When I was a kid I heard more than once, from my mother: Pretty is as pretty does.
Pretty was a frequent topic in our house, much like cleanliness and neatness and intellectual achievement. My mother was (is) very pretty -- and clean and neat, and intelligent.
I wanted to be exactly like her. She was my first and by far my most significant role model.
I've since learned that if you had the privilege (or burden, as is the case with some) of knowing your mother, you turn out much like her regardless of whether that was your desired result.
As for me, I cherish vivid memories of my comely mama standing before the medicine cabinet mirror, blacking her eyelashes, reddening her lips, spray-netting her bouffant hairdo, then stepping back and smiling happily at the effect.
And the effect was indeed stunning. Magical, even. She looked like a glamorous movie star who had missed Hollywood by a single gorgeously-coiffed hair.
My mother never -- ever ever ever -- went out of the house, to a public place, without being at least marginally dolled up.
As in, hair and makeup. Even if she was wearing a casual summer outfit, even if we were camping out, on a bad day or a day at the beach, Mama took pains to be pretty.
Although, falling off a log would have presented a greater challenge to my mother than being pretty.
Be that as it may, she took the time -- because it does take time. She took the time not because she was born in 1937 and grew up before the Baby Boom, when things were different.
She took the time not because it's just what women did, back then.
She took the time because she understood something: It is important for a female to look like a female.
Something I suspect she learned from her mother, who herself set an excellent example.
It is important for us to be the very best version of what our Creator made us to be.
Transformation is a major theme of the universe. A God-ordained law.
In every area it is our purpose to work toward a higher plane.
When someone with eyes that smolder
Says he loves ev'ry silken curl
That falls on my iv'ry shoulder,
I enjoy being a girl!
=0=0=0=
Male and female created he them.
I learned at my mother's knee that if you are a girl, femininity is central to your existence. Or at least, if you're savvy (and she was), it should be.
To a female, femininity is currency, certainly -- and the more you have in your account, the better -- but ultimately (and far more basically), it is oxygen.
In fact, as far as I am concerned, femininity is the sine qua non of a female's life. The essential element, without which not much else makes sense.
And lest I be accused of asserting that a woman must wear makeup in order to be feminine, I would admonish you to read a bit more carefully.
Don't get your pretty knickers in a twist if you don't own a mascara and even now, having read only this far, you're doing a slow burn.
Have an open mind.
(But I do suggest L'Oreal Telescopic as a happy medium between cheap and expensive. Don't get the waterproof kind.)
Last week I posted a few pictures and a poem for SkyWatch Friday. My post garnered a comment that was off-topic -- actually, nowhere near the topic -- and which, if I am to be honest, made me bristle.
The commenter, a person unknown to me, opined that upon reading in my sidebar that We should be in good shape as long as the Chanel No. 5, mascara, red lipstick, and Diet Coke hold out, was moved to be thankful that even sans cosmetics -- which said commenter has forsaken, apparently, due to suffering hot flashes -- she is STILL happy.
Her words struck me as self-righteous, implying as they did that, unlike her, I am a shallow, vain woman who has not the ability to enjoy a meaningful existence (at any age) in the absence of perfume and makeup and a soft drink laced with aspartame.
So I became a trifle defensive and I responded -- something I rarely do because everyone is entitled to their opinion and as long as they don't cuss or get crude on my website, I like to give folks all the rope they need in order to hang themselves -- that I'd reread the meant-to-be-droll sidebar blurb and confirmed in my own mind that nowhere did it say I required the named items in order to be happy.
However.
I have since given the matter a great deal of thought and I am here to offer an unequivocal and unqualified mea culpa. Guilty as charged.
Judge me all you want. It makes no difference whatsoever, to me or anyone else.
Like Popeye, I yam what I yam.
In a nutshell: I love being a girl. They should write a song.
Oh. They did.
When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!
=0=0=0=
The friendship of the world is enmity with God.
Everything means something. This has long been one of my mantras. You can ask anyone.
So, what does it mean that I won't leave the house without dressing like a woman, brushing my hair, and exercising at least a modicum of cosmetic discretion?
It means I accept my God-given role and I am neither resentful of nor intimidated by it.
I embrace it. No: I embrace it with joy and enthusiasm.
Why? Because to do so makes me happy. And for me, that means making the most of what God gave me.
It means living each day -- good, bad, and in between -- in gratitude that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. As a female.
Every Sunday morning I come downstairs ready for church, usually not having yet seen my beloved TG.
I get up lots earlier than he on Sunday, and I get ready in another part of the house. I don't like to talk in the morning.
But I wish you could see his eyes when he sees me.
They widen and they glow. His beautiful eyes become more beautiful. He smiles and that smile is sweet. He reaches for me while I'm still on one of the stairs.
He says one of two things: Hi sweet girl, or Hi precious.
And he puts his arms around me and he leans in and breathes deep and smells my perfume, and he sighs. Chanel No. 5, being his favorite, elicits an extra-zealous response.
He kisses the back of my hand and rubs my arms and rejoices in my softness.
Then he looks at my hair and tells me it looks nice and pays me a few more compliments.
Every single Sunday of the world.
Yes; he's a good man. Without even trying. No; I'm not a natural beauty. I work at it.
But still. I hope you didn't miss the point: my husband not only appreciates my femininity, but he is energized and encouraged by it. Inspired, even.
I am never tempted to take masculinity from a man. I married a real man and I wouldn't have it any other way.
And lest you doubt, I do my share of appreciating the way he looks and smells on Sunday morning.
He's wearing a crisp dress shirt and a silk tie and sharp slacks and he's about to put on a suit coat.
Because we're going not to a rodeo or down the road to the produce stand, but to church.
And yes, it matters what you wear to church. It means something.
But that's another blog for another day.
His still-abundant hair, silver at the temples, is carefully combed. His handsome face is smooth. He smells divine.
And I breathe deeply too, and I tell him how good he looks.
And then we tote our Bibles -- you know, that book kids can't read in school anymore, lest they be irreparably corrupted -- to the car and head out.
When we get there, we snuggle the whole time, as we always have.
In thirty-five years of marriage, we've never let anyone (of any age, even -- or especially -- our own offspring) sit between us in the pew.
And yes, we've made our share of mistakes.
But neither of us has ever been afraid to be who we are. We won't be intimidated or pressured into being who we aren't. Even so, it's more than that. We glory in our respective roles.
Because God made him a man and me a woman. And it's working just fine that way, thank you very much.
I'm strictly a female female
And my future I hope will be
In the home of a brave and free male
Who'll enjoy being a guy having a girl like me.
=0=0=0=
The world promotes two things: Androgyny and unbridled lust.
What the world system relentlessly pushes is not only avoidance of God and His laws, but complete defiance in the face of God and His design for males and females.
As in, the goal of the liberal system and the lapdog media is for there to no longer be any such thing as gender, much less morality.
In one generation, perhaps two, the overlap will be such that nobody will dare -- or think -- to use the terms male and female anymore.
The annihilation of marriage and the family as some of us have been blessed to experience those things, is most definitely the world's number one agenda.
And if you can succeed in getting females to abandon dressing and acting like females -- except in the basest, most obvious sense, hinging solely on the prurient -- you are at least three-quarters of the way there.
If you weren't aware of that, then now you know. And knowledge is sorrow but it is also power.
Several years back I was perusing vintage magazines in an antique shop. Ephemera from a time gone by.
In riffling through the pages of an oversized publication like Life or some such, from the '70s if not earlier, I came across an ad that showed how far we've come -- or gone, as the case may be.
The ad was for Coty's Emeraude perfume -- a timeless winner, a scent I sometimes still wear because you can buy it at Walmart and Walgreens and it makes a girl smell like something good enough to eat.
It consisted of a single picture, of a beautiful young woman with long dark hair. It was mostly a head shot and she was posed not in a provocative way necessarily, but there was no mistaking the message.
In case the viewer missed the point, however, the tagline brought it front and center:
If you want him to be more of a man, try being more of a woman.
Booyah.
(You wouldn't be able to get that ad published today, any more than you could make a musical like Flower Drum Song featuring a song like I Love Being A Girl.)
And yet, everyone not only knows what an ad like that means without having to be told, but they know it's true.
If they're being honest. Are you being honest? Honestly?
I asked TG a few weeks ago: What if I cut my hair really short -- like, man-short, requiring practically no care -- and threw out all of my cosmetics along with my lighted makeup mirror and just said, you know, I'm tired of all that fuss.
Would I be so repulsive if I stopped using hair dye and quit going to the salon once every five weeks for a trim, just let my hair sprout everywhere, unkempt and graying, and called a moratorium on the use of creams and potions and lotions and substances and scents and powders and sprays and brushes and combs and such like, and went au naturel for the rest of my life, opting instead to invest my time and money in something less -- ah, temporal?
After all, lots of women do it and the sun still comes up every morning, I pointed out.
We were in the car, going to church. After I said all that, I stole a look at my TG and waited for his answer. He was apparently still thinking.
Well? Would you be happy with me if I did that? I said.
His answer was as brief as it was predictable:
No.
So there you have it.
He'd still love me, because that's who he is. But he wouldn't be happy with me, because that's not who I am.
And guess what? I wouldn't be happy with me either.
Although I realize there is no intrinsic eternal value (other than their sometimes-considerable cost) in the items on my dressing table, I know that their sum is far greater than their parts.
For me, taken together and used correctly, put in their proper place, given appropriate weight in the scheme of things and allowed to do their job, they facilitate recognition.
They are a necessary means to a desirable end.
Prudent use of those products represents one of many truths, if you will, that define me.
Which is why not only would I not forsake any part of my beauty routine, but I wouldn't even seriously contemplate forsaking it.
It's worth the trouble to get prettied up. And it is trouble. Sometimes I sigh and grumble when I face it.
But I still face it.
My mother taught me that it's what women do. Because ladies are supposed to be pretty. And soft, and sweet-smelling, and feminine. Nothing like a man. Men are supposed to be rugged and handsome and masculine.
The difference should be substantial, pronounced, and definitive.
Vive la difference.
But my mother didn't only tell me; she showed me. She still does.
And she was right then, and she's right now.
Which is why I taught the same to my daughters, who in their turn have willingly and beautifully embraced the philosophy and practice not of feminism -- do not get me started -- but of joyous femininity.
And who are teaching it to their daughters, and will continue to do so.
It makes us all very happy.
Thanks, Mom. I love you. And not just because you're pretty.
Now kindly pass me an ice-cold Diet Coke.
=0=0=0=
=0=0=0=
Happy Sunday ~ Happy Mother's Day
![Hold Back the Dawn [DVD] Charles Boyer; Olivia de Havilland; Paulette Goddard](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AkExBJQsL._SL75_.jpg)
Wednesday, May 14, 2014 at 02:44PM 
