Outfitting the soy panda

Believe it or not, the majority of visitors to this blog are not major fans of my work, trying to bridge the month between Monitor issues. And while many readers are friends I’ve browbeaten into logging on, you don’t make up the majority either. According to visitor statistics, Red Panda Zone readers largely consist of people who, oddly, seek information on the red panda. Here’s a few recent search terms:

buy red panda baby
catching the red pandas {true stories}
does a red panda bite?
how much do red red panda eats
the home town of red pandas
what color feet do red pandas have?
dress up soy panda

As we're learned from precipitous decline of newspaper readership, it’s important not to ignore your customers’ needs. (Washington Post editors: I am looking at you, and your ill-considered decision to replace Broom Hilda with some strip about a space station.) So this week, instead of a personal anecdote, I'm providing panda facts for your school project and illegal-pet-dealing needs:

· When the giant panda gives birth, it ejects the newborn with such force that it can fly several feet. Zookeepers prevent injury to the animal by padding nearby walls.

· Red pandas are much cuter than giant pandas. Have you ever noticed how Tai Shan's butt is sort of yellowish? Ick.

· When dressing up your soy panda, avoid polyester and other non-natural fibers, which can adhere to the tofu. Instead, invest in high-quality organic cotton. You won’t be disappointed!

Snood is my skill set

I just attended my brother’s college graduation, and boy do I not envy those kids. I remember listening to famous, successful people tell my class that we were all on the cusp of greatness. I can’t speak for my fellow graduates, but I was not spending my nights plotting to end poverty. I was struggling to piece together acceptable business attire.

At the time, the most professional environment I had worked in was a computer support center, where I regularly showed up to work in pajamas—ideal attire for umpteen hours of Snood. To get the kind of high paying, prestigious job I dreamed of—or at least something with medical insurance—I knew I’d have to upgrade my wardrobe.

So I purchased a boxy blue suit that managed to be both ugly and slutty. The racy aspect came from the fact that I couldn’t find a camisole high enough to peek out over the neckline. I went to interviews apparently topless underneath my jacket.

I can’t really blame my suit for my long, stressful job search. That I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do was a bigger problem. I applied for a wild array of jobs, including halfway house attendant, store display designer, statistics analyst, and Conestoga wagon driver for a juvenile rehabilitation program. Seriously.

At each of these interviews, I would cast my life history so that it seemed to lead inexorably to the job I was interviewing for: I always loved statistics; in fact, I tutored statistics in college. I designed window displays in high school. Oxen are among my favorite animals.

I did manage to stay within the realm of truth—that was, until I interviewed for a job as a computer network technician at an upscale hotel chain. I actually had some pertinent skills for this job, thanks to my user support experience. I was ready to wow the well-dressed lady, who was wearing a visible camisole. But instead of asking about computers, she asked about hotels. Why did I want to work in one?

I had no idea how to answer this question. I didn’t care about hotels. What I cared about was having a job, with money, and not having to move back home. But I gave it some thought, and I recalled living in a hotel for a few weeks when my family was between houses. I intended to wax poetic about Eloise. But what came out of my mouth was, “Well, I lived in hotels for most of my life.” The interview lady clearly thought I was a freak; she did not call me back.

I did not hear back from the Conestoga wagon company either. However, Class of 2007, do not fear. I eventually found employment, and it turns out that unless you are a banker or something, you don’t actually need a suit. Though it’s not a bad idea to wear some sort of top.

Insult to injuries

In 6th grade I broke my wrist while riding a bike. I wasn't jumping ramps or popping wheelies; I just spaced out and plowed my bike into a parked car. I hoped, while sitting in the emergency room, that I'd be able to parlay my injury into grade-school celebrity. The kids would clamor to sign my cast, or at least take a week-long break from ceaseless social torture. But sadly, the hospital gave me a fabric cast, which was basically signature-proof. I told my classmates that I'd broken my wrist while skateboarding.

Last week, in my office gym, I had another graceless accident: My right ankle buckled underneath me while I was warming up on the elliptical machine. With my heart beating at a rate just above “coma,” I toppled sideways, onto the adjacent treadmill, in view of several coworkers.

As you can see, my injuries don’t make for very good stories. And as I limped my way through eight dozen family events this weekend (friend’s wedding shower, cousin’s post-wedding brunch, brother’s graduation, mother's day), many concerned aunts and uncles asked me what happened. I tried to be vague, saying that I sprained my ankle at the gym. I hope they imagined me almost landing some martial arts acrobatics in kickboxing class. At my age, skateboarding is just not very believable.

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.