tree up stood a rotting trunk
Without a single leaf to spend on autumn,
Or branch to whistle after what was spent.
Perhaps the wind the more without the help
Of breathing trees said something of the time
Of year or day the way it swung a door
Forever off the latch, as if rude men
Passed in and slammed it shut each one behind him
For the next one to open for himself.
I counted nine I had no right to count
(But this was dreamy unofficial counting)
Before I made the tenth across the threshold.
Where was my supper? Where was anyone’s?
No lamp was lit. Nothing was on the table.
The stove was cold—the stove was off the chimney—
And down by one side where it lacked a leg.
The people that had loudly passed the door
Were people to the ear but not the eye.
They were not on the table with their elbows.
They were not sleeping in the shelves of bunks.
I saw no men there and no bones of men there.
I armed myself against such bones as might be
With the pitch-blackened stub of an ax-handle
I picked up off the straw-dust covered floor.
Not bones, but the ill-fitted window rattled.
The door was still because I held it shut
While I thought what to do that could be done—
About the house—about the people not there.
This house in one year fallen to decay
Filled me with no less sorrow than the houses
Fallen to ruin in ten thousand years
Where Asia wedges Africa from Europe.
Nothing was left to do that I could see
Unless to find that there was no one there
And declare to the cliffs too far for echo,
“The place is desert, and let whoso lurks
In silence, if in this he is aggrieved,
Break silence now or be forever silent.
Let him say why it should not be declared so.”
The melancholy of having to count souls
Where they grow fewer and fewer every year
Is extreme where they shrink to none at all.
It must be I want life to go on living.