chick ride: foundation garments and the horrid, horrid mall

Boys who read this have been duly warned that they're going to feel uncomfortable/bored.

I mentioned a while ago that Victoria's Secret employs cottonheaded ninnymugginses who do a terrible job at fitting one for a bra, correct? One of the admins at John's work used to be a lingerie consultant at Nordstrom, the exact kind of lady you want fitting you. A little older, confident, and knows the product backwards and front, like Uncle Rico would want. So he asked her for me where would be a good spot to go to fix my problemas grandes--which I bet was not at all an awkward conversation--and she said the Nordstrom in Fashion Place Mall was the shiznit. So when Troy offered to babysit today (I told you she was sweet and nice, even though I tease her--see how I bite the hand that tends my kids?) I motated on down to the big city and the abysmal den of cognitive dissonance that is the mall.

I used the bathroom while I was there, and here's what I loved about it, do not be alarmed:

Here's the entrance to the Janitor's Closet Men's Room.

And here's the entrance to one of Saddam Hussein's showers the Ladies' Room.

Here is the beautifully crafted washbasin area.

And the floor-to-ceiling mirror in which you can behold your visage.

And! A baby storage seat while you take care of business! So cool.

I don't know what the inside of the Men's Room looks like (because: not a man), but I think probably not so much with the movie star treatment and the baby garage.

Then I went to Nordstrom, got a PROPER fitting by a PROPERLY TRAINED person, and it's true, I was wearing too big of a band and too small of a cup, just like Oprah or Stacey London or whoever says everyone does. And now I am happy and there is not slipping or sliding or bunching or chafing. Ta-da! So if you're in need of some shapewear, you know what to do. My girl's name was Brandy, and she knows from bras.

Also John came to help pick out a new mattress for our bed, since ours is SUCKY and WANTS US TO HAVE HUNCHBACKS, and while we were there we saw an eleven-year old girl dressed like a Bratz doll with her mom who was dressed like an aged Bratz doll. And pretty much every youth I saw was a different variety of Trying Too Hard. Bleh. If it weren'f for the all-you-can-smell coffee odor I'd never go to the mall ever ever.

And I bought some cheetah-print leggings to go under my brown skirt and John will shake his head in dismay and say tsk tsk and make rude eighties- and Madonna-related remarks. But I had to tell him to stop wearing pleated Silvertabs when we got married, so I am the fashion mayor of our house in perpetuity.