Needful Things

If this were a perfect world, IKEA would sell shoes. Alas! they do not.

Shopping can be a confusing and scary experience. I went to San Marcos to see Margie today. I was there for work during our Central Texas fam tour and learned that the Victoria's Secret outlet store sells bras for $5, and this piece of information has itched around in my brain ever since, accumulating layers of desire and temptation like nacre on a grain of sand, until finally today I gazed upon the flawless pearl and breathed, "Let's to to the Outlet Malls!"

Okay, maybe not so much, I realized after approximately 0.1 minutes of attempting to navigate the parking lot, in which some benighted architect, perhaps consumed with the same egocentric mania that makes the main character of Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead" such an irredeemable prick, only with a sense of humor, which I must observe Ayn Rand does not appear to possess, has placed a turning circle - that grand institute which embodies everything that is most anarchic and terrifying about Old-World driving. Miraculously, we made it back to I-35 unscathed, and settled for a nice visit to the playscape instead. You can't get $5 bras there, but you can probably get some good drugs, if you know when to go. Curfew's not till 11.

We did, however, make it to Bath and Body Works and to Goodwill. Clothes, cosmetics and shoes are the Holy Trinity of balms for a broken heart. So that's two down, and I'm going to IKEA with Robbie tomorrow, even though he complained that the bed be bought there over a year ago is now falling apart; and I had to point out that we were after all drunk when we assembled it. He needs a new coffeemaker, which hopefully won't suffer the same fate.

I figure if I pour enough margaritas into him, I can get him into a shoe store.

Teh Interwebz

Hey, get this! They let you use the internet at my new job.

I mean, don't go crazy. You can't check your Yahoo! mail or your bank balance or get on MySpace or anything. Amusement-wise, the internet still consists pretty much exclusively of NOAA.gov (not that meteorology isn't a fascinating science). But - but - you can actually use it, any way you see fit, to do your job!!!

You're supposed to be able to use it for work at my old job, too; otherwise, why do you have internet access? But you never did. Your usage was so closely policed that visiting any external website meant asking for written approval from your supervisor, and/or facing a grilling by the agingly-staffed IT group (much more comfortable in a mainframe environment than with this newfangled internet doohickey), and generally jumping through so many hoops that you just said the hell with it and did without the information. Sure, you could just wait and look it up at home on your own time; but who would be that dedicated to an employer who so obviously regards you with mistrust and contempt?

I'm being unfair. There's a good reason for this internet use policy. It exists to ensure that the division is not wasting any taxpayer money. They're very big on not wasting taxpayer money over there. Massive. In fact, the word "bloated" springs to mind.

After I accepted the new position, but before I actually started, I emailed my new boss some questions about the big upcoming project I'd be working on. Her answer referred me to several different websites. I was scandalized. What was she trying to do, get me fired?

But I'm getting used to it. Our group is going on a study tour of a particular city; my team is planning the event. It behooves me to be educated about the attractions we'll be visiting. I sat there and read all about a very cool Vietnamese Buddhist temple today. I've been visiting sites for CVBs, hotels, airlines, resorts, restaurants, amusement parks, and museums. How am I not getting in terrible, terrible trouble? If it weren't for the red shirt, I'd think maybe I was dreaming.

Well, that, and the fact that my supervisor emailed our group the dress code for the upcoming conference, including Thursday night's Hawaiian-themed celebration dinner. "No coconut bras," she added sternly. And I think we all know who that was aimed at.

I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to visit LeatherDreams.com, either.

Light 'Em Up

If you don't look at bra catalogues, you should. It will tell you more about what's wrong with Western culture than any other type of literature.

For starters, it will tell you that there are two basic types of bras. One type is for women whose breasts aren't overly large. These bras are very, very cute. Maybe a little... too cute. They come in lots of pretty colors and shapes, and have underwire and satin and lace and padding to enhance your figure and your cleavage, and make you look like you don't have such tiny little unwomanly tits.

Then there's the other type of bra. These are industrial strength bras, and make no attempt at prettiness, aside from the occasional bow at the deepest point of the neckline, which comes across more as a sneer than anything else. They come in white or beige, and have vast stretchy cups with minimizer panels and wide straps. They are designed to cover you up and smoosh you down and make you look like you don't have such nasty big un-girlish tits.

Nursing bras are just beginning to be available in styles that aren't completely utilitarian, and it's about damn time. Even when Anna was born, just over six years ago, it was practically impossible to find something that wasn't of the white, heavy-duty variety. Apparently a few clever marketing types have recently noticed that there's a certain connection between having sex and having babies, and begun selling attractive bras accordingly.

But it's too little (so to speak), too late, and I still have way too much trouble finding cute bras that I don't fall out of if I bend over quickly. I've had it. Let's burn them all!

(Isaac Asimov, that raunchy old darling, once insisted that Women's LIB stood for "Let's Ignite Bras." Why quibble?)