Turns out Tripper wasn't in the office: the door was locked and nobody was home. Discouraged, I drove to D.Q. to drown my sorrows in an extra large vanilla malted. While I was there, the fat girl manager approached me with a tray in her pudgy hands. A full meal was on it, I noticed: half-pound cheeseburger, plus fries and drink. She placed the tray on my table and said, "I owe you an apology. Other night when you came in, I swiped a couple of your fries." She slid the tray over to me. "You've been such a nice customer that I've been feeling guilty."

I'd like to say that I pushed it aside and told her you don't have to do that! But I didn't. Instead, I just smiled, thanked her and ate my second full lunch of the day. May need to take all the free meals I can get, I was thinking: I still hadn't received my salary and had just spent a sizable amount of my checking account on a promised reimbursement.

When I got back home, however, things once more picked up. Waiting for me, slid under the door, was an envelope with:

• my first week's paycheck,
• an expense check that more than covered my morning shopping and
• a list of ten spots for me to visit with specialized instructions for each.

There was also a message for me on the answering machine: must've filled out an entry card at the plus-size shoppe because I've won a drawing. One of the store's lingerie lines has a contest going, and I've just won full selection of understuff. Is it ethical for a Mystery Shopper to enter such a contest (in a way, I am kinda working for the clothing store)? I'll have to ask Tripper.

10/09/01
[1:38 p.m.]

This is what Mystery Shopping is all about: I arrived at my target store right after ten o'clock opening, wearing my sweats and my calculatedly tightest tee-shirt, and I approached the salesclerk, prepared to play ignorant. I'm here to buy some outfits for a new job, I told her, but I don't quite know what I'm looking for. The salesgirl, a bottom-heavy brunette with a garish looking engagement ring and the kind of big hair I remember wearing in high school, simply smiled and said, "Lemme show you our on-the-job section." She led me to a rack and immediately started rifling through the size twenties.

Pretty smooth, I thought. The girl'd managed to get me where I needed to be without drawing attention to my size - or pointing out that the clothes I was presently wearing were stretching to the bounds of twenty-ness only by the grace of God. Seems as if I'm jumping dress sizes daily, but that's not physiologically possible, is it? Perhaps I need to see a doctor, but I'm not sure that any doc-in-the-box would be able to shed any light on my case. I'm not even sure that I am a case.

Anyway, I used my credit card to buy three outfits, some sandals, a top plus two pair of what the store calls medium sweats. Wore the top and some navy blue sweats out of the store, tossing my old outfit in the mall trashcan on my way to the food court. A good morning that would've gone better if I hadn't dripped taco sauce on my new top. This afternoon, I plan to take my two reports into the office and show off one of my dresses. Maybe I can get Tripper to take me out to the smorgasbord.

10/09/01
[7:24 a.m.]

Received a call from Tripper this a.m. He has a new assignment for me: another women's clothing store - only this time a plus-sized women's boutique. (This'll make an interesting contrast, I thought.) He even has a good-sized allowance to offer me. But if I'm willing to just pay for the items myself, he'll raise the ceiling even higher. After I asked how much, I immediately decided to go myself and pay: my one good outfit is starting to feel more like a foundation garment than a free-flowing dress. I need a bigger wardrobe in more ways than one.