i have always loved the idea of bein' able to change the color of material things from one color to another. unfortunately my first forays into the doin' o' dyin' only donated more digits onto that dire list o' momade calamities.
my first dumb dye job was when i was but a teen livin' at home with a mother, who took pride in her crisp white nursin' uniforms and a father who liked his undershirt, boxers 'n socks to also be white (yet not crisp). unfortunately, of the options offered up on the back o' the box o' rit, i chose the washin' machine one to dye a pale pink poncho the most scarlet o' scarlets to wear to a party planned for plottin' the prom. once the old washer had done it's dyin', i threw the newly dyed item in the dryer...then, bein' that the laundry was on my list o' daily assignments, i dumped in the next round o' dirty duds, added a dab o' detergent 'n then danced away, anxious for the dryer to do it's tumblin'. i had been so busy dreamin' up all the creative things rit 'n i could do together, i forgot all about makin' sure the old washer would not pass on any remainin' scarlet to it's next inhabitants.
and pass it on that old washer did indeed do. my mothers caretakin' costumes 'n my dad's undergarments were as pink as my poncho had previously been. the possibilities o' punishments paradin' before me created a panic that made me pained 'n pale....the first penalty bein' that i would not be wearin' my previously pink poncho to the party as planned.
i swore to never dabble in dyin' again after that first most dangerous deed. but years later, as a lowly sorority pledge, i was designated the duty o' dyin' costumes brown for a skit to be performed durin' rush week. havin' learned a hard lesson about machine dyin, i decided i'd do 'em all up in a big ol' pot in the dorm kitchen which was situated on the same floor but on the opposite side o' the buildin'. i drug all the dresses down the long newly carpeted corriders and dutifully stirred the huge pot for the recommended time. once they were all the correct shade o' brown, i rinsed 'n wrung 'em all out in the sink and headed for the laundry room - which was right next to my room. it wasn't 'til i had those dresses in the dryer 'n departed the laundry room that i discovered the dark brown drippin' dye that marked my path from the kitchen to the laundry room.
after two dyin' calamities, i took a lifetime anti-rit oath that i planned to keep. but after a duo o' decades, the desire to dye took hold o' me once again. this time, bein' a homeownin' adult, i reasoned that i had no one to answer to for any damage i could possibly do. bein' frightened o' both the machine 'n the boilin' pot methods, i decided to create a method o' my own. i just line up the gallon mason jars in the old porcelain doo dad den tub, dump in the powdered rit 'n add hot water then do a lil stirrin'. i then deposit the items i desire dyed 'n leave 'em in til they are the dreamed about color, do the wringin' n' rinsin' there on the spot, then hang 'em from the towel rack. i keep the same jars goin' 'til they're just about empty 'n then just replenish 'em. when not in dyin' mode, the tub has always come perfectly clean 'n the only calamity has been a lil white dog gettin' a few purple spots on her head.
so far the rewards o' returnin' to the rit have been worth risk. here's a shot o' my current batch - ribbons 'n bits o' this 'n that determined to become a flurry o' flowers.
