i have about as much patience for the color [pink] as i do for my grandmother.
she is quite like a macaroon - appearances are everything, artificially sweet to the point of cloying, all sugar and no substance.
"sunday brunch," my mother said, more pleading than asking, "you'll have fun, i promise."
and so i sat there for two hours as she tried much too hard to win my affection, smothering me in flimsy cotton candy compliments.
she died a week later of a heart attack, leaving me filled with the taste of suffocatingly [pink] guilt.