The Windings of his Wily Quadruped

It's been pretty serious on The Wily Quadruped lately, so I'm going to fluff it up for a while.  No fat talk, no schmaschmorshions, just fun, fluffy girl stuff.

'Cause I'm getting married. 

And I am so excited to design this shindig, I can't even tell you.

Here are some theme words (hey, I'm a word nerd, I start with what I know) that I hope will describe the wedding:  Ethereal.  Whimsical.  Botanical.  Magical.

Since we don't have a venue (we probably won't be making final decisions on guest lists and location until after I sit for the Bar), I don't even have an inkling of a color palate or -- or anything, really.  Just a bunch of unfocused fantasies about a fairytale night, full of charm and sweetness and romance.

So here's some visuals!

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I love bright, sunny yellow, and it's a color you don't see often at weddings.

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A dazzling yellow gown by Dark Garden.  If I can budget it, I definitely want Dark Garden to make my wedding dress, with corset!

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Dita Von Teese's wedding gown.  Le sigh.  I know that I don't want to wear white and I do want something dramatic.  This fits the bill.

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I love daisies and daffodils but I almost feel like they aren't "sophisticated" enough for a wedding.

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Definitely need lanterns.  Lots and Lots of lanterns.

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Some yellow/green/purple/blue/garden-esque inspiration boards I liked from StyleMePretty.com:

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Fantastic bustle on that dress, love the elegant country feel.

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Green dresses for the bridesmaids!  I wish I could do a backyard wedding but it's probably impossible.

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Wonderful sparklers, a cool Vespa and blue hydrangeas!

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The bouquet!  The pom poms!  The flowers in tins!

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WONDERFUL colors.  I think I might need to do a multicolor wedding.  And the petals as a makeshift aisle -- so sweet and lovely.  The colored lanterns are so fun.

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Paper lanterns!  Pom poms on the chairs!  Lanterns in glass jars!

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Love the sweet little daisy cae, love the green bridesmaids dress and again with the pretty paper lanterns!

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I love the table with the daffodils and the benches and the lights.

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So airy and light!  So sweet and fun!  Love the pom poms, the fancy sodas, and the daisy cake.

As much as I love these sweet, pretty gardeny weddings, the little girl in me still wants to be a fairytale princess:

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Guess who just became a statistic?

I'm pregnant.

There's no real story, but we're pregnant because we're total idiots. I'm not on the Pill because it made me feel well, like I feel this week -- sore and twinge-y. And weepy and unsexy. We're way more retro, we use a diaphragm and spermicide, which works well and I like it. But we had unprotected sex twice this month. I figured there was no way I was going to get knocked up a good two weeks before ovulation. Apparently Chuck's swimmers are mighty, or I'm more fertile than I thought. Who knows.

Anyway. I'm surprised at how chill I feel about this. It's a non-decision. It's very, very early in the pregnancy (I should be on my period now, and I'm not, and I just had a feeling that something was up since I feel all sore and twinge-y, so I took three at-home tests last night -- all positive). I'm going to call the Women's Clinic in an hour, make an appointment and go from there. I'm hoping this can be done without surgery -- no reason why not, I'm perfectly healthy and, as I said, barely four weeks along.

I always pictured that making this decision would be nerve-wracking and awful and full of guilt and shame. I don't feel any of it, I feel very calm and assured. This is the only way to handle this.

Chuck is being a saint, of course. Making me laugh, offering to pay for all of it (I have some emergency money for just this kind of thing, but it'll still make a dent in my student finances), offering to make our engagement official -- I told him absolutely not, under no circumstances was I going to let him propose because he knocked me up, how cliche is that?

I hope everything goes smoothly at the Clinic. This is 2007, right? *fingers crossed*

* * *

Actually, and I just thought of this, the only part of this whole thing that makes me sad is that I can't tell my mom. She knows everything about me and it just feels weird to not have her involved. *sigh* but she's vehemently anti-abortion and would never forgive me for not having this baby.

* * * 

Being pregnant is awful. I have never felt so shitty in my whole life. I've felt *exhausted* for the last few weeks -- which I now know is because of the baby -- and this week I started to feel sick, too. This is not for me, not now, not with school and work and court and a new puppy and everything else -- the conference this weekend! -- on my plate.

I wish I was a better pro-choice poster child, but I'm really not. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we *could* have this baby and it would be far better off than most unwanted, unplanned kids; I'm in a committed relationship, Chuck would be present in the kid's life no matter what, we're well on our way to financial stability, we have advanced degrees and will be in a position to make good in the nest few years, we have a ton of support from family and friends, we're not crazy drug addicts . . . you know?

So why an abortion?

Because I don't feel like being a mom right now.

I guess that's a good enough reason.

* * *

I was thinking about what I said last night -- about how this unplanned pregnancy would be better off than most -- and I've decided that I was wrong. This kid would not be better off than most because I would resent it.

I would resent feeling like I had to take the first job that came along instead of holding out for something I love because I have to care for the kid.

I would resent putting my parents or Chuck's parents in the role of grandparent/caretaker while we get our shit together.

I would resent spending my earnings, the earnings that I want to buy a house with, pay off my loans with, have a fun wedding with, on a kid before I was ready for it.

I would resent being a cliche -- I would resent people thinking that our engagement is because I got knocked up, not because we really love each other and want this for ourselves.

I would resent the fact that God or chance or someone took my ability to plan my own family out of my hands (ok, arguably I did that myself when we had unprotected sex but for fuck's sake, everyone should be allowed one freebie, right? I'm all about second chances) and made me have a baby when I didn't want to.

I would resent that fact that I can't give this baby the life it deserves at this point. I always pictured that my babies would be pampered and spoiled beyond recognition -- a full library of children's books, an account for college already in the bank, a home nearby good schools, parents with great jobs and savings and a safety net. I won't be able to do that for a while, and this poor kid would get the shaft when it should have been a little prince.

This morning I told Chuck all this (my god he's being so good about dealing with this, and me, and my relentless all-consuming crazy) and I *think* he thought I was a little bit evil, although he didn't say it. He did say that none of this is the baby's fault, and that I can't resent a kid for things totally out of its control.

But I would.

He's a better person than I am.

 * * *

T-minus 23 hours until my first appointment at the abortion clinic.

WHY CAN'T I DO THIS AT A HOSPITAL?????

Yesterday I had a physical therapy appointment at the university hospital. I had to walk through the women's hospital on the way there -- it's pretty cool, they do all women's health stuff from childbirth and pregnancy and fertility to mammography and other women's health considerations. It's a neat hospital, it feels all warm and cozy, it's part of a larger system of health centers, it's staffed by women's health experts. Why can't I get an abortion here?

Alternatively, why can't I get an abortion from my regular gynecologist? I *love* her. She makes me feel calm, she treats me respectfully, she has great bedside manner. I would feel so much better about all this if she was the one doing it.

Why do I have to go to a clinic I've never been to, get treated by a doctor I've never met, and just have to *deal* because it's the only clinic in town -- so if I hate the place, or hate the doctor, or have a mean nurse, or just get the creeps from the building, I pretty much have no choice but to suck it up and go ahead with it.

Pro-choice my ass. I have no fucking choices here. I have a scary clinic with protesters outside or an unwanted kid.

Seriously, I am so fucking angry about this.

*ever the pro-active baby lawyer, goes off to research abortion case law*

 * * *

Ok, so I just found like 30 cases about abortion clinic bombings (and other violence) and now I'm scared shitless.

I hate Ohio so much.

* * *

Thus far, the only truly unpleasant person I've dealt with was someone from our school hospital -- as soon as I realized i was pregnant, I called the women's clinic. Here's the convo:

receptionist: hello, university health?
me: may i have the women's clinic please?
receptionist: all their lines are busy, i can help you.
me: thank you, but i'd much rather speak to the women's clinic.
receptionist: well, tell me what you need and i'll connect you to the right person.
me: ok. i'm pregnant and i don't want to be any more.
recpetionist: oh my! we don't do that.

When I finally did get in touch with the women's clinic, they referred me to the abortion clinic I'm going to tomorrow, and were quite nice about it.

* * *

This whole situation has been a reminder to think twice.

I mean -- I've been staunchly pro-choice ever since i knew what it meant, but I was one of those people who always figured, "well, I won't tell anyone else what to do with their bodies, but I will never get an abortion."

Well, in reality, I just never thought I would be pregnant when I didn't want to be. I'm a responsible adult, I'm educated about birth control, I'm wealthy enough and assertive enough and pro-active enough to have access to birth control and feminine health issues and I just figured I'd never even have to make that decision.

And I was totally wrong, and now I'm learning that yeah, I'm okay with terminating my own pregnancy. I was reading online today that this baby's heart will start to beat soon -- around five weeks. And at first I felt a little bit of remorse, because that heartbeat seemed to make the baby a baby, not a bean/tadpole/cell mass whatever. But, um, I've kind of already dealt with the fact that this is a baby. I don't see it as a clump of cells, I see it as a baby. I can feel it in my belly twinging, it's doing something in there, it's trying to create a place to live and grow.

But it's not this baby's time.   It makes me sad, but it would make me sadder to bring my child into the world and not be able to be the best mom I'm capable of being.

I don't really believe in an afterlife. But, um, if there is one and I face this baby at some point -- weird thought, but I've got a lot of those going on lately -- I'll be able to tell the baby that it just wasn't the right time. And if the baby is half as smart as Chuck and I are, the baby will understand.

* * *

This is the right decision.  In nine months I'll be jobless, insurance-less, moving back to California and studying for -- and sitting for -- the Bar Exam. Although Chuck and I are probably getting married in the next two years or so, we don't want to be married just yet, we want to wait until we're settled. And I never planned to have kids unless I was financially stable enough to support them completely.

I don't feel guilty or ashamed or scared or like a fallen woman or anything ridiculous. Chuck and I made a mistake. People fuck up. I don't feel badly that we made a mistake. I don't think I'll be punished by fate or karma or God. This is the right thing to do.

* * *

Chuck took the day off work and is going to take me to the abortion clinic. He's in charge of making sure I don't engage any of the protesters.

Also, I'm not sure there will be protesters, but the clinic receptionist told me there usually are a few die hards, even during the week. Chuck actually grew up in a Christian fundie church so he's been prepping me for some of the worst of what I can reasonably expect -- stuff he's observed first-hand.

 
* * *

The clinic was surreal. I'm a little angry. Most people were very kind, but I had to jump through a gazillion legislative hoops, including a counseling session with the most patronizing woman I've ever met.

Abortion may be legal but it sure as hell isn't easy or readily available.

By Ohio law, you have to be counseled. WHICH SUCKS.

She -- my "counselor" -- was just. . . patronizing.  I don't know, not mean, but when she asked me how I'd feel afterwards and I said, "relieved, and ready to take my finals," she was like, "oh, well, that's normal sweetie. nothing to feel guilty about." and I said: "I don't." Like she expected me to feel guilty about this choice.

And then there was this precious exchange:

Me: Well, I realize that we could, you know, technically, have this kid and it would probably turn out all right, but I'm just not ready for it.
Counselor: What do you mean?
Me: Um, we have a good support network, and, um, we're not totally broke and I just think if we had no other options, we could probably make it work out okay.
Counselor: So why don't you want to do that?
Me: I'm not ready.
Counselor: Do you feel like you should be?
Me: No. (Thinks: What is *wrong* with you?) I want to be able to give my kids more than this.
Counselor: But you said you have a great support system.
Me: But I'm not ready.

Ultimately it all turned out okay, I'm kind of giving her the benefit of the doubt that she was just pressing and trying to get into it a little more, but I did think she was, well, patronizing.

I'm jangry that I had to do that at all, much less with someone second-guessing me and calling it "counseling."

I mean, here's a rundown of the BS I've gone through to get an abortion thus far:

(1) Called my University Health people, dealt with unprofessional, judgmental receptionist.
(2) Referred to clinic, as opposed to preferable hospital/women's clinic where I know people, have positive relationships with the doctors and staff and feel comfortable.
(3) Made to listen to five minute taped explanation of the procedure in gruesome detail.
(4) Upon arriving at clinic, dealing with protesters shouting "mommy don't kill me" and "you're going to hell," then going through a metal detector and having all my belongings searched.
(5) Meeting with clinic person #1, who again told me in detail all about the procedure, then gave me two fact sheets and a pamphlet describing the procedure
(6) Meeting with clinic person #2, who was actually quite nice but made Chuck wait in the hall
(7) Meeting with "counselor" who made me feel like shit, then who explained the procedure in detail AGAIN, then made ME tell it all back to her, and corrected me (yes, like I was five years old) when I forgot one part.
(8) Waited for one solid hour to meet with the doctor, who introduced himself, then told me I had to read over like eight other documents (all informed consent type stuff) and that he'd be back later to give me my pills
(9) After reading and signing everything, waiting another half hour for him to return, explain it all in detail again, take the pills and go off on my merry way (well except for the protesters)

Ok, so I know a lot of this is just your run of the mill informed consent crap that you should have to deal with when undertaking a serious operation. But most of it isn't. Most of it is bullshit, legislated by a bunch of assholes who don't trust that I know what's right for my body, in the hopes that I'll get scared and back down, or in hopes that I won't have the time to wait around at a clinic literally all day just to shake the doctor's hand. Or else it's ignorance and fear from zealots. And I'm already so, so, so tired, and so weepy and so fucking miserable already, without any of this. I mean, I start crying every time I think about my mom. This is fucking hard enough without having to jump through eleventy-million legislative nightmare hoops.

These are pills. PILLS. Not surgery. I want to be able to walk into a pharmacy, pick up the pills, buy some pads and some ibuprofen, go home and be left the hell alone if I ever need to do this again. This is fucking madness.

* * *

I think the moral of this story is: never have an abortion in Ohio.

I just called my dad and told him everything -- he did the best possible thing -- he laughed! He laughed and laughed. And when I told him more about how Orwellian this whole situation is, he laughed more. And he reminded me not to lose my sense of humor, and to just look at these people like they're from the moon.

I mean, if this was a dark comedy type movie, I'd be laughing my head off at how bizarre everything is.

* * *

I'm in a pretty interesting place to get an abortion. I don't have many personal qualms about it, although I did realize I was pregnant almost immediately -- within a week of conception -- and I've been communicating with the little one throughout this process. You'd think that would make this more difficult, but I feel like I've made my peace with this baby, and we both know that this wasn't our time to be together. We'll be together down the road, maybe, or in another life. I feel very calm about that, and I've made my peace internally. Because I'm having a medical abortion as opposed to a surgical abortion (an option I was only afforded because I realized I was pregnant so early, I should point out) I will pass the pregnancy at home tomorrow, surrounded by my close friends and my boyfriend, in an environment that I've made calm and peaceful and loving. I'm happy that this was the way it worked out.

At the same time, I'm also legally educated and I've worked in the pro-choice community, so I could see every step of this for what it was -- the waiting period a way to time women out of their choice to terminate the pregnancy -- the "counseling session" was basically a woman telling me that I should keep the baby because I'm educated and capable and in a committed relationship -- the "informed consent" session was a series of nurses reminding me how painful this will be and how emotionally fraught it is for everyone -- and they actually made me feel guilty for not feeling guilty, if that makes any sense at all. It's madness, and I would laugh if it was a dark comedy -- I'm trying to laugh; but no, it's sadly real.

 * * * 

The more I talk about this with people, the better I feel, and the more I feel like the abortion is not the end of the world and is not a big deal (I mean, medically not a big deal. Then again, it hasn't started to hurt yet. Obviously politically it is a big deal and emotionally it can be a big deal).

I think probably it is still too soon, too fresh for me to tell everyone. But I am angry, and I am starting to feel like it is necessary to explain that seemingly "benign" legislative measures like waiting periods, mandatory counseling, eleventy-billion informed consent discussions and everything else that has made this so much more inaccessible for me is not okay, and it's not changing the circumstances that prompted the choice to abort, and it's not making this world any safer for women.

* * *
Irony of ironies, "Citizen Ruth" is on TV tonight!!!

*settles in for some dark abortion comedy*

* * *

Oh my god, now Dirty Dancing is on!!! It's like the abortion double feature!

* * *

So this is how it all went down. If you want to know how RU works, or just like reading gross stuff read on. If you are squeamish, skip ahead a few paragraphs to where I rant about how everyone at the abortion clinic LIED to me and I hate them.

The doctor walked in, put the pill in my hand, winked at me and left.

That was it. Seriously. That's why I had to wait 30 minutes, because the Ohio legislature said that a doctor has to put the pill in my hand before I can take it.

I took the pill and left. I felt fine for most of the day. That evening it started to hurt, a little like period cramps but a little different. It wasn't too bad, though, I took a few Advil and went to sleep.

24 hours later, I took part 2 of the RU pills -- four pills that I had to allow dissolve between my gums and cheeks. It took about 40 minutes for them to dissolve. They were gross, chalky and medicinal. I took a Vicodin and curled up with an electric blanket. Chuck went to take a shower.

15 minutes later, Chuck got out of the shower. I was in excruciating, debilitating, curled up in the fetal position (ha) weeping pain. I have never been in that kind of pain in my entire life -- I just cried and cried. I felt nauseous. I went to the bathroom to throw up (this is why they make you dissolve the pills). When I was done throwing up, I noticed a ton of blood, blood clots, and a jello shot-like thing about the size of a half dollar on the bathroom floor.

I stared at the jello shot thing for awhile, then called Chuck in to look at it. The pain had mostly subsided at that point, it just felt like menstrual cramps. I drew my knees up to my chin and we just sat there, on the bathroom floor, looking at it. We later confirmed on the internet that that's what a six-week-old miscarriage/abortion looks like.

Chuck scooped it up and we threw it away. We had discussed beforehand if we wanted to bury it or do any kind of ritual and had decided against it; seeing the jello shot thing didn't change my mind. As I've posted before, I had already made my peace with the being inside of me and I was feeling okay on an emotional/spiritual level.

At that point, the pain had mostly turned into period-type cramps with period-type bleeding. A few of my friends came over, my dad called and a lovely bouquet of purple orchids from him arrived. My friends stayed over most of the night, drinking and smoking (I did neither, seeing as I had earlier taken the Vicodin). We cooked a huge dinner of steak and spinach. We talked about feminism and activism and life. It was a really great night.

This morning I woke up with more energy than I've felt in weeks. No pain. Very little bleeding. We went on a long walk, enjoyed pancakes at my favorite brunch place and walked through the cemetery across the street from my house. I feel rested. I feel calm. I feel happy! And normal and ready to finish my semester strong.

Most of all, though, I feel angry. I am so angry with the pro-lifers and their pictures of aborted fetuses -- um, I looked at mine and it looked like a jello shot. No little head and arms and legs and eyes -- a jello shot. They lie to people. It's not okay.

I am so angry with the "pro-choice" women who worked in the clinic, with their silly mantras "trust yourself," "you are so brave," "you are loved." LAME. I didn't need pity and comfort, I needed matter-of-fact medical treatment without anyone's fucking editorializations.

I am so angry with my "counselor" who told me that I would be in terrible pain, bleeding for a month, unable to run or carry my 20-lbs. law books. I am so angry with that woman who told me that I would probably feel sad and guilty -- I do not. I am so angry with her for telling me that my bleeding would not be like menstrual bleeding, "it will be like abortion bleeding."

It's not a big deal.

I know for some women it's a very difficult choice, emotionally. I respect that, and them, for their feelings and their choice. For me it was not difficult.

But to tell someone that this will be a painful, fraught procedure when it's actually quite quick and simple and manageable -- not easy, certainly, but not crippling -- it's just fear-mongering. And I'm so pissed because that's what they told me. Medically, this process is not complicated or horrific -- it is painful while you pass the pregnancy, but afterward it's just like a period. To me, it just wasn't a big deal.

*sigh*

One cool thing about the abortion clinic is that you can pledge to do a "pay-per-picketer" donation. You pledge to donate a certain amount of money per picketer per month, and the clinic tells you at the end of each month how many picketers there were and you donate that much. The clinic averages about 70 picketers per month, so at a dollar per picketer, that's a pretty substantial monthly donation. They post a sign outside the clinic showing how much money they've raised because of the picketers, hoping that the picketers will get the picture and bugger off. I'm signed up to contribute $0.50 per picketer until I can afford to do more.

* * *
In retrospect, I was so lucky that the clinic was five minutes away from my house. Seriously, so lucky -- I mean, that clinic "serves" everyone in Northeast Ohio, pretty much (along with one other clinic on the far west side of Cleveland). And I was lucky that I have a car, and am in school and could take two days off to go in for TWO ridiculous, pointless doctor's appointments, and I am lucky that I had the money for it, and the support and love of my partner and my family and my friends . . .

Part of the reason, for me, this was not a very painful procedure is because of that amazing support network, I think.

As to the condescending stuff -- I'm furious. I really am. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that the medical procedure is not a big deal and the attitude of "oh, honey, I know this is hard for you," is just annoying as hell. I'm not a lost little lamb, I'm an adult and I'm trying to get medical treatment.  Honestly, at least the picketers acted predictably -- it's the supposedly "pro-choice" abortion clinic workers who gave me the most grief throughout all this.

I called my younger brother and told him everything about this last night. I think he felt relieved and a little comforted, hearing from a reliable source that there's no big scary abortion monster -- despite all the squawking to the contrary.

This study infuriates me.  The New England Journal of Medicine today told the world that if you have fat friends, you too will become fat.  Fat is contagious, in other words.

Now, I'm neither Sandy Szwarc nor Kate Harding, and no, I'm not a doctor or even someone who sees a doctor more than twice a year.  No, I am just a fat girl who has a hearty helping of common sense and two years of lawyer training behind me -- and I say I smell a rat.

First of all, the study starts out with some sweeping generalizations -- that 66% of Americans are overweight, for example.    How can 66% of a population be over-anything?  I mean, really?  Surely if more than a majority of a population shows a similar trait, that trait ceases to be extreme, ceases to be "over the norm" -- doesn't it, in fact, become the norm?  There are tons of studies about how Americans are getting taller, too, and no one throws around epithets like "over-height epidemic." 

The study then goes on to say that being fat is no longer a social stigma.

I probably should have stopped reading right there, since that one statement is so obviously and patently absurd.  And, to be frank, offensive toward those of us who suffer stigatization every day based on our size.

But no, some sinister sense of self-loathing compelled me to keep reading about why all my friends should stop hanging out with me.

Mmm'kay.  The study explains its methodology, pointing out that they tracked one group of people and that group of people's contacts.  One thing not taken into account was whether or not a person's contacts included kin -- you know, those people who share your genes.  Those people who share, oh, I dunno, your fat genes. It seems so simple to me that, yes, probably half of the people in my cell phone contacts list are fat -- because they're my family, and they gave me the genes that made me fat in the first place, not because I've been telling them to eat In-N-Out burgers and watch TV all day.  The study does point out that among siblings there is a greater chance of both siblings becoming fat.  Gee.  Among siblings, really?  Wonder why the study didn't extend those findings to other family.

Which brings me to my next issue with the study.  The study was pretty shocked to find out that obesity was catching even over major geographical distances.  This just strikes me as too odd to be true.  Even if I did spend all my time telling my friends across the country to live in a way that would make them fat -- why the hell would they listen to me?  Does my life as a fat girl look so cool that they would want to emulate it?  Also, why would I spend my precious hour of catch up time with a close friend across the country talking about their weight?  Seriously, why?  I want to know about their jobs, their love lives, what books they've been reading -- not whether they had oatmeal or an Egg McMuffin for breakfast.

So then, looking at this situation logically, I can reach two conclusions.  Either the people we talk to across the country who are fat just like us are our family members, in which case, there's more proof that fat isn't catching, it's purely hereditary -- or else our friends across the country who are fat like us were already fat to begin with or are growing fatter as a biologically normal consequence of growing older.

Can someone explain to me why the study didn't deal with either of those completely common-sense hypotheses?  Why weren't either of those completely logical conclusions addressed, researched, and refuted before the study that "fat is contagious" was published?  What is wrong here?  Why is it ok to make fat people social pariahs even more than they already are? 

Edited on July 27, 2007:  Smarter people than I have just debunked this BS study.  The debunking, unfortunately, will not make the nightly news as the study itself did. 

Silhouettes has some great Nicki clothes.  In plus sizes.  Uh-huh.  It is a good day to look like a farmer's wife.

Nicki would so wear this outfit.

Definitely a Compound shirt.

Talk about places I never think to shop -- guess where I found this kicky little number?

Show up those immodest Catholics!

Obviously, this would be worn buttoned up to the collarbone.

This would look lovely with Nicki's and my coloring.

And now, the piece de resistance, for when Nicki is feeling rebellious --

This is why the long hair comes in handy.

I'll admit it.  The whole Soccer Mom-cum-Compound Wife thing is looking really good.

Now then, I'm a pretty fashion-forward young lady.  And although I do incorporate retro elements into my wardrobe (50's-style dresses are very flattering for me) I never thought that I'd go this retro -- all the way back to Little House on the Prairie (by the way, Almanzo Wilder was a fox.)

Case in point: 

The Happy Family

I'm not above bra strap baring spaghetti strap tank tops -- in fact, they are a wardrobe staple.  Nor do I have beef with short skirts, bare midrifts and deep V-necks.   No no, I like all that just fine.  Flaunt away, oh ye modern women.  But you've got to admit, there's something alluring about a woman this prim, this covered up.  Something that might get you going just to catch a glimpse of ankle.

Still not buying it?

Rockwell Gone Poly

Small floral prints, fitted yet demure cut, flattering rosy color.  The woman's got it going on.

And don't even get me started on her hair.  Or her uncanny ability to rock neutrals without looking washed out.

I <3 beige. And cable knit.

Sssh! No talking in the library.

Clearly, it's time for me to eBay my halters and hiphuggers and start investing in truly timeless fashion.

Uncle Milt was not really my uncle. He was my grandfather's third wife's brother. I suppose he was my mother's step-uncle. I met him for the first time last Christmas, when my brother and I went to Florida to visit our grandfather and to meet his wife. We only spent two days with Uncle Milt. Even so, his death earlier this month has left me heavy-hearted.

Although we liked my grandfather's wife instantly – she's sassy and independent, youthful and vibrant, and blessed with the best skin of any older woman I've ever known – Uncle Milt stole the show. He strode into a room with such presence – tall, bronzed, bald with a bushy, graying mustache and lively eyes that betrayed his amusement with his surroundings. He was a flamboyant, dapper dresser, sporting Hawaiian shirts that featured huge, vibrantly hued tropical flowers with crisp, elegant white chinos. On topics of art and Florida's natural and architectural beauties he was effusive; he was a natural tour guide and host.

It is fitting, then, that he spent his retirement doing just that – giving tours of the most elegant of Florida's grand manor homes, Ca d'Zan; engaging travelers and the curious in the web of history and local lore surrounding the Ringling family fortune. He gave a private tour of Ca' (as he breezily referred to the estate) to my brother and I – his knowledge of the home and the family was extensive and thorough; illuminated as much by his own reverent research and study as by the run-of-the-mill information provided to the docents. My memories of Uncle Milt are in this beautiful house, or out on the expansive back terrace, where he regaled us with "off the record" stories of the Ringling's lavish parties and extravagant living.

Uncle Milt was so full of vim and vivacity that I cannot conceive of his death.  He was not going gently into that good night, but squeezing everything he could out of life.  A patron of the arts and of the good life -- "another day in paradise," he winked at my brother and I as we marveled at the warm December weather -- he painted, he swam, he decorated and redecorated his immaculately appointed home, he was in the know about every cultural event in the area.  He lived life -- lived it to the very last drop.

Driving into work this morning I was listening to Rover's Morning Glory, or, as Chuck calls it, "The Midwestern Morality Hour."  (I listen because it makes me feisty.)  One of the hosts mentioned that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows has been leaked online and that the spoilers were --

I turned off the radio then.  No spoilers for me, no, sir.

Even the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow Wikipedia page gives away to much for my liking.  Why do people insist on spoiling the plot for those of us who want the experience of reading the entire book? 

Ruminations, conspiracy theories, predictions, whisperings -- I understand that, it's inevitable.  I've been doing the same thing among friends.  But putting it online where a naive, helpless Potterphile like myself could stumble upon it, effectively ruining the 800 or so pages of wizarding wonder that lie in store for me this weekend?  That's just cruel.

I admit that I am not being forthwith.  There is an ulterior motive in this rant.  Chuck and I are betting, you see.  We've got a lot of money (ok, it's about $50, but that's a lot of money when you're broke) on who's going to bite it in Book Seven.  And if it's Ron Weasley, I am coming into a lot of cash, and maybe even a night at the Amish Country Bed and Breakfast of my choice.  Die, Ron, die!

Chuck had better not be reading the spoilers.

Since this is The Last One, the final Harry Potter book, I want to go to one of those midnight Potter Parties.  I am well aware that I am 25, not 11, but if I don't go now, I'll never have the chance.  I've always suspected that these midnight Potter Parties are where it's at and I'm not one to miss out on a good party.  Even if it is intended for grade schoolers.  Here in Northeast Ohio, there are probably more Potter Parties than there are classes at Hogwarts, so I've spent the last few days ruminating over which one to attend.

I think the one sponsored by the Blue Heron Bookstore will be the way to go, as it makes use of the beautiful Cuyahoga Valley National Park (herewith "The Forbidden Forest") and I believe several area bars have agreed to be the Three Broomsticks, The Hog's Head and other Wizarding-type pubs.  So even if I find I'm the only one there over the age of 12, at least I'll be old enough to soften the blow with butterbeer.  I mean real beer.

So...The Gap has a line of clothes for plus size kids. For example, these jeans:

come in sizes up to a 31" adjustable waist. Where the hell was this stuff when I was a young'un? Part of my obsession with plus size fashion comes from the years of shame at having to wear adult men's jeans all through my tween and teen years because there was nothing age appropriate in my size. Fortunately, grunge was in for much of that time but it was still devastating for me. So yay for the Gap for making cute clothes available for plus size kids.

HOWEVER. Where the hell are the Gap's adult plus sizes? Holy double standard, Batman!  I'm confused about this.

When a major company like the Gap doesn't make plus sizes, that's saying, "We hate fat people so much that we don't want their money."

That sounds extreme, but honestly, isn't that exactly what The Gap is saying?  In every respect, I am the Gap's ideal customer. I'm a student from an upper-middle-class background who dresses in modern, casual clothing.  I honestly don't understand why the Gap is not interested in my business. It's like that scene in "Pretty Woman" where the Rodeo Drive sales associates won't give Julia Roberts the time of day because she doesn't look like their target customer.

It seems to me that the Gap is an ideal store to start selling plus size women's (and men's) clothes. The Gap is meant to appeal to a broad base of customers. It's ads promote acceptance ("peace love the gap" is the current rap, I believe). Why the hell can't I walk into the Gap with a size 6 friend, a size 16 friend, and myself (a size 20) and be able to find cute outfits for all of us?

My gripe extends to the other mall stores, of course. J. Crew, The Banana, Ann Taylor, Express, Bebe, BCBG (which had a plus size line "in the works" a few years ago, but apparently abandoned the project) should all be courting my dollar, as far as I'm concerned.

The Gap, the ubiquitous, omnipresent Gap, would be the ideal trailblazer. So what's holding them back?