I finally succumbed to a beady dress. Not just a regular beady dress of which I already have a decent evening gown belonging in that category, but a 'chesty' beady dress.
I said I would not do it, as they are so front heavy that, well, you know.
But I was in need of a dress that was
C) on sale and
D) right there in front of my face as I was rushing to the checkout stand.
So I got two.
This is one of those generic dresses that probably three truckloads were sold in every town of 10,000 people or less, so I have to mind my P's and Q's when I wear it. That is, if I care that day.
The funny thing about getting older, is that I honestly care less and less. I'm more likely to laugh hysterically and probably quite inappropriately.
Anyhow, the sad thing is, they need to be washed. And that flies in the face of one of my other clothing rules.
A) nothing that needs to be ironed
B) nothing that requires hand-washing.
With a congratulatory pat on my own back, I found a way to wash them.
I turned them inside out,
pinned the tar out of them,
(Oddly enough, that brings all sorts of pictures into my head.)
and ran them through the "hand wash" cycle
with a big pool of water for a cushion.
Some of the beads are not exactly in the place they used to be, but after cocking my head to the side, I pronounced it charming, and went on about my day.
In case any readers were hanging by a thread, wondering how the project at my mom and dad's house was progressing, here is their new sidewalk.
Just so long as there is room for a chair and a nice cold glass of carbonated poison, I'm happy.
Not shabby at all!