Beauty is as beauty does

An acquaintance of mine, a woman with seemingly everything going for herself--a successful and thriving writing career as a romance author, a handsome husband, two point five children, an adorable dog, and a house in the best new section of town--and who seemed to ooze self-confidence from every pore--actually had a terrible body image.

Ok, so she had a few years on her. And, so she looked like she's had a couple of kids. Life happens.

This successful woman was in awe of my addiction to beautiful, sensuous underwear. Underneath my cute but unremarkable exterior lies a hot, smokin' woman. And with each movement my silken and lace undies remind of that fact.

Now, do I have a perfect body? Not according to Madison Avenue or Self magazine. But me and my Victoria Secrets don't care.

My author friend asked me to help her choose something sexy for her husband once she LOST WEIGHT. I looked askance at her and said, "To your husband you are a beautiful woman. And you'll never look as young and fresh again as you do today. Why are you waiting?"

At an event a couple of weeks later she breezed up to me and said, "Rob wants to thank you!" Turned out she took my advice to heart and bought herself a couple of ravishing bras and thongs. Her eyes sparkled and she looked, well--beautiful.

So, for those of us who are waiting here's my two cents worth: Get over it! Go out and do it now.

The Skinny On Things

With the recent debates about anorexic models and poor Nicole Ritchie's dramatic weight loss, it's good to be reminded about the way things once were. Back in the days when we didn't live long enough to care about cholesterol and no cameras lurked around to record ten added pounds of unsightly weight, the womanly ideal resembled this robust image of Syrinx (by Rubens and Brueghel.)

I swear to God that after last night's binge, that's exactly how I looked in the mirror this morning.

For more on Rubens and Brueghel, click on this NPR link.

Ok, so I went to Paris ...

...and visited Montmartre to soak up the atmosphere. I sat outside at a cafe sipping vin rouge for two hours and tasting every morsel on my plat du jour--a rare roast of beef topped with Bearnaise sauce, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans tied with a straw ribbon. C'est magnifique!

And so I took my time and felt fabulously in the moment, the September sun warming my face, the soft sibilant sounds of French voices teasing my ears. I reluctantly left this magical place and strolled up the steep stairs to Sacre Coeur and its lovely spires and dome. Spread before the cathedral like an indolent mistress was Paris.

I stopped to admire a Parisian dog, one of the thousands of well-behaved Gallic canines who quietly follow their owners or wait patiently in doorways or under a table. And then ... this drop dead gorgeous male accosted me, demanding (yes!) to draw my portrait.

I knew better of course. A seasoned traveler, I suspected I would pay richly for my impulse, which I did after some bargaining. But, oh God, he was so handsome and so mouthwateringly French, how could a full-blooded woman like me resist? He had dark mussed-up hair, long eyelashes, and that indefinable sense of style that draws your eye to every perfect detail of his clothing.

As he studied me and drew my portrait, I visually took in my fill. It was such a delicious moment, or should I say moments, since he took a long time.

The result was anticlimactic and rather amateurish. But with his awkward charcoal lines he had stretched my neck, thinned my face, and enlarged my eyes, making me look almost ethereally beautiful.

I wish I had taken his picture. But then, some memories are better left to the imagination, n'est pas?

Hi, I'm Ms. Place

I'm a little saucy, a whole lot impudent, and have a big honest mouth.

Hell if I know what I'll say on this blog. When something comes to mind, I'll let 'er rip!