Another riveting addition of People I Want To Punch In The Throat/Face/Gut.
1) The Victoria's Secret Sales Lady. I don't frequent Victoria's Secret often. There are a variety of reasons. For starters, I hate the advertising. Men across the world fantasize about their airbrushed models and this is precisely why I hate the retailer. When I look at those women positioned just so, their backs arched, pushing forward breasts so firm they don't require a bra, and an arm draped across a washboard stomach, I feel a tad bit inadequate. Since my own image in the "Very Sexy Bra" and matching pantie set would look nothing like the barbie model I see in the catalog, I figure, why bother? I usually head straight for Target where you can by six pairs of undies for $20. This leads me to another reason why I don't shop at Vicky's. I don't have the disposable income to spend $150 on a hot pink teddy that, honestly, I'll probably never wear. Garter belts? Don't need them. Silky nightie? I prefer sweats. You get the picture. Finally, Victoria's Secret typically does not carry my size. Surprisingly, although the company uses models that are far from average, their range of sizes is made to fit average women. I am not average. Of course I'm not! Okay, so I don't have those tight abs, and I have a little cellulite, but I do have an ample cup size for a petite woman, and therefor require an unusual size. Which they don't sell. Thus, I usually have to compromise getting a less than perfect fit.
Recently however, I decided it was time to spice up my under-garment wardrobe. By that I mean purchase a bra that is NOT a nursing bra. I ventured into the store on a weekday afternoon with two children in tow, because when do I not have at least one or two kids with me? I bribed Evan with candy and hoped Julian would behave. I needed to be quick. I entered the store and quickly found a sales woman. I asked to be measured because I wasn't quite sure of my size. The sales lady whipped out her tape measure and wrapped it around my bust. "32 B" she declared. I looked at her. I looked down at my chest, and I looked at her again. I told her she needed to measure me again. She shrugged her shoulders and obliged. "32 B, maybe even an A" she dead-panned. "I'm a nursing mother" I stammered in disbelief. "Do I look like an A cup?" She said nothing. I assume she went to Victoria's Secret training camp and they taught her how to calculate cup size by inches. Apparently she wasn't very good at math, and you just can't argue with stupid.
For the fun of it, I told her to grab me the B cup so that I could try it on. I went back to the dressing room, put on the bra and called my little helper in the room to have a look. She opened the the dressing room door, glanced at me and stammered-"Let me go get my manager." Yes dear, why don't you.
Eventually I left the store with a bra in the *sort of* correct size. What should have taken fifteen minutes took thirty. I am thinking that perhaps my sales girl should be fired, or demoted to a stocker. And guess what? I still haven't worn the dumb bra.
2) Southwest Airlines. We just flew from Oakland to Tampa, Florida. A long flight, routing us through Las Vegas. The Vegas-Tampa route was over four hours. When they came around with the drinks, I ordered a Bloody Mary. It was good. Julian was squirmy and fussy and refused sleep. Traveling with three children is hardly relaxing. A Bloody Mary was just what I needed to take the edge off. After one, I wanted another. At least one more. It was a four hour flight. There were no more drinks. No more drinks? I am a mother traveling with three small children, why in the name of God, did they not just hand me a liter bottle of vodka? Idiots.
That's all for tonight folks. Catch you later. Trust me. I have more material.