Wedding Daze? Days? Daize?

My first baby girl is getting married.  And my second baby girl will have her baby girl with her at the wedding! I’m getting excited, and looking forward to a wonderful few days spent with family and friends.

Life is pretty good.  I’ll soon be able to call two fabulous men son-in-laws, both couples have happy established lives, and my granddaughter is just adorable.  I saw little Juno in person when she was 3 months old, and now at a mature 1 year of age, I’m sure she’ll charm us with her almost-walking skills and flirting manner.

There’s nothing like a wedding to get the happy-vibe going.  A celebration of life, lots of smiles, good food, good drink, and a little dancing in between.  This wedding will be flavored with Montana mountains, western BBQ, hairy highland cows in the background, a lovely old dancehall featured in a Robert Redford movie, and bluegrass music before and after the ceremony.

Memories of my babies have been flitting through my head in the last few days. My oldest with her smile and huge blue eyes that saw and understood most everything, my youngest completely contained in a water bucket in her swimsuit, her knees against her chest with a big grin.  The years flew by much faster than I expected, and they grew into lovely women.  My biggest wish was that they would find their path in life and live it with gusto.  I’m happy to say both have been very successful.

On to good, happy times…..

Breast Support

OK, let’s talk about a much-spoken-about yet taboo subject:  those mammary glands of the female form.  While the obsession on these two appendages is rampant among men’s conversations and oodles of porn sites, the practical details on the management and care of the chesty extensions is scant (except for copious amounts of breastfeeding information).

Tits. Boobies. The anatomical term of ‘breasts’. Cha-cha’s. Chi-chi’s. Honkers. Bazooms. Hooters. Gazongas. Assets. Knockers.  The list of fond terms is endless.

My ‘assets’ proudly passed the pencil test until my mid-30’s. (Gents may be a bit lost right now, but ladies know exactly what I mean.)  Of course, pencil test winners are either: a. smaller in size, or b. surgically enhanced (by the way, did you know silicone-added ta-tas don’t need a bra for support?  Awesome…).  Let’s just say the first option was my destiny.

Then came the ‘slight sag’ stage, and Underwires became my friend.  Alas, as years and gravity took their toll, the underwire bras outlived their usefulness- back to the wireless versions of support.

There comes a time in every non-surgically-enhanced woman’s life when the ole’ cleavage becomes cleave-less, bra or not.  The melons pass their prime, and the mountains slide into valleys.  By this time, one is tired of digging straps, scratchy hooks, cup sizes that don’t cup, and elastic bands riding up.

Enter the Genie Bra.

Think of it as coming full circle: it’s reminiscent of the training bras we wore at the beginning of our womanly advance.  I first saw this gizmo on a telemarketing commercial.  Basically it's a one-piece stretchy bra that squishes you into alignment.  No hooks, no tight straps- it’s like a smooth, soft rubber band around your chest section.

To some degree, that squishing will minimize your voluptuousness. 

But when in doubt, fake it.

(After all, millions of women spend thousands of dollars to surgically fake it.)

There’s a little-known item called push-up breast pads one can easily find on the internet.  Two of these babies properly placed under one’s Twins will hoist the lovelies into premium cleavage space.  The Genie bra cuddles all pieces into a snug, comfortable fit.  Wha-la!  Comfort and cleavage.

It’s the poor woman’s way into busty retribution…..

Gerta and I Come to Blows

Today, I decided to battle Gerta- and mostly won.

We've been here two years now, and one of the niggling irritations I've lived with has been our bathroom tub.

After years of being an outfitter's house with lunking, hulking hunters and then a ranch house, our tub has had a permanent haze of dirty-ish ickyness that has stubbornly refused to disappear.

I've tried everything- bleach, ZaBoom, borax, Mr. Clean magic erasers, CLR, blah, blah, blah; you name it, I've tried it.  No dice.

I'm sure Gerta, who loves being a dirty beige ranch, has been delighted with my frustration.

Today, I got down and dirty myself.  After hours ruminating on possible ideas, I took Bar Keeper's Friend (yes, I'd tried this in the past as well), made a paste with water, got Dan's electric sander with a softer sanding pad, and let loose on the walls and tub.

I spent a good hour sanding away, spraying white, gooey paste all over me, the walls, the tub, and the floor.  Dan said I sounded quite industrial.  I imagined a good stiff upper cut to Gerta, and dreamed of it being a knock-out punch.

Ha!  It worked.  The built-in grime slowly erased (as well as likely parts of the finish).  While not perfect, the damn tub finally resembled what a good tub should look like.  Victory was mine!

Then, in retaliation, Gerta punched me back.  The do-hickey that keeps the water coming in shower form versus tub flowing form broke.  That meant we didn't have a functional shower, which is all we ever use.  Panic was in my eyes......

Gerta can be a bitch at times, and thought she had me down.

But not all was lost; I called the Ranch Manager.  He came down and saved my day- after much clumping and thumping, he got the shower option working again.  Take that, Gerta!

My next project?  I just bought vinyl floor stripper for the kitchen.  Half the marks and 'dirt' are permanent... I'm hoping I can strip them away.

We'll see what Gerta has to say about that...