Category Archives: 2011

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