It’s a flurry of excitement, here at Casa de Pearl, as I ready myself for another foray into black-pantsed-and-white-shirted encounters of the catering kind. My shirt has been starched into crisp yet bland submission; my practical shoes have been located; my favorite underwear, a trusted pair with a strict no-ride policy, have been set aside.
And my black pants are ready.
Funny thing about those black pants, though: they’re actually Mary’s. We’ve decided, in that quirky, kinda endearing but kinda weird way that women have, that I look better in her pants and she looks better in mine.
There’s a joke in there somewhere, but we’ll let it ride for a bit.
I don’t think men trade pants. Then again, I’m not sure.
I text T. “Have you ever traded pants with a friend?”
“Why,” he writes. “What have you heard?”
So that’s probably the answer right there.
Serving jobs are a fertile land of stress, hustle, and humor. It is a world of shouted jokes, often in Spanish; of carefully balanced plates and mysteriously crusted and rejected forks. There will be glasses to fill with ice and water, place settings to be set, napkins to be napped. I don’t want to get too detailed here – it’s all very technical – but suffice it to say that at the end of the night, I will be several inches shorter and several twenties richer.
Hey. Who has more fun than me?
And my black pants are ready.
Funny thing about those black pants, though: they’re actually Mary’s. We’ve decided, in that quirky, kinda endearing but kinda weird way that women have, that I look better in her pants and she looks better in mine.
There’s a joke in there somewhere, but we’ll let it ride for a bit.
I don’t think men trade pants. Then again, I’m not sure.
I text T. “Have you ever traded pants with a friend?”
“Why,” he writes. “What have you heard?”
So that’s probably the answer right there.
Serving jobs are a fertile land of stress, hustle, and humor. It is a world of shouted jokes, often in Spanish; of carefully balanced plates and mysteriously crusted and rejected forks. There will be glasses to fill with ice and water, place settings to be set, napkins to be napped. I don’t want to get too detailed here – it’s all very technical – but suffice it to say that at the end of the night, I will be several inches shorter and several twenties richer.
Hey. Who has more fun than me?
.jpg)
15 comments:
So few words, so many good laughs...pure Pearl!
And we will expect a full report on how much fun you had, what kind, with whom, for whom, and whether those underwear can still be trusted - written, of course, whilst you are soaking your barking dogs.
You made me look to see if you really do have a label for pants-related posts. You do. That's impressive. But we have come to expect no less :)
I understand men steal shirts from each other. The comfy ones. Lent in a time of need and never returned.
I like the twenties richer part.
What's a few inches when twenties are involved.
Men can't wear each others' pants, Pearl. I think it's against the law or something.
Your cats?
They didn't call it The Brotherhood of the Traveling Pants, now did they?
Ok...Catalyst/Taylor made me laugh out loud.
Although I would love to have a few more twenties, I don't I could afford the inches.
More twenties is always better!
I was a waitress for years and went through so many pairs of pants that if I had a friend who wore my size I'm pretty sure I'd have stolen them!
xo jj
Nothing worse than creeping undies. Tugging, balancing, pouring...something is bound to happen.
Thanks for the laugh
Would I believe? Of course I would. You wouldn't lie to me. Would you?
Re the no ride-up underwear, why not buy only those so you never ever have to worry about ride up again?
Short answer - yes. Longer answer - hell yes.
Twenties are good, but I don't think I'd like that job much. More power to you, Pearl.
Post a Comment