Because 78 glorious years ago today, the great and good people of this great nation ratified the lovely, lovely 21st Amendment which repealed the terrible, awful, no-good, very bad 18th Amendment, thus putting an end to Prohibition.

There’s a funny familial story about Prohibition that’s been floating around the Plumcake Family Mythology for nearly 80 years.

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of Yonkers, New York a young Salvation Army officer by the name of Miss Plumcake’s Nana discovered her fun-loving and all-around less stick-in-the-mud younger sister had snuck off to some speakeasy in the city and was dancing the night away. My Nana, who could out-damp even the soggiest of bed coverings, was outraged and her anger was not lessened when she discovered her one good dress –her Confirmation gown– was missing.

Grim but not stupid, Nana did the math, deduced her wicked sister and her heavenly dress were sharing the same airspace.

Nana marched right down to the speakeasy and proceeded to RIP the dress right off of her shameless sister, thus fulfilling her lifelong legacy of ruining everyone’s good time –well, except for the men at the speakeasy I suppose– and adding another chapter to the legend of Miss Plumcake’s family.

The moral of the story is this: Don’t anger a Plumcake woman. Also, if the last words you say to your devoted teenage great-granddaughter are “Have you always been that fat?”, you thereby give up your rights NOT to be talked about publicly and at great length.

Remember, an elephant never forgets.

In honor of the end of Prohibition, and the fact I’m going to have to whittle down my Scotch collection to 3 liters so I can take it across the Mexican border, I thought I’d ask a little booze-themed Big Question.

Today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

What one alcoholic beverage would you be unwilling to go the rest of your life without?

After much thoughtful deliberation, I’ve decided upon the humble yet sublime Talisker 18 year-old single malt Scotch. Talisker is the only Scotch made on the Isle of Skye and has in its golden soul the best of both the smokey peat of the Islay malts and the honeyed heather of a Speyside.

It’s not the most expensive or rarest Scotch I own, a bottle of Talisker 18 will set you back less than a hundred dollars, and there are other Scotches I prefer as specimens of one breed or another, but for pure overarching perfection, the Talisker is hard to beat, and, incidentally, is ridiculous (in the good way) on a hot buttered waffle.

Mr. Twistie and I do enjoy daydreaming. Just yesterday we were on the road on a mission that isn’t particularly important to explain and he asked me a question: if we suddenly had stupid amounts of money so that we would never have to worry about bills again… what is the first thing I would get for me?

We always assume that the absolute first thing we would do after paying off all our debts is get everyone we love paid off, too. No more mortgages, no more car or student loans, no more overdue medical bills, stuff like that. But this time he asked what I would do first for me once all that is taken care of and we still have more money that we can possibly spend in several lifetimes.

I even surprised myself with my answer: I said I would find and hire a fantastic cobbler to make me a real wardrobe of great shoes.

I’m sure Mr. Twistie thought I was going to say I wanted one of every Le Creuset pot and pan ever made… and I assured him that was on my castle in the air list. Just I want some really fabulous shoes that correctly fit my wide, high-arched, buniony little paws and my extremely… unique personal style first. And I want them without having to engage in fifteen rounds of mail order and returns.

All my life, footwear has been a much bigger battle than it ought. Now, with fewer and fewer retailers carrying even a single, ugly pair of wide width shoes in the store, it’s become absolute torture. At this point, a cobbler is pretty much the only way out I see and I want one. So there!

How about you? If you suddenly lucked into Trumpesque wads of cash and have taken care of all the necessities (paying off debts, taking care of medical issues, setting up a college fund for the kids, etc.), what would be the first just for fun thing you do for yourself?

Oh, Mr. Twistie’s answer? Head straight for Saville Row and have a Beatles suit custom made for him.

All I can say to that is yeah, yeah, yeah!

Me? I’m peachy except it JUST occurred to me that I have to drive across the country on Sunday and I don’t have a thing to wear to a place where it isn’t six thousand degrees outside with the notable exception of a lynx, a blonde mink and a pair of jeans. I’ve also got to magically conjure up an outfit for today that will take me from the wake of a really kick ass priest, to the Wales vs Ireland Rugby quarter finals at the expat bar, to a scorching midnight rock show at a place called Skinny’s Ballroom which I suspect is not technically a ballroom.

P to the S how much do I love that the Welsh sing “Bread of Heaven” at the rugby? Nothing quite like an 18th century Methodist hymn to get the fans all riled up. Truly, these are my people.

I’m also in the nerve-wracking position of picking out an outfit for when I finally meet Hot Latin Boy’s mother and man, that is one increasingly adhesive wicket. The last time I had to prepare to meet someone’s mother was in 2008 when Andre wanted to drag me to gay Paree to meet his terrifyingly chic and none-too-pleased maman, which –fun fact– is what made me crop my hair. It was bad enough I was American (vulgar) and Fat (triple vulgar), I couldn’t just go traipsing around the streets of La Rive Droite with hair that was anything less than painfully bon chic bon genre.

Now I need to come up with something that says “Please don’t hate the fat white girl who is corrupting you son, the treasure of your old age, with her iPhone and her sunscreen and her capitalist pigdog ways.”

I think it might require a petticoat.

Anyhoodle, for the weekend I’d like to know all about the toughest outfit you’ve had to select. No fair saying your wedding gown, but if it’s true it’s true. Put it in the comments and tell me how it went!

I’m peachy as per usual but I cannot shake the feeling that today is Sunday and my entire schedule should involve nothing more strenuous than deciding which Scotch I should pour over my waffles (no really, it’s delicious. Butter, a teensy bit of pure maple syrup, Scotch and a few flakes of salt to bring out the complexity. It’ll rock your world.) so I thought instead of waxing stentorian about one thing or another, I’d open up the comments today as a sort of open forum exchange.

If you’ve got questions for me, I’ll answer them.

If there’s something on your mind that’s either rubbing you the wrong way (or the right way for that matter, but you know your pal Plummy is squicked out by overly-graphic sex talk, so maybe use some moderation with that) put it in the comments.

Heck, just check in and introduce yourself if you’re new or maybe not a regular commenter, I really do like getting to know the gang. Oh, and don’t worry if you’re not a big girl or even a girl. You’d be surprised by how many guys and straight-sized gals click here on a daily basis.

So, in the immortal words of Marvin Gaye…what’s goin’ on?

Your pal Plummy was up all night doing important things (definitely NOT Googling “Xabi Alonso shirtless” and slurping her way through an undetermined number –which may or may not be four– of coco paletas while petting her dog with her foot) and my dander is now officially in the upright and locked position.

I’m a grown up, I pay damn good money for the insurance that includes vision so when I look in the mirror I know exactly what I see. I see two strong legs, broad pale shoulders, a mysterious bruise that frankly asks more questions than it answers, and I see fat.

Can’t I  just be fat? How is that such a bad thing?

Why do we skirt coyly around the word? It is like Voldemort now? (I was going to ask “is it like Bloody Mary now?” but I don’t know how many damn times I said it in the mirror, a cocktail never appears). It’s not like we’re going to be  magically unfat if we describe ourselves as “fluffy” or “more to love” or whatever cringe-worthy term allows us to not use the F word.

It’s just a word, and to me it’s a lot less embarrassing to be fat (which is to say not embarrassing at all) than it is to be Grown Damn Woman who can’t look in the mirror, call it how I see it and move along with my day.

I say away with the euphemisms.

Not just because it’s embarrassing to be afraid of a three-letter word, but it’s also taking some of our best adjectives away. Curvy = Fat. Voluptuous = Fat.  Oh and don’t even get me STARTED on the term BBW, I might pop that weird little pulse-y vein in my forehead and I just used my last Band Aid to cover up a paleta stick splinter.

What do you think? Am I being unreasonable? If you don’t use the term fat what do you use instead? Why? Put it in the comments.

Across the US of A, temperatures are rising to a potentially lethal level. That means many of us could use a hand coming up with ways to keep cool to keep safe.

When the mercury rises way too high, one of my personal favorite ways to stop steaming is to take a brief (Hey, it’s California! We’re always low on water!) tepid shower. That’s right, tepid, not cold. It actually cools me more and makes it a little easier to adjust back to the Hades-like horrors.

I also like to dab a cool, wet washcloth over my pulse points. All those places people recommend you dab perfume for the greatest potency? Yeah, those are the spots for a touch of cool water.

Keep well hydrated, and wear as many natural fibers as possible, because they breathe better than synthetics. I do my best to get my hair off my neck. I make sure to eat something salty now and again, because sweating makes you lose salt, which can make you sick. If you find that salt tastes sweet to you, you have reached a dangerous point and need to eat something salty now.

How about all of you? Any great tips for staying frosty when the sidewalk is hot enough to fry an egg?

And please, those of you in the sweaty zones? Stay safe.

But as I mentioned last week and Twistie chatted about over the weekend, scent is a funny old dog. It’s a rubber band that irrevocably snaps us back to times, places and people, high-concept mortuaries be damned.

A spritz of the perverse  “Jasmin et Cigarettes” from L’etat Libre de Orange sends me right back to Andre’s place in Times Square the night he proposed, the dizzying powder green icicle of Frederic Malle’s “Iris Poudre” has me driving cross country in the famously bleak midwinter somethingorother, using my fur coat as a blanket while I caught 20 minutes sleep in the parking lot of a Denny’s and I cannot even dab on Serge Lutens’ “Bois et Musc” without bringing back some Very Good Times Indeed involving, well…absolutely nothing I feel like sharing at the moment.

On the slightly more prosaic tip, I famously first loved gin because it reminded me of being hugged by my grandmother (who, btw has done nothing but drink Tanq and smoke Benson and Hedges for the past 50 years and is going to outlive everyone but Keith Richards) and when I left the newspaper one of the saddest parts was knowing I wouldn’t get to smell that delicious, delicious ink.

And then there are the boys.

My first boyfriend covered himself in Avon’s “Wild Country” with the sort of reckless abandon usually reserved for rutting disco elks, any number of my euroflings took Chanel’s Allure pour Homme in the way virgin statues take on milk and my current sweet baboo (P to the S: it’s very difficult to explain what a Sweet Baboo is to someone who didn’t grow up with Peanuts cartoons. He thought I was calling him a festively-buttocked monkey. I’m not saying he is and I’m not saying he ain’t, but it wasn’t what I was calling him at that moment) has a scent all his own that’s slightly reminiscent of Bulgari “Black” but is probably some sort of artist’s compound that’ll give both of us tails and cancer and maybe even split ends.

Last week I shared with you the heartbreak of having a lingering affection for a now-discontinued species of Axe Body Spray and many of you chimed in with the embarrassing favorites from your past. Today I’d like to make it an official Big Question.

Today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

What scent screams “first love” to you? If you’ve got an embarrassing scent story, I want to hear it! Put it in the comments and hold your nose!

First, someone in Ireland stole a pair of my underwear. Let me just tell you how unacceptable that is. It is ALL THE WAY unacceptable. I know I joke about packing more underwear than you need in case you need to give some out as souvenirs, but I didn’t actually mean it! But no! Last night in Ireland I get back from the disco and the guy I accidentally jilted for his best friend from grade school is in my room unattended and during the next morning’s panty count (I had to pack, and much like the Marines, I am firmly committed to No One Left Behind) I was down one pair of size 9 Delta Burke light control briefs.

Also, who steals a pair size 9 Delta Burke light control briefs? Not. Cool.

Oh, and SPEAKING of Marines, has no one told them that when one wears white pants, one should probably not wear white underpants as well? Because I won’t say my grandparents’ inurnment service was ruined at Arlington National Cemetery, and by all means Marines bending over with visible panty lines (including, surprisingly, a pair of bikinis) are better than no Marines bending over at all, but it didn’t exactly add to the solemnity of the occasion.

Finally, last week I went to an open mic comedy night fundraiser.

The catch?

All the performers had to be in their underwear.

I was Not Enthused.

Frankly, if I wanted to laugh at pasty white dudes in their underwear, I’m going to do it the old fashioned way: in hushed whispers on the phone to my best friend while Honky McUnderpants is taking a shower. It’s just good breeding.

Anyway, the hostess, aside from being the only funny person to touch the mic that evening, was also a big girl. She was wearing a corset –thankfully NOT the platter-o-boobs type– a tulle skirt, control-top sheer black tights and heels. The only other woman was in a robe. Meanwhile, every.single.guy. wore boxers, tighty whities or –and fair play for commitment to the theme– a pair of adult diapers. Only one of them remembered to sew up the fly. It was not a good scene.

Later that night, I asked my best friend if she’d strip down to her actual undies –in a non-titillating way– for a good cause. She said probably not.

As for me? I don’t really care.

I’m not an exhibitionist. I’m used to people looking at me because they always have, not because I’m any great beauty but my height/size/features have always been unusual and thus attract attention. It doesn’t bother me. So going down to my skivvies in a totally unsexy way to raise money for a good cause? Eh. No skin off my nose.

The real objections I have are usually tied in with the idea that the only way women are supposed to raise awareness for anything is by getting their kit off. I’d much rather roll up in some joint in my Aint Nobody Gettin’ Any Tonight underthings than get all trussed up in some sexy lingerie-ish ensemble, even if that meant I was wearing more clothes.

So today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

Would you get down to your knickers for a good cause? What would the situation have to be? If yes, why? If no, why not? Would being a big girl make a difference? What about if you were the biggest girl in the room?

Nor do I spend a lot of time thinking about St Patrick’s Day. He’s like my least favorite Celtic saint (Saint Cuthbert of Lindisfarne por vida, mijas!) plus St Patrick’s Day is right up there with New Year’s Eve, Halloween and Mardi Gras as the most amateur of amateur’s nights. And yet, we’ve all been there. We may not remember being there. But we have.

I’ve never actually been slizzered (see! I listen to the pop music!) on St Paddy’s, but I have been the designated driver of many who have, including one person when last I saw her was licking a clown’s bald head at the local expat Irish pub.

So today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

What is your best, by which I mean worse, St Patrick’s Day story? Change the names to protect the innocent…as if there are such things!

It wasn’t always thus.

As a child I was sardonic, standoffish and prone to plumpness. He was athletic, charming and had the metabolism of a coked out whippet. He would say horrible things about my size. He wasn’t alone.

My great grandmother’s final words to me were “Have you always been that fat?” and my grandmother had a long and glorious career of telling me I was fat, in case it had escaped my attention every single day of my life since I was nine years old.

My mother, who had her own struggles with weight, called me “Fatso Fogarty” a name made all the more vicious because I remember her complaining bitterly about how much she hated being called that by her parents.

So what’s the point of all this dirty laundry?

Forgiveness.

Here’s the thing: People say stupid stuff. I say stupid stuff all the damn time and I’m one of the more thoughtful people I know. I’m sure I gave as good as I got when I was younger.

I’m not saying it’s okay and especially as adults we ought to know and thus do better, but it happens and I think it happens even more to fat women because weight is a huge (as it were) bugaboo for many many people and odds are some of those people are going to be in your family.

If you internalize that stuff, if you hold onto it and nurture it, it will poison you from the inside, and poisoning is only good when you do it to rats…or that lady who took the LAST fuchsia cashmere cardigan in your size even though there is no way on this or any other earth she could possibly wear fuchsia even HALF so well as you. Because seriously, with her coloring? It is to laugh. Sleep with one eye open, you sweaternabbing harpy.

But anyway, you’ve got to get past it.

Let’s switch gears for a second. My grandmother in Nashville loves gin and one night when I was out to dinner with my favorite uncle and his groovy wife at Equinox, I ordered a gin and tonic. He laughed and said I came by it honestly.

It’s been my experience that people come by their fat hate or disordered eating honestly.

It doesn’t make it okay to say hurtful things, but I’ve found that by understanding the backstory, it makes it easier to go “okay, well of course that’s what she’s going to say. That’s about her, not about me.”

The woman who grew up starving in the Depression might very well equate hunger and thinness with virtuousness, the woman who remembered being teased and miserable in school for being a fatty fatty boombalatty might be a leetle too invested and easily triggered when she sees her young daughter filling out a bit more fully than the rest of the kids.

As we complete the old year and look forward to the new, I invite you to think about a problematic relationship you’d like to resolve in 2011. Resolution can look like many things, not just hugs and lollipops. If you’d like to, put the information in the comments. I’d love to hear them.