You wouldn’t know it to look at me (daily uniform: jeans and American Apparel t-shirts), but I adore fashion. After nearly 19 years of being married to an artist, who is also the world’s best web designer, I have become a design snob. Everything from fashion to architecture to interior design to website design will be judged, often harshly. Heck, I’m even a font snob. (Perennial favorite: American Typewriter because it reminds me of the old manual typewriter I used to write my stories on; House Industries’ fonts are beyond cool; but don’t even get me started on the over-use of Exocet and Papyrus!)

I’m usually not a fan of reality shows or contest shows. Quite frankly I could literally not care less about the hair-cutting or cooking contests. But I loves me some “Project Runway!” Last season was rather lackluster and my favorite (Carol Hannah) didn’t win, but this season is shaping up very well indeed. I mostly like Emilio; Amy seems to be quite original; Seth Aaron is as cool as Jeffrey without all the distracting tattoos; but my favorite is Mila Hermanovski.

Mila is awesome–she’s cool, attractive, hip, and around my age. Her designs are strong and interesting; she knows how to draw inspiration from the tiniest of clues and seems to have a real sense of vision. However, she doesn’t get a lot of respect from the other designers. Every twenty-something on the show sees him- or herself as a wunderkind, the next Christian Siriano. Anybody approaching or firmly in middle-age just cannot possibly be any good! You know what? Christian was a one-off. Very rarely do these youngsters have a firm design aesthetic, they simply haven’t had the time to develop one.

So Mila’s first “mistake” was being a middle-aged woman. Middle-age is far more acceptable on a man than on a woman, so men around Mila’s age or older aren’t looked down upon as too old to be hip or cool or fashion-forward. Women, on the other hand, are often dismissed as “too old” and past their “use-by date” when we reach middle-age. It’s ok to ignore us and diminish our accomplishments if we aren’t fresh and nubile anymore.

Mila made a bigger mistake. The inexcusable crime of being self-confident while female. When a man is self-confident or over-confident, people will use words to condemn his behavior–cocky, arrogant. If a woman exhibits the exact same traits, people will use words to impugn her character, her very person–bitch, whore.

If we, as women, don’t diminish our own accomplishments, there will always be others only too happy to do it for us. If we achieve and excel we are expected to be coquette-ish about it. We adopt an “aw-shucks” demeanor, looking at the ground as we dig a dainty hole in it with a dainty toe. We bat our lashes and give all the credit to providence, luck, and all the other people without whom we would be nothing. If we say, as men would, “Hell yeah, I’m good!” we are reviled and someone needs to make an example of us.

This week, poor Mila stated that none of the other designers were interested in how well she was doing before, but she’s getting along with them in workroom now because she’s “more centered” whatever that means.

I think something happened, maybe not a big something, maybe a series of small somethings. There are petty but cruel ways others have to let a woman know when she’s stepped out of line. The lack of congratulations when you do well, the blank stares when they see you’re still there, the likely shunning in communal spaces.

My hope is in all this “centering” that has taken place, Mila hasn’t become humbled, that she hasn’t lost her self-confidence. I hope that she’s simply learned to conceal it a little better, as so many of us have learned to do. It’s a bad lesson to learn when we find out just how different the rules are governing women vs. those concerning men.

Mila Hermanovski is a talented, strong designer and I hope she wins. I hope, out of support and sheer cussedness, that she shows up all the young doubters.

Yeah, go Mila, win this for the cool-middle-aged-woman team!

It strikes me that there are certain things that grown women do that are better suited to teenagers. Things like read silly vampire books, wear skinny jeans, and over-inflate the worth of Valentine’s Day.

Why do grown women do these silly, teenager-y things? Probably to recapture some lost sense of youth. Perhaps the passing years have done to their girlish spirits what gravity has done to their girlish figures. Years of dealing with a harsh, cold world with little regard for the human heart can really grind a person down.

Perhaps their relationships are deeply unfulfilling. We have all sorts of fanciful notions about life and love when we are achingly young. Especially if life and love treats us kindly when we are young. If you have a sweet and passionate love affair while in the throes of adolescence, then the every-day realities of grown-up love can seem to pale in comparison to the unicorns and cloud-castles of first love. There was a reason Romeo and Juliet were teenagers.

Valentine’s Day may be the only time of the year when matrons feel like maidens once again. If women are partnered, sadly, with men who ignore them or worse, Valentine’s may be the only day on which they can be assured of their husbands’ attentions and affections. One single day that reminds them of first love and possibilities, of shoe boxes filled with cards and chalky candy hearts, of steamed-up car windows and the fear-thrill of maybe being caught.

My son (age 7) loves Valentine’s Day! Everyone in class decorates bags and then gets cards and treats from every single other child in their class. No exceptions, no one left out. I heartily approve of this because when I went to school, it was strictly law of the jungle, babe.

Back in my day, teachers and administrators seemed reluctant to intervene in the kid pecking order. Given enough time, and sufficient lack of supervision, recess would devolve into a mini-Lord of the Flies-scenario. For me, Valentine’s Day was only one more reminder of just how unpopular I was. Other girls’ shoeboxes would be so full the lids would not quite close. My paltry take would rattle around in the bottom and many of them bore messages clearly indicating the sender was being forced to give me said valentine.

Then, when I was a little older, one of my aunts told me that her sons (my cousins) had a habit of breaking up with girlfriends before Valentine’s Day so they wouldn’t have to buy gifts. This reinforced my impression of V-Day, that it is just a manufactured holiday designed to force displays of affection, even if they are feigned.

The media and Hollywood have convinced us that we need these cheap, manufactured gestures to prove that we are loved. Silly me, I always thought that simple consideration for each other and every day affirmations of our feelings for one another prove that we are loved. Nothing says “I love you” like saying “I love you.”

To the poor women out there who hold out for that one day a year when he’ll finally have to look at you instead of the game, take you out to dinner instead of being ungrateful for every meal you make, and spend time with you instead of with his whatever-buddies, you deserve more.

To all the men out there who would rather do anything else than spend time with their wives, rather hang out with fishing-buddies or poker-buddies as opposed to their girlfriends, or begrudge the women in their lives this one day of consideration, shame on you. Seriously, who do you think is going to take care of you if you, say, have a stroke. Do you think your poker-buddies are going to spoon-feed you or wipe your butt? No, if something life-changing should befall you, they will shake their heads, say “did you hear about poor Jim?” and thank their lucky stars they aren’t you.

You know those awful, insipid “chick flicks” she drags you to? She’s trying to show you the kind of romantic behavior she would appreciate from you. And I guarantee that if you pay attention to her everyday, actually say the words “I love you” to her everyday, make tiny gestures of affection everyday, and exhibit actual (not feigned) interest in her life, you won’t ever be dragged to another chick flick.

Personally, I don’t like movies about “romance”, I prefer movies about relationships, human contact, because it is that human contact that fuels us. We need human contact as much as we need food, water, or air. Without it, we die.

Mr. Prairie is very good at the day-to-day maintenance of love. Not a day goes by without an affirmation that he loves me and that I am beautiful. And yesterday, while I was at work, he thoroughly cleaned the kitchen. That man will never have to see a “chick flick” he doesn’t want to see, ever.

It’s not entirely some kind of big favor on my part. When given the choice, I rarely choose the chick flick, I’ll usually go with the sci-fi, the super-hero, or the gothic horror.

Not that we go to a lot of grown-up movies. Getting someone to watch both our kids at the same time is a bit of a production. My parents will do so occasionally but I don’t want to go to that well too often. So while we won’t be going out to the movies this weekend, I know which one I’d being seeing if we were: Wolfman.

You can keep your sparkly vampires, werewolves are awesome!

Bigfoot has been part of my life since I was a little girl. My first memories of watching television consist of two things: Sesame Street and the Patterson film. I was five when I first saw the Patterson film on TV, and it is so firmly impressed in my psyche that I can even picture the pajamas I was wearing when I watched it. My parents probably didn’t exhibit the best judgment on that one (but who am I to say, both my kids have seen it, too). And I’m pretty sure they regretted it later, especially when I made my daddy cut down the Bigfoot-shaped tree outside my bedroom window!

Later, we moved to a small town, into a housing addition at the edge of the country. Neighborhood legend claimed a monster lived back in the woods beyond the barbed wire at the end of our dead-end street. I would lie awake at night listening for him, but only heard trains and coyotes. There were a few times when I ventured into the wilderness, well as wilderness as my Girl Scout leader would allow. At night I kept my eyes tightly shut so I wouldn’t see Bigfoot’s shadow on my tent wall.

I’ve always insisted that curtains and blinds be closed after dark, “so Bigfoot doesn’t see me.” Although why I’m being so solicitous of Bigfoot’s sensibilities doesn’t make a lot of sense. But neither does my fear/fascination with him.

My peers have always had a lot of fun at my expense because of this Sasquatch-a-phobia. Several of the boys from my church youth group made a short Bigfoot mockumentary on a group trip to the Kiamichi mountains that I had to miss. Whenever we would see a large, hairy man driving by, my ex-friend and I would shriek, “It’s Bigfoot!”  Let’s hope none of them ever heard our display of extreme immaturity.

After the Patterson film came out, Bigfoot enjoyed a brief flurry  of pop culture attention. Then he largely faded into the background once again. Harry and The Hendersons tried to revive wide-spread interest in Sasquatch but, alas, it was a very stupid movie.

The past five years or so have been a veritable renaissance in all things Bigfoot. Once relegated by the media to northern California and the Pacific Northwest, sightings of Bigfoot and all his smelly cousins are being reported in every state except Hawaii. He goes by different names: skunk ape, Fouke monster, grass man, and let’s not forget his Tibetan cousin, Yeti.

Monster-hunting shows are always looking for Bigfoot, one was even set here in Oklahoma (in those same Kiamichi Mountains!). You can now buy Bigfoot greeting cards,  Christmas ornaments, and toys. And don’t forget that Yeti has been a part of Christmas ever since Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer came out! In fact, there are so many cool Abominable Snowman and Bigfoot-themed Christmas items, that I will be having myself a Yeti Little Christmas for 2010. Anyone who wants to receive our Sasquatch Christmas cards needs to let me know early.

Anyway, after all these years fearing Bigfoot, it’s time I address that fear, and him, directly:

Dear Bigfoot,

Look, I know you’re shy, a lot of big guys are self-conscious of their size. There’s no reason to be ashamed. Maybe it’s the language barrier, or the smell. It’s nothing a bar of soap can’t handle, and an ape named KoKo learned sign language and you are lots smarter than that dame. Perhaps it has something to do with all that bad press in the 70’s.

The Legend of Boggy Creek didn’t cast you in the best light, and don’t even get me started on Creature From Black Lake! But I think your nadir had to be your dubious appearance on The Six Million Dollar Man. Talk about your dark-night-of-the-soul, that had to hurt.

I know there was a half-hearted attempt in the 80’s to cast you as a gentle giant, all vegan and crap. But nobody bought it, it’s just not reasonable to suppose you got that big just eating twigs and berries.

If you haven’t been keeping up with your press (maybe you need a better agent), let me tell you it’s on the upswing right now. Frank Peretti wrote a book called Monster, he even made you the Big Hero. (Side note to Frank Peretti–if you want to disprove Darwinian evolutionary theory, making your hero gigantopithecus, not the best idea. Seriously, Frank, if my buddy Sasquatch is so adapted to his environment that he is virtually undetectable, then he pretty much proves that whole survival of the fittest thing.)  There are all these TV shows about you; you’re even selling beef jerky these days. And then there’s that whole Official Olympics Mascot-thing!

I think now is the time to go public. You couldn’t ask for a better time, look how well your buddies, the cavemen, are doing!

Anyway, when you’re ready, just let me know. I’ll try not to freak out.

Signed, Burning Prairie.