Pink ladies
posted in Fashion, Gymnastics, Holidays and Festivals, OmegaDotter, OmegaMom, Parenting, Pop Culture |OmegaDotter long ago decided that she wanted to be a Rock Star for Halloween. This would be, thankfully, a generic Rock Star, not, say, Miley Cyrus or Lady GaGa or anyone in particular. We tossed around ideas for a while, finally settling on a long-haired wig, an electric guitar, camouflage pants, and a jacket.
All, of course, in the dotter’s favorite color: PINK. (Oy.) (But, hey, someday she will decide that PINK is, like, so totally boooring–like her mother–and come to like some other colors. There are hints that she will welcome other colors beginning to burgeon, so I have hope. Maybe by the time she is 13 or 14…)
I had seen pink camo pants on Target.com, so assumed they would be available at our local Chez Target. We set out for a shopping trip. Much to my dismay, there were no pink camo pants to be found. So we scrounged around the store and finally settled upon a pink and black leopard dress, and the Rock Star transitioned from a hard-rocker (though PINK) to a more glam-rocker.
The dotter had been hankering for months after a Barbie play electric guitar; I sniffed. Barbie. Humph. Play guitar. Humph. So, to counteract this, I told her she had to buy it herself. Our shopping trip was her chance; she raided her money jar and quite happily purchased this plastic faux confection. Much to my amazement when we got home and I had liberated it from its multiple-tie-down jail, it turned out to be fairly cool–once one got past the huge Barbie logo and the PINKness and the whiteness and the daintiness. It has pre-loaded tunes. It has the ability to do some rockin’ screamin’ guitar noises. And it has a “wa-waaaa” lever to emulate the guitarist sliding her hands up and down the guitar strings. All in all, much more tolerable than I had expected.
Then there was the wig. We purchased a wig, even though I knew it wasn’t what she wanted. But it was blonde and it was curly and it had some Disney princess or other on the package, and the dotter oohed and ahhed. Hey. It was nine bucks; what harm was there in purchasing the darned thing so that she could try it on and discover it was…well, not the look she wanted.
So the question remained: what to do about the wig. Amazon, of course, came through with a long-haired hot-pink wig with bangs…but I forgot to order it. The dotter kept reminding me at the wrong time–say, as we were getting out of the car at gymnastics, or as she was doing her daily homework, or while we were out shopping. Since my mind is a sieve these days, these reminders didn’t do much good; she would tell me, I’d nod and say “Yeah, will do!”, and then, a few minutes later–Oh! Look! Something shiny!
Somehow I managed to remember it last week; I believe the dotter wised up and reminded me as she was falling asleep, so that I would get online afterwards. So after getting her down to bed, I wandered down to the office and ordered the thing, paid for it, and then figured all was well.
Until I bothered to actually read the confirmation email, which mentioned, rather nonchalantly, that the delivery date was anywhere between October 27 (good) and November 3 (ooops!). I read the email on Tuesday, when I was wondering when the darned thing would arrive.
I didn’t tell the dotter about that November 3 date. Nope, nosirree. I figured if it didn’t show up, we would figure something out.
But today it arrived, and as soon as the dotter arrived home from school we went into full-fledged dress-up mode.
She tried it on first, of course, in her school clothes, then I had to try it on while she dashed upstairs to get the rest of her outfit:
And then she pulled everything together, like so:
The pink flannel pants are more orange-y, so we’re considering whether leggings might work instead. Anyway, there you have it, the Saga Of The Rock Star.
We have also carved the pumpkin, OmegaDad and the dotter have been putting together a gingerbread haunted house, we have made fondant ghosts, and it seems that A. is on for Trick-or-Treating again, thus allowing me to avoid the whole K. question.
(Oh, yes. The dotter did deliver her apology notes this evening at gymnastics, which went over very well. She got an approving nod from Coach John and a hug from A. Afterwards, while she was starting her session, I saw them comparing notes and chuckling over the idiosyncratic spelling…”Couch John”, and she was sorry she “heart A.’s arm”…)
