Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Christmas Cookies in Blue

Sunday, February 28, 2010

The Very Pink of Perfection

In the pink.

" An expression of the perfect condition... especially health."

It seems from the time of birth, a little girl is surrounded by the color pink!

She sees it everywhere! She is dressed in pink ruffles and lace

and bombarded with pink icons.

Long ago, I remember my parents surprised me one spring day.
I came home from school on my 9th birthday to find my room completely remodeled in pink. 
 Pink chenille bedspread, pink dotted swiss sheer ruffled pullbacks
on the windows and a pink swag lamp in the corner.
I was in "little girl heaven".

And as I grew older, the color pink came to symbolize everything beautiful and feminine.

But the color pink is not just juvenile.

It is classic.
Miley Cyrus said, "Pink isn't just a color, it's an attitude!"

Maybe she is right. 
 Pink is a sexy and sophisticated color that grows with the girl into womanhood.

Who coined the phrase, "Pink is the new black?"

or how about just pink and black?
That does it for me.

The late Alexander McQueen was quoted as saying he was "the pink sheep of the family."

I guess pink IS the new black.

“The tones of gray, pale turquoise and pink will prevail.”
 Christian Dior

May it be so.

“Yeah, baby! I didn't get to keep the pink baby doll outfit,
but I wish I did because people are always telling me
 I should wear it."

-Austin Powers

I believe in manicures.
 I believe in overdressing.
I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick.

I believe in pink.

I believe that loving is the best calorie burner.
I believe in kissing.

I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls.

I believe that tomorrow is another day

and I believe in miracles."
- Audrey Hepburn


  1. complimentiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

  2. What a great collection of pink cakes! You do excellent work!


  3. I loved this! Happy pink!

  4. I agree... beautiful collection of pink!


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It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

~Emily Dickinson