You Probably Knit Too Much If...

I dyed my hair to match my Clapotis.

Don't look at me like that. It wasn't all vanity. I was looking at all those gorgeous Noro Silk Garden colors today. Amethyst purples, cobalt blues and emerald greens melting into one another and realized that I had knit this for the old me. I was a redhead as a child and had a love-hate relationship with my hair. It got me quite a bit of attention, not all of it positive, but at least folks knew who I was. When random people talked about our meeting later they could say to each other, "You know, the redhead." or "I forgot the name of the redhead." or, more often than not "The cute blonde says she'll go out with me if I find a blind date for her friend, the redhead."

Well nature plays a cruel joke on us redheads. Red fades with age, which means that just as you reach an age where you can laugh in the face of other peoples' perceptions, "redheaded stepchild" jokes et al, it starts to vanish. Now, when I could finally stare down the bozo who asks, "You gotta temper to match that hair?" it starts to fade to a dishwater blonde.

So today as I looked at Clapotis I realized that my draw to those shades of violet and green stemmed from the fact that they used to be the only shades I could wear that wouldn't clash with my hair. Suddenly I got so homesick for myself, and I did it. I drove to the drugstore and bought some L'oreal Excellence Creme 6R and dyed my hair to match my Clapotis!

Now I once again have that hair that says, "I'm probably descended from Vikings, so while we're having a polite conversation now, you'd best stay on my good side lest my genetic predisposition for burning and pillaging kicks in."

For the first time in a long time I looked in the mirror and recognized myself. I could have used this hair yesterday. We were invited to a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese. For those of you unfamiliar with this establishment, Chuckie Cheese is like Mickey Mouse's out of control, nakedly exploitive and opportunistic younger sibling. Or for all you SAT lovers out there...

Chuckie is to Mickey
As Paris is to Nicky

The only good to come out of this experience is that I can now report with confidence that none of my children have previously undiagnosed epilepsy. Chuckie Cheese is Vegas for children. Bad dinner theater, tokens, gambling,smoke and mirrors. The only thing missing was free cocktails for high stakes gamblers. To which I say, "Ha! you lock me in this building with flashing lights and a 7 foot animatronic mouse, you better make it worth my while."

One interesting side note of the event was watching the interaction between parents. The crowd was made up of women clothed in full Burkas - face covering, the whole nine yards (of fabric) and women in painted on jeans and lingerie as outer wear who were there to spend some quality time with their "baby's daddy" which afforded my children the opportunity to witness the Madonna/Whore Complex in action. Still I felt the need to find some common ground and considered gathering all the women together to hold hands in a circle and sing the Whitney Houston hit I'm Every Woman, but by this point my two year old had gone into electronic overstimulation shock (EOS) and was staring at the mini-carousel screaming "Horsey, Help me! Horsey Help meeeeee!!!!!!!!!" I looked at my husband with that desperate "I know this is your family, but you have to get me out of here before my head implodes." look on my face. Fortunately he felt the same way and together we convinced the children that a three hour wait at the prize counter to redeem 120 points worth of tickets which would earn them a "Let's Go To Chuckie Cheese!" bumper sticker, really wasn't worth it.

And my childrens' only complaint after the fact? They didn't get to spend any quality time with their cousin, the birthday girl.

Rampant consumerism- 1
Human relations- 0