Two Installments. Prepare Yourselves!

If you have just stumbled across this blog and are confused by what this fuzzy red thing is, read here to catch up.

I'm quite sorry to disappoint my six loyal readers, but tomorrow there will not be a Red Thing post. My little family is going out of town for a couple of nights. We will be back sometime on Wednesday night though, so there may be an installment then. Otherwise, you will have to wait until Thursday. I am ever so sorry. However, I promised 31 Red Thing options and 31 you will get. Today's post features two Magic Scarf Functions.

So it's your kid's fifth birthday party. You've got the cake. You've got the pizza. You've got the drinks, the goodie bags, the napkins, the plates, the pinata and the Pin-The-Tail-On-The-Donkey. You've thought of everything. Except the blindfold. You run up to your bedroom and consider the options. Your nylons. Too see through. Your bra--too, um, inappropriate for five year olds. Your jeans--too bulky. Your...ah yes, your Red Thing. Perfect.

My husband, being the mighty sport that he is, modeling The Magic Blindfold. Above, in exhibit A, you can see a frontal view, showing the thickness and size of The Red Thing which serves to decrease the chance of cheaters. Below, in exhibit B, a side view. There is so much extra Red Thing hanging down the back that you can grab hold and use this to spin the child around and around providing optimum dizziness.

If you are the kind of person who just has to have a daily dose of The Red Thing, or really enjoys a surprise every now and then or likes to delay gratification, come back tomorrow to discover the new and wonderful usage of the Magic Scarf. However, if you're one of those types who just can't wait another a second, I encourage you continue on. If you don't know which category you fall into, allow me to help you decide. Category One Individuals (a.k.a. The Stop Reading Right Now People) do not go hunting for their Christmas presents in the closet three weeks before Christmas. They do not eat their dessert first. They do not find out the gender of their baby prior to its birth. Category Two Individuals (a.k.a. The Read On People) push their peas around their plate after they've eaten all the good stuff and pray that they will just disappear (category one people scarfed those peas first thing and then enjoyed the rest of their meal). They would cry if someone threw them a surprise party--but most likely they use their sleuthing skills to determine the location of and exact guest list of said party. They cannot imagine the horrors of a gender neutral nursery--and how the heck would you ever have any clothes if you don't know if it's a boy or a girl--so OF COURSE they find out the gender of their baby. Okay. Do you know which category you are now? Category One people, stop reading right now or you will be very disappointed tomorrow!

Sing with me now! "There she is, Miss America. There she is, your ideal. The dreams of a million girls who are more than pretty, may come true in Atlantic City. Oh she may turn out to be the queen of femininity. There she is, Miss America. There she is, your ideal. With so many beauties, she'll take the town by storm with her all-American face and form. And there she is, walking on air. She is fairest of fair. She is Miss America." Okay, so you obviously know what's coming but I need to take a minute to say Oh. My. Gosh. I never, ever, knew the lyrics to that song and had to look them up on the Internet and my mouth is practically agape I am so appalled. YOUR IDEAL? ALL-AMERICAN FACE AND FORM? Okay, let's get one thing straight, I'm a fairly thin individual so this might sound a little like the pot shrieking that the kettle is black but I really do not think there should be AN ideal. I mean, what is the ideal? Please tell me so that if I ever have a daughter I can be sure to attempt to conjure up specific characteristics. Blonde? Blue eyes? Skinny? Large breasted? Flawless skin suggesting that you were never allowed to step foot in the sun as a child? If anyone has "the list" by which I can check my own self against The Ideal I would be glad to examine it. In any case, The Red Thing can also be used as a beauty queen sash.

"What? Oh my gosh. I had no idea. I mean, I had made it into the top five out of 51 so you would have thought I might have seen this coming. Especially since Miss Vermont tripped during the swimsuit competition and one of her straps broke and Miss South Carolina completely bombed her question and Miss Indiana missed her high note by thirty feet. Still, I am shocked. SHOCKED. I think I will sob. But I won't put my hands on my face because that would ruin my make up."

Here I am again. I've calmed down this time. I'm waving. "Hi there, I'm Miss America. Don't you just love my crown?"

It should be noted that the author of this blog is not against pageants and the scholarships that they provide. She thinks that most of the contestants are not only very attractive individuals but also appear to be fairly, and often highly, intelligent. She realizes that they work extremely hard and does not mean to put down their efforts. She is simply appalled that the lyrics of the famous song emulate a 1950's ideal of womanhood. To think that we should all be wandering around Atlantic City doing nothing but dreaming of possessing the All-American face is a tragedy. To think that, as a ten year old, I waited for the Miss America Pageant like I waited for Christmas makes me so sad for that little girl who didn't know that beauty was in the eyes of the beholder, who didn't know that only 51 women were that gorgeous, who didn't know that what really mattered was what was on the inside.

Not that my parents didn't try to make it clear, but as a kid commercials and pageants don't sound quite as much like Charlie Brown's mom droning on and on from the kitchen.

P.S. I did not know what we were having. My son has a gender neutral room. And guess what, he still had clothes when he was born. And I'm a serious planner. Like, I think I put the plan in planner. Or something. It is possible to be a planner and also enjoy the occasional surprise. I'm just saying, is all. Also, I realize that I am in the 5% of people who don't find out. And I'm okay with that. And I plan to "not find out" again if given the chance. So there.