Victoria’s Evil Secret
June 30th, 2005
Because a woman has certain needs. Because this woman has a Victoria’s Secret Gift Card. Because this woman has bras that look like the tattered handkerchiefs that hobos and runaway children in storybooks tie to the end of long sticks, to carry their belongings.
I take a deep breath and enter the store. I make a beeline for the clearance bras. I avoid eye contact. Carefully, carefully. Easy does it.
But the evil pink hive is buzzing, as it always is. A limpid-eyed sales minion immediately flits to my side, violating my bra-shopping zone.
I step away. She steps closer. We foxtrot around the clearance table.
“Just to let you know, we’ve got shampoo today, and we NEVER have shampoo. We also have all kinds of body wash and moisturizers.”
“Okay,” I say.
She beams. “We NEVER have shampoo.”
Gee, that is surprising. A lingerie store with no shampoo.
“Just to let you know, we can measure you right here for your bra size. We do that.” She fiddles with her tape measure, draped casually around her pointy shoulders.
I consider taking off my shirt and unfurling my breasts like long, pink cartoon tongues onto the counter by the cash register. Oh, no? Not how you measure? My bad.
“No thanks.”
She smiles psychotically, molars showing.
“Just to ask, are you planning on using your Victoria’s Secret credit card today?”
“No,” I say.
“No? Really?” Wide eyes, mock shock. Or perhaps it is the genuine article. It is hard to tell with these chipper VS minions.
“No.” I bury my hands in a pink-striped carton of 36DDs and pull out a sequined, lime-green 32A with straps that are thinner than my dental floss.
“No, you don’t have a Victoria’s Secret card, or no, you’re not planning on using it today?”
“No on both counts.” I rummage through the 34DDs, extracting a sassy 38C purple satin number. I stuff it in the 34As.
Minion #1 will go far in life, with this sort of determination. “Well, would you like to apply for our credit card?”
My adrenaline surges. Fight or flight? I would have usually bolted from the store by this point, but I need a bra badly, so I hold my ground. I try not to bare my teeth.
“No. Allergic. Seizures.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s not speak any more of this. I could have an attack.”
Blank stare. Faint laugh.
“Because it’s a really, really great thing, because you’ll save at least . . .”
I realize I am hunched over, shoulders crunched up around my ears. If you encounter a grizzly and cannot outrun it, the best thing to do is to roll yourself into a tight ball. Protect your neck and abdomen.
“No thanks. I don’t touch the stuff. Really. Please.”
I look around for stage lights. I am in a Pinter play. Or a Beckett play. Waiting for Victoria.
Minion #1’s Victoria’s Secret training manual did not cover intense middle-aged women who think about Pinter plays when they are shopping. She switches gears. She hands me a large tote made of clear plastic.
“Here, why don’t you take a bag? It’ll make your shopping easier.”
Will it? Will it really?
“No. Thank. You.” I say. Through my gritted teeth, it comes out like “NN. THK. YEH.”
She squints at me. “You wouldn’t like a bag?”
I am backing away. “I would not like a bag.” These are not the droids you’re looking for.
She stalks me deeper into the pink bowels of the store. I am hyperventilating. There are no brown paper bags in sight. I hyperventilate more.
Minion #1 persists. “Okay, because I’m just letting you know, it’s CRAZY here today, and I know when I don’t have a bag, I can totally lose the things I wanted to buy.”
I dodge behind a rack of shimmering babydoll slips. I am pleading now. “I won’t lose them. I promise.”
“Okay, but I’m just letting you know. It’s really easy to lose the things you might want to buy, like, if you put your bras down on a pile of panties and stuff. People do it all the time.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to identify my desired purchases,” I squeak. “I’ll take my chances.”
Finally, blessedly, she gives up. “Okay,” she says with a perky shrug. She bubbles off to the front of the store again.
But I have inadvertently wandered onto the turf of another evil pink minion. Minion #2 gestures at my white-knuckled fist, which clutches a sweaty ball of bras.
“Would you like to try those on?”
Finally. I can give them what they want.
I nod mutely.
But it is not simple. Nothing is simple at Victoria’s Secret, because Victoria Can’t Keep a Secret, Can’t Keep Her Big Fat Mouth Shut While Her Customers Grapple with Their Own Dark Secrets, Like How They Used to Be a 34B and Now Must Wear Contraptions with Cups that Resemble the Headdresses of Secret Ancient Orders of Nuns.
Minion #2 says—I swear to God, she actually says this—”Would you like to take a box of 25%-off bras into the dressing room?”
A box? A box of bras? How long do these sinister pink women-children plan to keep me here? What do they want from me?
I shake my head furiously. I feel ill. I wonder if they have pink-striped barf bags in the back, precisely for this occasion. “Um, no.”
“No? They’re 25% off—”
No. No. For the love of God, no.
She shrugs. They are all well-versed in the art of the shrug. I’m going to let my boyfriend do me in the back of his new car tonight, so, whatever.
I hole myself up in one of their dressing rooms. Scribbly pink hearts, presumably drawn by a schizophrenic, cover the walls. The effect is chilling.
I try on the bras. I try not to think about the pink minions convulsing with laughter as they “audit” my sagging breasts via closed-circuit security camera.
One bra takes pity on me and fits. I quickly get dressed and flee the dressing room. I dive for the cash register.
But a third malevolent pink minion blocks my way. This one has breasts that point upwards, actually upwards. I see her quickly size me up and file me in her ‘ma’am’ category.
“Is everything okay? Ma’am?”
Um, not really. You’re seriously fucking with my already fairly intense social phobia, you’re playing really disturbing techno music that makes my cellulite quiver, and your candy-striped child-boobs point up, actually up.
“Just fine.” I croak this; my mouth is bone dry. I lean on another sale table for support.
Minion #3 shoves a clear tote bag at me. She’s aggressive. I imagine her by her locker at school, telling her friends in a bored tone about her future plans to be a dominatrix. She is the Ringleader She-Beast.
“I’m going to give you this, because I need that table that you’re resting your bras on.”
“No.”
Her mouth drops open in disgust. “You don’t want a bag?”
“Um, no.” I am terrified, but I stand my ground. Just three feet away from the cash register. Must. Not. Give. In. To. The. Pink.
“But I need that table.”
“You can have the table. See? I’m picking up my things. I’m stepping away from the table.”
She makes no attempt to disguise her disdain. “You’re sure you don’t want a bag.” It is no longer a question, but a scathing assessment of my character. Whatever. I’ve got hot pants and thigh-high Pleather boots at home.
I bite my lip. I’ve changed my mind. I do want the bag. I want the bag so I can put it over your head, knot a V-string or a Rio Thong around the bag and your neck, and watch the life slip, slip, slip away from your beady, blue-mascared eyes.
“Yes. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Dominatrix Minion sashays off, in search of less confounding prey.
I must endure one more, the Ring-Her-Up Minion. “Will that be all today?”
I survey the store. I try to breathe normally.
Near the entrance, Minion #1 is still gushing about shampoo, spewing clouds of cotton-candy dragon breath. “Because we NEVER have shampoo. Never!”
Ring-Her-Up Minion eyes me strangely. She clears her throat a bit.
“Um, will that be all?”
“Yes.”
I hope so.
I can’t take much more.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, See Mommy laugh. (Favorites)
27 Comments
1. Chopin Gal | June 30th, 2005 at 4:04 pm
To think that, within a week or two, we’ve gone from Star Wars to Bra Wars … and one man’s Extender may possibly be a clever way for the female of the species to “rise above” the younger minions and point in a whole new direction! Ouch … just open that puppy a bit wider and it may do the trick! You’ll never have to buy a bra again ….
I must remember to stop reading your blog in my office as the laughing out loud causes my co-workers to cast strange glances my way as they walk by my open door.
Can you put a WARNING LABEL on your banner?!
2. Karina | June 30th, 2005 at 4:14 pm
Ha! Way to hold your own against the army of evil V.S. minions–they didn’t know whose mammaries they were trying to mess with! But Jenn, PLEASE don’t describe yourself as “middle aged.” You’re killing me.
3. the Mater | June 30th, 2005 at 5:34 pm
I agree with Karina … as your momma, if you’re already “middle-aged”, gosh - what does that make me?!!
4. Erin Wall | June 30th, 2005 at 7:08 pm
Mr. Tomness pointed me to your blog, and I am splitting my sides with laughter. “These are not the droids you’re looking for” sent me over the edge - am giddy and laughing at my computer! Thanks for your wonderful writing and great stories!
5. Ethan | June 30th, 2005 at 7:15 pm
From the other side of the gender aisle… the pink minions tend to attack with unexpected ferocity if you’re a solitary male entering their dominion. From all sides they’ll thrust absurdly inappropriate garments at you in the hopes that you’re so clueless that you’ll purchase the leopardskin-print thong for your beloved, despite any indication on her part that she would ever wear such a thing. If you make the mistake of insisting that you actually know your spouse’s tastes in undergarments, they dismiss you out of hand with the knowledge that their shared gender gives them better understanding of your spouse than your decade of cohabitation with her.
The one trick that does seem to work: shop with your beautiful but decidedly-not-Victoria’s-Secret-sized friend. Out of fear of having to explain to said friend that there’s nothing available in a 42F, they’ll part before you like the Red Sea…
6. Barb | July 1st, 2005 at 7:54 am
Please next time take me shopping with you, there is safety in numbers….
And how about the one size fits ALL rack, who came up with that one?
You are hilarious !
7. Stephanie | July 1st, 2005 at 8:20 am
HI jen,
That cracked me up and inspired me to pass along some of my hard earned VS coping techniques. (As a person who must compulsively buy underware and pajamas I have had to adapt). The real key is to go on the offensive. Take those minions off gaurd by sending them to find very difficult purchases (ie. the ever illusive 32D. ) Then feign extreeme dissapointment in thier inevitable failure. This will take those minions down a notch and give you a few minutes to shop in peace.
8. Elaine | July 1st, 2005 at 8:47 am
Another ploy: tell that perky minion that you are shopping for your husband … grab her skinny but toned arm and whisper that he’s a cross dresser! If that doesn’t leave some personal space around you, then nothing will!
9. Jenn | July 1st, 2005 at 8:51 am
Fantastic advice, fantastic! Next time, I’m definitely rounding all of you up and taking you bra-shopping with me. I need your support, Posse.
Ha. Get it? Support.
10. Ethan | July 1st, 2005 at 9:40 am
It’s a good idea, Elaine, but I’ve had much better luck at Victoria’s Secret’s “brother” store for crossdressers, “Victor’s Secret”.
11. geogirl | July 1st, 2005 at 2:05 pm
Well…that does it. I have officially shot orange juice out of my nose.
No more reading this thing during breakfast!
ps - That’s why I do my VS shopping online!!!
12. Jenn | July 1st, 2005 at 7:41 pm
Geogirl, I’m thrilled and honored that you keep risking the circuitry on your keyboard with return visits.
Erin, welcome! So exciting to have a glamorous jetsetting soprano on board! I am warbling, very badly, with joy. Thanks too for the shout-out from your blog.
Karina, it’s your fault. You’re the one who told me that Marge Simpson turned 34. Marge = definitely middle-aged. Marge = 34. Me = 35. Me = apparently middle-aged. It’s all over for us. Buy more eye cream at Sephora. Quick.
Elaine, Mater and Chopin Gal, you three should really get together sometime.
Barb, you’re on! Let’s leave the kids with Neal.
Steph, all I will say is…32D?!? Boggles the mind. You’re right.
Ethan, look at you, popping by for two comments about Victoria’s Secret. I love it. I can never predict who will respond to which post. I’m going to have to give up my day job to keep up with all of you.
Oh, wait. This is my day job.
13. Barb | July 1st, 2005 at 7:55 pm
He would love to take care of the little darlings, as long as their mac. and cheese stays at your house!
14. R J Keefe | July 1st, 2005 at 8:13 pm
Jenn:
Work on your scowl. In the alternative, pretend that you can’t hear. Sort hum and smile to yourself as you peruse the merchandise.
Or how about “No speak..”
15. TRF | July 1st, 2005 at 8:47 pm
Sephora? SEPHORA!!!?!?????!!!!!! Good Lord, a 61-year-old male like me not only knows what that is but has ACTUALLY BEEN THERE in NYC.
i’m so ashamed.
16. Chopin Gal | July 1st, 2005 at 11:30 pm
And, perhaps, TRF, you have shopped at “Victor’s Secret” too?!
17. TRF | July 2nd, 2005 at 9:19 am
I have, indeed, and with no minion problems. They see a tall, skinny, scraggly, old guy pawing through teddies and think “oh, no, I’m not going near that one!”
Would you?
18. Tom | July 2nd, 2005 at 11:21 am
I enjoyed almost all of this post. However, if you’re going to continue referring to yourself as “middle aged”, you will leave me no choice but to stop referring to you as a former classmate.
19. Jenn | July 2nd, 2005 at 12:45 pm
Jeez, tough crowd. All right, already, scratch ‘middle-aged.’ How about ‘thirtysomething’? How’s that sit with Tom and Karina?
20. Coley | July 3rd, 2005 at 9:00 am
Just when I thought you couldn’t get any funnier - you do!!!
Many thanks for the laughs. You have amazing talent!
21. Spot the Wonder Dog | July 6th, 2005 at 1:12 pm
Now, you realize that the only thing that could possibly make the experience worse would be the realization that they push those little clear bags on people as a shoplifting prevention measure. You say they were really insistent on giving you one?
22. Karina | July 6th, 2005 at 1:25 pm
Well, it’s not quite the age denial I would prefer, but I guess “thirtysomething” will do.
23. the Mater | July 8th, 2005 at 2:06 pm
Take it while you can get it! Everything is relative … and “30-something” sounds darn good to me :>)
Before you know it, though, you’ll be getting that dreaded AARP invitation in the mail and going … “what the heck?!” It’ll be your wake-up call to start climbing mountains and writing fanfic!
24. Anand | July 10th, 2005 at 2:19 am
i’m glad you went to vs - fun for all from your travails. seriously, though, the only excuse you have is that someone gave you a gift certificate… next time you find yourself in such a circumstance, use it to find some nice pjs and call it a day. the worst atrocities at vs are not the minions, but the bras. ditch vs, and spend a reasonable sum at your local bra merchant of repute - possibly on a cosabella (for sexy) or chantelle (for classic good looks) or a wacoal.
(note: this is assuming that you can wear underwires w/o plugged ducts and other badness. otherwise, a real bra sales person i.e. someone who talks about bras rather than misplaced merchansise will be able to help you, but your selection will be somewhat limited. still, better than vs.)
25. Lynn S | July 11th, 2005 at 5:46 pm
Victoria’s Secret has really gone down hill. They have embraced the sleaze and the hard sell. I don’t know if its different stores or if they’ve all gone downhill. At the one where I used to shop when we lived on the east coast the sales ladies were all nice and dignfied and they were LADIES. And there was always classical music playing on the store’s speakers - actual, REAL classical music, not dumbed down store music. That was over 10 years ago. I’ve been to the VS in Tulsa twice. The sales girls were… well… NOT ladies and the “music” was some thin-voiced pop chick whining about not being able to get laid or something like that. I used to love both the store and their bras but I don’t go there anymore.
26. Jenn | July 11th, 2005 at 6:56 pm
Welcome, Anand and Lynn: Yep, I will definitely avoid the VS minions from here on in. And I DO dream of a nice Wacoal bra. Oprah swears by ‘em and is always giving them away to audiences full of teachers and social workers and people who adopt Botswanian orphans. I am unspeakably envious, but we really can’t handle a Botswanian orphan at this point in time.
So my breasts must wait—first we have to pay the Nissan guys to figure out why our airbag light won’t go off. There seems to be some poetic irony in there somewhere, if only I could flush it out into the light.
27. geogirl | July 14th, 2005 at 1:36 pm
“I am unspeakably envious, but we really can’t handle a Botswanian orphan at this point in time.”
ROFLMAO!!
This is so true. Perhaps someone should send this link to Oprah so we can get you on the show. Maybe she will take pitty on you and shower you with bras and extenders and maybe even a screen door!!
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