Whee! I'm a girl!

It's always around this time of the year that I'm ecstatic... why? Because it's the Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale! That's why! (I never knew how much joy new underwear could bring)

Oh man, I freaking love this panty right here:

(Man, Alessandra Ambrosio is good at selling underwear)

Here, in my home, we get 3 (no idea how that happened, we just get it. Actually, I guess it's one for me, one for Little Sister and one for Mom) VS catalogues. So, there are times where I'm bored and I've read through enough shit... then I'll just bump into one of the catalogues and start playing the game of "Oh... I'd buy that... and that!"
Well, in all three catalogues, that pair of underwear always caught my attention.
Upon seeing that the pair were on sale today, I was elated... and didn't think twice about getting a few in different colors (of course, that black one was the first one my hand went for. I never thought advertisements would work so wonderfully with me).
Haha.

I pulled a Jessica Simpson with my credit card. When Mom asked how much money I spent, my response was:
"I... don't know..."
::shrug::
Mom: What do you mean, you don't know?!
Me: We went to three malls! I don't know!
Mom: Well, you better get to checking.

I did... and... it all came up to 200 dollars and 27 cents.

I had forgotten what it felt like to get screamed at/lectured by Mom.
Doesn't feel good.

At least she's not making me return the Bras and panties... that would have pissed me off.
I went through a lot of trouble to get those bastards! I'm not about to go and return them.


While I LOVE this sale, I don't love the ladies that like the same things I do. They're so pushy... and scary.

"Get me those Boy-Shorts!!"
"I want that bra with the frillies!"
"Oh man, where can I get those?!"

I may not know a lot of things, but I do know that if those bitches are ever again hovering near my bin, I'm staying the fuck away next time.

Most of these ladies SHOULD NOT be wearing Boy-Shorts, anyway.
Do I tell them? Hell no... I keep my trap shut and go in whenever the coast is clear... kind of like a scared cub when the lion parents are having a feast with some wildebeest's carcass.

I stand close... try and put my hand in the bin, some bitch woman the size of Jupiter moves her hip into my right side, a second equally large woman moves her hips into my left side, both grab any underwear I'm holding out of my hand, and I quickly move out of the way... almost excusing myself for breathing the same air they are.

By the time I can check out the panties safely, all I have to choose from are the really ugly Christmas granny panties... or the really skanky G-strings that give people rashes like an M.F.er. Yeah... fun.

I could only score a couple of decent pairs of the $5 panties... and I had to move on to the 3 for $25 bin where no crazy Mommas were threatening my existence with their hips and crazy mean kids with unbelievable searching abilities (this one little girl had an eye for the super cute underwear. She kept scoring her mom some of the best underwear I've seen. A true waste, cause I doubt the mom could do the underwear justice--she was one of the ladies that crushed me). But I didn't mind that much, it was thanks to that encounter that I bumped into the cool Alessandra Ambrosio undies.


The bras were a different story.
I kept having chicks (that worked there, let me clarify) asking me if I was cool with my size... or if I needed to get measured.

No, thanks... I know my size... I do shop here often. I'm cool... no need to measure my homies.
You sure you know your size?
Positive. Thanks.
You sure we can't just... quickly go back there in the dressing room and just... measure... it'll only take a few seconds. Nobody else can see.
...Yeah. No. I'm cool. Thanks.

Then another worker would go back to folding any bra I'd pull to the side after examining.
It was fucking crazy. I kind of missed the mean ladies that would slap underwear from my hand at this point. At least they'd bark at the crazy chick and scare her away from the herd, ya know?
Instead I kind of just stood there... staring up at her from time to time and smiling my Are-you-gonna-leave-any-time-soon? smile, only to be met by her "Is everything OK?" question with her I'm-not-leaving smile.
Maybe I should just let this bitch touch my boobs and get this shit over with... then I can hopefully shop in peace.
Three bras, dude... three fucking bras was all I could stand to pick because crazy weirdo lady wouldn't stop staring at me and smiling (so creepy, man).

And here's another complaint:
Sale my fucking ass.
Ok, maybe it is a sale, but with the size I buy... those fucking bras are still pretty damn expensive (find a $9.99 size 36DD bra at this place, I dare you. Shit, I'll PAY you!).

It's times like these where I start to ponder whether breast-reduction surgery will ultimately save me money later on down the road. Who knows... maybe one day I'll be able to fit comfortably/nicely in a 10 dollar bra!

Till then, I must put up with 30 dollar+ bras (you know what I can buy with thirty bucks?! Well, maybe if I were smart I'd be able to use my much-complained-about chest to get money/free bras... but I'm not that type of person).

I try and explain this to Mom ("It's not like I want to buy 30 dollar bras... but they're the only ones that fit nicely without making me look like... a lactating mother. You want me to look like a lactating mother, Mom?" "Aren't you the one who wants me to show what my Momma gave me when out in public? Yo, world! Look what my Momma gave me! And she wants me to find these babies a ten dollar bra and still look nice! You want me to wear a Wall-Mart bra, world?" etc, etc, I can make this go on forever. I've had this argument with Mom since 10th grade. In 2001, I was comfortable being a size B for the rest of my life--cheap bras for life-- but suddenly Betty and Veronica decided to make an appearance on my chest and ruined that plan), and while she doesn't take the bait at first, after a while, she understands.
Plus, she sometimes starts playing around with the bras I purchase (as does my sister)... wondering what it's like to have a big chest.

Mom: Man! Imagine what it'd be like to look like this!
Me: It's not so rad, Mom. Trust me.
Mom: It has to be! You see all those girls who almost kill themselves trying to get big boobs.
Me: Well... unless... you're sort of shameless... and you know... kind of an attention whore, big boobs are great. However, you decided to give birth to me in March... and made me all... shy and shit... which doesn't work for a big chested girl.

So yeah, anyway!
I got my bras and panties... and lived to tell about it.
I fucking love it (you know, after all the lecturing is done and over with... and all the playing around with my bras is over as well).

Until next time--in January--when I once again risk my life for a couple of cheap, designer underwear... sheesh!