**********BONUS MATERIAL**********
In addition to today's normal post of this week's list (see below), I'm adding a special essay that has been in the works (and admittedly on the backest of back burners) for several months. I'm so damned glad about having finally forced myself to finish it that I can't wait to post the thing. Here it is, approximately a year in the works if you can believe it. I am a slacker of unprecedented proportions.

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Ridiculous Things You’d Think a Quality Education Would Enable You to Outsmart:
The Lies and Trickery of Victoria’s Secret
A Tragedy in Two Acts

~I~
This story begins with a wholly mediocre dress. Highly decent fabric and color, but primarily shapeless due to the lack of fitting necessary to accommodate the complete absence of a zipper or other such closure device. Picture the final project you might have attempted in 9th grade Advanced Apparel Construction, then imagine it falling into the boundaries of acceptable fit and showing up on the rack at Burlington Coat Factory for $17 a week before your company’s Christmas Dinner/Dance. I admit, it’s not bad looking, and I bought it as a backup. Having very little time to shop during the week, this was like my second string quarterback: not the first choice by any means, but sure to deliver an adequate performance if needed. And cheap, which is a crucial detail to this story.

Further attempts to displace the backup dress with a first-string, above average, I-really-and-truly-like-it dress were entirely futile, which I could accept since purchasing formal dresses is generally a task requiring a significant time investment. The Dress Formerly Known As Backup (DFKAB) has “spaghetti straps” and thus requires something other than my favorite black Calvin Klein bra underneath. It needs, in fact, something strapless and preferably backless. My experience with strapless-backless bras is less-than-positive….I think. I have blocked out a few horrific experiences relating to hideous strapless dresses I was forced to wear in my community theatre days…there were weird straps around my waist and great quantities of boning, which just sounds wrong. Anyway, I remembered Heather, my college roommate from junior year, and her rave reviews of what can only be appropriately called “sticky boobs.” Why the hell not?

I stumbled into Victoria’s Secret, mumbling to myself different versions of how I might ask “hey, do you have those sticky boob things?” in different terminology. Thankfully, before I could find someone to ask, I found a display of various support devices that utilize adhesives of some kind. I really and truly intended to select one without the help of a VS sales associate, but the options were many and varied—far surpassing my decision-making skills.

“Caitlynn” and I debated the merits of two styles: individual, sticky, butterfly-looking things, and a more structured option. The latter was essentially a sturdy pushup bra minus a back and straps. It adhered to one’s body with a series of adhesive strips. Hrmm…that seemed like it was asking to fall off and land around my feet. The first option seemed completely helpful—just peel off the backing and apply! The picture on the package showed smooth, flawless, strapless, backless support. I was sold—especially since the sticky butterflies came in a pack of TWELVE, so I had plenty to practice with, and was about a third the cost of the sturdy thing.

~II~
I made my merry way home, VS bag in hand and a sparkle in my eye. Hey, if these worked, why not use them for other occasions when straps would be tacky? This was sheer engineering genius and I was thrilled at the prospect of a dry run. Oh folly, what a ruthless game you play.

Standing in front of the mirror, I shed my shirt and bra and grabbed the first sticky boob. The instructions were simple enough: “Remove adhesive backing. Apply by starting at centre and smooth outwards.” More pictures of smooth support perfection…I was convinced all over again. I removed the backing…wait, it stuck to my fingernails. Unstick, unstick, unstick…success. I now held a slightly rumpled but fully usable sticky boob. I started at the, um, middle, and tried smoothing outward. Yeah, nowhere near as easy as it sounds. I ended up with a very itchy, very wrinkly, and completely unsupported left side. Determined to conquer this sticky beast, I tried again on the right—this time pulling up more as I smoothed. Though the second attempt yielded slightly better support, the visual was NOTHING like the picture of smooth perfection on the package. Instead, I looked like the victim of an extremely unfortunate grease fire.

I threw on the DFKAB to see what they looked like under the garment in question. Further disaster. Not only was I shamelessly un-supported on both sides (the progress made on the right was clearly not sufficient), the edges stuck out more than a little. Gross. Now I looked like the aforementioned burn victim trying to cover up my hideous scars and head out for a night on the town—in a cheap, untailored dress.

Giving up for the night, I decided to remove the sticky boobs. This heralded the next problem of rather gargantuan proportions. Not only was there no way to pull them off that minimized pain, but it soon became evident that my general sensitivity to adhesives was in no way overlooked by this product. Blinking back tears, I pulled them both off and looked at my reflection in horror. Where the wrinkly, burn-like surface had been now appeared as a splotchy, irritated mess. Think of allergic reaction hives, but angrier. Fed up for one night, I wadded up both stickies and gave them to the cat to play with.

~Epilogue~
Between the night of the disastrous first run and the night of the actual event in question, I attempted two or three more trials that resulted in varying degrees of success. By the time the crucial Saturday night rolled around, I had pretty well mastered the lift-and-smooth technique. Okay, at least it wasn’t the train wreck I started with. I did, in fact, wear a pair of sticky boobs to the Holiday Dinner thing. I’m sure it was better than nothing, but not by much. Since a group of us went out for drinks afterwards, it was a good 6 hours from the time I got dressed to the time of sticky boob removal. Thankfully I was more than feeling the effects of the aforementioned post-fete drinks, so I have remarkably little memory of the removal process. There were most certainly remnants of rash the next morning.

To compound the moronic agony of this whole experience, I should confess that I wore one of the remaining pairs of sticky boobs to the same event the following year (2002). Clearly, I didn’t learn anything from the previous year’s hell, because I went into the whole deal all over again thinking it wasn’t a bad idea. The dress was substantially better, but completely backless. I probably could have gotten away with wearing nothing underneath it, since it was fairly well lined and rather fitted, but where’s the fun in that? Of course, by fun I mean the kind of fun involved in taking out one’s own gallbladder with a spoon, but who’s counting? I, for one, am far too busy repeating the cycle of stupidity programmed for me by Victoria and her rotten, rotten secrets.