Category Archives: The Saga Continues

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.

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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.)

Lineage Lottery

Posted in The Saga Continues by

It’s a classic story.

Boy meets Girl. Boy likes Girl, so cleverly befriends Girl’s brother.
Boy gains access to Girl by being a family pal.

Boy wins Girl. (Boy is a catch so Girl wins too.)
Boy and Girl marry, and produce five much-wanted children.

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Thus begins the story of my life. Parental pay dirt. I hit it — BIG TIME.

There are the caricatured ends of the spectrum: woefully inadequate (Peter Griffin), and exemplary icon (Carol Brady). Most people I know related to the Quahog pop but wished for the blended family matriarch. I realize how lucky I am when I say, for me, fact trumped fiction. I got better than the Hollywood version; mine was impervious to recasts and writer strikes, and no one ever yelled ‘cut’.

My parents gave me life, but more importantly, they made it worth living. They taught me basic virtues: the value of a dollar, the importance of knowledge, the power of forgiveness, the meaning of trust. But I learned more from the unspoken lessons than the formally taught ones. Like how to listen without judging, accept without prejudice, give without expectation, love without condition. I can’t remember a time in my youth when I felt alone or neglected. My childhood was a continual source of giggles, gladness, and generosity.

I was a good daughter. Not because I feared punishment (though it most certainly would have been given as appropriate), but because I never wanted to disappoint my parents. I wanted to reflect their successes and earn their superlatives. I wanted that gratifying pat on the back, that rewarding gleam in the eye. I craved their approval, for the simple reason that they made it the most appealing thing in the world.

My mother has always been openly demonstrative; a never-ending source of hugs, kisses, and expressed adoration. We never had to look far for affection or attention — it was always in arms reach (her arms to be exact). Frankly I don’t know how she did all that she did, and made it look effortless too. Here’s what her resume might have looked like:

  • Maid — clean, straighten, scrub, dust, mop, shop, wash, press, fold.
  • Cook — three squares a day (all from scratch), often for guests (husband’s business associates, neighbors, extended family, friends).
  • Mother [aka: Teacher/Peacekeeper/Nursemaid/Taxi Driver] — engage children in play, help with homework, drive to & from activities, referee sibling rivalries, make doctor visits, keep vigil at the bedsides of the sick.
  • Wife — travel (plan, pack/unpack), socialize (dinners, shows, work functions), hostess @ home parties (prep, participate, clean-up).
  • Part-time Temp — various office duties, as needed.
     NOTE    :  Sleep optional.  Or standing up.

Seriously, Mom, I’m mystified — how the Helen Keller did you do it??

My father was a rare breed. Imposing but endearing; loving but laid-back. He was the disciplinarian, though usually the extent of that was a stern look (it was all the threat we needed). The few rare times we really pushed my mother’s buttons, she used the old ‘don’t make me call your father at work‘ ploy. It worked then, though it’s laughable now that we ever believed she’d actually disturb him at the office with our petty bickering.

“Yes, I need to speak to you now. I don’t care if you’re in an important meeting, the girls are misbehaving.”

Dad was extremely devoted to family. An entrepreneur who built a thriving business from the ground up, he often put in long days. But when he left the office, he came straight home to us. We had our evening meal together, and talk was family-centric. He never brought his work or worries to the dinner table; that time was devoted to recharging as a nuclear unit. Same goes for weekends and vacations; we were always the constant in that equation.  He wasn’t the touchy-feely type, but it was crystal clear that he viewed raising us as his privilege and priority.

I had one of those lame autograph books that was considered groovy as a kid in the 70’s. It zipped-to-close, and contained a rainbow of different colored pages. I wanted it filled from cover to cover, and friends and family were bestowed the dubious honor. The notations were a collage of silly, sweet, and sentimental, and have faded much like the aged paper they were written on.  All but my father’s short and simple entry, which to this day remains emblazoned in my memory.

I can see with photographic clarity the angles of his pen strokes as he wrote:

“To My Easter Bunny — No matter how old you get, you will always be my baby.”
That’s it. No poems; no professions of pride for my displayed talents, above-average intellect, or studious nature. I didn’t realize how much those words meant to me, until I was no longer a baby. Until I was thrust into the hardships of adult life, of marrying too young and dealing with difficulties in a household he wasn’t the head of. His statement was simply about our inherent ties. It didn’t matter how smart, artistic, or industrious I was, or what I might become. Only that I was, and I was his. That expression of our unbreakable bond — independent of any act, ambition, or accomplishment — was the most powerful message he could have delivered.

I spent many years under his enviable tutelage. At times making him proud, other times disappointed.  But he (and mia madre) loved me and provided for me with unwaivering dedication, regardless of my status. His last days were spent in a hospital, following a bypass surgery from which he never regained consciousness. I remember signing his ‘recovery’ pillow (given to heart patients to hold against their chest when they’re made to expectorate). I have no idea what I wrote, only that he would be pressing my words close to his heart.  I wanted my feelings to offer a cushion of comfort, much like he had always provided for me.

He never got to do that, but I know he knows just how much he meant to me. He knows that my autograph to him would read: “To My Miracle Father: No matter the space and time between us, you will always be my hero.”

Girl continues to be joyous, upbeat, kind and giving. Girl never wore her sadness as a sign of mourning (though she surely felt/still feels it). Girl moved on to the business of living. Loving, caring for, and celebrating with the beautiful family she & Boy created. Boy will always be a part of her, as he lives inside her, within us, and amidst all of our joint memories.

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I hope everyone at some point gets to experience that kind of love…  A connection so strong and so deep you never really think about it, until something or someone contrasts against it,  making the colors pop. If it wasn’t how you grew up, it could be how you raise your own brood, or what defines your romantic partnership, or the crux of your friendships. Luck only takes you so far. It may hold your pot of gold, but you’re responsible for finding the rainbow it resides beneath.

Pinkitude:
“The best inheritance a parent can give a child is a few minutes of their time each day.”
~ M. Grundler

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink

Anatomy of a Rom-Tome

Posted in The Saga Continues by

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I’m a sucker for romance.

It’s a very heady feeling to be the recipient of someone’s efforts to please, pamper, and proffer to your hedonistic desires. Real world romance has the advantage of being directed at and catered to you; personal by design, it’s a custom fit. Fictional romance is appealing because it removes the limitations and obligations of life as we know it; an enticing world opens up where there are no boundaries and the thigh’s the limit.

I’m sure you’ve seen the thematic cover art. A handsome man with a sculpted jaw, open or ripped shirt revealing a muscled chest; tight pants straining against his manhood. A beautiful woman with delicate features, framed by cascading hair; waist-cinching bodice showcasing her ample bosom. Both have a look of pure desire on their faces, and their bodies, limbs, dare I say souls, are entwined. To me, it looks like they are wearing each other.

I was recently pondering why these appeal to me, and millions of other women. And why I don’t advertise my interest in the medium — ahem, pretending not to look unless the section’s empty; never asking “Hey, did you read ‘Peignoir Boudoir’ or ‘Ardent Abandon'”?. The genre makes lots of money, so obviously it has a broad fan base.

Romance is fantasy. It won’t solve governmental conflicts, end world hunger, or stop global warming — nor should it. You don’t use a shoe to frost a cake. Politicians need summits, Africa needs sammiches, the ozone needs patching. Me, I need pure, unadulterated escapism. A world in which everything I don’t want or like or fear disappears, and everything I crave and feel and need comes alive in a carnal, candied confection. There is nothing quite like writhing in words.

Romance is titillation, temptation, anticipation. It’s what you don’t see, what isn’t drawn for you, that makes it enticing. A flash of skin, a flicker of seduction. The slow burn of extended foreplay. You’re on the edge, delirium at arm’s reach; electricity surging through your veins like liquid libido.

Romance novels have very similar undertones, though the details can vary greatly. The setting is always idyllic. Beyond the actual geographical Edens, one is transported to a time and place that is carefree, resplendent, and lush. It could be a tropical island, complete with pink diamond sands and crystal blue waters, perhaps a pirate ship looms on the coast. (Don’t worry; the pirate captain, though a cut-throat by nature, is still quite a catch, with his roguish charm and wicked good looks). Or maybe it’s a Count’s castle, draped in mahogany and velvet; shadows dance in a sea of candles, their dim glow tracing the contours of m’Lady’s cleavage. Or it might be a southern plantation on acres of rolling greens, with a mainland estate that rivals modern hotels; a horse & buggy abut the massive veranda, ready to whisk you off to the ball at a moment’s notice. There are many, many rooms and even more steps…. Babe McBoob must be able to run away from Beau McHunk, and he must be able to give chase and catch-up, dramatically scooping her into his arms.

The heroine is a mix of innocence, tenacity, and ripe sexuality. A quick inventory of her arsenal: Satin skin. Sex kitten hair. Wanton eyes. More curves than the autobahn, and more mouth-watering than a king-size box of sour patch kids. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, tied-to-the-traintracks, helpless honey. She’s quite capable, yet also vulnerable. She can lure her bait with a single lick of her pouty lips. She’s ballsy but feminine, free-spirited but grounded. Most used weapon: the bitch slap. Biggest Weakness: wild abandon. Oh, she wants it all right, but she’ll fight her desire as long as she can. (Hey, when you have hundreds of pages to fill, you can’t give it all up in Chaptuh One.)

The hero is wise, worldly, and hornier than a Viking’s helmet. At his disposal: Megawatt smile. Smoldering gaze. GQ looks. More appeal than a circuit court judge, and more power than NYC’s electrical grid. He’s in peak physical condition, since he has to be able to withstand fists to the chest, knees to the groin, constant attempts to wriggle out of his arms, catching or carrying fair maidens, hoisting the sail, fighting rivals, and withstanding injuries that would leave the common man a whimpering pile of wuss. Sporting an impressive tool, he can get it up and keep it up as if on a Viagra-drip. Greatest asset: Emboldened by multiple rejections. Achilles heel: he’d do anything to bone her (any fella worth his salt knows ‘anything‘ comes at a hefty price).


The archetypical storyline: The leads start out with an axe to grind. They are antagonistic towards one another, yet mutually attracted. Him: “You’re a spoiled wench, but every time I look at you there’s a party in my pants.” Her: “You are one ruthless bastard, but your hardcore eye humping is flooding my basement.” Early on, he steels a kiss or cops a feel; her resultant goosebumps belie her voiced dislike. Fate keeps throwing them together, but they are not having it. He instigates a full on make-out session, which she gives in to, until her chaste nature and untrusting heart intercede. Undaunted, he tries over and over again. Unsure, she denies him over and over again. Finally, in a moment of weakness, we get the 7 on the Richter scale, big bang bout of mattress wrestling. (I use the term mattress lightly. Usually the coupling takes place on the beach. Or the stables. Or his wine cellar.) This is hard & fast, half-undressed, panting like animals, blink and you missed it, sex. Ire immediately follows intimacy, as some callous remark or dastardly discovery sends the main players scurrying in opposite directions.

He’s swimming in frustration; she’s drowning in doubt. Though conflicted, they mentally replay their sexcapade. He lusts for her sweetness; wants to banish her nightmares. She yearns for his hardness, wants to quiet his demons. A perilous situation erupts; desire and appreciation rise to the surface, leaving worry and fear behind. They discover they share a strong, mutual bond. United in their cause, they fight that which seeks to divide them, instead of each other. Destined and driven, they are filled with gratitude and lust; the flames of their passion burning bright. Reaching safety, they finally, truly, madly, deeply, fully consummate their relationship. This is the bask in the afterglow, explore every inch of each others body, whisper professions of undying love, sex. Before our very eyes, all their differences and problems melt away. As the sun sets over their spent, sated bodies, we know they are perfectly mated and will live happily ever after.

Reading romance is seriously relaxing. Responsibilities seem like romps, and trouble like treasure hunts. There are no dishes to do, no trash to take out. He doesn’t have to trek along while she combs the mall. She doesn’t become a football widow Monday nights. The fuzzy filter of perfection overlays everything. Blemishes exist solely on the heirloom china. The only wrinkles are those of the crumpled clothes thrown to the floor. Dimples dot chiseled cheeks, not the back of thighs. Roots are under the great oak trees, not on anyone’s hair. Women smell of exotic flowers and men of mountain fresh musk. No matter their income or background, the characters are always well dressed and well endowed. Life is blissful and bountiful; hope and love spring eternal. What more could one wish for?

pink purple thin line

We’re bombarded daily with horrific images and heart-breaking stories; falling economies and failing peace efforts. Kind, decent people need a respite from that. Something that lifts their spirits; something that reminds us of the joy, wonderment, and pleasure life holds. So curl up with your sweetheart, or a nice steamy book. Grab the reigns, and ride with me on our trusty steed.
Literary lingerie is truly one size fits all.

Pinkitude:
“Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of everyday life into a golden haze.”
~ Amanda Cross

Impassioned by the pen,
Platinum Pink