Call me Aubergine.
My girlfriend Sharon stopped by with her three girls Allie, Ruthie & Gretchen yesterday; since we were eighteen year old freshmen at the University of Tennessee, Sharon has always reminded me of sister Dana and to have them both here at once, plus all five of the little girls was a ticklish encounter. The children all piled up in my big yummy king size bed looked like wild-haired flowers with toothy smiles and flashing eyes posing before Sharon's camera. They are all uniquely beautiful, like their mothers.
Sharon brought by some maternity clothes, some of which I rejected (no basic crew neck tees, please! No golf shirts with collars and no baggy-ass britches!). Dana and Sharon, two peas in a self-assured, responsible, respectable pod, rolled their eyes and commented that in the last month or so of my pregnancy I'd simply be grateful for anything that fit. I'm particularly peculiar, or peculiarly particular, I know. The Beloved Mister does not do buttons, and Ms. Booty does not do crew necks. Or bad coffee.... but don't let me get started on that!
One outfit I declared would be too small as it's a size medium, is a deep plummy purple-- a stretchy knit pants & top with a keyhole opening just above the bosom -- ("She'll like that," declared my sister, "She likes to work the cleavage action." "Yeah," said Sharon, "It's just a little sexy; good for showers or going out.")
The outfit is not too small, but fitted as I prefer. And they're right, I rather like it, even if I claim an uncanny resemblance to an eggplant: curvy, rounded and a peculiar poison to those unable to get down with the nightshade family.