“You are not going out with that boy unless his parents are driving and that's that. I'm not just Spitting Grits here, young lady!”

. . . My father, John Thomas Cravey, USAF, to me in 1956.


I’m not sure “Priss Pot” is in this Pink Universe except as a Southern slang term, but Joanna Leigh is a Pink Priss Pot. I’ve also decided that it’s inborn. She sure as heck doesn’t get it from me.

The other day in the car, she said, “I’m a Princess.

I said, “Yes, of course you are.”

She said, “I have pretty clothes.”

I said, “Yes, you do.” I thought, “Thanks to my Visa card.”

She said, “You don’t have pretty clothes.”

I was speechless. Yes, I go around looking like a bag lady, but somewhere deep in my closet, I do have passable clothes.

She said, “You get pretty clothes at the store. You can go to the store.

Except that my Visa card is smoking right now.

Pink-a-licious. Pink-a-thon. Pink-o-Mania. PinkFest. Pink-o-Rama. P is for Pink. Add some glitter and watch Pink morph into Princess. You are a Princess. Everything worth anything is Pink and Glitter. I’m Pink; therefore, I am a Princess.

Happy Pink Birthday

This past weekend, she and I drove to North Alabama for my other granddaughter’s birthday party, at the Pinkalicious Party Palace. Yes, you read that right. It boasts that it’s “The ultimate birthday experience for your little princess.”

By the way, my other granddaughter recently broke her arm on her school’s playground, but that trauma was overcome with a pink cast.


I had put on decent clothes and wore some jewelry, including my diamond engagement ring and my grandmother’s reset diamond. Joanna Leigh was overcome. She said, “Mama Jo, those are beautiful. Can I have those when I get big and you get little?

I said, “Oh, honey, you can have them looooong before I get little.

At Pinkalicious, you walk into pink rooms, get dressed up in glitzy princess clothes, go to the make-up station, where the young attendants put on lipstick, paint your fingernails, and spray lots-o-glitter into your hair. Then you can priss around on the stage and sing karaoke. Then, advance to the cake room where all the cupcakes have pink icing.

I took lots of video, which I’m going to start editing ASAP. Maybe I’ll put it on YouTube. I’ll certainly let you know.

From Pink to White

Pink Mania, Pink-sessive. Pink, Pink, You Stink.

So what is the illogical conclusion to all this Disney Princesses Pink Fantasy? Why, Disney's White Wedding Gown Fantasy, of course! It’s unbelievable. It’s enough to make you run out and buy Disney stock today.


I just don’t know what to think about all this. The Feminist me says, “$#%&*&%$!!!”

The Little Girl in me, also embedded deep in my closet somewhere, remembers believing, really believing, in Cinderella and Snow White. I’ll never get over seeing those movies on a big screen.

The Today Woman in me, at age 67 and a parenting grandparent of a 3-1/2-year-old, says, “If my Prince Charming were to rush toward me on his trusty steed to scoop me up in his arms, I’d shoot the creep.

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