Viral Thoughts

Posted in 2021 by

Let’s do shots!

Doesn’t that sound fun? I’ve actually been kind of obsessed for over a year now, thinking about this. I would love a quality libation that’ll hit my bloodstream fast. Served by a seasoned professional, in a friendly setting. The desire is so strong, I’m willing to risk the unpleasantness that might greet me the morning after.

Hmm… Bacardi, Cuervo, or Absolut?

Nope, not craving any of those. I want Pfizer, Moderna, or J&J. Administered in a syringe, by a healthcare worker, at a designated medical facility.

Being well aware this is a divisive topic, I’m going to keep things light. To be clear, these are my opinions, not rule of law. I am not becoming Judgy McCriticism, merely presenting my POV. Hopefully we are all mature and considerate enough to agree to disagree, if that’s the case.

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It’s hard to believe it was about one year ago that we went into lockdown from COVID-19. What a strange trip around the sun it has been. I was watching the new Disney movie, “Raya & The Last Dragon” (superb graphics, BTW), and there were numerous scenes where a character wears a mask. Though the face covering had nothing to do with viral protection, I was struck by how normal the visual of a swatch of cloth over the mouth & nose seemed. I also realized being home 90% of the time doesn’t feel as foreign anymore, partly because it has become de rigueur, and partly because Leslie Jordan shared, with his infectiously sweet humor, that he was also hunkering down every day.

I’m lucky that I didn’t have to deal with what I’d consider the most difficult aspects of this pandemic. No pregnancy care procedures or medical treatments to have to go through alone (or accompanied by only a virtual connection). No major milestones (e.g., wedding, birth, graduation, retirement, or death) to be heralded from a distance. No little ones requiring I wear a teaching hat in addition to my others. No elderly or hospice family members I was forced to be cut off from. I had a source of income that easily transitioned to a home environment. A warm and safe abode with all the basic amenities, plus more than a few luxuries. A calm and caring husband, and geographically close children & dearest family. Most importantly, the lot of us didn’t mirror Disturbed’s anthem, and get down with the sickness.

My deepest sympathy and steadfast wishes for healing to anyone who suffered/suffers from the worst pain and grief of this global catastrophe. I also offer special recognition, along with my most sincere appreciation, for the essential workers who put themselves in real and present danger day after day for months on end to care for the most basic needs of the rest of us.

You might find it a little pathetic when I say the isolationist lifestyle wasn’t incredibly hard for me. Here’s the thing: I had been in a protracted funk, so not socializing was already my go to. Between mourning the loss of my mother (though she passed a few years ago, the ache is still there), anger over losing my double decades long job (which I enjoyed, excelled at, and expected to keep until retirement), and the sobering realization that I’m now living the latter half of my life (while unfortunately looking my age, feeling my age, and sometimes even forgetting my age), there was a pervading sense of “Why even bother?”.

If I can find a positive, it’s the great chunk of personal time allotted me to ponder, process, and plan for what comes next. Early on, I succumbed to the common denominator of extended screen time on social media, but that’s not always the feel good medicine you want it to be. So I did less scrolling and more reading. Some thought-provoking mysteries and suspense. Some sappy, predictable romances. All told, there were stories about courage; failure and success; making mistakes and making amends. Hurt and regret, buffered by strength and love. I got to a point where I realized I had to stop solely ingesting tales and move on to applying those lessons to my own life. Don’t get me wrong, I will continue to read for fun, but that can’t be as far as the action goes.

I set about merging my two libraries of fiction and reality. I bathed in pleasant memories, and steeped in decadent daydreams. I took stock of what I have – good and bad. I did a full Marie Kondo mind declutter and tossed what wasn’t sparking joy, while tidying up what was. I prioritized what I need versus what I want. I confirmed that my life is amazingly blessed, and my spirit is wonderfully resilient. I decided to take back my power, and stop settling for the course fate decides. While it is true that I can’t control what path life puts me on, it’s completely up to me what direction and gait I’ll take.

I’m not quite ‘there’ yet. I still have sadness, uncertainty and anxiety. But I’m honestly looking forward to everything going back to the way it was. I want freedom of movement to revert to pre ‘rona levels. I want people to feel safe, and know they can be in the company of others without masking up or implementing the dreaded six foot spread. I want the titans of travel to take flights of fancy. I want parties and receptions and gatherings to become the calendar-circled days we excitedly anticipate. I welcome the collective sigh of mass relief, and the restoration of hugs and hand holding.

Circling back to my opening statement… the biggest hurdle to jump on our path back to normalcy is getting the virus under control. We’ve taken necessary measures to contain it, but they were temporary. A band-aid, not a cure. That’s where the fab jab comes it. And why I’m fully behind it.

Maybe you are at greater peril of experiencing the worst symptoms of the virus, due to a pre-existing condition or other high risk factors. Possibly you want to honor a loved one (or ones), who didn’t have the option to try and defend themselves. Perhaps you’re convicted out of sheer gratitude for the science win. Maybe you’re convinced that the more recipients get the shot, the safer we are as a society.

There’s also a very slight chance you simply adore getting needles in your skin,
and aren’t down for any new tattoos at the moment.

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I personally advocate all of the above. I believe in herd immunity, and trust that the more humans build antibodies to stave off the virus, the sooner it becomes a minimal threat. I also have loved ones that are in the greater risk category, and this past year drove a stake of fear through my heart over concern for their welfare. Lastly, I am thrilled to partake in the success of the white coats, who diligently labored to create a cocktail destined to go down in history. I salute them, and all the bold souls who will join me in toasting & dosing the new brew.

*Cheers!!*

Pinkitude:
“Saying someone can’t be sad because someone else may have it worse, is like saying someone can’t be happy because someone else may have it better.”
~ L.R. Knost

‘Pen’sively Yours,  PP

Triple Threat

Posted in 2012 by

There are three sure-fire ways to get my attention.

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1.  Offer me something nice.
~ A sincere compliment, quality time together, a token of affection.
2.  Alert me to impending danger.
~ Natural disaster, salmonella outbreak, gunfire.
3.  Direct negative energy/attention at my children.   [No subtext needed.]

You might think #2 would create the biggest stir, but you would be wrong.  Nothing makes my adrenaline surge faster or my claws extend further than #3.  Combine 2&3 and we’re talking the big bang of responses.

Most parents I know would gladly take the brunt of their offspring’s fear, doubt, and pain.  If only we could protect them from the outside forces that wear away at their spirit and hamper their joy.  If only there could be a moratorium on the weapons of judgment and criticism.  It’s bad enough dealing with the cracks in your own armor.  Not being able to shield your own children is exponentially more difficult.

Welcome to The Greatest Show on Earth!  Ringling Brothers has nothing on raising a family, though a circus is a good analogy to parenting.  You are alternately trainer, performer, and janitor.  There is constant preparation and numerous blunders, often under a tight schedule.  You will be stunned silent in appreciative amazement.  You will throw your hands up in disbelief.  You will experience jaw-dropping, hair-raising panic.  There are narrow escapes, aerial acrobatics,  juggling acts, clowning around, and colossal messes.  Add the animals (your pets), and you’ve got the full Bigtop.  All that work, and often just for peanuts.

Why does anyone do it??  Simple.  There is nothing as gratifying as seeing your child smile, or watching their wide-eyed wonder as they take in the amazing newness of their expanding world.  No sound sweeter than the joyous lilt of their laughter, or their innocent coos of affection.  No feeling better than the gentle squeeze of their tiny bearcub hug, or the velvety softness of their little hand tucked inside yours.  No emotions greater than parental pride and fear.  Your heart will swell and your eyes will tear — when they soar, and when they fall.

When asked as a youngster what I wanted to be when I grew up, my given answer changed many times.  But the primary role I envisioned and relished internally — becoming a mother —  never did.  It was an overwhelming, unwavering desire for me.  I’d like to think there are many components that inspire and fulfill me, but I believe maternalism is what truly defines me.  [Note: In no way am I indicating that every woman needs a child to be complete, only stating that’s how I’m hard-wired.]  Lots of teenage girls try-on marriage by scribbling Mrs “” — insert Hollywood hotties like “Reynolds” (Burt, back in my day; Ryan, presently), or “Stamos” (the one and only John; he’s multi-generational), or the local high school hunk.  I’m not sure how many write out lists of baby names, as I did.  And Mom, that oddly-shaped towel you occasionally found under the bed?  Uh, that was my baby bump.  Kinda embarrassing, but sometimes I liked to pretend I had a bun in the oven (when in the privacy of my own room, of course).  That should illustrate just how popular motherhood was with me.  Oh, and probably why I wasn’t more popular.  Haha, JK.  🙂

You would think someone who breathed all-things-baby would have volumes of SuperMom highlight reels.  Oddly enough, alot of my clearest, isolated memories are the smallest percentage of parenting moments — the difficulties and disappointments (in myself, not my children).  I know without a doubt nurturing my babies was exceedingly pleasurable to me.  All of the combined, overall memories are nothing but warm fuzzies.  Yet it’s the minuscule moments where I gave myself low marks on the parenting scale that grace the covers of my mental photo albums.  The logic of this alludes me.  If 95% of the time I felt comfortable and confident in my maternal abilities, why isn’t it those happy, heady moments that remain in full clarity?  Maybe because struggles are more powerful than standards.  Or maybe because the burden of self-proclaimed failures wore so heavily on my heart.  I literally loved my kids more than I loved myself (still do; always will).  During a turbulent marriage, they were the hope on my horizon, my paradise present, the light & warmth on my dark side of the moon.

If you have raised children (your own or someone else’s), you’ve stood on the precipice of  blissful insanity.  It’s ushered in with nine months of nausea, swollen limbs, and stretch marks.  Relief comes in the form of a marathon session of stabbing pain, whilst shitting a watermelon.  This culminates in years of sleep deprivation, and non-stop nursing & maid services.  And that’s the easy part.  Watching them suffer life’s injustices, holding them close and then letting them go… that’s hard.  Having them become independent, contributing members of society is a normal and desired outcome.  It’s still tough to watch, knowing how cruel and unforgiving the world can be.  Even if you’ve prepared them well, you know there are things beyond your control and outside their comfort level.

This has been a struggle for me, learning to let go.  But as I’ve touched on before, change is inevitable; no amount of strength or struggling will stop it.  So I’m learning to parent differently.  I’m on the sidelines now, instead of center field, ready to intercede should there be an injury or stoppage of play.  It’s my job to patch them up and send them back into the huddle; pat them reassuringly on the back with a ‘go get em, tiger’.  The truth is, they wouldn’t have team spirit or a fondness for the game if I hadn’t instilled it in them.  I really don’t want them secluded out of bounds with me, missing the action.  I don’t want to be a no-show because I’m unwilling to take a secondary role.  I want to support them.  I want them to have a winning attitude, not a perfect record.  No matter what, I’ll still be their biggest fan and cheerleader.  And advocate.  Hecklers, be warned…  you mess with Mama Hen, you WILL get the beak!!

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Children are living legacies.  Walking, talking evidence of the goodness you worked to instill in them, as well as the pitfalls you attempted to steer them around.  I’ve made alot of mistakes in my life, but I’ve also done a fair amount right.  I have not one, not two, but three amazing progeny with enviable qualities and oodles of potential.  They are loved, supported, and appreciated, for who they are, and for who they’ve made me.

It’s common to crave fewer responsibilities and a respite from the day-to-day craziness of parenting while you’re in the thick of it.  It can get bumpy and it does get loud.  Make some ‘me time’, whenever you can.  And remind yourself:  If you think the noise your children make now is difficult to bear, consider the deafening silence after they go.  Peace isn’t quiet and calm.  It is being surrounded by guppies & puppies, toddlers & teens, laundry & lunchboxes, and flourishing in the chaos.

Pinkitude:  (The selection was too rich to choose just one)

“When you have brought up kids, there are memories you store directly in your tear ducts.” ~ Robert Brault

“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children.  One is roots.  The other is wings.”  ~ Hodding Carter, Jr.

“Parents are not interested in justice; they are interested in quiet.”  ~ Bill Cosby

‘Pen’sively Yours,  PP

It’s Been a While

Yes, folks, I have been AWOL.

Aggressively Waxing Only Legs.
Assuming WordPress Over Limits.
(An) Alcoholic With Out Liquor.

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Just now got through the massive pile of inquiries as to why I’ve been in writing remission.

Umm, yeah… none of the above are true. I think all of one person might have mentioned something in passing, during a summer lull. (Bless you, my son.) Really, that’s okay. Having interested readers is frosting on the cake ornaments on the tree, not the ink that instigates me. I’m driven by internal movitation — which is why there is sometimes no one behind the wheel. 😉

I’m not going to waste your time or mine detailing my hiatus. Suffice it to say, through commitments and casualties, I didn’t make it happen. I’ve played around with different themes for my return post, and opted to keep it light and simple. And timely. It’s the holidays, and I am festive of spirit, in a party mood. Deck the halls and sing the classics. Presence of thoughts, and thoughtful presents.

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. It may or may not bear striking resemblance to my past. Any similarities to the author, written or implied, will not be admissible in a court of law. Or the dinner table.

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Ah, there’s nothing like heading out for a night of fun, that bubble of excitement ramping up. Primped, polished, and psyched, the road, and all of the evenings’ possibilities, lie before you. “Take pictures”, says your friend who can’t make it. And you have the best intentions of doing just that. Simple enough to snap a few photos, right? Seriously, you’re not a lazy bitch. (Just a defective drunk.)

We now join the party in progress. Let’s take it step by step, and see how daunting a task alcohol-impaired shutter bugging can be:

1. Two and a half drinks down; da gang huddles for a kodak moment.
2. Reach in your purse for your phone slash iPod slash GPS slash flashflight slash “Stepbrothers” soundboard slash [wait for it] ……. camera.
3. Graze against tube of lipgloss, decide you probably need a swipe.
4. Pucker up and apply a fresh coat of MAC.
5. Take out phone, see a missed call and two missed texts.
6. Attempt a reply, painstakingly type four letters then erase three…
7. Friend places fresh drink in your hand; texting can wait.
8. Take sip, amazed how tasty vodka is.
9. Chug-a-lug.
10. Two things suddenly strike you: Bladder is full; Line to the ladies room is long. A headache starts to set in (as is usually the case when one is struck).
11. Across the room, Hottie McStudmuffin gives you a wink and a wave.
12. You attempt to get a closer look at him on your way to pee.
13. Standing in line, you can’t feel your toes. Note to self: high-heeled designer shoes were a mistake; must never wear again.
14. Curse the fact that there are only two stalls, both built for Muppets.
15. Observe there is more TP on the floor than the holder.
16. Exit lav to see O’Sexy (was that his name? Twas something Irish…) making out with the runner-up to Miss USA.
17. Take comfort in the fact that she didn’t actually win. Sour grapes.
18. Grapes! Order a glass of wine.
19. Try to remember why you went in your purse a half-hour ago.
19. Say the word ‘purse’ repeatedly in your head, thinking how funny it sounds.
22?. Realize you can no longer count correctly; switch to alphabet.
C. Graciously* accept another cocktail.
(*loose definition: You refrain from dousing the uggo who bought said drink with said drink, while making it clear he’s not getting in your pants.)
D. Yell ‘woohoo’, and start singing loudly to the music while declaring it’s your favorite song — again.
E. Apparently “woohoo’ is code for ‘Let’s do some shots!”. There are now three lined up before you.
F. uggit. Why do you need to order the steps? Slam back that last Barbie-sized drink with full authority.

Three different chicks mention how awesome your Chimmy Joo stilettos are. Note to self: These shoes rock; must wear more often.

Someone pulls you in for a picture. Smile, baby! Blinded by the flash, you stare to the right of your photog friend’s head, asking the empty space “Can I get a copy of that?” They reply in the affirmative, then indicate it will be electronically available for viewing later. (What they actually say, because they’re cool, is: “Sure — check Facebook”. )

You are regretting those last three shots. Strange how repellent vodka is. Joint liver commission announces Last Call. In a flurry of hugs and kisses and declarations to ‘do this again soon’, everyone clears out and heads home.

As soon as the car door shuts (it’s a taxi, cause you’re VERY repsonbile; err, reponsabel; … you’re a good girl), you let down your hair and take off those gorgeous, toe-crippling, love-hate shoes. Ah, there’s nothing like heading home after a night of fun, that relaxed feeling of winding down. Brick & mortar is a beautiful sight. Disrobe as you walk to the bed; whatever’s still on when you get there becomes your sleepwear. Hit the pillow and pass out.

What on earth is that throbbing? Feels like you’re being repeatedly probed by a nice prick.
Whoopsee, that should be, your head feels like it’s being repeatedly probed by an ice pick.
And is that the sun, or are your eyes on fire? Oh well, nothing a few aspirin and some coffee can’t fix. Plus you’ve got those captured memories to look forward to; all the fun, none of the fuzz.

You start the computer, load FB, and find your friend’s album. Holy hell!! Who is that hideous beast tagged with your name? Eyes mid-blink, hair a mess, lipgloss on teeth — in every shot. And why does your beautiful pink top look orange? You look dead in orange. Freaking lighting. Untag. Untag. Untag.

Two days later, when that friend who couldn’t make it asks to see pictures of the event, you start your web of lies. So sorry, your phone was on the fritz, nobody else had juice left, etc. It was a great time, though; promise you’ll get pics next time.
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They say the camera never lies. Not really a problem in this digital age, since Photoshop is more than happy to tell some whoppers. Funny thing is, the picture you detest today will remind you how good you looked (felt, were…) years from now. More importantly, internal beauty never grows old or wrinkled. Any given day, it’s as young, sweet, and perfect as you will it to be.

Pinkitude:
“Pleasure is the flower that passes; remembrance, the lasting perfume.”

~ Jean de Boufflers

May you have a most magical holiday, and a healthy, happy New Year!  

Impassioned by the pen,

Platinum Pink

Royal Couple

Posted in 2011 by

Westminster Abbey becomes Marital Shabby.
Designer Gown becomes Thorn of Crowns.
Happily Ever After becomes Unmitigated Disaster.

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Whether you’re a blue blood or an ordinary O+, relationships are work, and there are no guarantees.

Only hours away from Kate Middleton and Prince William taking their historic trip down the aisle, the world is abuzz with fascination, anticipation, and expectation.  And of course the pessimists who are laying bets on how long the union will last (and the impetus behind my mock headlines above).

What are the odds of falling in love with a Prince?  Perhaps we should start smaller.  What are the odds of you finding your ideal mate (ie: someone you could fall in love with/spend the rest of your life with)?  There are lots of different formulas and theories out there, but this one seems most prevalent: 1 in 100.

Here’s the breakdown.  Out of every 100 people you meet, you’d likely consider talking to/exchanging contact info with 25 of them.  Of those 25, you’d likely consider 5 interesting/desirable enough to date.  Of those 5 you date, you would probably fall in love with 1.  When you consider the thousands of people one encounters in a lifetime, that’s a solid base of 10 possible love matches.  (These odds increase or decrease depending on your amount of sociability — be that at work, school, or play.)

Falling in love is easy.  Feeling attracted to someone, enamored with their speech and actions, desirous of their time and attention, missing them when you’re apart — these are heady feelings that heighten your excitement and desire.  Staying in like is hard.  Seeing someone at their worst, in spirit and deed, bearing the brunt of their shortcomings first-hand, watching traits transition from adorable to annoying.  These are realities that are unpleasant and wear on you.  They require tolerance, understanding, and adjustment.  That means work and effort and creativity.

Sidebar: Even the wording paints a negative picture — “fall in love”.  It’s a trip, a stumble, unplanned & accidental.  No one likes staying on the ground after biting it, it’s embarrassing.  And it’s that much worse if we got hurt doing it.  We are wired to get back up, brush ourselves off, and hold our heads high.  We really need a new expression.  I vote for “Ascend to love” or “Skip in love”.  Deliberate, desirable trajectories with positive connotations.

The real marker isn’t the feeling itself, rather it’s initial intensity.  Ever become so hungry you feel like you could eat everything in sight?  You start out ravenous, the packet of crackers left by the patron at the next table makes you salivate.  Ordering is a challenge, because everything sounds good.  You make your selections quickly, easily swayed by sights and smells.  The food arrives and you dig in.  Mmm, has anything ever tasted so wonderful?  Despite valiant efforts, eventually you become sated and put the fork down.  The more you take in before stopping, the more unappealing the remaining spread is.  Now just looking at this once enticing feast turns you off.   Did the food change?  No, your desire for it did.  I’m not saying relationships equate to meals.  They are night and day, the former having far greater ramifications and intricacies than the latter.  I was just making the comparative to strength of feelings, how they change over time, and how those peaks and valleys sway us.

Familiarity breeds contempt.  Normal can become boring.  It’s difficult to live with someone, day in and day out, see all their flaws and weaknesses, and look at them with pure unadulterated lust.  Lust doesn’t judge; it isn’t comfortable or mundane.  It is extraordinary and overwhelms you with drive and passion.  Nothing that powerful can be sustained at that level over a long period of time.  In other words, it’s normal to look at your mate over time and not feel a white-hot searing in your loins.  Actually, it’s damn good.  People would never get anything done if they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  Those hands provide great pleasure, but they also have to put food on the table, clothes on your back, checks in the mail, maintain your home and car(s), raise your children, and care for your sick and injured.

Love is a flame burning bright.   But the winds of change and sands of time will regularly blow through, dimming or dousing that fire.  The real credit goes to the unheralded candle.  There can be no lighting or relighting without that steadfast pillar of support.  Metaphorically speaking, the flame is Love; the candle is Like.  Wax and wane.  It is the spark and light that we’re drawn to, but they will only continue to burn if the foundation beneath remains strong and unyielding.

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Intensity and novelty fade away, but in a good relationship, they are replaced by comfort, respect, admiration, and mutual memories.  The trick is finding a way to dress up the dull & undesirable.  Finding cuteness in quirks, and goodness in goofs.  Never forget what made you fall in love with that person, because you need that booster pack when times get tough.   If you and your mate can look past each others foibles and weaknesses, and still long to be by each others side, that is Nicholas Sparks gold.  Don’t squander your fortune, or keep it locked up like Fort Knox.  Dole it out in staggered increments throughout your life, and be rich in the way that matters most.

Pinkitude:
“Desire creates havoc when it is the only thing between two people, or when it is what’s missing.”
~ Mignon McLaughlin

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Heroine Addict

Posted in 2011 by

Hall of Famers, Academy Award Winners, Olympic Medalists:  Revered and honored for personal bests.

Unsung Heroes:  No statues, exhibits, or parades.
Simply doin’ it for others since time immemorial.

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Someone of inestimable worth, who makes your load lighter, your smile brighter, your worries fewer, your existence easier.  Someone who would give you their last dime, the shirt off their back, the food on their plate.  Someone who’s umbrella is big enough for everyone to be under, usually at the expense of them getting wet.  Someone who does without any expectation of recognition or reward.  This person’s joy is found in pleasing others.  Their wants and needs always take a backseat.

Those who know me, know I come from a very family-centric environment.   That my father, praise-worthy and near perfect in my eyes, passed away more than a decade ago.  That despite this major life change, despite the vestiges of mourning that remain today, my mother continues to be the involved, engaged, maternally devoted woman she has always been.  Hero worship?  You betcha.  Of the pure, unadulterated kind.

I could write for hour after hour, day upon day, and never have a full accounting of my mother’s giviloquy [PP-created word; definition: a passage describing one’s profound and massive generosity].  Her empathy knows no bounds.  A few weeks ago, she fell and suffered a serious injury.  Waiting in the hospital emergency room, in extreme pain (from what would be diagnosed as a completely shattered shoulder), she observed a woman holding a toddler.  A visible frown crossed her face, accompanied by an audible ‘aww’.  This baby wasn’t crying and appeared fine.  He may not have even been the patient in the group, but her heart went out to him.  And his mother.  Her heart goes out to the world, yet amazingly, is still strong enough to feel the ache of loss and the swell of love.

She has elevated selflessness to a true art form.  With nothing but a blank canvas and primary palette, she has produced a string of masterpieces.  Her compositions appear lit from within, whether day or night, summer or winter.  Any shadows are those under her eyes, as she’ll donate sleeping hours to the project without a second thought.  The landscape is seemingly endless, with an uncanny sense of it running off the edges.  Any boundaries are those she put in place to ward off harm.  The colors proffer and please, whisking you away in playful abandon.  Any darkness is that on her skin and clothes, since she will work unceasingly even if her limbs bruise and her garments stain.  At first glance, the finished product looks perfect, seemingly flawless.  But if you look closely, beneath numerous layers, you will see the tiny cuts and tears she painstakingly labored to cover.  Like so many iconic visionaries, she can’t possibly know all of the hearts she’s touched and lives she’s changed, and her value continually increases with the passage of time.

Growing up, ours was the house everyone flocked to.  My friends were always thrilled to come over, I assumed, because I was so lovable [**cough** ego check **cough**].  Turns out they were drawn to my mother’s magnetic energy and contagious aplomb.  People seek her warmth and wisdom, and hope for a morsel of her magnanimous spirit and nurturing attention.  Not to mention her chicken schnitzel and pilaf.  The lady gives good oven. 😉

Sidebar: James Beard, Julia Childs, and Rachel Ray have nothing on mom.  In her prime, on any of the reality cooking shows of today, she’d have blown the lid off the soup pot.   Iron Chef, meet Diamond Skillet. Cake Boss, meet Cheesecake CEO.  Stomach, meet Alka Seltzer.  Prepare to hurt so good.

I’ve never encountered a single person who didn’t have shining accolades for my mother.  This always gave me a warm fuzzy, immediately followed by a belly drop.  It was sobering thinking I’d never live up to her standards.  I don’t mean what she expected of me; I could do the bare minimum (at times did) and still get a “That’s great, honey.  I’m proud of you.” I mean her collective roles as a person — wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, daughter — comparatively against mine.  By my barometer, my measuring stick, I will always fall way short of her mark.  She is a wonderment, a prodigy, a powerful benevolence who’s efforts are both timely and timeless.  The truth is, if I’m even one-tenth of the person she’s been, a watered-down version to her full strength one, I am high quality.  I have to be the best I can be, not the best she can.  It’s apples to applesauce.

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Don’t ever think it’s frivolous or redundant to make verbal declarations, based on the assumption that a person already knows how you feel.  Better double the dose than not enough.  I would shout it from the mountaintops, sing it to the world, engrave it on granite over and over for all of eternity and consider that a welcome fate…

I love you, Mom.

You are the reason I know happiness, the unnamed credit behind my successes, the safety net beneath my failures, the answer to questions I never asked.  Goodness personified, graciousness magnified, beauty defined.  I’ve profited from your sacrifices, flourished under your protection, bathed in your attentiveness.  I am filled with appreciation, devotion, and awe.  You are a living, breathing blueprint of how to raise a family.  Give them wings, teach them to fly, encourage them to explore, catch them when they fall, forgive them when they flub, and always keep a warm, welcoming nest they can migrate home to.

Endless thanks and steadfast praise aren’t nearly enough, but I humbly offer them to you, anyway.  History has shown me you’ll multiply their worth, and somehow, defying all logic and explanation, find extra change to give back to me.

Pinkitude:
“Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,
Hundreds of bees in the purple clover,
But only one mother the wide world over.” ~ George Cooper

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

The truth is, if I’m even one-tenth of the person she’s been, a watered-down version to her full strength one, I am high quality.

Bombs Away

The F Bomb.
Sheer genius or universally offensive?

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Fair warning:  This is going to be an expletive-heavy entry. If you are uncomfortable with profanity — STOP HERE.

This isn’t an angry diatribe.  I’m not mad at anyone or attempting to disguise a mouthing off.  There won’t be any public ass-whoopings here today.  This is merely a light-hearted examination of an extremely malleable and oft-used word.  I realize not everyone will enjoy this piece, even though it is tongue-in-cheek.   For those with a stronger tolerance, perhaps even childlike glee in waxing potty-mouth, read on.

I’ve never spoken like the stereotypical truck driver.  I grew up with a mother who said things like “ding dab nab” and “oh sugar”, and a father who carefully censored what he said at home.  It entertained my sister highly to try and get our mom to say the f-word, “C’mon mom, nobody else is here and we won’t tell anyone.  Just once…”  but she couldn’t break ma’s Shirley Temple tongue.  This same sister ran fast & loose with the dirty words.  Not in a meaningless way; she only used them in fitting circumstances.  Actually, I’m amazed how many circumstances she can still successfully fit them to. 🙂

As a lover of language, I feel compelled to examine slang, especially that of the four-letter variety.  There are many good curse words, but I’m going to focus on the “F” word, since I’m truly fascinated by the multitude of uses it has.  Noun, verb, adverb, adjective; compliment, criticism, condemnation, comedy.  It is truly the Onesie of the English language.

Being able to construct a single thought almost completely from derivatives of a single word is pretty effing amazing.  Consider the following: “Fuck that fucker.  He’s fucked me for the last fucking time”.   Limited vocabulary, or Master of the art of insult?  Let the listener decide.

We’re not limited to verbalization either.  Can’t talk?  No worries, you can flip the finger.  Or swiftly karate-chop your elbow with your other hand, allowing the impacted arm to swing up quickly.  Or slide a stiff hand from you neck up under your chin in an exaggerated motion.

In mixed company?  Not a problem, since you can easily disguise your fuxspressions.  Simply put your ring finger, index finger, and forefinger straight up together, saying ‘read between the lines’.   Or use your longest digit, independent of it’s neighbors, to purposefully scratch your forehead, nose, cheek, etc.

Still too harsh?   Try a handy-dandy substitute.  They’re a bit watered down, but they still have some oomph to them.   And there are a fair amount to choose from:  frick, frack, freak, friggin, fudge.  Or just a bunch of symbols: $@#*!, which can mean shit as well as fuck, and is now affectionately pronounced ‘bleep’, due to the popularity of it’s use in a current hit sitcom.  That’s right people, these vernaculars are becoming more and more prevalent in all areas of life — literature, advertising, music, art, film, etc.  Rap originated as a medium to speak to a syncopated beat, a melodic poetry reading, if you will.  It’s now become a contest to see who can cram the most vulgarities into 4 minutes of sampled music.  Take away these colloquialisms and Rap becomes Raffi.  (Well, a Raffi who gets drunk and high and bangs alot of chicks.)

You can have even more fun if you cross-breed languages.  For example, the French word for Seal is ‘phoque’, pronounced just as you think it would be.  Now imagine replacing that in some very popular American sayings.  Such as: “Sealed with a kiss”, or “The Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval”.  It’s wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap gold.

We’ve got a slew of cultural blends too.  Because sometimes you just can’t get your point across without a f*ck somewhere in there.  Fugly, fuck buddy, fucktard, F’d in the A, Fuckville.  Oh, and lest I forget, Fukitol (<– my favorite Rx).  It’s also given birth to many acronyms: SNAFU, FUBAR, LMFAO, MILF, WTF.  Peruse some social sites, phone texts, or instant messaging, and you’re likely to see quite a few initialed representations of one of the strongest curse words out there.  

Sidebar: Personally, I’m waiting for the day FB invokes ‘the bird’ button (akin to the thumbs-up “Like”) to slap on people’s posts who aren’t currently in your good graces.

It can even mean the exact opposite of itself.  “Getting screwed” can be an awesome thing that puts a smile on your face, or a crappy thing that ruins your day, depending on its’ context.

I ask you, what other word has that kind of flexibility and stamina?

I’ll end this classy soliloquy with some elegant quotes I compiled:

“Fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity.” ~ Unknown
“Half of life is fucking up, the other half is dealing with it.” ~ Henry Rollins
“There is more to fathering than fucking” ~ Angela Carter
“Nobody dies a virgin…  life fucks us all.” ~ Kurt Cobain
“Fuck today, it’s tomorrow.” ~ Freddie Mercury
“A mind is like a parachute.  If it doesn’t open, you’re fucked!” ~ Don Williams, Jr
“Graffiti and Philosophy can be classified solely by the presence or omission of  the word fuck.” ~ Unknown

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Swearing can be trashy or mean.  But it can also be a great stress reliever.  Ever stub your toe to the point of hearing bones crunch and seeing stars?  “Dammit” just isn’t as good a salve as “FUCKing-motherfucker”.  I have no idea why.

It can also turn humdrum to haha.  George Bush: “I can’t spell for fcuk.”

Cussing is the salt of life.  Sprinkling a bit here and there makes for a very satisfying diet.  Pouring it heavily over everything creates a nasty dish no one wants to go near.

Pinkitude:
“When angry count to four; when very angry, swear.”
~ Mark Twain

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Peek-a-Boo

It’s face-off time.

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But I’m not talking about hockey. This is about my big reveal. I’m removing the cloak and mask, coming out of hiding, pulling back the Prada curtain. Admitting my true identity! I’m ready to step into the light, fully aware I risk highlighting any wrinkles by doing so.

Most of my readers are friends (aka family), so you already know who this is.
For those who don’t (aka strangers) ….

Platinum Pink is Janette Burhans!!!

I realize that means nothing if you don’t already know me. I’m not a world-renowned blogger, and that’s A-Ok with me. The constant spotlight would be a living hell… always being under the microscope; your every move, mistake, and moronic moment picked apart by the masses and captured for eternity in print or photographs. Too fat, too thin, too old, too plastic, too opinionated, too aloof. It’s seemingly impossible for even the most perfect of human specimens not to be condemned for something they are (or are not). Fortune I’d take. Fame — No thanks.

Sidebar: What are the positives of being famous, anyway? Tons of freebies? Who cares — you’re swimming in benjamins, you don’t need handouts. VIP treatment? Nice, but how enjoyable are those front row seats and backstage passes when you’re knee-deep in bodyguards? Countless friends? Iffy. It would be really hard to know who likes you for you, and who just wants to ride your coattails or raid your wallet. Maybe it’s the adoring fans. Celebs have huge egos that must be constantly fed. With a diet of mostly coffee and Oxycontin, they need something for fuel. 🙂 Nameless, faceless worshipers seem the most obvious choice. If you ask me, those are empty calories; I need something more substantial to satisfy. Life is trying enough without having to question the motives of your inner circle.

It’s 2011 — Do you know where your friends are? I’ve discovered mine in assorted and sundry places. Some are where I last left them, in familiar locations, ready and willing to pick up wherever we left off. Others were discovered, quite unexpectedly, among the vast recesses and resources of the internet. Others still I’ve yet to find; we are currently unknown to each other, but with the advent of international social networking and cyber-space cafes, it’s only a matter of time until we bump into each other.

If love is blind, friendship is power goggles. It’s seeing everything with perfect clarity, and still enjoying the view. An old song I learned as a child advocated friendships old and new, stating one as silver and the other gold. Both precious metals. Antique and modern. Fully matured and freshly minted. Those who know all of your warts and weaknesses and still think you’re strong and beautiful; and those who don’t even know about the zit that erupts monthly, let alone your accompanying impression of Haggar the Horrible. Those who not only encourage your stupid ideas but actually engage in them; and those who have not yet been treated to your idiocy but someday hope to.

A friend can be someone you rarely talk to, or someone you see several times a day. Completely platonic, or deeply intimate. It doesn’t matter what distance lies between you, because you are in each others hearts. That is the true essence of friendship: People who care about each other, support each other, defend each other, and ground each other. An enhancement, not a validation. Solidarity not dominion. There is no tangible limit to the number of these bonds one can have, so go ahead and be greedy. Or be picky. But be available; a friend can’t find you unless you are visible.

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You can never have too many friends, but all you really need is one good one. One who will take your deepest secrets to the grave. One who will tell you you’re ass doesn’t look fat in those jeans when you need to be consoled, not confronted. One who will tell you the other pair looks better when you need honesty, not flattery. One who laughs at your lame jokes, and forgives your personal transgressions. One who gives you space, but also fills it.

Pinkitude:
Friendships and people can change, and if you’re lucky, a certain few will change you. ~ Unknown

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A big thank you to the many people in my life who have provided me with peace, pleasure, and positivity.
I dedicate this post to my perfect trifecta: LB, LR, & GH.
Three musketeers who’ve made my life a heightened adventure, and a transcended reality.
Honorable mention to MK, HB, & YC. I treasure your generosity, understanding, kindness, and love. xo xo xo

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Christmas Rap

Posted in The Saga Continues by

It all starts with Black Friday.

Holiday soldiers hit the trenches and practice their Black Op skills.   The mad rush for presents and parking spaces is on.  There are countless trips to the food store, oven-side vigils, caroling and decorating, backaches and blisters. Tempers rise while temperatures fall.  Tis the season for tithing and skyping and credit card swiping.

2010 december calendar girl (smaller)

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The mall decorations have been out since October, but I’m not fully festivous until I deck my own halls, which is usually the weekend after T-giving.  I love all holidays, as evidenced by a mental scrapbook overflowing with joyous occasions surrounded by family, friends, and more food than you can shake a stick at.

Sidebar:  I’d just like to say, that’s a weird expression.  When I’m too much of anything, the last thing I’d want to do is shake, whether it be the pepper mill (too much food), the aspirin bottle (too much booze), or the alarm clock (too tired).   Here’s another weird one:  “That a boy”/”That a girl”.  Typically offered as praise for an accomplishment, it rings pretty hollow.  Think about it:  you’ve just done something amazing, and you’re credited for your gender being what it is?
“Ooh, great job!  Might I just say you’re still a male (or female)” …
“Stop, you’re making me blush.”  Lame.

My holidays now are much different than when I was growing up, as is the case for most people.  I for one have not gone quietly into that good night.  I try clinging to routine like a child to it’s beloved blankie.  It may have outlived its’ usefulness and there are probably newer ones more appealing and practical, but it’s mine… and I still want it!! (“We’ve been though alot together, haven’t we silky?”)

My wise mother once told me, “The only constant in life is change itself”.  A constant pain in my ass, is what it is.  Change is difficult.  It’s really hard to leave the familiar behind, and forge into a brave new world.  Tradition only becomes so after several cycles.  Much like a favorite pair of jeans require repeated wearings to get that well-worn glove-like fit, tea needs to steep to become rich and full-bodied, and wine must age to reach it’s peak flavor.  Humans are creatures of habit, and habit has to be formed over time.  It’s not instant.

Technology has spoiled us with abbreviated wait times, on everything from getting a letter to cooking a meal.  Have you ever clicked the ‘send & receive’ button in your email several times because you know you’ve got something coming but it hasn’t hit your inbox yet?  Do you pace in front of the microwave while you wait for your instant oatmeal to cook?  We’re talking seconds people… still, feels like an eternity when you’re in anticipation mode.

Sidebar 2:  I seriously could not live without the nuker.  Best.  Invention.  Ever.  In fact, here’s my xmas present to ole Mikey, in poetic form.  (I thought about socks, but I know from experience he doesn’t do well with them.  Just ask my kids.) 

I thank thee, for all the cooking thy’ve done
in daylight or moonlight, you always run
though  you might burn popcorn or soggy a bun
In my eyes you’ll always be second-to-none.

I hope you don’t think I’m getting too deep
but your speedy efficiency has made people weep
they say good food doesn’t come cheap
but we always get psyched when you 3… 2… 1… *beep*!

Waiting to find comfort in something is work, and who wants more work during the holidays?  I’ll just take my eggnog and sit in the corner, dreaming of bygone Christmas mornings and New Year’s eves.  Until I’m interrupted with a
“Mom, can you ______?” Life gives me a swift kick in the pants, and — aside from the spilled eggnog — I am filled with appreciation and understanding.

If things never changed, I would never have had children.  I would never have known the unparalleled pleasure of experiencing the holidays through their eyes.  Seeing my Easter bunnies juggle colorful baskets of eggs while their eager little legs tripped over each other.  Watching three little blurs race around the tree, charged with excitement as they spied which packages had their name.  Noting precious faces light up as they stepped into costume and truly ‘became‘ a Power Ranger or a Disney princess or a superhero.  Going bleary-eyed from putting names and Hershey’s kisses on dozens of flimsy paper valentines.  Staying up half the night to make a classroom-full of cupcakes because my little forget-me-tot didn’t convey they were needed until 10 pm the night before.  These things changed me in the most profound and lasting ways.

In fact, for every joyous, special memory I have from my childhood, I can think of at least two that trumped it during motherhood.  Even the trying, frustrating moments come rushing back, ready to unwrap like the beautiful gifts they are.  Fights over who got the best candy, or who got to choose the nightly movie, or who got to sit up front with me in the car — all become treasures of immeasurable worth.  The realization that my parents went through the same thing comforts and excites me, knowing I’ll get to experience a whole new level of euphoria as a grandmother.

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Honor tradition and welcome change.  The people and places and routines might shift, but the memories and associated joy forever remain.  Change affords you a past, a present, and a future; form, with shadow and light.  It’s the composition that gives your life richness and depth and perspective.  A work of art that is not yet finished, yet somehow complete.

Merry Christmas ~ Happy Hanukkah ~
Happy Kwanzaa!

May peace, joy, goodness, and love
fill your hearts and homes.

Pinkitude:
“Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds.  The most powerful ones are those we can’t even describe and aren’t even aware of.” ~ Ellen Goodman

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Let’s Talk Turkey

Posted in The Saga Continues by

The bounty of Thanksgiving is upon us.

The skies, roadways and railways are full of people journeying to be with loved ones.  Many of us get to indulge in a four day weekend.  Families gather, and kitchens spillover with familiar scents and sounds… pies  (yes, dessert is always first with me), stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, a bird… and ‘da Birds‘, if you’re an Eagles fan.  Love and laughter and leftovers abound.


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It’s the time of year most people stop and take inventory of all the blessings in their lives.  I was reflecting on how appreciative and thankful I am.  As evidenced by my prior posts, I have much to be grateful for.  I also thought about manners in general, and I’d like share an observation:  Common courtesy isn’t so common anymore.

I don’t exactly like being circled fitfully and swooped upon like a vulture does its’ prey, but a little eye contact or a smile can go a long way.

Have you ever held a door for someone, only to have them breeze right through like it was your job to forge pathways in their world?  As Ellen would say: “Next time I’ll sprinkle rose petals, your majesty”.  You don’t have to know or even like a person to produce a simple ‘Thank You’.  “Please” works wonders too.  To be fair though, we have no idea what other people are going through at any given moment.  They could be in a deep state of mental confusion, emotional upset, or physical pain.  It’s also possible you are finally meeting a member of that family your mother often referred to… you know, the ones that were ‘raised in a barn’ (where a grunt or head burrowing really does signal gratitude).  While acknowledging a stranger’s thoughtfulness is nice, lack of it doesn’t indicate malice.

It’s a whole different story when personal interaction is on your resume.  Any more it’s the exception not the norm to get good service.  Rude is the new black.  Retail therapy has become retail abuse.  God forbid you actually expect basic manners.  I love it when I approach a sales associate, only to get the stink eye.  How dare I intrude on their personal space.  Clearly, the friend they’re texting or talking to is their employer’s bread & butter.  I should stop being a slacker and learn their stock and policies myself.  If I’m brave enough to slink up to the counter and check out, my patronage is finally rewarded —  they are actually happy to see me go!

I’m not speaking theoretically.  I worked in retail.  Back in the day…

Sidebar:  It’s official.  I’m middle-aged.  I just checked the welcome packet, and sure enough, that phrase is right there on the first page.  Also included:  ‘When I was your age‘, and ‘Someday you’ll understand‘.  Well, at least I can easily locate the packet, and absorb it on my own (alright, damn you, I do need an assist from my reading glasses).  Which leads into the next membership catch-phrase: ‘Why the hell is everything in such small print?’

As I was saying, back in the day, we were actually polite to customers.  Even the bitchy ones.  Sure, they pissed us off, and yes, we ragged on them, but not until after they left, purchases in hand.  We didn’t act like waiting on them was doing them a favor; we knew it was the exact reason we were there and didn’t try to shirk our responsibilities.

Speaking of favors, if someone does one for you, is payback required?  I believe a favor is a donation from the heart, given without expectation, whether it was asked for or freely offered.  It shouldn’t entitle the bearer to put a hash mark under the recipients column, meaning they ‘owe you one’.  If there has to be a one-to-one correlation, then it’s more like a business transaction.  Sorry, but I don’t want that debt hanging over my head.  I want to know when I do a kindness back, it’s because I wanted to please that person, not because payment was due.  Any kind deed should be acknowledged and appreciated, and if you care about someone, you most assuredly will give back.  But doing someone a solid should never be bound by obligation.

Moving on to borrowing.  Seems reasonable, in theory.  However, too may people misuse or abuse it.  Knowing how to do a gainer dive and executing one gracefully are two different things.
“May I borrow a tampon?” = misuse  (unless you’re all kinds of nasty)
“May I have a tampon? I’ll replace it.” = couth  (unless you don’t = mooch —or— repeat this routine monthly = abuse)
“Can I borrow this DVD?” <shrink-wrapped> or “Can I wear this dress?” <pricetag attached> = obtuse
C’mon, the person obviously hasn’t even partaken of this themselves.  I know watching or wearing first doesn’t consume the product, but it’s just not right to ask to break the seal on someone else’s stuff.  If you’re that covetous of an item, buy/rent your own.  Or express an interest; be happy if an offer to lend is made, and pleasant if it isn’t.  Even a new jar of peanut butter has owner privileges.

Sidebar II:  Did anybody else place a premium on being the first to dip into a freshly-opened Jif?  I can remember numerous occasions when we tussled over it.  There is something oddly satisfying about delving into that untouched surface with a smooth knife.  And we really did have to wait for it.  My ever-efficient, non-wasteful mother (bless her heart), could make two sandwiches long after most people would have considered the jar empty and chucked it.  “There’s plenty in here, girls!”, as her arms shook with effort, the squeak of metal scraping glass escalating with our grumbling tummies.  In our house, a container wasn’t empty until it looked like it had been steam-cleaned.

Let’s hit the road.  Sometimes it feels like every driver on the highway is unstable or one row of letters away from legally blind.  I had a professor in college who noted the common definition of yield is: nose it on in as fast as you can. Nothing worse than patiently waiting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, while some asswipe uses the shoulder as his personal conveyor belt, and scoots past everyone to get to the front of the line.  (I also get slightly perturbed with the car that lets this turd merge.)  Look, Jerk Waddington, we have places to be, too.  Another delight:  the person who almost causes an accident due to their own negligence, then shoots you a “WTF?” look, like you were the clueless bastard in this scenario.

It is ludicrous to imagine sharing living quarters with all of the strangers (and even friends) we encounter daily.  Yet we are expected to share many common areas with them in a peaceful co-existence.  Pretty tough when you consider how many different rulebooks are circulating out there.  Our society is not what it used to be.  With all the potential child molesters, rapists, thieves, and other criminals seeking to do us harm (even though they are a small percentage), we are leery of ‘being nice to strangers’.  Most of us have taught our children from early on not to trust someone they don’t know.  And if you are mistrustful by nature, you’re not as likely to interact with the population at large.  Safety is our number one concern, and deservedly so, but unfortunately the days of exchanging pleasantries with any Tom, Dick, or Harry are a casualty.

Sidebar III:  Where are all the Toms & Harrys, anyway?  Seems like I’m always running into Dicks.

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Not everyone practices good manners.  Some people are incognizant; some are ignoramuses.  You can’t control others, but you have complete control over how you react to them.  Better to look through rose-colored glasses than see red.

Pinkitude:
“Courtesy is a silver lining around the dark clouds of civilization; it is the best part of refinement, an art of heroic beauty in the vast gallery of man’s cruelty and baseness.” ~ Bryant H. McGill

SPECIAL NOTE: To those who are signed-up for email alerts to my blog, you may have received one last week.  That was an unfinished draft, published in error.  Hence its’ incompleteness & lack of presence on my WordPress page.  If you received the email and have not yet read it, please delete. I am able to edit or delete posts from the blog, however, have no ability to retract emails once they are sent.  The full/final version of that entry will be posted to my blog when it’s complete and timely (sometime in December).

Thank you for reading!  I appreciate your interest.

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

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Self-Love 101

Posted in The Saga Continues by

Alright class, listen up.

If you came here expecting a course on masturbation, sorry to disappoint.  I have nothing against that topic, but this is about one’s appreciation for their biological blueprint.  There’s alot more material available on stroking the body than the psyche, so I’m gonna focus on the latter.  Strap-in (not strap-on) as we journey into the epiphanous (not erogenous) zone…

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Consider the following:

  • I’m big-boned.
  • I retain water.
  • It’s my monthly bloat.
  • My metabolism is slow.
  • I gain weight just looking at food.
  • I haven’t lost the pregnancy poundage.
  • My scale must be broken.
  • My clothes must have shrunk.

Despite the fanciful array of excuses most women have used at one time or another, the truth is, I have a tendency towards being thick.  Extra cushioning runs in my family.  I’ve tried running from it all my life, but it’s an inescapable fact.  Not to mention tiring; to be constantly running and never reach your destination.  I don’t expect sympathy.  Everyone has their cross to bear.  Bear…. Bear claw!  Dammit to Little Debbie anyway.

I’ll admit it, I love food.  Desserts in particular.  I never met a cookie I didn’t have instant chemistry with, and Ben & Jerry are always whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  I’m also keenly aware of my chromosomal configuration.  It doesn’t take much for me to pack on the el-beez.

I have been dietetically militant and fitness-minded most of my life.  At my lightest, I liked the results, but they weren’t sustainable.  Keeping my body at a lower setpoint than it believes I should be at means two things: 1) I’d have to take up residence in the gym, and 2) I’d have to grow a serious aversion to food, and socializing.  Sorry, but I need my people.  And my chocolate.  Chocolate covered peeps will do in a pinch.

Willpower is a funny thing.  There are times when it’s been stronger than freshly-brewed Starbucks, and other times when it’s hiding somewhere behind that box buried way in the back of the grocer’s freezer (you know, the one no one buys because it’s kinda crumpled and covered in ice crystals).  Most of the time I have stockpiles of won’t-power.  That delectable morsel tantalizing my tastebuds and teasing my tongue seems alot more desirable in the moment than getting back into my skinniest skinny jeans.  Cute catch-phrases and incentivizers like “nothing tastes as good as being thin feels” or “a moment on the lips forever on the hips” — start to become watered down after constant use.  They cease to protect me from the traveling buffet of culinary temptations I encounter daily.  Sometimes you don’t care about the nutrition police; you just want to eat your friggin french fries in peace.

Learning to love yourself instead of wishing you could change is not an easy undertaking.  Your genetic code is written in big black Sharpie marker.  There’s no erasing or eradicating it.  Your personal perspective, however, is all #2 pencil.  You can write, change, revise, overhaul, at will.

I’ve often been bad-mouthed by the critic in the mirror.  You’d think we’d be on the same side, yet day after day she mocks me.  She’s armed and dangerous, with a litany of unflattering terms: thunder thighs, muffin top, bubble butt, turkey arms.
Yet guess who’s the first one to beg me for a muffin when my stomach’s emptied out?  And who’s padded legs take her anywhere and everywhere she wants to go?  And how do you think she’d feel if my jello’d biceps stopped fixing her hair or dressing her in the clothes she likes?  That’s right bitch…. so enough already with the insults.  I would never, ever, let anyone talk to a friend or family member that way.  I would staunchly defend them, admonish the antagonist then deliver a soothing balm of compliments and comfort.  Don’t I owe myself the same?  Am I not worth as much as any other person of value in my life?  I simply can’t allow myself to be the target of such useless negativity.  A good day shouldn’t be predicated on what the scale shows that morning.

I’m not saying people shouldn’t stretch their self-improvement muscles.
Striving to better yourself is critical to happiness, growth, and success.  However, that applies to what you can change, not what you can’t; what’s important to achieve, not what’s immaterial.  Everyone has enviable traits.  The trick is to highlight and build on those, instead of magnifying flaws — real or perceived.  I’m gonna let you in on Victoria’s Secret:  95% of the female population will never look like their catalog models.  Which really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, since 95% of the male population don’t have a carbs chance on Atkins to date someone of that caliber.  (Note: see female odds if you play for the other team).  That means most of us are perfectly matched in our imperfections; a delicious melange of the pears and apples and oranges who comprise the fruit salad of the world.

It’s good to remind oneself, as often as necessary, what truly matters in life.  The size of one’s heart, not frame.  The benefits of friendship, affection, and generosity, not clothing size.  It’s also important to note, one man’s cottage cheese is another man’s cheesecake.  Not every restaurant critic gives five stars to a five star establishment.  Sometimes the palate is most satisfied by the daily special at your local diner.

You can beat yourself down, or build yourself up.  Cajole or condemn.  Make contributions to better the human experience, or belittle it.  It is almost impossible not to feel better when you do a kind deed.  Smile alot.  Laugh more.  Enjoy your own company.  Feel proud of those you’ve helped and what you’ve achieved, then bask in that fresh-from-the-oven goodness.  It’s not cockiness, it’s confidence.  Celebrate.  Joy is contagious.

pink yellow thin line
Nothing makes you stronger than a body double who doubles as your body guard.  Love yourself, and others will follow suit.

Pinkitude:
The person we believe ourselves to be will always act in a manner consistent with our self-image.”
~ Brian Tracy

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Everyone has their cross to bear.  (Damn it all, that just made me think of a bear claw.)