Controversy about women's clothing sizes--and women's body sizes--is well known to any woman, whether cute young fashionista or mall-shopping grandmother. Part of the shopping experience is the absolute necessity of trying on jeans and trousers before purchase.
The occasional knit top might be bought on the fly, but a garment that has to fit the hips and tummy, plus the legs (in both circumference and length), requires a fitting room with a three-way mirror, plus an armload of possibilities for trying on, probably in several different sizes, because sizing is ephemeral.
The famous New York chain store which anchors our local mall has set up its in-house brands so that I fit into a size 8. Very flattering, except that similar garments in fashion brands not made under the store's label, I fit into a 10. And then there's Levi Strauss, the blue jeans I have worn throughout my life, starting way back when they were still made in San Francisco, and I was living there.
My first pair of grown-up Levi's, rigid denim with a daisy label inside proclaiming "for girls" was purchased circa 1970, and worn until motherhood, and waistline expansion, sent them to the Goodwill. I've gotten more than a few pairs since then, and I've always known approximately where I fit on the size scale through the years.
And then yesterday I discovered that the size 14 petite Levis from last year are exactly the same as the size 12 petite Levis from this year. Both are about the same as the size 8 (with hemmed-up legs) from the famous New York store.
There has been a lot of talk about size 0 models over the last few years, and folks like me have wondered how anyone can really be size 0.
According to my clothes-buying experience, the new size 8 is the old size 14 of 30 years ago, so this paradigm follows, new sizing on the left, old sizing on the right:
12 = 18 10 = 16 8 = 14 6 = 12 4 = 10 2 = 8 0 = 6
I suspect that Levi Strauss may have been one of the last holdouts against "vanity sizing" and now even they have given up.
We aren't really getting thinner, ladies. Our clothes are getting bigger!
Showing posts with label Random Thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random Thoughts. Show all posts
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Random Thoughts - Economics and Houses
First, let me admit that I'm almost a senior citizen--and I've been an observer of the U.S. economy for 30 years or so.
Back when we were young, in the mid-1970's, my husband and I moved to Texas with our baby daughter after he finished his military service. We came here because of the unbeatable combination of a job offer and a city with affordable housing and several good universities. Our plan was to find an affordable house, pay on it for a few years while my husband finished his degree, and then move on. We managed all of it except the moving on part, and we still live in the small house we bought then.
Why didn't we ever "move up" as we had planned? Simply because the economic situation in the United States changed. Our original mortgage was governed by usury laws in the state of Texas, capping a "floating" interest rate at 10%. Two years later, that law and all similar ones across the country, was rescinded by the U.S. government under Ronald Reagan. New mortgages were at about 18% interest, or more, when we looked at "move up" housing.
And of course, there were the Realtors to contend with. Before we bought our first home, we planned our finances carefully, and then we toured the city with two different Realtors, from two different agencies.
With both of them, we were very honest about the size of the mortgage we wanted. And neither of them showed us a single thing within the parameters of our chosen debt limits. One of them showed us houses that were 20-25% higher in price than what we wanted to see, and the other showed us houses that were 10-15% higher.
Then my husband, a dedicated jogger, found our current neighborhood a few miles from our apartment, and we checked out all the "For Sale" signs and found a house that fit both our chosen debt limits and our other requirements.
Both of the Realtors who had shown us the houses beyond our means called a few weeks later, and we told them that we had found our home, within our price range, thank you very much.
Based on that admittedly limited experience, I would say that pushing a home-buying client to accept more debt than planned is probably a long-standing standard practice in the Real Estate profession. A practice that got out of hand in recent years, but a standard practice nevertheless.
Another point: back when we bought our home, we bought it to live in. We wanted a roof over our heads and a safe place for our daughter to play outside. Our apartment rent was a major outlay each month, and due to rise on a regular basis every six months; replacing it with house payments of approximately the same size seemed like a good choice, since we expected to stay in the area for awhile.
Somehow, in recent years, the home became transmuted from a shelter into a piggy bank. The idea of staying in a house to raise a family shifted into selling a house at a profit. A big, fancy house that was not really affordable was OK, because you weren't really planning to stay there, only to sell it at a higher price to the next buyer, get a pile of money, and get an even bigger unaffordable house, to sell on to another buyer.
All of which neatly fit into the above-mentioned standard practice of encouraging a buyer to accept a bigger mortgage than he or she really planned on.
Now we've reached the point where housing prices have topped out, and are going downhill, because (as we might have expected), at a certain point the upward spiral has to stop. In the end, a home is shelter. And even in good economic times, there is a limit to what folks can afford to pay for shelter.
There has been a lot of moaning about how the American public has been too greedy and too selfish to think and plan ahead, and has taken on more debt than was wise. But it seems to me that the whole home-buying environment has been polluted for some time.
Back when we were young, in the mid-1970's, my husband and I moved to Texas with our baby daughter after he finished his military service. We came here because of the unbeatable combination of a job offer and a city with affordable housing and several good universities. Our plan was to find an affordable house, pay on it for a few years while my husband finished his degree, and then move on. We managed all of it except the moving on part, and we still live in the small house we bought then.
Why didn't we ever "move up" as we had planned? Simply because the economic situation in the United States changed. Our original mortgage was governed by usury laws in the state of Texas, capping a "floating" interest rate at 10%. Two years later, that law and all similar ones across the country, was rescinded by the U.S. government under Ronald Reagan. New mortgages were at about 18% interest, or more, when we looked at "move up" housing.
And of course, there were the Realtors to contend with. Before we bought our first home, we planned our finances carefully, and then we toured the city with two different Realtors, from two different agencies.
With both of them, we were very honest about the size of the mortgage we wanted. And neither of them showed us a single thing within the parameters of our chosen debt limits. One of them showed us houses that were 20-25% higher in price than what we wanted to see, and the other showed us houses that were 10-15% higher.
Then my husband, a dedicated jogger, found our current neighborhood a few miles from our apartment, and we checked out all the "For Sale" signs and found a house that fit both our chosen debt limits and our other requirements.
Both of the Realtors who had shown us the houses beyond our means called a few weeks later, and we told them that we had found our home, within our price range, thank you very much.
Based on that admittedly limited experience, I would say that pushing a home-buying client to accept more debt than planned is probably a long-standing standard practice in the Real Estate profession. A practice that got out of hand in recent years, but a standard practice nevertheless.
Another point: back when we bought our home, we bought it to live in. We wanted a roof over our heads and a safe place for our daughter to play outside. Our apartment rent was a major outlay each month, and due to rise on a regular basis every six months; replacing it with house payments of approximately the same size seemed like a good choice, since we expected to stay in the area for awhile.
Somehow, in recent years, the home became transmuted from a shelter into a piggy bank. The idea of staying in a house to raise a family shifted into selling a house at a profit. A big, fancy house that was not really affordable was OK, because you weren't really planning to stay there, only to sell it at a higher price to the next buyer, get a pile of money, and get an even bigger unaffordable house, to sell on to another buyer.
All of which neatly fit into the above-mentioned standard practice of encouraging a buyer to accept a bigger mortgage than he or she really planned on.
Now we've reached the point where housing prices have topped out, and are going downhill, because (as we might have expected), at a certain point the upward spiral has to stop. In the end, a home is shelter. And even in good economic times, there is a limit to what folks can afford to pay for shelter.
There has been a lot of moaning about how the American public has been too greedy and too selfish to think and plan ahead, and has taken on more debt than was wise. But it seems to me that the whole home-buying environment has been polluted for some time.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Farewell to Billy Bob
Our beloved cat Billy Bob was put to sleep this afternoon. He had been slowly failing for several months (we see in retrospect), and reached the critical point on Saturday (two days ago). We took him into the Burnet Road Animal Hospital (where he has many fans), but the treatment he was given did not improve his condition. We had the choice of having him die at home, slowly and inevitably, over the next 48 hours, or ending his suffering quickly. We have chosen the latter.
We will miss him; he was an intelligent, gregarious feline who loved people, scorned dogs, and had his own unique way of doing things. If there is a life beyond this, we know that he is reunited with Richard Beck, who befriended and named Billy Bob in his kittenhood. Mr. Beck was in his 90's when he passed away (just a week before his wife's death), and Billy Bob came to us shortly afterwards.
This cool little dude-cat received pats from many of the neighborhood joggers every evening, and was known to make daily rounds of several back gardens besides our own. We were privileged, however, to be the family that he chose as his own.
Peace to his spirit, wherever it may be.
We will miss him; he was an intelligent, gregarious feline who loved people, scorned dogs, and had his own unique way of doing things. If there is a life beyond this, we know that he is reunited with Richard Beck, who befriended and named Billy Bob in his kittenhood. Mr. Beck was in his 90's when he passed away (just a week before his wife's death), and Billy Bob came to us shortly afterwards.
This cool little dude-cat received pats from many of the neighborhood joggers every evening, and was known to make daily rounds of several back gardens besides our own. We were privileged, however, to be the family that he chose as his own.
Peace to his spirit, wherever it may be.
Visiting Germany
We returned from our visit to Germany a few days ago, and I must say that our daughter and new son-in-law, plus all his assorted family members, did their very best to make us feel welcome. A long Sunday afternoon spent driving through the beautiful country of the Weinstrasse, a couple of dinners in the new apartment, plus lots of walking and exploring on our own, kept us busy.
Several of the other family members who made the trip were traveling outside the U.S. for the first time, and I hope that they enjoyed themselves, and have recovered from the "culture shock" of not having ice cubes automatically served in their soft drinks--even on a hot day!
More later...
Several of the other family members who made the trip were traveling outside the U.S. for the first time, and I hope that they enjoyed themselves, and have recovered from the "culture shock" of not having ice cubes automatically served in their soft drinks--even on a hot day!
More later...
Saturday, July 5, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOUNTAIN LADY !
Two little sisters and a little red wagon, in a California garden in 1948 . . .
This baby grew up to be beautiful, intelligent, fun-loving and strong. Her big sister is just as proud of her now as she was then, sixty years ago.
Today I wish that she may always be happy in her mountaintop home, and that her own children and grandchildren may bring her the joy that she has always given to others.
Many happy returns of the day -- tomorrow !
Friday, June 27, 2008
A special visit--and a special dress
This week we have been enjoying a lovely visit from a designer friend of Larissa's, who has turned our family room into an atelier, complete with busy sewing machine, lowly assistants (Larissa and her mom) and yards of silk organza. Today the bridal gown is taking its final shape. This is a big thank-you to this wonderful person, who wishes not to be named, not only for her expertise, but for her friendly presence all week.
In her current life, our friend designs little boys' clothing, which does not involve any use of delicate silk or dainty pleating, so a bridal dress, she says, is a welcome change of pace.
Watch this blog for photos of the final creation, making its appearance in August!
In her current life, our friend designs little boys' clothing, which does not involve any use of delicate silk or dainty pleating, so a bridal dress, she says, is a welcome change of pace.
Watch this blog for photos of the final creation, making its appearance in August!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
A Child's Visit to Boston and other memories
Cleaning out drawers today in preparation for getting furniture ready to move for the new carpeting job. (Carpet will be "Native Colors" a soft brown in Karastan's "Divisadero" line, with little flecks of red and blue-gray in the brown, to help hide stains.)
Found a little collection of my daughter's souvenirs of her trip to Boston, Massachusetts, when she was about 6 or 7, when my sister was working at the M.I.T. library, and my mother made her a visit. It seemed a perfect opportunity to give our daughter the experience of an important historical American city to which she has some very old family ties, especially with her grandmother there to retrace some of the ancestral footsteps.
My mother first went to Boston with her mother just before World War II. My grandfather decided his wife needed a break, but he couldn't go with her.
It was the year that her only nephew, Carl Beyer, had died in a car crash, and she had spent months "being strong" for her widowed sister, Carl's mother, and Kay, Carl's young wife, who had two small children.
It was also the year that my mother, approaching 30 and still childless after nearly 10 years of marriage, had suffered yet another miscarriage.
It seemed the perfect time to send these two women away, to give them time to make an extended car trip "back East" to visit friends and family. I believe they set out in June or July and returned at the end of November. They were able to put four new tires on the car just two weeks before Pearl Harbor day, and the onset of rubber rationing.
During that trip East, my grandmother had been able to visit the small Wadsworth family cemetery in New York state where her father's mother was buried, and take away with her, at the cemetery keeper's suggestion, the wedding picture of her maternal grandmother (a small metal daguerrotype) that was loosely set in the tombstone above her grave. (This grandmother, Sarah Elmina Wadsworth Butler, had died young, leaving her baby son, Marsden Butler, to be raised by a pair of childless aunts.)
With this Wadsworth connection, of course my little daughter came home with a book of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poems for children, but she also had a full tour of the House of Seven Gables, climbed the steps of Bunker Hill, made a little wooly sheep at Old Sturbridge Village, visited Old North Church (and heard about Paul Revere's ride), and "helped" her grandmother piece a quilt. Quite a series of adventures for a young child! And today I found the little paper bag of all her souvenirs. Of course I will put it away until her next visit, when she can choose for herself what is most precious to her.
And I also tucked inside the bag her very first report card from kindergarten, showing that she was learning well, but was a little shy. Probably just the way she is today.
I wish her well on all her adventures in her new marriage and her new home in Germany. Visiting Boston was only the first step in a life of travel, it seems!
Found a little collection of my daughter's souvenirs of her trip to Boston, Massachusetts, when she was about 6 or 7, when my sister was working at the M.I.T. library, and my mother made her a visit. It seemed a perfect opportunity to give our daughter the experience of an important historical American city to which she has some very old family ties, especially with her grandmother there to retrace some of the ancestral footsteps.
My mother first went to Boston with her mother just before World War II. My grandfather decided his wife needed a break, but he couldn't go with her.
It was the year that her only nephew, Carl Beyer, had died in a car crash, and she had spent months "being strong" for her widowed sister, Carl's mother, and Kay, Carl's young wife, who had two small children.
It was also the year that my mother, approaching 30 and still childless after nearly 10 years of marriage, had suffered yet another miscarriage.
It seemed the perfect time to send these two women away, to give them time to make an extended car trip "back East" to visit friends and family. I believe they set out in June or July and returned at the end of November. They were able to put four new tires on the car just two weeks before Pearl Harbor day, and the onset of rubber rationing.
During that trip East, my grandmother had been able to visit the small Wadsworth family cemetery in New York state where her father's mother was buried, and take away with her, at the cemetery keeper's suggestion, the wedding picture of her maternal grandmother (a small metal daguerrotype) that was loosely set in the tombstone above her grave. (This grandmother, Sarah Elmina Wadsworth Butler, had died young, leaving her baby son, Marsden Butler, to be raised by a pair of childless aunts.)
With this Wadsworth connection, of course my little daughter came home with a book of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poems for children, but she also had a full tour of the House of Seven Gables, climbed the steps of Bunker Hill, made a little wooly sheep at Old Sturbridge Village, visited Old North Church (and heard about Paul Revere's ride), and "helped" her grandmother piece a quilt. Quite a series of adventures for a young child! And today I found the little paper bag of all her souvenirs. Of course I will put it away until her next visit, when she can choose for herself what is most precious to her.
And I also tucked inside the bag her very first report card from kindergarten, showing that she was learning well, but was a little shy. Probably just the way she is today.
I wish her well on all her adventures in her new marriage and her new home in Germany. Visiting Boston was only the first step in a life of travel, it seems!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
How did St. Nicholas become Santa Claus?
A friend from Germany once asked me how St. Nicholas (ascetic Bishop of the early church in Asia Minor, feast day Dec. 6th, known as the patron saint and protector of children) became Santa Claus (jolly old elf with red suit, a big round tummy and a chuckling laugh, flying the world on Dec. 25th with 8 tiny reindeer, or 9 if NORAD's reports are to be believed).
In Germany, gifts are apparently left under the tree by the Christ Child, and St. Nicholas has a separate role at the beginning of the Christmas season, while the Wise Men end the Christmas celebrations on January 6th--just one month from St. Nicholas' day.
Santa Claus is a uniquely American character, rising out of a uniquely American history.
Simply put, the earliest English settlers who came to what we call New England did not celebrate Christmas. They scorned the traditional English Christmas--feasting and caroling and wassailing and other such celebratory actions were just pagan nonsense, dressed up in a highly suspect Christian guise. They were Puritans, remember, and they wanted to purify their church: no carved gargoyles, no incense, no gold-embroidered vestments. And especially no parties at Christmas. If it is one of the holiest days on the Christian calendar, then surely Christians ought to be at church, on their knees, repenting of their sins rather than piling up new ones.
At least that was the thinking. And so celebrating Christmas was formally outlawed in Massachusetts (the oldest New England colony) from 1689 until 1856. By the time the girls in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women were coming down to breakfast to find Christmas presents on their table, Christmas celebrations had been legal for less than a generation in the author's home state.
Of course, the Puritans and their descendants did not all stay in Massachusetts. The inexorable pull of the west meant that some of them eventually drifted into New York--the colony that had once been Dutch. And they began bumping into Dutch Christmas customs: gingerbread cookies and Sinter Klaas, among others.
The descendants of Puritans had no remnants of "Father Christmas" in their handed-down English traditions. Christmas was for them a day of prayer, and Saint Nicholas/Sinter Klaas/Santa Claus came to them as a tradition of the newly-amalgamated American nation, a tradition first borrowed from Dutch origins and put into American form in 1823 (with numerous reprintings thereafter) in the poem called "A Visit From Saint Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore, who had been educated at New York's Columbia University. By 1870, Moore's St. Nicholas had been transmuted into the department-store Santa Claus at Macy's, a flagship Manhattan store both then and now.
The change from Sinter Klaas to Santa Claus--from a Dutch celebration of an ancient saint's feast day to an American celebration of Christmas--happened in the 19th century, and by the age of television in the 20th century, our own American Santa Claus was ready to conquer the world, one child at a time...
Which proves that festivities in the dark of the year have a certain attraction for us all, even the descendants of Puritans.
In Germany, gifts are apparently left under the tree by the Christ Child, and St. Nicholas has a separate role at the beginning of the Christmas season, while the Wise Men end the Christmas celebrations on January 6th--just one month from St. Nicholas' day.
Santa Claus is a uniquely American character, rising out of a uniquely American history.
Simply put, the earliest English settlers who came to what we call New England did not celebrate Christmas. They scorned the traditional English Christmas--feasting and caroling and wassailing and other such celebratory actions were just pagan nonsense, dressed up in a highly suspect Christian guise. They were Puritans, remember, and they wanted to purify their church: no carved gargoyles, no incense, no gold-embroidered vestments. And especially no parties at Christmas. If it is one of the holiest days on the Christian calendar, then surely Christians ought to be at church, on their knees, repenting of their sins rather than piling up new ones.
At least that was the thinking. And so celebrating Christmas was formally outlawed in Massachusetts (the oldest New England colony) from 1689 until 1856. By the time the girls in Louisa May Alcott's Little Women were coming down to breakfast to find Christmas presents on their table, Christmas celebrations had been legal for less than a generation in the author's home state.
Of course, the Puritans and their descendants did not all stay in Massachusetts. The inexorable pull of the west meant that some of them eventually drifted into New York--the colony that had once been Dutch. And they began bumping into Dutch Christmas customs: gingerbread cookies and Sinter Klaas, among others.
The descendants of Puritans had no remnants of "Father Christmas" in their handed-down English traditions. Christmas was for them a day of prayer, and Saint Nicholas/Sinter Klaas/Santa Claus came to them as a tradition of the newly-amalgamated American nation, a tradition first borrowed from Dutch origins and put into American form in 1823 (with numerous reprintings thereafter) in the poem called "A Visit From Saint Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore, who had been educated at New York's Columbia University. By 1870, Moore's St. Nicholas had been transmuted into the department-store Santa Claus at Macy's, a flagship Manhattan store both then and now.
The change from Sinter Klaas to Santa Claus--from a Dutch celebration of an ancient saint's feast day to an American celebration of Christmas--happened in the 19th century, and by the age of television in the 20th century, our own American Santa Claus was ready to conquer the world, one child at a time...
Which proves that festivities in the dark of the year have a certain attraction for us all, even the descendants of Puritans.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Winter Solstice
Last night the wind was blowing, the temperature was dropping, and I was thinking, "Thank goodness I don't have to go out tomorrow!" Today the sun is shining, taking off that 27-degree chill quite rapidly, and it might actually become a nice day. But I still don't have to go out if I don't want to... I can sit in my pajamas with the cat at my feet and try out this new blog.
Here in Texas the turning of the seasons is not quite the big deal it becomes further north. We have 80 degree weather until one day a "blue norther" blows in, and suddenly it becomes winter for a few days. But we never have to put away the short-sleeved shirts, or put on the snow tires.
We celebrate, however, in the same ways our northern ancestors did. A tree with lights. A carol service. Candles and spiced wassail. Yet a few southern traditions, more in keeping with the weather, belong to us too. A posadas procession. Luminarias along the edge of a pathway. A pinata for the children and long, slow barbecue for dinner.
Season's Greetings to all!
Here in Texas the turning of the seasons is not quite the big deal it becomes further north. We have 80 degree weather until one day a "blue norther" blows in, and suddenly it becomes winter for a few days. But we never have to put away the short-sleeved shirts, or put on the snow tires.
We celebrate, however, in the same ways our northern ancestors did. A tree with lights. A carol service. Candles and spiced wassail. Yet a few southern traditions, more in keeping with the weather, belong to us too. A posadas procession. Luminarias along the edge of a pathway. A pinata for the children and long, slow barbecue for dinner.
Season's Greetings to all!
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