Killin' Time

I've got about 45 minutes to kill before I take off with the Bad Dogs. After watching me load beds, toys and, most horrifyingly, their bowls, they're absolutely pinging off the walls.

I ran on base to pick up some paperwork for Mr. Abby. I then stopped at the exchange, because I needed a white shirt. Nothing fancy, just a plan white female shirt. Button down.

Good lord. Shopping at the exchange is always an experience. Some aren't even worth bothering with, but the one here occasionally has something cool. Not today, people. I'm an excessively normal size, so I was prepared to find they had white shirts in sizes mumu and toothpick, but not average.

I was not, however, prepared for them to have nothing even slightly resembling a normal white shirt. Oh, if I wanted trim, ruffles, beads, weird pleats, avante garde necklines or all of the above on one single atrocious garment, I was in luck. But a chick's white oxford? Or anything vaguely similar? Shit outta luck.

Oh well. You win some and you lose some at the exchange. I've found some of my favorite shirts there, but it's all luck as to what they stock and there appears to be no system to it. One trip they have fabulous Columbia women's shirts, then the next eight times...nada.

And hey - Filipino lady in front of me in the express lane? Yeah, I noticed you had like thirty items in your basket. In the ten-item lane. And that the equally Filipino checker lady chattered with you in Tagalog and let you through. I am on to you ladies - I am fully aware of the strangehold you've somehow gained on all AAFES and DECA activities. I can only eagerly wait for the day when I don't care anymore.

Do not think I'm kidding. There is a no-shit Filipina mafia in total control of all commissary and exchange activities on every military base everywhere in the world. The systems are ruled by a dead-end general, and the upper management is entirely composed of retired suply majors, but the facilities themselves are firmly in the hands of the Filipinas. Creepy.