Honey, That’s What the Panty is For

My mother worked for Haines for years. 

And as I’m sure you’re aware, nothing beats a great pair of L’Eggs.

I grew up with a plethora of free pantyhose.  Not that this mattered to me, of course.  Pantyhose?  Who wore those, anyway?  Well, I do.  Now.  But then?  You might as well have offered me unlimited prune juice.

My mother is the knower of all things hose-related.  How to put them on without twisting one leg into a tourniquet (the toe is the key), how to pull them up over the ribs to avoid waist-line-dig, how to wash them and clean your nails at the same time...

It is spring again, and we are sitting around the table.  The sliding glass door leading out to the deck is open.  Too early for bugs, too late for frostbite, the air comes into the room like a welcomed visitor, someone coming in with coffee cake or a funny friend.

My mother has given one of her nieces, a teenager several years older than me, several pair of nylons.  Surprisingly, she is happy about this.

“You know how to put these on correctly, right?”

Teresa nods.  “My mom told me.”

My mother nods, approving. 

Teresa looks thoughtful.  “Aunt Midge, can I ask you something?”

My mother looks at her, cocks her head to one side.  I’m listening.

Teresa blushes softly.  “Do you wear underwear under nylons?”

My mother smiles.  She loves these questions.  “They used to just be stockings, you know.  You had to wear garters to hold them up.  But now they’re pantyhose, have a cotton crotch and everything.  So no, you don’t have to wear underwear.  That’s what the panty in the hose is for.” 

Teresa looks both incredulous and embarrassed. 

My mother leans across the table, puts her hand over her niece’s.

“Honey,” she says, “you don’t want to wear too many layers down there.”  She leans back, satisfied with her answer.

She rises, heads toward the fridge for the cheese tray.  “Yep,” she says, over her shoulder.  “You gotta let that stuff breathe.”

Wherein Pearl's Wardrobe Gets the Recognition it Deserves; or, Hey! Are Those New Pants?

I’m wearing a new pair of pants today.

What’s that, you say? Why yes, I find that to be true as well! New clothes do make life worth living!

As shallow and self-serving as it may sound, somehow, wearing something to work that I’ve never worn before makes my job more exciting.

Can you imagine? More excitement than I had last week! Is that possible? As if the giddiness of the day’s filing and repeated “Good morning this is Pearl how can I help you?” isn’t enough!!

And now I’m doing it in new pants?

How in the world am I going to top this?

It’s been a fact of my corporate/office-style existence since, oh, well, let’s see. I started working right after World War I – the War to End All Wars, we called it. At first, I was content to just draw lines up the backs of my legs to simulate nylons, but I wanted more. I wanted one of those mink-biting-its-feet stoles like you saw in the talkies. I wanted my cigarettes in those long holders. I wanted to draw arches into my eyebrows that said “beat it, wise guy!”. I wanted shoulder pads that would make Joan Crawford weep.

I’m a little more subdued these days. I no longer think that knee-high moccasins are appropriate for the office. You can no longer tell what my favorite bands are from the logos on my shirts. I no longer carry changes of clothes in the back seat of my car, just in case I don’t make it home before I have to work again; and I now put on new make-up every day, even if I woke up in yesterday’s.

Whether I need to or not.

This new attention to my wardrobe might explain my rocket-like rise to power in the last 80 years from dance hall girl to vaudeville crooner to receptionist/copy drudge to World’s Best Lackey. (The title is self-appointed, but I’m sure HR will back me up on this.)

Anyway, that’s all I had to say today. Just wanted to let you know that I look and feel spiffy.

Carry on!

On the Black and White, They Ride; or Mary and Pearl Get Ready to Make with the Servitude

Mary arrived with a paper bag full of pants.

“Oooooh!”

She drops the bag of pants – of used pants, to be precise – on the ground at my feet.

“Ann Taylor,” she says.  “LL Bean, Levi.”

“My size?”

“Yeppers.”

Jon walks by, shakes his head in a resigned fashion, a movement usually reserved for those watching dogs attack mirrors or, say, children pushing pudding into their ears.

“This is awesome,” I say.

“I also brought these,” she says, pulling a last pair of pants out of the bag. 

Black pants. 

“Are these them?” I say.

Flashback: December, 2013, basement at Nye’s.  Mary and Pearl are black-pantsed and white-shirted, starched to a crackly crunch. 

“I think I got something in my shoe,” Mary says. 

Nye’s, a building that was once three buildings, is a funny place.  Stairs that lead to no where, the remnants of the brick foundations of the original buildings form interesting speed bumps/opportunities to test one’s balance.

The basement’s backrooms are fascinating.

Mary takes a seat to pull off her shoe – and her eyes go wide.

“Holy Hannah,” she murmurs.

“What?” I say.

“I just sat on a nail.”

She stands up, turns around; and sure enough, there’s a hole, right there on the very bottom of the ol’ bumper.

Our eyes meet.  We burst into laughter.

“Oh for cryin’ out loud, Mary.  Are you wearing just enormously white drawers?  Or is that really the color of your butt?”

She feels around.  “Those aren’t undies,” she laughs.  “That’s the smooth, unblemished plane of my alabaster ass.”

It’s true. Mary, she of the red hair and blue eyes, has the coloring of a porcelain imp. 

She borrows a black marker from the bartender, and in mere moments, voila.  The hole in her pants is invisible.

Mary hands me the pants.  I’ve borrowed them before; and frankly, they fit like a dream.

“Can you fix them?” she says.

“No problem,” I say.

“You fix ‘em,” she says, “and you can have ‘em.”

“Mmm,” I say.  “Free pants.”

We laugh. 

Jon walks through the room again, shaking his head wearily. 

“You guys are weird.”

A Moment with Mary and Pearl; or On Not Being Helen Bloody Mirren

Ring.  Ring-ring.

“Whaddaya want?” 

Mary sounds delightfully wary for this early in the morning.  I shift the phone from one ear to another gleefully.  “I just wanted you to know,” I say, “that I hate everything in my closet.”

Mary chuckles, the sound of mythical woodland creatures at midnight.

Possibly belly-up to a bar. 

“I’m serious!” I say, smiling.  “Everything.  Ooooh, what’s Pearl wearing today?  Is it a second-hand skirt and a cardigan?  Is it a pair of second-hand dress pants and a jacket?”  I wrinkle my nose in disgust, confident that my revulsion will translate over the airwaves.

It does.

“You got problems,” she commiserates.  “When one tires of dressing, one tires of life.”

“Are you mocking me?”

She laughs.  “Me?  Mock you?  You do me a grave disservice, madam” she sniffs.

I laugh.  “Are you reading a book on dueling or something?” I say.  “You sound suspicious.”

The shrug is audible.  “I watch a lot of movies,” she says.

“Hmm,” I say. 

There is a slight pause in the conversation while I retrieve my clothing irritation.

“And another thing,” I say, “Never Google ‘how to look great at 50’.  The advice is insulting.”

“Like what?”

“First of all, I’m not Helen Bloody Mirren --“

“—nice –“

“—thank you – and she pops up every time.  I mean, she’s gorgeous, she’s always been gorgeous, and pics of her in red carpet gowns don’t help me.”

“Mmm.”

“Secondly,” I continue, “advice like ‘flats are kinder to older feet’ and ‘expansive tops cover a multitude of problems’ don’t help.”

“You don’t need an expansive top.”

“Thank you.”

“A small dog, maybe, carried waist high –“

“Shut up!”

She laughs.  “I keed.  I keed.”

There is another pause.

“At least you have a waistline.”

Mary and I have had a running conversation on body shape for just short of three decades now.  She is an apple.  I am a pear.  Big fans of both fruits, we have determined that, between us, we have one truly awesome body.

We are still looking for a head.

“I mean, me,” she continues, “all I want is to wear a belt.”

“You could wear a belt,” I say.  Mary has recently lost just under 30 pounds.  She looks 13, maybe 13 and-a-half years younger than she did 30 pounds ago.

She shakes her head, a gesture I know to house a contrary yet amused look of denial.  “Say what you will,” she says, “but I’ve seen the pictures.  Cinched in the middle, I look like a belted bratwurst.”

I spit the coffee I’ve been sipping back into the cup. 

“Ah,” she says.  “And my work here is done.  You are 51, and ya don’t look a day over 46.  Good bye, Pearl.”

I smile.

“Good bye, Mary.”

The Traitorous Nature of Trousers

“My life is a travesty,” I moan. 

 “What’s that now?”

“My life.  It’s a hollow, meaningless farce marked by intermittent, brief glimmers of hope.”

“Yikes,” Mary says.  “That sounds serious.”

I shift the phone from one ear to the other.  “Guess what I did for lunch?”

Mary takes a breath.  In my experience, she does this every time she’s getting ready to mess with me.

“Let me think,” she says, with what is surely a smile on her face.  “You ate?  Pearl, did you eat for lunch?  No, wait.  I can do better than that.”  She laughs softly to herself.  “Gimme a minute.  Lemme think.”

“Mary –“ I warn.

She cackles over the line.  “Okay, okay,” she says.  “What did you do for lunch?”

I take a deep breath.  “I tried on pants.”

A hush goes over the line. 

“You didn’t.”

I nod. Surely she is nodding, too.

“Oh, Pearl,” she sighs.  “I am so sorry.”

“Fourteen pairs of pants, Mary.  Fourteen pairs of pants.”

“And you didn’t buy a one, did you?”

“Nope.”

There’s a brief pause as we consider the heartbreak that pants-shopping can cause.

“Not to mention,” I say, having started a separate but parallel conversation in my head, “the pants I’m wearing today look like I pulled them out of the hamper.”

“Did you?”

“Pfft,” I say.  “You know I don’t do that anymore.” 

We laugh the laugh of people who have worn swimsuit bottoms as underwear.

“So, what then?” she says.  “Tell Mary about your current pants.”

I shake my head in disgust, something I’m sure transfers over the phone.  “You know those pants that look good when you put them on, nice and smooth, and they get baggier and baggier, get weirder throughout the day?”

“Yep,” she says.

“These are them.”  I glance down, pull at the fabric around my belly.  “These looked pretty sweet at 6:30 in the morning.”

“And now?” she asks.  “We talkin’ grapefruit smugglers here?”

“Yep,” I say.  “I look like an unmade bed.”

“Probably find a homeless guy sleeping in your lap later.”

I smile, snort into the receiver.  “There’s room for him now, I tell you whut.”

“Seriously, though,” she says.  “Pants be traitors.”

“You got that right.”

We smile a telephone-smile at each other.  “You feel better now?”

“You know,” I say, “I believe I do.”

“Well all right,” Mary says.  “Then my work here is done.”

Ode to my Pants

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to bid adieu to my gray pants.

They were, and now they are no longer.

But what can be said of my gray pants?  Because while the fit was good, they were never my favorite.

Why, they fell out of favor only two weeks after they were purchased.

I remember the day clearly.  It was early fall.  The moon was in retrograde, the Minnesota Twins were on a winning streak, and I had successfully used a neti pot for the first time with little lasting embarrassment.

That is all, of course, a lie.  I remember nothing of the day except this:  I am sitting at my desk when I look down, and there, on my brand new pants and from out of nowhere appeared, on my right knee, a nickel-sized white smudge.

Naturally, I tried to remedy the situation.  And by “remedy the situation”, I mean to say that I spit on my thumb and rubbed the offending blemish with it.

Surprisingly, my saliva, how ever heartily applied, did nothing.

When this tactic failed, it fell upon me to employ the next-in-line remedy in my stain-removal arsenal:  I wet a paper towel with a bit of hand soap.  Rubbing vigorously, what I suspected would happen did:  the paper towel fell apart.

The rest of the work day was dedicated to staring, off and on, at the spot. 

Whatever could it be?

Several enthusiastic and ultimately fruitless washings later, I was forced into an uncomfortable realization:  my new pants had been permanently stained and I would never know how.

And yet I still wore them.  They were, after all, brand new.

Poor girl, I supposed my co-workers to mutter amongst themselves.  I hear she only has four pair of pants.

And it was true.  “Four pair of pants,” my mother has always said, “is all you need.  Mix up the shirts.  No one will ever notice.”

Unless, of course, one of the four pair has a thumb-shaped blot on the knee.

That, they’ll notice.

And so I’ve done what any sensible gal will do:  I waited until the time was right – roughly two years, I believe it was – and picked up another pair of pants.  Four dollars at the second-hand store.  In keeping with the fashion of the times, you cannot sit down in them for fear of exposin' yer undies, but in their favor I will point out that they are stained-knee free. 

And so we bid farewell to the gray pants.

Good-bye, gray pants.

You should’ve meant more to me.

The Salad’s in My Hat

I did, last night, what so many women have done before me.

I baked two potatoes, put them in my pants pockets, and stepped into the night air to enjoy the cloudless sky.

What.  They don’t do that where you are?

I can’t remember ever having carried produce in my pockets before, but now that I have, I can foresee doing it again.  The warmth spreads across the legs, radiates a rich, root-ish heat while providing for a snack later.

And with the stars as my backdrop, the night air a crisp, bright thing, I consider calling someone to tell them of the potatoes in my pants.

Oddly enough, I can think of no one I should bother at this time of night.

It is just me, the night sky, and my taters.

And suddenly my grandma comes to mind.  She would appreciate this.  She would enjoy knowing that there was a side dish in my pockets.  A practical, hard-working woman, she had a whimsical bent to her, and with her one was free to speak of little rocks, of the pickles on the pennies – “Those are wheat, honey” – and where the birds go in winter.

“The barn swallows will stay,” she says.

I stare out the kitchen window, toward the barn.  “Why don’t they freeze?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, her hands in the sudsy water, “but you don’t think they’d stay if they knew they shouldn’t, do you?”

I think about that.  “No,” I admit.  “I don’t think they would.”

I stare up through the top of the leafless tree, think about how much closer to the sky the third floor deck is now that its canopy is gone.

And I smile into the distance.  “I’ve got baked potatoes wrapped in wash rags in my pants pockets, Grandma.”

Why Yes! I DO Feel More Productive!

I’m wearing a new pair of pants today.

What’s that, you say? Why yes, I find that to be true as well! New clothes do make life worth living!

As shallow and self-serving as it may sound, somehow, wearing something to work that I’ve never worn before makes my job more exciting.

Can you imagine? More excitement than I had last week! Is that possible? As if the giddiness of the day’s filing and repeated “Good morning this is Pearl how can I help you?” isn’t enough!! And now I’m doing it in a new shirt?

How in the world am I going to top this? The mind. She reels.

It’s been a fact of my corporate/office-style existence since, oh, well, let’s see. I started working right after World War I – the War to End All Wars, we called it. At first, I was content to just draw lines up the backs of my legs to simulate nylons, but I wanted more. I wanted one of those mink-biting-its-feet stoles like you saw in the talkies. I wanted my cigarettes in those long holders. I wanted to draw arches into my eyebrows that said “beat it, wise guy!”. I wanted shoulder pads that would make Joan Crawford weep.

I’m a little more subdued these days. I no longer think that knee-high moccasins are appropriate for the office. You can no longer tell what my favorite bands are from the logos on my shirts. I no longer carry changes of clothes in the back seat of my car, just in case I don’t make it home before I have to work again; and I now put on new make-up every day, even if I woke up in yesterday’s.

How's that for upwardly mobile?

This new attention to my wardrobe might explain my rocket-like rise to power in the last 80 years from dance hall girl to vaudeville crooner to receptionist/copy drudge to World’s Best Lackey. (The title is self-appointed, but I’m sure HR will back me up on this.)

Anyway, that’s all I had to say today. Just wanted to let you know that I look and feel spiffy.

Carry on!

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

I don’t think I’ve ever done laundry for fewer than two people before, and I’m confused.

And just a little frightened.

How strange, to do only one’s own laundry.  Six socks, three shirts, a pair of pants and bath towel lie across chairs, dangle from hangers, drying slowly. 

I stare at them, a dare, perhaps.  I imagine the socks lining up in front of me, a can-can of plain white athletic socks, a diversion while the bath towel creep ups from behind, throws itself over my head…  The pants – a shifty pair with a untrustworthy zipper – go through my wallet, laugh maniacally when faced with the lousy $17 it finds; and all of them chuckle madly as they tear down the hall toward the elevator, off to stuff dollar bills in the G-string of an unsuspecting stripper while the socks chant "Put it on!  Put it on!"

Of course, if the dryer were available, they’d all be hidden away, tumbling, heel-over-toe, a mish-mash of freshly cleaned whites.  Washed in a detergent scent once described by a friend as “angel fart”, the condo would smell of ambition, of a triumph of good over sweaty.

But the dryer’s not working, and anyone walking in would think that something untoward has happened with the hamper, that a virulent strain of garment flu has struck, resulting in an explosion of laundered garb, the washing-machine equivalent of a particularly unsettled stomach. 

Man.  I gotta get out more.

Hey! Nice Pants!

The relationship I’ve had with pants has been a long and sometimes ill-fitting one.

It’s not that I don’t like them – some of my favorite pieces of apparel have been pants! –but in a world where a size 10 is sometimes larger than a size 14, one develops trust issues.

And this is why I tried on over 10,000 pairs of pants on Sunday.

Ten thousand pairs.

The memory of those poorly lit rooms weighs heavily on me.

Part of the problem, I suspect, is that somewhere along the line the American Pants Manufacturers (in cooperation with the United Federation of Trousers) decided that while pants may be asked to successfully cover you from, say, hip to ankle, these haters of women, curves, and, yes, democracy, by golly, have decreed that they can assure coverage only when you are standing up.

Wait, what? You want to sit down? Sitting down is for chumps and you’ll do it but it will cost you the dropping of the pants’ waistline and the exposure of either a.) your underwear, or b.) your butt crack.

Both of which may lead to a guest appearance on The People of Wal-Mart.

In the fruit bowl of life, I am, physically, what one would refer to as a “pear”. I’m a little wider on the bottom than I am up top, am small around the middle, and mix well with nuts of various types.

So Sunday I braced myself for humiliation and set off in search of coverage.

When I go to try on pants, what I get a lot of, these days, is a waistband far too wide for me. I call these pants “grapefruit smugglers”, as there is plenty of room at the back for transporting your larger fruits, storing wallets, or protecting tea-cup variety dogs from larger dogs.

After several dozen pairs of pants – and listening to the women further down the dressing room aisle laugh themselves hysterical over the swimsuit/swimsuit cover-ups they needed for an upcoming cruise – I finally found what I was looking.

A single pair of pants that fit properly.

I searched in vain for another pair just like them and was denied.

Still, I have my one pair; and like my mom says, oh, no one’s looking at your pants. Change the shirts up, throw in a jacket or a scarf and no one’s the wiser.
There’s nothing like starting the workweek with a new pair of pants: I feel fashionable, I feel sleek, and I feel productive.

This week’s going to be awesome.

Sometimes Dreaming is Enough or Maybe It’s Time to Start Wearing Skirts

“Acme Grommets and Napkin Dispensers, Pearl speaking.”

“Yes, I’d like to order four grommets and a napkin dispenser, please.”

“Who gave you this number?”

Mary laughs.  “You did.”

I mock-threaten her under my breath.  “You made me use a perfectly good greeting.”

“It was very nice,” she says.

There is a brief silence.

“So what’s up?”

“Oh,” she says.  “You know.  Thinking about slacks and all things pants-ly.”

We’ve discussed this before.  Me, I could be described, rather unflatteringly, I think, as being from the “pear” family:  small in the middle, thighs that say “hey, how ‘bout we slather some gravy on it?”  Mary, on the other hand, is more of an “apple”.  Larger waisted, slender-legged, Mary’s body type says “I won’t wear a half-top, but check out this crazy mini-skirt.”

Apple.  Pear.  Both body shapes are lovely if one is making a fruit salad, but notoriously difficult to buy pants for.

I nod.  “I’m down to four pairs of pants:  one has a stain I think might be some weird toothpaste mutation, one has a zipper that won’t stay up – causing me to look as if I’m scratching myself inappropriately – and two of them have a gap in the back meant, I believe, for grapefruit smuggling.

“I’m telling you,” I say.  “Shopping for new trousers is one of my least favorite things to do.

“A gal could get chafed,” she concedes. “We need to fight the power.  We need to join forces.”

The line goes dead as I stare out the window and consider joining a movement headed up by Mary. I swallow, square my shoulders.

“I’ll do it,” I say. 

“Excellent,” she says.  “Remember the 60s and the bra-burning movement?”

I frown.  “Not personally, no.”

She laughs.  “Are you sure?”

I puff up, false dignity firmly in place.  “I just acquired breasts last year.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs.  “So you did.  So you did.”

“Shaddap,” I say, pleasantly.

I can hear a smile creep over Mary’s face. “I want to burn our pants.” 

“Go on.”

“In a big pile, maybe in front of Macy’s.”

“Go on.”

“We’re gonna need a slogan or something, something we can shout at passers-by.”

There is silence.

“I know,” I say.  “How about one leg two leg zipper fly!  Shopping for pants can make me cry!”

“Nice,” she says.  “I was thinking, too.  How about: What do we want?  Pants!  When do we want them?  Now!  How much will we be willing to spend?  Not too much but we’re willing to pay for quality!”

Our grins slide along the telephone lines.  “I like it,” I say.  “There’s a certain arrhythmia going on that makes me happy.”

The line goes silent.

“OK,” Mary says.  “So we’re in agreement?”

I nod.  “Right.  Macy’s at noon.  Bring yer pants.”

The line goes silent again.

“We’re not really going to burn our pants, are we?” she says.

“No,” I say.

“Still,” she says.  “I feel better, don’t you?”

I smile.  “I do.”

“Have a good day,” she says.

“You, too,” I say.

Have You Asked Your Other Clothing?

“Good morning, Acme Grommets and Gravel.  This is Pearl.”

“Where are my pants?”

It’s T.  In Florida.  Frowning, I look out the window.  Yes.  I am still in Minnesota.

“Have you just called me, 1400 miles away, to ask me where your pants are?”

There is the distinct sound of rooting.  Voice muffled by what I can only guess to be the interior of his closet, he grunts. “I thought you might have an idea of where they’d run off to, you with the intimate knowledge of homicidal socks.”

It’s true that I had recently divulged my theory on disappearing socks and their possibly murderous mates – still, there was no reason to get testy.

“Don’t get crabby on me, Mister I Can Lay My Hands On My Stuff If I Need To.  I know where my pants are.”

We’ve had discussions, he and I, regarding his housekeeping skills.  Suffice it to say he once found a snowball in his freezer.

“Have you considered asking your other pants?”

He smiles, I am sure of it. “My other pants aren’t speaking to me.  Don’t ask me why.”

“Why?”

“I told you, don’t ask me why.”  His hand abruptly cups the mouthpiece.  “I don’t know for certain,” he hisses, “but I think they’re in cahoots with my long-sleeved shirts.”

I laugh.  “Do you even wear long-sleeved shirts anymore?”

“No,” he whispers.  “And I only wear pants to work.” 

T stands up, a sound identified by another grunt.  In my mind’s eye, I imagine he’s finished searching the floor of his closet.

“Dang it,” he says.  “Those are my only green chef’s pants, and I was going to wear them for St. Patrick’s Day.”

There is silence.

“All right, then,” he says.  “Thanks anyway, but I gotta go.”

I smile and hope he hears it.  “Give your other pants my best,” I say.

The Wily Sock, or But If You Try Some Time, You Get What You Need

I like it when it’s quiet like this, don’t you? No one here but you and me, the winds of change blowing softly through the cubicles (because in my fantasies, we work together), the smell of burnt toast wafting in from the lunchroom…

It’s Friday, glorious, golden-haloed Friday, where anything is possible and everything is affordable.

Isn’t it nice here, in this moment?

But what does the iPod have to say about it? For the iPod sees much, tells some. O Mighty iPod! Earbuds stuffed ever-so-delicately into my ears, music shuffled and observed with both concern and bemusement, what does the weekend hold for us?

Conventional Wisdom by Built to Spill
Waiting for the Great Leap Forward by Billy Bragg
Too Fake by Hockey
The Hanging Garden by The Cure
Born to Wander by Rare Earth
Set Fire to the Rain by Adele
Anti-D by The Wombats

And there you have it. This weekend? The iPod suggests that, despite the advance in years, there is still much to learn—and no one’s saying that you can’t dance while doing it.
So do we have time for some quick silliness?

Because T’s concerned about his socks.

You remember T, don’t you? The man who left the exciting, variable climes of Minneapolis for the unimaginative shores of southern Florida? A man who has successfully fended off a clothing revolt? A man who sees beautiful women everywhere he goes?

That T.

He called.

We take you to that call, already in progress.

“… so I just see them as undisciplined, you know what I mean?”

I jerk from my revelry. I had been staring at the window washer outside of the 48th floor, torn between not wanting to distract him and wanting to run to the window, mouthing “How cold are you right now? Are you scared? What do they pay you an hour, anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who’s undisciplined now?”

He sighs. “Have you been listening?”

“Of course,” I lie. “Something about discipline.”

He sighs again. “My socks. We're talking about my socks.”

“Pfffft.”

A quick expulsion of air from T’s end. “Excuse me? Did you just pfffft me? “

There's a slight pause while we consider my lack of manners.

“It’s my fault,” he says, sadly. I imagine him to be shaking his head. “I’ve failed to convey to you the importance – nay, the gravity – of the sedition behind the undisciplined sock.”

“Have you been in the thesaurus again?”

“No. Nope. Not at all. On no account. By no means.”

We laugh.

“All right,” I say. “Tell me about your socks.”

The telephone line crackles with the space between Minnesota and Florida.

“Socks,” he says. “We’ve discussed their standing insofar as the body is concerned, have we not?”

I nod. “Many times.”

“The spinners, the slouchers, the heels that refuse to be identified: there is no place for these socks in our lives.”

“Nooo,” I intone.

“And so when I found myself in possession of a number of them, I had to ask myself, well, what’s it all about?”

There is silence.

“And?”

“And what?” he responds. “And nothing.”

More silence.

“Well, maybe something.”

“What?”

He sighs. What he is about to say pains him.

“The more you pay for a sock, the better it is.” He sighs again. “Remember those Gold Toes I had?”

“I do.”

“Man,” he says. “Now those were some socks.”

He sighs again. The phone crackles across a thousand miles.

“Yep,” he says wistfully. “Those were some socks.”


Happy Friday, everyone. Don't forget to come back tomorrow!

Three Servers On a Bed of Arugula with an Exhausted but Rather Amusing Dipping Sauce

When the opportunity arises to serve, one, of course, serves. Black pants, legs creased sharply; white shirt starched to an exactitude rarely seen outside of the military; sturdy black shoes that say “I shall remain on my feet until called upon to do otherwise, madam.”

Hello. My name is Pearl. May I refresh your drink?

I take you back to last Saturday night, where you are to picture me smiling and deferential.

Paulie was there.

Paulie’s a star, you know.

“We filmed for a week,” he says, arranging the shrimp-wrapped scallops on a tray. “It’s going to be on TV this spring.”

King of the grill, maker of spoon-licking-good dressings and sauces, drinker of vodka and one snappy dresser, Paulie will represent Nye’s Polonaise on an upcoming episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.

“Not that it will affect how I treat you,” he says, casually, a regal wave of his hand encompassing us all. “Hey, which one of you wants to rub my temples whilst I whisk?”

We laugh. Because that’s what you do when your chef makes demands. You laugh.

Being in the presence of a budding celebrity, however, does not affect the job at hand. Gol’ dang it, people, we have jobs to do! We can’t just stand around, feeding Paulie peeled grapes and massaging his various roasts and loins!

Saturday evening’s job was a private party in a home large enough to comfortably hold a dinner party of 17.

We served, and we served well, Mary, Min, and I being the very face of cheerful diligence. We served, filled, delivered, removed, scraped, stacked, and hauled.

And then we wiped and swept our way out the front door and into the brittle expanse of stars wheeling overhead. It was shortly before midnight when we stepped out the front door. We had been on our smiling, running feet for seven hours.

“I think my spine has been compressed. Do I look shorter to you?”

I look over at Mary, who is sitting under the pile of blankets I keep in the car for those awkward moments before the heater kicks in – roughly from November to April.

“Yes,” I say.

She moans softly. “Do your feet hurt?”

“They hurt so bad that I think they might be your feet.”

She sighs. “Still,” she says, looking up through the windshield, “it’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

I lean forward, gaze up through the windshield. We are far enough away from the city that the stars are a brilliantly winking sea of bright white and blue lights.

She’s right.

It’s a beautiful night.

Would You Believe I Have a Whole Section of my Blog Devoted to “Pants”?

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?

Mmm. Oatmeal Raisin Worm.

I don’t want to raise any red flags or anything - and this is certainly no indication of how little attention I pay the real world - but apparently we’re selling uncooked cookie dough now.

You can tell where this is going, right?  That it’s recently made an appearance in my freezer?

Henceforth and forthwith, anytime I have a craving for uncooked dough, stuffing a handful or two into my face will be as easy as stepping up a pants’ size. 

It’s a great time to be alive.  And lacking in self-control. 

I’ve always been a fan of the uncooked/undercooked.  I can actually be the one cracking the eggs into the batter and still find myself licking the beaters. 

“You get worms that way,” my mother says.

“From raw eggs?”

“No, that’s Sam and Ella,” she says, stealing a line from my father.  “You get worms from the flour.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say.  And this is hard to say, and not just because I’m saying it to my mother, the woman what bore me, but because I’m licking a spoon while saying it. 

But the cookies, the uncooked cookies in my freezer.  Oatmeal Raisin: cookie-sized lumps of love lie dormant, pre-oven, pre-thigh, in my freezer, nestled amongst the frozen grouse bodies and the bag of ice from my last get-together, an invitation to have one – okay, two – just because I can.

Gaining weight should be more difficult, don’t you think?

Don't forget to come back tomorrow, wherein Pearl hires day laborers to exercise her limbs while she eats various foodstuffs directly from the fridge. 

Of Course, It’s Possible the Mirror is Broken; or, More of My Petty Demands

Why do the department-store mirrors hate me?

No worries, Pearl! you say. It’s not personal. The mirrors hate everyone.

Good point – thank you – and yet, there’s only one jaundiced-looking body I’m staring at over here; and it’s mine.

I mean for cryin’ out loud, look at this lighting, would ya? Someone whose skin tones are pallidly apologizing from the cold-blue-and-flickering-yellowish light of these try-on rooms should not be purchasing new clothing. I mean, look at her! Clearly the person in that mirror is ill.

No point in buying new clothes, honey! Think of your friends: Put the clothes back and save your money for the booze they’ll need at the wake!

If I had a place, a place where I was encouraging you to take off your clothes to put on different clothes in the hopes of making a buck or two – whether it be a department store, a theater, or a dorm room – I’d make sure there was fantastic lighting. Soft, peachy shades that spoke of vitality, of youthful exuberance, vanity lighting that said “Hey! You look pretty hot for an older chick!”, lighting that said “yes” to thoughts of the beach.

Because frankly, when I start disrobing, I’m not looking for criticism. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m looking for reassurance and a sense of gratification; and whether I’ve taken my clothes off for a new pair of pants, for sex, or because they’re doing a “wood-tick check at the bus-stop” – again! – I’m going to need proper lighting.



I demand lighting indulgence!

You Certainly See A Lot More of People in The Summer, Don't You?

Welcome to summer, season of fleshly exposures and frightened, abused clothing.

Lady, what did those clothes ever do to you that you would be so cruel to them? That shirt – surely you caught it selling top-secret documents to the North Koreans, yes?

I think I see what you’re up to. The plan? To wear that shirt, despite its being several sizes too small, despite its pleading, overstressed seams, until it confesses. Good for you. Now is not the time to be lax with our national secrets. Now is not the time to mollycoddle our treasonous clothing. Obviously you have impressive proof against that shirt; and the way things are looking? Let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to be there when the poor thing finally explodes in a burst of exhausted threads.

Good for you for taking a hard line on whatever you believe that shirt did.

And the pants? Let us not speak of the pants. The "pants" - and if ever there was a piece of distressed, undersized pair of trousers requiring quotation marks, these is them - are an assault on the eyes. I fully support you in your home-grown efforts to disgrace them. You’re doing a good job, and I’ve nothing to add here.

But the sandals. Tell me about the sandals. They are too small for you; and they’ve always been too small, yes? Even from here, I can see your painted toes curling over the front of them, your cracked heels extending beyond the length of the sandal.

Come on. Tell me. Call it a hunch, but those are not your sandals, are they?

So while I suspect the shirt of a subversive-style shrinking, no doubt in a bid to escape being worn again, and it is obvious that the pants were never trustworthy, the sandals mystify me. Perhaps you borrowed them. Perhaps a friend has pressed them upon you, urging you to wear them, either as a punishment for the shoe itself or in an attempt to humiliate you.

Where did those sandals come from, and who are they working for?

Those sandals, in conjunction with the rest of your outfit – the tourniquet masquerading as your pants, the shirt that insists on rolling up to expose your fluffy, fluffy love handles – are clearly working for the opposition.

Those clothes – and their original owners – must be removed from the public and put away, perhaps forced into a corner so as to think about what they've done...

Kudos on your continuing efforts to bring wayward, rebellious clothing and their treasonous ways to the forefront.

I shall miss these moments with you once winter comes.




As an aside, Blogger has been messing with my head by not allowing me to comment on my own blog. I've discovered a work-around for the time being, but please know that I've not commented (on your comments) due to technical errors and not to inattention on my part!