Uppercase Woman

Halloween

It may have come to your attention that tomorrow is that crazy ass sugar-fueled holiday known as Halloween. We fully intend to take part since we are lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that is awesome for trick-or-treating and because, of course, I finally have a child to TAKE trick-or-treating. I fully intend for Tori to keep me stocked in candy for quite a while (what, I should let her eat it?). Heh.

I successfully beat down all of my impulses to dress Tori like a little princess (a daily battle, I assure you) and Charlie and I settled on this costume. It's adorable, seasonably appropriate, and (god forgive me) wholesome. Unless you think chocolate is evil, in which case we can no longer be friends.

Back in my single days, when I bothered to get dressed up for Halloween (ok, and even for a while after I wasn't single anymore), I had only one costume--something slutty in black. Witch, vampire, whatever--as long as I could wear dark lipstick, too much eyeliner, and show a ton of cleavage, I was happy. I loved having an excuse to put my junk all out there.

But I was in my twenties when I did that. Even in high school, I managed to keep my costumes low on the slut-o-meter.

But these days, costumes for girls have gotten out of hand. Mothertalkers recently had an entry where they discussed this. Have you seen these costumes? Like this one? Or this one? Does anyone seriously think it's a good fucking idea to dress a PRETEEN as a FRENCH MAID?

Mothertalkers links to this article in Newsweek that discusses the fact that the "sexy" costumes are being targeted to younger and younger girls. Even the firefighter costume comes with fishnets, apparently.

Holy fucking cow.

We at a weird place culturally. We are hypervigilant about pedophilia, even possibly fetishizing it in the media (seriously, doesn't anyone else find this television show kind of gross?). Don't get me wrong--I have no desire to return to the days when children who are victimized are told to be ashamed. I prefer our more honest society. But the idea of a bunch of TV producers sitting around a computer monitor pretending to be 14-year-old girls to lure older men to them for entertainment purposes seems... I don't know. Wrong, bizarre, and shameful.

But what is even stranger is that right when we are telling men that being attracted to young women is disgusting and criminal, consumer culture is telling us to dress our young girls more like adult women. So we dress up our 'tweens as college girls, and then punish men for thinking it's sexy. It's some sort of freakish disconnect.

It frightens me that Sarah's daughter, who is already taller than I am at 11 years old, has costumes like those to choose from. And looking at those costumes, it feels like girls are getting to spend less and less time being GIRLS and having to jump into being women that much earlier.

When I was ten years old, I was so completely unaware of myself as being anything other than a kid. It wasn't until I was 12 or so that the pressures to do things like wear makeup and put on disco-style dresses  with side slits (hey, it was the late 70's when I was 12) happened--and even that seems kind of young. Are girls today sneaking makeup on the school bus (ahem) at ten? Eight?

I find this all so frustrating. How am I going to raise Tori and allow her to spend a nice, long period of her life just being a kid instead of being a girl? Am I already starting this process when I buy her the jeans that have a flare at the cuff?

Ug. This is a tough time to raise a daughter in America, isn't it?

Blog Business

I'm still feeling a bit under the blogging weather (so to speak) due to the bad anniversary, but I didn't want to have a Monday without some kind of post, so I thought I would take care of some business.

First of all, the new blog design and title will be revealed on November 1st--as long as we can get the design done in time (we being me and the awesome Aitch. OK, it's really all her). I am going to participate, again, in NaBloPoMo this year, which means I shall be posting EVERY SINGLE DAY in November. Yup. Every day. Yikes.

So I know you are eager to know the new blog title, and if you can't wait until Thursday, well, go count the votes. Heh.

Secondly, you may have noticed the new fancy flash ads that have appeared over in the right hand column. These ads are from the BlogHer Ad Network, and dudes--these guys actually pay pretty well. So you can feel good about clicking on those ads. Really. Cause you will be putting food in Tori's mouth, or at least helping my pay for our health benefits (right now it looks like I'm on track to actually earn enough from them to at least pay for my health insurance each month, and that's a huge help). Special thanks to Amanda for pointing me in the BlogHer Ads direction--you rock, girlie! Also, if you see the link in that ad column to take the survey (it says, "If you love this blogger, take this survey!") please do! That way the ads are more likely to be about something you are interested in.

The last thing I want to discuss is a bit more complicated. I'm working with a great marketing guru who is helping me figure out how to get my name out there, both connected to this blog and to my professional writing. I really want to make this freelance writing thing pay off, and I can't just sit on my ass blogging and hope that fame and fortune (or even enough work to pay my bills) is somehow going to manage to find me. So I might post an occasional entry about how my professional writing career is going, and other exciting updates such as the fact that something I wrote for a client may end up in USA Today which would be totally AWESOME.

I'm also going to begin blogging on my professional site, which you may not find all that interesting but I'm going to beg you to check out now and again anyway. I'll probably update there once a week or so, just to keep the content fresh and to help increase my business.

When I was discussing all of this with my marketing dude, I had to remind him that while McDonald's (metaphor for me) may now sell salads (blogging about my business stuff), it's ain't gonna stop selling burgers (blogging about the stuff I usually blog about). So rest assured--while this may all sound like I'm selling out (and I am, a little bit--I know), my primary goal for this blog hasn't changed all that much. I just want to write better and more interesting stuff, and I also want to get paid enough to stay home with Tori while I do it.

So bear with me, will you?

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Since I'm going to be writing every day in November, now is the time to suggest topics! What would you like to see me write about? Come on, don't be shy! Spill it. If you want to be anonymous, just put a fake name and fake email address into the comments section (you don't need to post a URL) and tell me. If I'm really going to blog every day for thirty days, I'll need all the suggestions I can get! Thanks!
 

Bad Anniversaries

I've been struggling to find things to blog about this week, which is odd, because I've been really energized with the recent changes I've made and the topics have been easy to find. Then I finally looked at the calendar today and realized... it's that time of year again.

Tomorrow marks the three year anniversary of the day I went to the doctor's office for a routine ultrasound and instead began heading down the terror-filled path that ended with the termination of my pregnancy with Nicholas and Zachary.

Last year I was feeling pretty sad about the anniversary, even though Tori was here and healthy. The year before that, I was newly pregnant and feeling pretty happy, even as I mourned the boys. I often feel their loss more acutely around the anniversary of their expected due date, but for some reason I am finding myself full of memories of that time, and what those few days were like.

I remember my complete and utter disconnect when I saw Dr. Mama's face once he saw the combined numbers of my blood pressure (170/120 or so), my urine protein (3+++), and my weight (up 20 pounds in less than two weeks). For god's sake, I asked him if I could stop and get lunch before I went to the hospital (we already knew at that point that one twin was dead, if you remember). I had severe preeclampsia, and I wanted LUNCH.

I remember the face of the nurse at the labor and delivery unit who kept trying to find the surviving boy's heartbeat.

I remember how sick I was once they gave me the magnesium sulfate. I remember all the equipment I had strapped to me; the blood pressure cuff that checked my pressure every 15 minutes; the pressure cuffs on each of my calves trying to keep my blood circulating; the monitor on the baby; the IV in the arm that didn't have the blood pressure cuff; the urinary catheter. I couldn't move, even when I had to throw up. I remember throwing up all over the lovely nurse I'd conned into giving me graham crackers and apple juice (boy, I bet she regretted that, eh?).

I remember how much my head hurt, how utterly and completely flattened I was by the pain, and how the morphine didn't touch it.

I remember that circle of doctors around the end of the bed at 7 am telling us that we'd have to terminate the pregnancy or I would die. I remember Charlie's face when he realized that not only had we lost a son, we were going to lose another one and maybe lose me too.

I don't remember this, but it haunts me now: the doctors discussing whether or not they could give me more morphine at 3 am because they were afraid I was going to begin having seizures any minute and they were afraid to depress my cardiovascular functions. It wasn't until it was all long over that I realized how close to dying I really was.

Most of all, I remember the moment that I stopped being disconnected and detached from what had happened. It was around 3 am EST and I was alone the night after the surgery (Charlie decided to finally spend a night at home) and it all just suddenly hit me. I was so sad, and so angry, and I felt so completely alone and I didn't have any idea who to call or talk to, so I called my friend Dave in Arizona (because it was not quite as late there, I reasoned) and how nice he was to me even though I woke him up (and his poor girlfriend).

It was such a difficult time. The weeks that followed the loss of Nicholas and Zachary were the worst I've ever endured.

This year it all feels very close and near, even though I have so much joy with Tori here. I think about her brothers often; they would be two and a half now. Can you imagine? Two boys in the terrible twos? And I think I'm tired NOW.

I wish I'd gotten a chance to know them. I wish things had been different.

But it's funny: now that I've got some distance on it, I can see things that I'm grateful for from the whole experience. I'm grateful that at the time I was able to have the medical procedure I needed (an intact dilation and extraction) without my doctor having to worry about going to jail. I'm grateful that such a huge and life altering loss gave me the ability to love Tori so completely and thoroughly, without reservation and fear. I am grateful that the loss of the boys taught me so much about tolerance and acceptance of other people's views.

As much as I miss them, their loss made me a better person and a better mother. What a gift they gave me! What a lucky woman I am!

Thank you, Nicholas and Zachary. Although you were here only a short time (not even six months), you had a huge impact on me and the people around me. Thank you. I love you both, and I miss you. Sleep well, baby boys.

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*Edited to add that Charlie wrote a great post about this too.

**Also wanted to add that Patty (whose hubbie died last Monday) has started a blog. Go give her support, would you?

Lame Video Blog Post

But you won't mind, cause Tori's in it. Heh.

Same War, New Battle

Tori is at that age; the age when a toddler climbs up onto her mom and cuddles up on her mommy's lap. Only there's one problem:

I don't have a lap.

I've always carried my weight in my belly. Technically, I'm more pear than apple, however, twenty five years of weight swings (some topping 150 pounds), two pregnancies, and that bastard gravity has left me with a large flap of belly fat. When I sit, I look pregnant. Only about ten inches of my thighs is available for Tori's squirmy little butt.

If I was wealthy, I would go--tomorrow--to every single plastic surgeon I could find until I could talk one into removing that belly flap. I would like nothing better (OK, maybe a pro-choice, pro-gay-marriage, pro-environmental democrat in the White House) than having a normal-sized belly. Even if every other part of me has to stay fat.

I have made no progress in the battle to lose weight since Tori's birth. I spent a brief period counting points, and another period giving up certain foods for both dietary and migraine-fighting reasons, but I haven't maintained the change. Other than the initial 40 pound loss after her birth, I'm the same weight I was when I got pregnant with her, and that is more than I want to weigh.

The truth is, I do not want to diet. For a million reasons, but the main one? Because it doesn't fucking work. Not permanently, anyway. Never permanently. The weight always finds me, and it's found almost every single friend of mine that's lost it.

I spend a fair amount of time reading fat acceptance blogs. They are quite fascinating; they often point out research that shows that being fat is not the death sentence the media makes it out to be, and that folks that are fat can be healthy, fit, and active. They also teach me a great deal about trying to learn to love and trust your body, and help me retain a rational attitude about fatness in the face of a media that is screaming at me--constantly and at full volume--that I am an ugly loser that is about to die. (For an example of the good fat acceptance can do, check out Kate Harding's Illustrated BMI photo project--view it as a slide show for full effect).

But I can't find a way to just accept my body as it is. I always place conditions. "Body," I say, "I'll love you when I lose 100 pounds." Or, "I'll love you when I have a flat belly." Or, "I'll love you when you get back in shape."

For many years I was able to maintain a positive attitude about my body because I knew I was fit. But you know what? That was over THREE FUCKING YEARS AGO. I am not the same woman that hiked every weekend. I'm older, I'm more fat, and I'm more goddamn tired. My body is not being treated well by me and it shows.

The problem is, I don't know what to do. Here are the various ideas I have, in no particular order:

• Win the lottery so I can hire a private chef and a trainer.
• Never eat out again.
• Never eat sugar or flour again (I did this for two years--it worked, but I was NUTS)
• Go on some magic combination of pills that prevents me from wanting to eat. Ever.
• Win lottery and get the fat all surgically removed.

Note that nowhere on that list is "begin eating more healthily, and start exercising." I am so fucking exhausted with picking my fat ass up by the flabby handles and changing my whole fucking life to lose weight for a few months or, possibly, even a year or two. IT. NEVER. LASTS.

Some of you are probably already heading down to the comments section to suggest gastric bypass surgery. Sure, it's an option. I'm sure I could get my insurance to cover it. I know it has worked for some people--that many feel it was just the miracle they needed. But it's not for me; to me it feels like self mutilation (please forgive me, bypass supporters--I mean no judgment).

There is nothing wrong with how my body digests food. There is no need for me to undergo a surgical operation to correct it.

Honestly? I'd be more likely to consider electric shock therapy. The problem is not in my body, folks. It's in my brain.

I am not radically altering the way my body functions to be thin (note: I do see the irony that I would pursue plastic surgery but not gastric bypass. I do have my reasons--plastic surgery is a on the surface, and doesn't radically change how your body processes food, so it seems slightly less invasive. Plus, I'm kidding about getting plastic surgery--mostly). Truthfully, I don't have enough of a reason to go that route yet. My cholesterol is awesome, my blood pressure low, my blood sugar is normal. I have no physical barriers to exercise. A surgical solution is not for me, not right now (fat hysteria people are all now shouting, NOT YET! Because fat people are ticking time bombs, just ask any media anything anywhere and a lot of doctors that read studies funded by the billion dollar diet industry--one of the only industries that makes a ton of money yet has a 95% failure rate. Ahem.).

I'm not going to fill this post with empty promises, as I've done so many times before. I am tired of making resolutions and making changes. Instead, I'm going to only try one tiny trick (learned again from Kate Harding) called "demand feeding" (she explains it well here). I am not going to restrict anything, but I am going to try to develop the habit of listening to my body to see what I'm actually hungry for (I did this on Saturday and ended up at Mickey D's instead of its rival because I knew they had a better salad--but I still had fries. Eh, it's an improvement). I am going to try for feeling better, instead of looking better.

Now that the weather is changing (sort of) to cooler temperatures, exercise is more likely. We went hiking on Saturday (Tori walked almost a mile, we think, between turns in the backpack), and I hope to do that again sometime this week. But no pressure. Pressuring myself, beating myself up, all that shit--it gets me nowhere, just back to fatness, with even more self hatred.

I don't know if I'll ever find my lap for Tori. We've found plenty of ways to cuddle around my big belly (she's fond of resting her head on a boob), so I don't think she'll love me any less for not having it. But if you meet some plastic surgeon that wants to do a free tummy tuck? Well, feel free to give him my number.*

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Many of you may have read Patty's comment to my last post. Patty's husband died in his sleep on Monday; he was 37, and they don't know why. She has two boys, a three-year-old and a six-week-old (six! weeks!). You can read more about her husband here. He sounds like an amazing man, and I'm so sorry I never got a chance to know him. Please keep her in your prayers, will you?

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On a slightly more cheerful note, here are some awesome photos of Tori at the park (here is the full set if you want to see a million more).

*Please, for the love of God, do not post links here about how being fat is going to kill me. Do not link to obesity studies. If you do, I will never, EVER, post photos of Tori again. I swear. You think I don't hear the news about being fat? Come on. I live in the US. I own a television. I do not need to hear it again from you. Thank you.

Fear/Faith

If you are part of a spiritual community, whether it's a church or a twelve-step group, you've probably had some asshole tell you that fear is the opposite of faith. Maybe it's true. I don't fucking know. But the fact is, we are not angels, or gods, or even dogs who can rest assured that our food bowl will always be filled no matter what. We are human, and being afraid is not abnormal. It is built into our DNA, after (hello, fight/flight reflex). Fear is, in fact, a God-given resource that helps keep us safe.

However.

Lately I've found myself absolutely paralyzed with fear. Most of it is surrounding the work I've been doing, and my fears that I am not going to make it as a freelance writer, and that in fact my writing sucks and what on earth was I thinking quiting my job? I am such a LOSER.

This is NOT normal.

My head is a sick and crazy place to live. Most the work I do to maintain my spiritual well-being is designed to keep me out of my head, to instead direct my energies outward toward helping other people and trying to be the best person I can be and letting go of everything else. But every now and then I can't stop myself. I descend into insanity, and every phone call is bad news, and every email rife with double meanings (none of which is good).

It's a terrible way to live.

Luckily, I have people in my life that know what to do to force me to snap out of it. I called my primary spiritual adviser today and she suggested I work on my issues with faith, and that I take some time to make a gratitude list. What's a gratitude list? Well, it's a third grade level trick designed to put me in a better mood. When my head is full of craziness, a gratitude list helps me put things in perspective, and remind me of the good things in my life (note: it doesn't always work. I would not suggest trying to create a gratitude list when you are, say, in the hospital after losing your twin boys. However, for more run-of-the-mill fear, it's awesome).

So after I hung up the phone, I took some time to yell at God for a moment, and then I listed those things I'm grateful for. Like the fact that Charlie is 100% behind me being home, and working as a freelancer, even though it means we no longer have a regular paycheck to rely on and now stalk the mailman on a regular basis in hopes that a check will come so we can pay bills/buy groceries/buy me some new fucking pants. Or the fact that Tori is not only here, and healthy, but pretty much the cutest baby that ever walked the earth (shut up, she is). And the fact that I have an amazing best friend who totally listens to me when I'm crazy and never laughs at me. Or the fact that I have another good friend that listens to me and DOES laugh at me and helps me remember that I am crazy.

While I was in the midst of thinking about all these things, I was washed with a wave of gratitude for all of you. My professional work now is writing, and I have felt a little shaky in my abilities of late. But then I remembered you guys, you amazing people that come here every single day and read whatever drivel my brain produces, and then say nice things to me about it. Holy shit, I am the luckiest woman in the world! Why on earth am I afraid?

Everything will be fine. I am a good writer, and I will find a way to make this work. Thank you for reminding me.

Not long after I had that moment of realization, I tuned into my local NPR station only to hear Dan and Dave Simpson, two local poets (they live in my town, even) that happen to be blind, being interviewed. Dan read this amazing poem (ah, I wish I could find a copy online for you all) about faith and being blind. The poem said something about being at the book store and buying books with blank pages (pages written in braille, of course, can look blank from a distance) and "paying with a bill the grocery store clerk said was a twenty."

Man. When God wants to tell me something, s/he drops an anvil on my head. Talk about faith! Talk about gratitude! Talk about perspective!

Shit.

Right now (I just almost typed "write now", how Freudian of me), I am mid-leap. I am flying through the air, hoping that jumping was the right decision, praying that instead of falling to the ground in a broken heap I will instead either land safely or a net will magically appear. Is there anything more terrifying?

The truth is, even mid-leap, my life is pretty fucking wonderful. And I couldn't possibly be more grateful to be reminded of that fact. Thank you for being part of that.

So, tell me; what are you afraid of? And what are you grateful for?

In Sickness and In Health

It's only been about a month since I started taking Tori to various story times and other structured play groups. While the benefits have been tremendous--Tori is getting socialized and is learning to play well with others, and is getting taught lots of cool new songs and stuff--there have been some side effects. Like the croup (which Tori is finally starting to get over).

Since we first went to our first story time only 35 days ago, Tori has had a nearly non-stop runny nose, at least one seriously bad cold, and now the croup. Charlie and I have both been sick as well, and I developed a bronchitis serious enough that it took two rounds of antibiotics to beat it back (I'm prone to lung stuff, being a lifelong asthmatic and a former smoker. Lung bacteria lurves me).

I realize this is pretty run-of-the-mill stuff for most people, especially those who have kids in daycare. Because Tori was pretty much sequestered from other kids until recently, she is only now starting to get sick (prior to this last month, she had one stomach bug, and one cold, in over a year). But since it's all new to me, I'm finding that I have a bunch of questions. First, is being sick actually good for her--does fighting off these minor illnesses help build her immune system (as I've been led to believe)? Secondly, is there any thing more I can do to protect her (other than keeping her home)? Third, what (if any) impact is her continuing breast feeding having on these illnesses?

I've always been pretty relaxed about her bacteria and germ exposure because I firmly believe that American society has become germ obsessed. Bacteria exist for a reason, and our obsession with killing them is causing major environmental problems. Bacteria are, after all, alive--and they want to stay that way. So when we beat them back with antibiotics, they fight back and become "super bugs" that are resistant to most antibiotics. Persistent use of antibacterial products in the home has the same affect. A study in 2004 by the Annals of Internal Medicine found that using those products in the home did NOTHING to decrease the number of illnesses the folks in the house had (think of all the money wasted on these antibacterial products--sheesh).

There is also a little something called the Hygiene Hypothesis. This theory holds that the massive increase in diseases like asthma are due to humanity becoming a bit too clean; that our immune systems don't have to work very hard anymore and we are therefore becoming ill more easily. This makes a lot of sense to me, based on personal experience.

When I was an infant, I had asthma. This wasn't all THAT long ago (not quite forty years)--and asthma was so incredibly rare then that no one was willing to diagnose me with it. Even though I started suffering asthma attacks when I was not much younger than Tori is now, I didn't actually receive the label of "asthmatic" until I was five. In school, my asthma was ignored and dismissed by nearly everyone--even my teachers--until I would wheeze so hard that I couldn't stand up. It was a new disease--and that was in the 1970s. Now, nearly 5% of all Americans are now diagnosed with asthma. 

I don't know about you, but that's pretty overwhelming information right there.

Hygiene Hypothesis suggests that children, in particular, benefit from exposure to both bacteria and allergens. Farm children are far less likely to have hay fever and other allergies than city kids. In a wild touch of irony, kids in countries that routinely get intestinal parasites NEVER get irritable bowel disease or Crone's disease. Younger children in large families tend to develop fewer allergies than other kids, possibly because of the bacteria exposure they get from their older siblings.

So if you buy into the Hygiene Hypothesis, Tori is going to ultimately benefit from being sick now, even if I hate it, and she is uncomfortable. Truth is, Tori doesn't get all that sick when she's ill, and never stays sick for very long. The virus that gave me the bronchitis only lasted two days for Tori. The stomach flu that caused Charlie to vomit over 70 times in three days made her throw up only once. Personally, I believe that breastfeeding is one of the reasons why Tori is able to combat these illnesses so easily, and this article here agrees with me (in fact, that article claims that "premature" termination of nursing can make kids sicker, which could explain my asthma since my mother--like so many moms--was only able to nurse me for a few weeks. I mention this not to make moms feel bad--I promise--I just found it interesting personally). However, Tori's buddy Sam who lives two doors down from us is also still nursing (at two) and he's been chronically ill with various ear and respiratory ailments his whole life (and his mom is vegan and pretty healthy herself). So, basically, who fucking knows? It seems like a crap shoot.

The last point I want to consider is this: how can I help Tori's immune system more? I hope to keep nursing her until she's at least two (I'm going to try--my constant migraine battle may interfere), but what else can I do?

Ironically, lately we Americans have come to embrace some bacteria--the bacteria that lives in yogurt. Of course, no one calls that bacteria; we call it "live cultures" and "probiotics." But no matter how you slice it, it IS bacteria--but good bacteria. This bacteria actually helps your intestinal track provide you with immunity. There are lots of new products out there capitalizing on this trend, and even Moxie agrees that probiotics can help a number of ailments and overall health (and we all know that Moxie's word is law). We do try to give Tori yogurt daily (she likes the "tubes" which I can cut a teeny tiny hole in and she can toddle around sucking on), but she doesn't always want it. Moxie suggests using unsweetened Kefir, and I might try adding some of that to Tori's milk.

What about vitamins? We haven't been giving Tori vitamins. It appears that the experts don't agree on the vitamin issue, but most agree that as long as they aren't too high-test they can't hurt. What about herbs? Sites like this one suggest that herbs such as echinaceia and others can help boost Tori's immunity, but I don't know. I use herbs personally, but since they aren't very well regulated and some herbs have been found to have both much higher and much lower chemical elements in them than the bottles claim, I'm not sure how safe it is (I know there will be plenty of you that know of some brand of herbs that is really! truly! safe! but still).

One lucky stroke of fate that may help Tori's immunity in the long run is that she has not yet been exposed to antibiotics (other than what may have filtered in through my breast milk). That's not due to any line in the sand we drew or anything, it's merely the luck of the draw and the fact that Tori has not been sick enough--yet--to need them. That's apparently good news, though, since recently a link between antibiotic use and asthma has been found. There is also little doubt now that antibiotics also kill off the "good" bacteria in our systems (that's why we women always get a yeast infection when we take antibiotics--I've always been able to fight this off by eating yogurt every day I take any antibiotics), and the lack of "good" flora and fauna in our intestines can decrease our resistance to viruses.

Ultimately, I have no more answers after reading through all of the links I provided above than I did before. I do feel like my basic instincts are correct, and I can list things in good and bad categories. "Good" being probiotics, extended breastfeeding, vitamins, and basic hand washing in soap and water. "Bad" is (unnecessary) antibiotics and anti-bacterial products*.

So I guess I will mostly continue to go on as I have been. The only things I plan to change is to put more effort into keeping things out of Tori's mouth (the toys at the library--yikes), washing her hands more, and adding in a daily vitamin and more probiotics. Other than that, I guess Tori is just going to have to spend some time being sick.

Next, working on my own immunity issues so that I don't need two courses of antibiotics to get over a serious bronchial infection. Sigh.

*You will note that I did not bring up vaccines. That's because I don't want to talk about them here. If you feel like you must discuss them, do it kindly and without judgment. I do not want a vaccine war here, please, I'm begging you. If we can be civil about abortion, surely we can be civil about the whole vaccine issue. And if you are wondering, yes, we vaccinate. But I have no feelings WHATSOEVER about whatever decision you've made on that issue. M'kay?

Trash Talkin' TV (and a movie) *additions*

First off, I just need to say this--why didn't anyone ever tell me that "croup" sounds like your baby is * choking to death? Cause it would have been helpful to know that before we went to the emergency room last night at midnight. Ahem. (Tori is pretty much fine, but has that awful cough at night. Yikes.)

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So, before I discuss the new fall TV season, let's talk about a movie. Heh.

Every few weeks, Charlie lets me sneak away and catch a movie by myself. It's something I enjoy (what, I'm weird), and this week I went to see Across The Universe. If you haven't heard of it yet, it's Julie Taymor's musical masterpiece using all Beatles songs.

It was AWESOME. No, really. AMAZING. LOVED IT.

I will say the following; in order to enjoy this movie you have to a) like musicals; b) like the Beatles (not for you, Dave); and c) not find it offensive to have Beatles songs sung by other people and be minorly re-arranged. This is critical. I used to be someone who couldn't stand altered Beatles songs. AT ALL. But in the last five or ten years there have been so many tribute albums that I've grown to like some of the covers, and it's more tolerable. And I really like the Love CD, which is all re-arranged Beatles songs (still sung by the actual guys, though).

They did NOT, thank god, pull a Moulin Rouge on us: every actor in the movie can really sing, and sing very well (I still can't watch Ewan McGregor sing in Moulin Rouge; he clamps his throat so tight while he sings that it hurts me). It also helps that the male lead looks like he could have been a Beatle; it makes it go down much more smoothly.

Everyone is just wonderful, and visually, it is simply stunning. It's very cleverly done; the songs track the trajectory of the 1960s nicely, with the sweeter songs early in the movie and the more complex songs coming during the protest era. I never knew how absolutely perfectly some of the songs would work in a musical context; of course, I shouldn't have been surprised since the Beatles really were storytellers.

Each character is named after a song; there's Lucy, and Jude, and Prudence, and Jo-Jo, and Max, among others. Every actor is delightful, and each time they burst into song it just feels right.

But for me, the biggest gift of the movie is the way it made me re-examine some of my favorite songs. I never knew that Let it Be could be so compelling and moving (just add a gospel choir), or that Revolution could be so personal.

I'm hoping to see this again on the big screen at least once. I might even try taking Tori (other than some tough war imagery, it really is kid safe--there is no nudity or bad language; there is implied sex and some kissing, though), because Tori does like a musical (she love Rent, which is running on cable a lot lately).

Anyway, go see it. It's wonderful.

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So. The new fall television season. Sigh.

Sucks, right? Sigh. Well, it's not all bad.

So far I'm enjoying Chuck ( although it's basically Jake 2.0 again); Journeyman, and Bionic Woman. Notice a theme? All sci-fi type shows. I knew I'd like Journeyman (stars that hot guy from Rome, after all) since I totally LOVED Quantum Leap back in the day. Bionic Woman has been mildly disappointing, but I love women kicking ass, so I'll stay with it until it's canceled.

I'm not enjoying Cane, particularly, even though the entire cast is smokin' hot (even Rita Moreno is hot in this show, and she's how old?), but I never liked soaps about rich people. Of course, that's not quite true: I am enjoying Dirty Sexy Money.  Private Practice is both compelling and irritating as shit--I can't figure out the problem there; it feels sexist and contrived, I guess. But that baby swapping storyline? Me. Crying. Hard.

Other than that, I'm sticking with my old favorites. Grey's Anatomy, Ugly Betty, ER (dammit--I'm watching this until the bitter end), Heroes (more Hiro! please!), the original CSI. The only show I used to love that I think I'm going to give up is Law & Order SVU (did you see that episode with the avatars? God, that was HORRIBLE. Man).

Oh, and my guilty pleasure? Moonlight. Oh, be quiet. I have a thing for vampires.

What are you watching? Anything standing out for you this year? If you are wondering how I have time to watch all these shows, well, I have about 12 shows currently on my DVR to watch. So I'm, um, not actually watching all of them these days. Heh. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

*additions!*

I totally forgot to mention Pushing Daisies; totally love it. The dandelion car thing? Hilarious. Also, Friday Night Lights, yes, yes, yes--still love that show beyond reason, since I don't like Texas or football particularly. Californication still love, love, love. Mad Men, love. I'm sure there is something else I'm missing. And don't ask me why, but I never got into The Office. Dunno why.

 

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Voting is closed on the blog naming contest. I'm going to have an independent review of the votes (you know, make Sarah count them) and then you'll know when the new design is launched! Yee ha.

Gone Daddy Gone

Voting is still open until tomorrow on the blog title! Currently, Uppercase Woman and Writ Large are fighting for the top spot. Cast your vote now!

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According to the 2000 Census report, 20 million kids under the age of 18 lived in single-parent households at that time. 16.5 million live with single mothers, and 3.3 million live with their fathers (of that 3.3 million, about a third live with their unmarried partners, while only a tenth of mothers live with an unmarried partner). That's about 6.7% of all children living with a single parent.

In 1970, when I stopped having two parents, about 5% of kids lived with just one parent. I didn't feel like an oddball kid, not having a dad. For a year, my mother and I lived with a group of women who were all also divorced and raising a kid alone, so I was one of many kids without a dad. But once I started going to school, I felt the difference. My mother was treated differently (it seemed to me) by my teachers. Other kids made fun of me for not having a dad.

Of course, part of that was because while there were plenty of other kids of divorce around, they saw their dads on weekends. Those dads showed up at the band concerts and the teacher conferences. But not me, and not my dad. My father simply vanished out of my life.

My childhood memories of my father are nearly non-existent. I have a very dim memory of him visiting once when I was three or four years old, and I thought he was a fireman because he had a huge (to me) red pickup truck. (This is ironic, of course, because my father later went on to become a firefighter, and then died in a house fire he caused). But other than that hazy memory, I don't remember him as a young man.

I had a lot of substitute fathers. There were a few men around my mother and I that were kind to us (not men she dated--she kept her dating habits away from me), like John Pugh, an acupuncturist married to a beautiful Mexican woman and built adobe houses for the poor. But most of my substitute dads were famous--John Lennon (who my father did bear a passing resemblance to), Jim Henson (don't ask me why--it's not like I saw him on television or anything, but I cried like a baby when he died), and other singers like Pete Seeger, and even John Denver (any man with round glasses like my dad was a substitute).

When I was in high school I read an article about the psychological impact of not having a father. Girls who lost their fathers to death tended to be grasping and clingy in relationships with men, and girls who lost their fathers by divorce often push their partners away. Although at that moment in my life I'd only been in one serious relationship (Paul, my boyfriend throughout high school), I felt a chill of recognition-- only two days before I'd dumped Paul mercilessly, then let him walk about thirty feet away before running after him and begging him to take me back.

I've talked before about having a Daddy-shaped hole in my heart, and how deeply the absence of my father has effected me. Now that my father is dead and I'm a mother, that absence has become even more intense and overwhelming. Especially now. Now that Tori is the age I was when my father left.

Maybe Tori is too attached to us--after all, she's home with both of us all day. But if Charlie leaves the house, even if it's just to take the trash out, Tori cries loudly and intensely (although it only lasts a moment). If he's gone for the afternoon, when he comes home Tori's face lights up and she shrieks with joy.

If he was gone--really gone, for good--she would know.

Earlier in my life I comforted myself when I thought of my father by saying I didn't know what I was missing--after all, I didn't remember him. But Tori would know it if Charlie left, and she would grieve his loss intensely and it would effect her for the rest of her life. How could I have imagined that I was left unscathed?

I'm trying to acknowledge and accept the feelings (which have been constant and intense) I've been having about this. The feelings have been coming out all sideways, of course: I've been rotten to Charlie lately, fighting and bullying him for no reason. I did a photographic self-portrait about it for my 52 Weeks project on Flickr, and now I'm writing about it here. But I know I'm barely scratching the surface.

Tori is lucky. There is no way that Charlie would ever leave her. It's why I married him, and why I wanted to have children with him. She will never have a daddy-shaped hole in her heart; instead, her heart will be, god willing, full of love and hope because not only does she have a daddy, she has one that loves her beyond reason.

I wish every little girl could be so lucky. The truth is, there are 20 million other kids out there that are currently running around with parent-shaped holes in their hearts. I don't know what can be done about this--you can't force someone to parent, and frankly, some people shouldn't BE parents--but it makes me sad to think about all of us with our broken hearts, trying to live in this world and be in relationships with each other.

Not to sound like a completely ridiculous and trite romantic, but I do believe that love is possible, and that love can heal. After all, after years of floundering, I managed to find it. And when I watch Charlie with Tori, a little bit of the sadness I feel about not having a father is lifted away. I doubt that I will ever be whole in that way, but I can rest easy knowing that I was lucky enough to stumble on a good man that will love my daughter (and me) for the rest of our lives.

Broken hearts can be mended, after all. Even the hearts of little fatherless girls like me.

Name This Blog!

Alright, folks. The suggestions have been mulled over thoroughly, with the review panel making its final decisions (the review panel consisted of me, Charlie, Sarah, Tori, and my mother).

This was tough, I'll tell you. I liked almost every suggestion, but I had to avoid the fun ones (such as "Cup of Shut the Fuck Up," thanks Jaina) with foul language cause I like to lure folks in first before I start in with the swearing. I also couldn't use some others because there are already a hundred blogs with similar titles (such as any variation of "fat lady sings"). Others, such as "Cec Pool" while cute, have very bad childhood memories attached (shudder--I was called that a lot in school). Still others, like the awesome "Mother of the Universe" (thanks Kim) just seemed too arrogant (not that I didn't think about it for a long time, though).

So, here they are, in no particular order. These are my top five choices, with a sixth runner up choice because Sarah loves it and it's her sober anniversary and who can say no on a sober anniversary (12 years! Whoo hoo!). I will tell you why I like them, and link to the nominator.

And one more thing, before I give you the actual list--please, please, please don't feel bad if I didn't choose yours. Chances are it's because someone else is already using it! Not that I didn't like it. Promise.

OK!

1. Writ Large. This awesome suggestion was from Genie, and I'll let her quote explain why I like it so much: "I found this definition, and it spoke to me: "Signified, expressed, or embodied in a greater or more prominent magnitude or degree: 'The man was no more than the boy writ large' George Eliot)." Plus, it's a George Eliot quote, who is da bomb.

2. Uppercase Woman. That one is all Charlie, baby. I like it because he says it means "bold, yet flexible" and says I am a force to reckon with, and don't we all want to believe we are a force to be reckoned with? Charlie also pointed out that ALL CAPS is how we bloggers shout. I seem to shout a lot. Ahem.

3. A Stiff Think. This one from Veevs (I'm pretty sure she was first). I like this one a lot, being a recovered alcoholic and all. Plus I'd love to believe my posts are occasionally as bracing and calming as a stiff drink can be. You know, if you're not a drunk like me.

4. Three the Hard Way. Ah, hilarious. Not only does it touch on the infertile past and the struggle to make us a family of three, but it has porn connotations. I love me a good pornography reference that isn't out and out lewd. Heh. Plus, Charlie says that it's a term related to playing craps, which is kind of like doing IVF. Heh.

5. Limited Vocabulary. This late entry by 'nolaffing' is quite possibly my favorite. It's from the saying "A foul mouth is a sign of a limited vocabulary" and since I just got yet another "Do you kiss your daughter with that mouth?" comment, it suits me quite well. And yes, I do. I often interrupt the flow of obscenity coming out of my mouth to kiss Tori.

And our runner up: Largely Irreverent. I like the fat pun, and I love the word irreverent, but I worry that it's too close to irrelevant. Of course, that's the point, that pun. So.

There you have it! Six possible names for this blog. I was going to have a fancy linked survey and stuff but you have to pay for those if you want more than 100 responses. So just post your vote in the comment section! Please, please, PLEASE delurk and post your vote!

I promise, I will make the title that gets the most votes the new title of the blog. And the person that comes up with that title is gonna get a prize. I still don't know what, but something!

LET THE VOTING BEGIN!

16 Months

My darling Tori Anne,

You are 16 months old! And I am EXHAUSTED. You are always moving, always active, always go- go- going. Usually somewhere we don't want you to go. I know to you it feels arbitrary and random--that we just don't want you to have fun--but the truth is, there is just a lot of dangerous shit around and we don't want you to get hurt. But try to tell you that! Impossible.

Luckily, you are utterly adorable and sweet and it makes you very easy to forgive.

The dominating feature of this last month has been the arrival of your will. You are a kid with strong preferences and you are happy to share those preferences with the world. You push other kids, you grab books from shelves at the library, and you get so, so, so mad when we take away something you want but shouldn't have.

I've been taking you to lots of various story time events at our local libraries. I take you for a lot of reasons; I want you to love books like I do, and I want you to see the library as a magical place, and I want you to spend time with other kids. I also secretly hope it will tire you out. Did I mention that we are tired? We are very, very tired. We're really quite old, you know.

We've been exploring other places as well. We visited the zoo again, which was quite fun. You called every large animal "Bubba" which was hilarious, and at the petting zoo you ran from goat to goat patting them and calling them all "Bubba."

It's really fun to take you to places like the zoo because you are so mobile. We almost never put you in the stroller (except as a way to contain you). You never seem to get tired, no matter how much walking you do. At the aquarium on Friday, for instance, you walked for nearly three hours straight with only a break for lunch. You have so much energy! Did I mention that?

I'm not surprised you are strong willed. You are my daughter after all, and I'm totally pushy and demanding of everyone around me (although I'm working on it). You, however, are significantly more charming.

It takes a lot more to keep you entertained at home than it used to. We really wish we could afford to buy you all the toys you want and maybe even need. I think you have enough, though.

You are talking a lot more, even though you don't often say Mommy or Daddy (which is interesting; maybe because we're always around so you don't have to call us?). You can tell me what a dog, cat, cow, train, and duck say (a duck, just for the record, says "cock"). You can point to your head, your knee, your belly button, your eyes, your nose, your hair, your foot, and your diaper. You also say a whole lot of stuff we don't understand, but will hopefully become clear soon. You've also suddenly starting using some of the baby signs we taught you ages ago that we thought you were ignoring. You say hungry quite clearly, which is awesome for us, because we are kind of dolts sometimes (like today when you were screaming and screaming and it was because you had a poopy diaper that was hurting because you had a bite of my chili yesterday).

You and I have developed a really awesome bedtime routine which is my favorite time of day. I give you a bath, blow dry your hair (I know, I know, I know--but you enjoy it, and it looks so cute after), then we play on the bed. You nurse a little (although you don't nurse that much these days), but we play "five little monkeys" and I tickle you until you shriek with laughter. It's so unbelievably adorable and makes my heart swell and swell 'til I think it will explode to hear you laughing.

I know we've struggled this month--we're still learning. But I love you and think you are the most brilliant, incredible, awesome person I have ever met--and I think that every single day. I am so lucky to have you, and I love you with an ache so powerful and fierce that it makes me a better person. I love you Tori Anne. You are the best.

In The News

It's Friday... so let's discuss the news.

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First up, as you've all heard, President "I Hate Poor Kids" Bush vetoed the spending increase for the SCHIP program. Not a shock, of course, he said he'd do it. Ironically, he vetoed it specifically to keep kids like Tori from being able to use the program; kids who have parents that can technically afford to pay $400 a month (instead of the $63 we would have paid if she had been able to join the Pennsylvania CHIP program), but now can't afford to buy that new car we so desperately need (the engine light is on now in ours--grrrrrrrrreat). Remember, the SCHIP program is actually NOT socialized health care--it is private health insurance that the state subsidizes (and the insurance companies seriously discount).

Happy days.

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Seriously? This is the shit people get upset about? Obama's fucking lapel pin???

Holy fucking crap. This blows me away. The report I saw last night on ABC News was quick to mention the fact that MOST of the candidates don't wear a flag lapel pin--not even John McCain. People are upset about it? Really?

*burying her head in her hands.* I am so glad we are talking about THE IMPORTANT THINGS.

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On a happier note, I read the same article Moxie did (apparently; Newsweek?) with equal enthusiasm. Some enterprising folks have created an awesome laptop that runs on only two watts of power (it has both a hand crank and solar power to charge it), a screen bright enough to be seen in full sun, has the world's most sensitive wifi connection, and can be dropped and banged with being killed. And the best part? It only costs $188 to make (the creators are firmly committed to getting the price down to less than $100 a computer).

They hope to spread them around the world so every child, everywhere, can have a laptop. How awesome is that? But sadly, they don't quite have the funding they need (of course)--several handshake deals have fallen apart. They are still committed to the idea, so they will soon be offering the opportunity to "buy one, give one." Meaning, you can buy this awesome laptop for YOUR kid for $400 (still very reasonable) and they will GIVE one to a poor kid somewhere.

I am thinking that we will do this ourselves, giving us a sturdy traveling laptop that we can take camping and stuff and still work next summer. Very exciting!

Projects like this--and like the new micro-loan programs going on around the world (this guy won the Nobel Peace Prize for his work)--prove that business can make needed products and still turn a profit.

Rock on.

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So, what did you see in the news this week that caught your eye?

Oh, and if you're interested, here are pictures of Tori at her first trip to the aquarium. I'll leave them public until Monday.

Anger

Last week at a really awesome recovery meeting a woman put words to a chronic condition I suffer. This condition causes me to snap at Charlie for no reason, slam doors hard enough to make pictures fall off the walls, and occasionally throw shoes. It's a condition called "inner crazy woman."

My inner crazy woman is very powerful. She's also irrational, cunning, smart, and every now and then absolutely fucking right. This is where the danger lies: because she is sometimes correct, and calls attention to important issues that need addressing (usually in my relationships with other people), I allow her way too much leeway and give her way too much credit. And she comes out when I'm angry.

The topic of this particular meeting was anger. Anger and I have a deep and rewarding relationship. I have come to realize this lately because when I fly off the handle--which I do entirely too frequently--I actually have a few minutes after the outburst where I actually feel a little bit stoned. I suspect this is why it is said in recovery meetings that "anger is the dubious luxury of normal men" (ignore the sexism, it's from a book written in 1939). For those of us that found getting drunk and high to be the be-all and end-all of life, that buzz you get from anger can be intoxicating--and therefore dangerous.

In one of those great deep moments of irony, as I left the meeting I got trapped in the pick-up line of cars for the church's preschool (most recovery meetings are in back rooms and basements of churches). I didn't realize what was happening, so I actually got out of my car and asked the woman at the head of the line if she could kindly put her car in one of the nearby parking spaces (there were spaces available, but there was no way for me to get around the line of cars), which she did. But the woman in line behind her merely pulled up into her vacated space.

This completely infuriated me.

To make matters even more annoying, once the preschool teachers spotted the car seat in my car, they kept knocking on my car window to ask me who I was picking up. When I said (growled), "I'm not picking anyone up, I'm just trying to LEAVE!" They laughed. LAUGHED. And one said, kindly, "Well, next time you know to park across the street so this doesn't happen!" I was incredulous. I said, "You do realize that you are not the only thing happening at this church right now, right?" She looked confused and said, "But this is the pick up line!" As if that explained everything.

I was stuck for over a half-hour. I had to call three different people to calm down. THREE. Charlie, Sarah (who is my sister in anger), and my good friend Dave. Dave said, sympathetically, that the best moments of his day--the time he feels the most spiritual and content--are in the mornings while he's having his coffee... before he sees anyone else.

Naturally, I lost my hard-won serenity from the meeting completely.

Anger is my favorite coping tool. I do not do other emotions easily. Grief is tough for me. Depression? I don't get depressed. Instead, I get brittle, sarcastic, cruel. Often, I've used those emotions here on this blog. I can be very, very funny when I'm angry. But I also hurt people. And worst of all, I'm hurting, and using anger to lash out and protect myself, and ultimately? It doesn't help a bit.

I was thinking about that today when I was visiting yet another story hour. I realized, as I watched all the other women there, that we are all on the defensive. We are worried about what our kids are doing, how they are behaving, if the other moms there think we're lousy parents. Since I've processed all of your wonderful responses to my last post about story time, I have changed my actions. I am making sure I make eye contact and say hello to every mother (or father) there, but leave it at that. I'm not pushing. I stopped worrying about how I was dressed, how Tori was dressed, and how I acted. I just relaxed. And you can guess what happened, right?

I have several lovely conversations today. I met a mom of IVF twins just a little older than Tori, and another mom overheard our conversation and jumped in because she'd just gotten a negative beta from her fourth IVF attempt. Tori was wearing her (almost too small!) "My entire life is being blogged" t-shirt, and another mom spotted it and told me about her sister's blog and how much she loved keeping up with her sister's family that way.

It was a wonderful time.

I have to watch myself. When I felt hurt, rejected, depressed --whatever-- I don't react normally. I react with anger in all its various forms--sarcasm, bitterness, snideness, eye rolling, whatever. I need to slow down when I find myself being angry and examine the root cause, because it's usually something I can't control (except, of course, how I respond to the situation). I need to breathe, relax (arg) and just let shit go. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness." I don't want to give up any more of my happiness. Not one more minute.

At the meeting tomorrow, I'll park across the street and let the moms pick up their kids from preschool unmolested. I'll try to leave my inner crazy woman at home with Charlie. Where she belongs. Heh.

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P.S. Last call to suggest a new name for this blog! Post a comment here, and I'll put up my favorite five to vote for next week!

Fat, Fat, Fat, Fat- Fashion

I was in sixth grade, I think, when I realized that I was too short, too curvy, and too brunette to be considered beautiful. Of course, I was still a pretty thin and muscular kid at the time with barely any curves and I was, in fact, quite pretty. But I had no idea then how intense that disconnect between my perception and my reality would become; back then I had only a small sense of imperfection, one that later grew to astronomical proportions that, in the end, fueled my compulsive eating and my subsequent hatred of my body.

But it was back then, in those early days of uncomfortable self-awareness that my mom's friend Jan said something I've never forgotten. Jan was a wonderful woman, warm and loud and funny. She was also round and soft and hug-able (at least to my 11-year-old self) like my mother. We were visiting Jan and she was showing my mother a fashion magazine full of leggy and scrawny models and said, "It's no wonder all those models look like 17-year-old boys; the designers are all gay men!"

Mild homophobia aside, she had a point. Fashion designers (many of whom are decidedly NOT gay men) do not design clothes for women's bodies. They design clothes for the bodies of extremely tall and extremely thin young men.

I've spoken to fashion designers about this. The standard answer that I've heard repeatedly is, "But on those bodies, the clothes hang beautifully." And there--right fucking ther--is the problem: clothes HANG on hangers; clothes should be WORN beautifully.

The reality show Project Runway had an episode in the third season that required the designers to make clothes for the mothers and sisters of the other designers--none of whom were models. (You can read about the episode and see the designs here.) Several of the moms were plus sized--by fashion standards--and the things the designers said! Lordy. You would have thought that they were being asked to design clothes for serial killers; the vitriol and disgust was horrid.

I have yet to meet a designer that makes clothes for the bodies of real women. A perfect example is the low-cut pant (by low-cut I mean the "waist" is actually down somewhere around the hips--it's entirely possible that I have my terminology wrong). Everyone wears them these days--I mean, it's not really like we've had a choice. I haven't been able to find a pair of jeans that had a "normal" waist (except at KMart and they had an elastic waistband) in years. But how many women actually look good in them? Any woman who has actual hips--you know, that part of the female anatomy that is a bit wider than the waist so that it can fit a BABY in there--look awful. The pants cut into the the hips in an unflattering way, causing "muffin top" syndrome on even skinny women (that woman would look stunning in pair of normal jeans). Put those pants on someone shaped like me--someone who not only has hips and a butt but also suffers from an unflattering flabby stomach--and you've got someone who can't button her pants without causing actual pain.

What galls me most about this is that when you ask designers about it, instead of actually making clothes that fit the round shapes of women's bodies, they instead sneer and suggest diets and exhibit actual signs of nausea at the idea of designing clothes for fat women. I know. I've watched their faces.

For five years I worked at an art college that offered a fashion design major. I enjoyed the annual fashion show (it was the senior thesis show), but each year I had to endure the parade of unreasonably tall and gangly young women that came to audition to model for the show (they always ended up lost in my store). But a couple of years ago some women that could be called almost "normal" appeared; while still tall, they were much more shapely and feminine. It turned out that one senior had decided to create her thesis around plus-sized women. I knew the student, in fact I thought she was lovely, so it was with great excitement that I attended the fashion show that year.

But what did she make her "plus sized" models wear? Overalls. And not only overalls, but overalls shorts with poofy, pleated, and gathered legs. Clothes no fat woman--hell, no woman--I know would EVER wear.

It's no wonder as a "woman of size" that I find shopping for clothes so horrid. Even in my thinner stages of life (you know, like the last time I was a size 18) I find shopping difficult, but when I'm bigger? Like now? It's just nightmarish. Besides the fact that I am not happy with how I look, most clothes are actually uncomfortable for me.

Most plus-sized fashions are merely larger versions of "normal" sizes. Rare is the clothing designer that take into account the actual shape of larger women's bodies, making the clothes wider in some areas and not in others. So a shirt that fits over my breasts and belly comfortably often has the shoulder seam about half way down to my elbow, with the "short" sleeves coming to the elbow. Or jeans that fit my waist and hips but are massively baggy in the legs. (Oddly enough, Old Navy was one of the places that did adjust the fit accordingly in their plus-sized line, but then they negated all that good will by removing their plus-sized clothes from the actual stores, making them only available on line.) I find this infuriating and find myself often in a dressing room staring at clothes that fit in some places but don't in others, making me look awful. AWFUL.

I don't really want much. I want shirts that go past my waist and down to my hips, offering a little coverage of my least flattering attribute, my large belly. I want pants that don't pinch at the waist but don't bag around my legs. I want skirts that hang past my belly and don't cling to it. Why is this too much to ask?

Lucky for me I don't actually have the money to go shopping these day. Right now, as the weather gets cooler, I'm making do with that pair of jeans from KMart with the elastic waist and dreading hitting the stores. There may be some designers that make flattering clothes for fat women (I'm sure you will all point me toward some), but the rare ones I've found have been far out of my price range. So I will make do with what I find. But I'm not looking forward to it.