One more bit of oddity from my outside world, before I retire-
So my boss decides to get me a gift for my upcoming trip. Every so often, she gets giddily fixated on a Web site with some gifty thing or another.
The gift-web-site of the moment that she is currently fixated on, however, is a saucy little offshoot of Vermont Teddy Bear called the
PajamaGram.
Adorable, no? Every wretchedly overpriced slippery little garment comes in a hatbox (?) with something called "bath tea" (do you drink this or steep in it?) and a "Do not Disturb" sign.
After endless back-and-forth (days, really, of me trying patiently and kindly to guide her into the utter unnecessariness of this gift, without even treading into the relative inappropriateness and, well, not really appealing to me-ness of it), she has decided to send me a sky-blue silk charmeuse confection called the
Sheer Seduction Sleepshirt.
Of course, she's sending it to the office, not to my house.
Yes, I know she means well. Fortunately she is in a branch office and can't see me rubbing my forehead and shaking my head in despair.
Without sounding ungrateful:
1. I am simply not a slippery-fabric gal. My preferred sleepwear primarily consists of a black Jack Daniels en espanol T-shirt clipped from Stand up NY and stolen (from my stepmother) gray sweat pants.
2. Given my Russ Meyers'-starlet-like top-heaviness, the shirt's top buttons are practically guaranteed not to meet. (When this fact was delicately brought up to my size-4 B-cup supervisor, she cheerfully mentioned that "Oh, I talked to a woman in my office who's about your size....." Sheesh.)
3. What the fuck! Sheer Seduction??? I mean, come on. (There are about ten different ways in which this is just not the discussion one can, should, would be having with one's boss under any circumstances, least of all mine, tenuous and odd as they are. And, I mean, seriously, come on.)
This is $80 worth of What the Fuck that will be arriving in my office by Friday.
I'd rather have the cash to buy beer, quite frankly. By my calculations, that's about 6-7 pints more or less plus some hideous bar food, well enough for a quality evening bonding with Brits and watching some damn football. At which point, I'll be lucky to untie my shoes and flop most unSeductively into my hotel bed, Sleep Shirt or no.
At least I talked her around from the baby pink spaghetti-strap shorts set. Anyone who knows me by sight would know how
deeply deeply wrong this would be.
op: