Two more days until the DSL comes back on at the house.
Two more days until civilization returns chez Arlette.
Once that happens, there will be photos of the abomination I’m crocheting right now.
It’s a bag.
It’s all pink.
Pink, dude. Pink. This is weird. I only recently stopped wearing all black, graduating to mostly black with some red and gray. I rejected the color on principle as “too girly” from about the age of, like, five. I read “Pink Think: Becoming a Woman in Many Uneasy Lessons” and learned plenty about the evils of pink. And here I am, making row after row of little rosy loops.
I flat-out refuse to turn in my angry girl-punk card — a legacy from high school — because, cop-out of cop-outs, the bag’s for a friend.
“Soft, baby pink, right?” I asked.
“And your other favorite color is …”
Not being able to find solid-colored soft pink cotton yarn at Michael’s — hey, no snobbery, I was making a run for sewing supplies and they had “Peaches & Creme” for, like, a buck fitty each — I went for the ombre shade colorway “Strawberry Cream,” which had some baby pink — and some white and magenta thrown in, as if the name didn’t boost the girly factor high enough. For a contrast color, I went with magenta.
Being a perfectionist when it comes to small, easily completed objects, I’m gonna line it. The perfect fabric turned up at the thrift store the other day: shiny, hot-pink fabric with little black polka-dots. I bought it, along with some — eek — soft pink fabric with white polka-dots.
I gotta say, this is the most pink anything, ever, in any place I’ve lived. On top of that, the other day I noticed the candy-apple red in my hair had faded to pink — and I like it.
Twenty years of vendetta against the color may be ending, folks. I don’t want to go overboard with it, since I still make fun of my sister for the time when she was about 11 that she named every stuffed animal she owned “Pinky,” regardless of hue. But the hatred just may be ending.