Upcoming peep shows

The world is biased toward couples. And I don't just mean Metro seating and the Smithsonian. Department stores are also in on the act.

The other day, I went to Macy's to find a dress to wear to my friend Sybil's wedding. I decided on an inexpensive navy column dress with a flounced and beaded bottom. The effect was half mermaid, half old-lady, but the dress was on the $120 sale rack, so I took it to the cashier.

I waited for a while, while a lady who didn't seem to know U.S. coin denominations attempted to purchase a chocolate bar. After she came up short and left, the cashier informed me that my dress was missing its second half. The department store lady went off to find it, and was gone for so long I achieved a new high score on cell-phone Tetris. She finally returned with a bolero jacket. Apparently my dress was an old-lady dress, the kind that comes with a diaphanous top to cover wrinkly arms.

Unfortunately, the cashier could not find the granny jacket in my size, and she would not sell me the dress without its mate. She could mount a store-wide search and I could come back later, if I wanted. "No thanks," I said.

That's because I know this road leads to heartbreak. Last year I had a tragic love affair with a bathing suit at Filenes Basement. It was the most flattering bathing suit I had ever tried on. I know this sounds tacky, but bear with me: It was a black tankini, low-cut with wood beads on the straps. It was so hot, I pranced it around the public part of dressing room, rather than hiding in my stall.

But when I tried to buy the tankini--only $20!!--the lady at the counter informed me that the two pieces came from different bathing suits. They were the same style and same size, but the numbers on their identification tags didn't match up.

"I'll buy both!" I offered. No go, said the lady. "I'll go find the other half," I suggested. Not likely, she said, nodding toward the tangled pile of sale bathing suits. A large line of impatient shoppers had formed behind me at this point. So the cashier told me to write down my name and number, pin it to the suit, and call the manager in the morning.

I went back to Filenes the next day to visit my suit and plead my case, in person, to the Filene's Manager. She said they'd try to find the suit, but they would not sell me the individual pieces. I returned for several more conjugal visits, but I eventually gave up.

When will the failed Bush administration address department-store-sales policies? Until then, I'll be wearing a bathing suit with no bottom half to the beach (that's because I used it as underwear and then lost it in the wash) and nothing at all to my best friend's wedding.