Friends often ask if Victoria's Secret provides me with great material for my writing. "I'll be you get a lot of great material from Victoria's Secret," they nudge. Well not yet, not really. Mostly it gives me good stories to tell at the bar, but since I rarely go to the bar anymore, that doesn't do me much good. Anyway, instead, I have compiled a brief collection of t&a q&a, if you will, observations, suggestions, and so on, that may shed a little more light on exactly what it is we do at Victoria's Secret. Besides the tickle fights and slumber parties, I mean. Curious? Read on.
For the Girls:
If you ask us what size underwear you should buy, and we ask you what size pants or jeans you usually wear, do not answer, "Anywhere from a size 6 to a 12 depending on the brand." For the record, it does not depend that much. No one is "a size 6 to a 12." Do not lie or exaggerate for vanity's sake. We are not judging you--we are trying to sell you something. Remember, we can see your ass. We know you're fibbing.
In case you were wondering, the bras on the girls in the catalog are too small in 90% of the pictures. Sure, they look fantastic, but if I sold you a bra that fit like that, you'd be back in two days demanding a refund because it felt like your bra was attacking you. Trust me.
Yes, one is probably bigger than the other, and it's probably your left one, or, "Lefty," as we call him in the biz. As in, "Oops! Lefty's trying to make an appearance, there."
Let me guess, you're "planning on losing weight this summer," right? Everyone is.
Where do I think you'll lose it first? Let me consult my psychic friends. Honey, I just met you. I don't know. Where did you gain it?
When you describe to me a very sheer/fitted/clingy pair of pants/skirt/shorts and ask for a suggestion as to what type of undergarment you might wear in order to completely avoid unsightly panty lines, when in response to this I suggest you might want to try a thong, please do not react as though I have suggested you shove your mother in front of a bus.
Boys Only:
Actually, we do get a lot of guys that shop in here. Don't be embarrassed. We're kind, helpful, and we usually don't bite. Also, it is not requisite that you crack bad jokes to break the tension. These might include but are not limited to the following:
--If you're shopping for your wife and we ask if you know what size bra she wears, you needn't squeeze the air and say, "Bigger'n a handful."
--Similarly, if we ask what size garter belt or similar, try not to say, "Size 'Fat,'" or "Wide-ass."
And get her something you'd like to see her in, regardless of what you think her reaction might be. Chances are she'll be flattered. Besides, she can buy her own Granny Panties. If you chicken-out & get her a gift certificate, that's probably what she'll use it on anyway. Live a little.
No, I'm sorry. We do not have "Bring A Friend To Work Day." The reality would never live up to your fantasy anyway. In fact, you would probably need counselling.
No, no you can't go into the fitting room with your wife/girlfriend/significant other. I am sorry. You'll have to wait til you get home. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think on it for a moment & get back to me.
No, I will not try that on for you.
Yes, if you are a sixteen-year-old boy and come in to ask for a job application, your friends waiting outside in the mall will think you're the shit. And those giggling girls will think you're so cool, you might even get laid.
We call them "Peek-a-Boo" panties because it is considered more Brand-Appropriate than "Crotchless," but yes, we do sell them. As a fine gentleman friend of mine recently observed, "But it's not like they're looking at you or something." Actually yes, yes it is exactly like that.
16 May 2006
02 May 2006
Visitor's Pass
I'm going back to the Twin Cities for four days next week, and I can't figure out what to do with myself. I never know what to do when I go back to visit places I lived for any length of time. Most of my grad school friends have cleared out, and it seems silly to drive six hours so I can lie in the grass at Como.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
That's one of the reasons Ron & I didn't take a honeymoon. My inability to visit, I mean. Initially he'd had this great romantic vision of taking me away to London for a few days, but I vetoed. What would I do in London for "a few days?" I wouldn't even know where to start. Actually, yeah I would--I'd eat 3 meals a day at Wagamama, then go to my old local & get shnockered. But that's a long way to fly for chicken ramen and beer, and I just knew I would be so sad when we had to come back home. There was actually a brief time in my early 20s when I considered doing the ex-pat thing & permanently relocating to the UK. I was young and idealistic...but the idea of trying to explain to my parents that I wanted to denounce my American citizenship and move to Scotland to help run an independent hostel was just more than I was up for at the time. They would have flipped shit.
Anyway, I have this huge list of places I want to go and people I want to see in the not-quite-72-hours I'll actually be in Minneapolis. Of course I probably won't accomplish half of it. You leave a place and life goes on. Your friends replace the divots you leave, and pretty soon the grass is all one color again. Always greener, you suspect, than wherever you are now. That said, I'll understand if people can't squeeze me in, and I'll cope, somehow, with the new menu at Big Bowl and the fact that Crunchy Sesame Chicken is no longer served. I don't know why I'm always hoping to find a Star Trek-arrested culture waiting--keys to my old apartment still on the chain and my name on a mailbox. Things change. Life goes on. Et al.
The truth is, whatever I find Up North will be fine. Why? Because I NEED A BREAK. Don't get me wrong, I love my son, my precious, darling little boy, but what I really need is the chance to miss him. My friends with kids shake their heads knowingly, "It'll be hard on you," read: "You will miss your baby so much that you'll be miserable and want to go home as soon as you get there." Maybe they're right, but I doubt it. Lucas doesn't go to daycare, which means that between Mommy & Daddy, one of us is on Baby Duty at all times. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We have had a sitter so that the two of us could go out alone on only two occasions in the past 10 1/2 months: dinner on our anniversary last October, and a few hours in March when we test-drove cars.
That said, I'm not even sure I am capable of dressing myself for non-working, public life four days in a row. And since Lucas was born, I haven't gone an entire day without mixing bottles, changing diapers, or singing about things like "lunchy-lunch time," "jammie jams," and "poo pants," to name a few. I can count the number of adult beverages I've consumed since October of 2004 on 1 hand. Hell, now that I think about it, I may even get crazy and take the car seat base out of my back seat before I leave town. Look out.
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