I have never been partial to the color pink. It always seemed to me to be charged with trite girlie frou-frou, frilly ballerinas, Barbie doll fantasies and Victoria’s Secret sap. But something happened over one long winter. I spent an inordinate amount of time paying attention to the health of the mouth of my sweet and now toothless cat. I read that jailhouse holding pens were being painted pink to diffuse violence. I anticipated the return of my favorite painting, a close rendering of the lips I love. A friend announced that she was going to the gynecologist to get her “pink parts” checked. I ripped countless sweaters, surprised that I inadvertently produced a suitcase of pastel pink balls of yarn. I changed my brand of nightly smoothies, delighted by the taste and color. I awaited the arrival of my secret-sexed grandchild (a girl - Ruby Jean!). I painted a bathroom in the retro pink style of a childhood neighbor. The next thing I knew I was wearing a pink thong and swooping up all of the pink “whoops” paint from the reject stands at Lowe’s. Studio time, typically so serious, became fun, fun, fun.