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11/24/2008
Hey, Joe
A few weeks ago I got a message from the nice people at Joe's Jeans asking me if I had any interest in talking about their product here. I get a fair amount of e-mail like that, as I've said before, but because I normally decline such offers, my penis has remained resolutely unaugmented.
But the note from Joe — he lets me call him that — was different. You see, I already wear his jeans, and let me tell you this: they are no mere denim trouser. They are, in fact, pure cotton alchemy. (Well, 98% alchemy. The other 2% is Spandex or something.)
Rather than merely slipcovering my postpartum bulges as lesser jeans do, somehow these jeans transform them. What were cameline lumps become womanly curves. Where there used to be an unsightly pouch of slack fabric around the crotch that made me look like I was packing...uh, well, these don't have that. And Joe and his skilled team of tailors have given my flat-butted body something I've never had before: the priceless gift of ass.
I wear the Muse cut, a high-waist fit. ("Think Marlene Dietrich," advises the Web site, promising Hollywood glamour. Translation: Think "Don't wear these to clean out the garage. These are nice, you jackass.") But I have not always been so, you know, Hollywood glamorous, and I have photographic proof.
The year? 1988. The hair? Gigantic. The glasses? Also gigantic. The sweater? Benetton, argyle. The precision timepiece? Swatch, unscented. The jacket? Members Only. (Not pictured.) The jeans?
Pleated. Tapered. Ankle length.
I've come a long way, baby.
Eventually I put aside the hateful slacks of yesteryear, and now, several regrettable fashion decisions later, am a satisfied Joe's wearer. So when I saw the inquiry in my inbox, I lunged at the chance to share what I have learned, and to offer you your own Joe's.
Five lucky winners will receive their own free pair, and all you have to do is tell me your best story about pants — either on or off.
I've shared many a story here involving pantless medical moments. Share your own, or your funniest, or your proudest, or even your most embarrassing:
Freshman year in college. I am entertaining a gentleman caller. It is my first encounter with button-fly jeans, and I am surprised at the ease with which they open. A single jerk and it's done. "Oh," I exclaim, and I swear I mean the buttons when I ask him, "Is that all?"
Don't leave me alone in self-abasement. Post your stories here. You might just win some jeans. Or at the very least you might just help me forget, at least for a moment, the dungarees of shame.
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Oh, man. I'm going to think carefully about this story because I too wear Joe's Muse and in them I often stand in shock before the mirror, wondering at how good they make me look. :)
Does this count? I was changing my youngest the other day, and he farted. I asked him if he had cut the cheese, but before he could answer my oldest piped up that he had "fired the pants cannon". Heh.
It was 1993, and I was a freshman in high school. I was a curvy girl even then, laying on the bed and using a pair of pliers to squeeze into my (this is the part where the uproarious laughter should begin) painted on green-washed rocky mountain jeans. Look, it was Texas - I used aqua net like other people use air to breathe. I seem to have stood in line twice the day they were giving out boobs, but forgot the ass giveaway. Thus, I was completely enamored by the optical illusion of the 3D butt that these pants gave me.
Of course it didn't help that I dried them with a twee little Mary Kay lipstick sample in my pocket, and ended up with a giant magenta swath across my rear. Which I didn't realize until I was in the school cafeteria and noticed the hordes of kids pointing and laughing at my rear.
I never put on another pair of those god forsaken pants, except to mend barbwire fences. So I guess I could've mentioned the time that I got caught mid-crotch on the barbed wire and had to sit there and try to unhook my lady parts, and managed to rip a rather unfortunate 5 inch hole from thigh to thigh...
The only pants-related story I can think of is when I wore torn pants to work last January and NO ONE BOTHERED TO TELL ME because they thought I already knew. I went the entire morning flashing my underwear to everyone and no one told me until the afternoon. I wore a sweatshirt tied around my waist the rest of the day. I was pretty embarrassed, but more annoyed that no one said anything.
See the photographic evidence here: http://www.photoblog.com/LeahMarie25/2008/01/03/
Most of my jenas have time wear marks at the pockets so that is usual. I was looking so hard for a pair of pants to wear since I was leaving for vacation the next day, I found a pair of semi clean pants a mere 10 minutes before I needed to be at the salon to get my nails and toes done. I threw them on without inspection. I was at the nail salon getting my nails done when I noticed a breeze. I was in the pedicure chair that was up against the window facing into the shopping mall. All of a sudden one of the nail techs says my panties are showing...Oh did I mention I have on Christmas Thongs in july (see above about all my clothes packed for vacation). Turns out the whole ass end of my jeans was GONE and I was sitting showing the mall my rear end! The nail tech gave me a towl to tuck into the waistband. I was ready to die. I still have the stolen towel and when ever I see it I smile thinking about all the passerby who seen my bare butt that day!
I have the converse of your story:
Freshman year of college, entertaining a gentleman caller. Button-fly or not, my pants were of the type mentioned by a previous commenter: painted on. And they would not come off. He tried, I tried, we tried together.
Eventually I peeled them off inside out and never put them on again.
A pant-less story for your enjoyment: Christmas break, freshman year of college. My best friend and I spent every morning working out at the Y, usually ending our time with a swim and some time in the hot tub. One day we lingered a little longer in the hot tub then headed straight for the showers. I guess I was a little lightheaded from the combo of working out, too much time in the hot tub, and then tossing my head back to shampoo and what-not. I started to feel like I was going to pass out. Instead of doing the logical thing and sitting down, I ran out of the shower as fast as I could (completely naked, mind you), slipped and slided all over the locker room (not empty, mind you), realized what I was doing, ran back to my shower, falling down in the process and scraping my leg badly. I managed to find my towel and sit on a bench until my friend was finished showering. I was sitting there rocking like rainman when she emerged, confused by the blood pouring down my leg and the shampoo still in my hair. I looked at her and said, "I think I almost passed out."
In high school in the mid 80s I was shopping for a pair of dress pants. I found the PERFECT (heh) pair of pants. A wide waistband, steeply tapered leg, metallic paisley sort of pattern in green and black. Yes, paisley.
At this point I have to interrupt to say that I am about 5'3" with a small chest but plentiful hips and oddly large feet for my height. In high school I weighed 107 lbs in a heavy rainstorm.
So I found a pair of pants in a size 6, I think, eager to get the close fit of a tapered leg that we all coveted back then. The only problem was I couldn't pull them up. Were my hips the issue? Why no, my gunboat feet wouldn't fit through the tapered ankle of the pants. I had to buy the next size up and squeeeeeeze my feet carefully through the bottom so as not to rip a seam.
I haven't bought a new pair of pants in close to 4 years. And I really really need to. Because the last time I went pant shopping I cried because I was fat.m And I'm skinnier now, and my pants don't fit. Is that a story?
When we were newlyweds, my dear sweet husband saw that Eddie Bauer was having a liquidation sale. He knew that I liked to buy things on sale, so he took a guess at my size and got one size too small. Unfortunately there were no returns allowed for the tapered, acid washed wonders, and now, 5 years later, I sit wearing them while I write about how much I hate them.
Ugh, I hope I win, because I could seriously use some awesome jeans!
Kind of a boring story, but true. I was at work about a year ago I suppose. I was wearing my favorite dark green cords. I loved them because they fit "right." They were comfortable. No wiggling needed. I sat down at work, and Riiiip. Right up the asscheek. And to top it off, I was out of clean underwear, so I went commando. I wore my sweater around the waist for the rest of the day. Apparently, I wore them out.
Around my house, a poopy diaper contains what we call "trouser chili".
Ew.
Can it be my son's pants story? I was embarrassed for him, if that counts, lol!
So, about a month ago I met my sister at a restaurant for dinner. As we wait for our table my 3.5 year old son spies the vending machines, the nemesis of all parents who hate parting with their coins in return for cheap plastic crap that litters the floor of the car and toys boxes everywhere. So, my sister, who wants to be known as the favorite aunt, gives my son two quarters. He puts them in a 'pinball' machine where the rubber ball comes out at the end and you keep it. I had visions of us chasing those balls all over the restaurant, under tables and between legs. So, I made him put them in his pocket. During the meal, he kept taking them out to peek at them, making sure they were still there. As we were leaving, walking toward the exit past a group of idle waiters and hostesses, my son sees the vending machine and suddenly remembers the treasure in his pocket. He grabs the front of his pants. Apparently he can't feel anything in there because he says in a near panic "My balls! Where are my balls?!"
We slunk out of there with a trail of giggles following us.
Not my pants, but while tailgating a concert in my younger years, a companion who had perhaps had a few too many tripped, fell down in gravel, rolled halfway down a hill and emerged with what was pretty much a belt of jeans left. That's ALL that was left. That and his boxers. Good times. :)
Mama needs a new pair of jeans! Woo!
When I was in labor with my first son, I had a very very long labor, with some interesting complications. I spent most of my time at home, because I was with a midwife practice who really didn't want you showing up until you were ready to push. Well, after about 36 hours of heavy labor, I thought it might be time to get checked. For some reason I was adamant that I WOULD NOT PUT ON PANTS to head in to the Birth Center. My husband tried to suggest it might be a good idea, but NO. So, not only did I show up (barely) wrapped in a towel, I then had to be transferred to the hospital due to meconium. By transfer, I mean, they made me walk across the street to the hospital, merrily contracting all the way. Apparently I had a whopper of a contraction right in front of the security desk, which alarmed the guard a bit. I did not, however, drop the towel.
I am devoted to Joe's Provocateur. Angels sing and babies pee pink lemonade every time I have them on.
I wept bitter tears when I could no longer button said Provacateurs during pregnancy. But did that stop me from wearing them? Hell no. I was finally forced to sideline them after my trusty bella band experienced an epic FAIL. Without prior warning, I went from provocative to pantless in a single bound. I drew some amount of comfort from the fact that it happened in an elevator in front of my 90+ y.o. neighbor...the first time I met him, his Depends did runneth over. So I guess we're even now?
Moral of this story: Joe's needs to start making a line of hot mama maternity jeans. Stat.
You know how you know you've been to a good party? You have to call the host the next day and ask "did I leave my pants at your house?" Yep, I sure did.
I lost some weight recently so my husband loves all my pants now. They don't even need to be unzipped to get off anymore; one good tug is all they need. Convenient for him but not always so convenient for me...I need some new pants.
I've worn jeans so much that I've had the same ripped out back area without noticing it. Also, once I accused my college roommate of doing that to my jeans when I was out of the room.
one of my favorite memories is as a teenager. my mom had went to fashion bug and bought us all brand new pants. the stone acid washed kind and such. Lo and behold she almost died when we wore them the next day to school ....ALL SLASHED UP :D
hey it was in style at the time ....
never again she swore to buy us new pants LOL..
got up, took a shower, got dressed, went to work at 9 a.m.
at 3:30 p.m. (yes i know you envy my camel-like bladder prowess!), i went to the bathroom.
and discovered my zipper was down.
all day.
please dress me. i obviously am deficient.
I do adore a good pants story....
My poor high school dating scene (read: NO ACTORS IN THIS SCENE) suddenly changed when the hottest dude in our school's only real band decided to stop sort of dating my two best friends and to start sort of dating me. Me! How did I get so lucky?!
So we have our first date to a Tommy Conwell concert (THE coolest rock band. In the 80's. In Philadelphia.) and he comes to pick me up, all smelling of Drakkar Noir and what I imagined the big S E X to smell like. And he came in tight, WHITE jeans. Pegged at the ankles of course. I would like to say that I was too disgusted to actually go out on said date but unfortunately the truth was that I was SO ENAMORED that I couldn't take my eyes of his white jean-encased butt cheeks as we climbed to our seats in the theater and I tripped and FELL FACE FIRST into said cheeks before falling down the whole set of stairs and taking out a few fellow rockers with me.
What can I say? It was the power of the white jeans (as well as the Drakkar Noir/teenage hormone fumes I was breathing).
I googled Joe's Jeans, clicked on their web site, and the chick in the ad isn't even wearing any PANTS! I got mooned!
That was funnier than my pants story...
I ONCE bought a pair of $150 jeans. They were on clearance for $40, and I had a $25 gift card. So they only cost me $15.00. What a deal!
They were the best pair of jeans I ever owned. It wasn't until I got them home that I noticed they were GSUS jeans. Get it? G-SUS? The button has a crown of thorns on it. Seriously.
Probably only ironic to me, because I was raised pentecostal and wasn't allowed to wear pants until I was 17 and ran away from home.
I call them my Jesus jeans. You'd think your Jesus jeans would never wear out...but they have.
My son was a little over two-years-old. We were scheduled to fly to Chicago for the holidays and the New York City transit strike was on so it was impossible to get a cab to the airport. We paid a local family to take us to the airport when they went to pick up visiting family. The ride was horrible, motion sickness inducing for all of us, so when my son spit up a bit, we all thought nothing of it. Cut to the moment the plane takes off, when it becomes clear that he has rotovirus. Leaking out of everywhere. You know that problem with jeans that are not Joe's? The gap at the back when you sit down? The gap in to which things projected over your shoulder would fall? Towards the end of the flight I leaned over to my husband and declared 'I have puke in my underwear!" I could totally use a pair of Joe's before we head on to the plane again for the holidays :) Oh, and sorry to all those people on the flight!
I have never worn white or off-white jeans because I have an irrational fear that the moment I put a pair on, I'll unexpectedly start my period.
But I found an awesome pair of ivory trouser jeans at the GAP once, and they were 19.99 and in my size, including the ankle length I require. Who could resist?
What can I say? I wore them to work on a Friday, and yes, started my freaking period, 8 days early. Because I was standing at the time, the stain made its way to the front of my pants, and I had to tie my jacket around my waist BACKWARD and tell a sympathetic female coworker that I was going to run home and change my pants.
Later, my male boss looked at me, confused, and asked, "Weren't you wearing different pants earlier?" I just stared at him.
Thanks for bringing back my own memories of that first button fly moment! I do recall how surprisingly easy they were to unbutton. I checked out Joe's website and must comment for the non Joe's wearing universe that Julie's high waisted Muse jeans are reletively high waisted, decidedly not mom jeans.
In high school I wore the skinny, skinny jeans (think punk rock skinny; what can I say? I was into punk rock so it worked). I had a favorite pair. I wore them everyday. I would have slept in them and never taken them off if I didn't have some sort of hygiene standards.
One day I was wearing them and sat down. I was looking at my lap and noticed a small hole forming right at the crotch level. By the end of the day it was more "giant gash" than "small hole." Fabulous.
I tried to patch them, but each time it would split right there. It seemed like every time they would split, I wasn't wearing underwear...
Thank goodness for jackets! I finally had to give up on those jeans. I haven't met a
pair I have loved as much since then.
PS. Hey, I really want some jeans, but can I just say - Joe's? You have the most annoying website EVER.
My year was probably about 1989-90. I wanted a pair of ZCavariccis in the worst way. I begged my parents for these pants. They would make me cool (since the pink high tops and double layered scrunch socks hadn't done the trick). The problem was ZCavaricci's cost $80. I believe my whole back-to-school clothing budget was $100 but this was CHRISTMAS! I was 14 and only recently had given up the Santa ghost. They bought them for me. They bought them to make their little girl happy at Christmas.
But their little girl wore them to a keg party. At 14. They should have bought me an ankle bracelet/tracking device. Long story a little shorter: the fuzz showed up and I went over a fence and tore the crotch out of my beautiful (in 1989) ZCavariccis.
"Fear not!" was the cry of my already-in-over-their-heads friends who got me into this mess to begin with (as you see, I was a perfect angel and still am). They were going to bring my pants to home ec and fix them. And because the stupid just never lets up when you are 14, I expected to recover my pants in perfect condition. You would have to really inspect these pants to see where I had torn them running from the police at an underage drinking party. What could possibly go wrong?
Perhaps that would have been the case had my friends not used fat white stitches in my very cool, very black ZCavaricci pants. I never was able to wear those pants again and spent the rest of the winter pretending they were dirty, wearing them while reading in bed with my legs crossed and pretending to lend them to the very friends who hoisted me up on that damn fence to begin with.
THE END.
In middle school, I always longed for the Guess jeans with the little triangle on the back pocket. I could never talk my mom into spending that much money for jeans--it was way too much for our family budget. But one year I found a single pair on sale at one of those stores that sells close-outs.
That first week of school, I wore those jeans four days in a row. On the fourth day, some boy confronted me about it, teasing me for wearing the same pants four days in a row. I denied it of course, like I had more than one pair of the same pants. Who was he to be tracking my wardrobe on his calendar? But I felt anxious the rest of the year about who was watching how frequently I wore my favorite items of clothing.
Ha ha! There are some fantastic stories here!
One of my (many) moments was when I was 15 or so and my best friend and I were riding our horses at her house when I suddenly got my period. She walked in behind me trying to block my eye-catchingly colored rear end from view (it was all very subtle, I'm sure) as we tried to manuever our way to the bathroom when horror of horrors, her older brother and his cute friends were in the living room! It was mortifying.
In first grade I had two favorite pairs of pants. Both were thick double-knit nylon, one kelly green, the other raspberry pink.
They were bell-bottomed pants, thus in my 6yo brain believed they were just like Gilligan's pants. I loved them. I wore them every day. Less brilliant pants might have gone unnoticed, but not these! Pretty soon my teacher called my mother ...
"Mrs. M_____, we noticed little R____ doesn't have many pants, and thought perhaps you could use some aid getting clothes..."
My mom? Mortified.
On the first day of 5th grade, which meant being in a new school, the middle school, I wore my moms favorite white shorts. I must say for 10 years old I looked pretty darn good.
We were halfway through the day and a teacher came and stopped me in the hallway. She said, 'I think you need to go to the nurses office'. I looked at her funny and she told me to go, quickly. I had started my period, on the first day of school, in moms WHITE shorts. It was completely awful. The nurse told me how to handle it and then gave me a pair of yucky looking blue jean cut off shorts to wear. They were horrible shorts. A few classes later I was sitting next to a friend and she asked if I had heard about one of the girls in our 'class' starting her period and being in white shorts. No one knew who it was and I wasn't about to tell them. :)
I guess this counts as a lack of pants story.
It was about six weeks past the happy conclusion of IVF #4. Our lawn really needed mowing. In our family I am the designated mower while my severely allergic husband is the designated cooker of dinner. So off I went to cut the grass, leaving my husband to cook the dinner while tending the baby. I was about three quarters of the way through the task when my husband came rushing out of the house wanting to know what he should do. It seems that in my absence he had put our precious, very expensive baby in her bouncy chair and put the chair on top of the washer 'so she could see better' while he cooked dinner. Well, the chair is called a bouncy chair for a reason, and it bounced off the washer. The baby seemed fine, but one glare of death later we went to the ER with the baby just to be sure she was fine. She was. The thing that got me was that, on being told the tale, the doctor didn't ask "what were you thinking leaving your baby in your husbands care" or "what kind of a moron puts a bouncy chair on top of the washer?" No, the question I got asked in an incredulous tone of voice was "You were mowing the lawn in a dress?" Um, yeah, I was mowing the lawn in a $30 dress from Gap maternity; what the heck else is going to fit me at six weeks post-partum? So clearly a lack of jeans is more disturbing than dropping a tiny baby on her wee little head.
Somehow every pair of pants that I love end up with paint on them. Perhaps because I insist that I won't mess them up when I pick up a brush. I promise this would not be the case if I won a pair of Joe's.
In high school, I watched a movie with some of my friends. I had a bag of heavily-buttered popcorn on my lap and when the lights came back on, I was horrified to find the oil and butter had leaked through the bag, leaving a huge dark stain on my crotch area. And what was worse was the cackling of my friends who would not shield me and instead laughed as I hid behind pillars before of was clear and I would race back to my car.
Once, I went on an internet date, guy was fine but we didn't really click. I went to go meet some girl friends for a drink and to debrief afterwards, when they noticed the giant stain on my ass.
Yeah, apparently I had sat in chocolate that had slipped out of my bag and on to my car seat. So it pretty much looked like I shat my pants, or had major "lady" issues. One of the two. It was very well placed melted chocolate.
The worst part is that the bar that I met my date at was one of those single bathroom places with nowhere easy to wait, so I actually left the table 3 times trying to use the restroom when it wasn't occupied. I had to walk away from the table, my stained ass in perfect view of my date every time. He must have thought I had MAJOR bathroom issues with all the trips and the stain he couldn't have possibly missed.
Glad he was boring and I never heard from him again!
A few months ago, the kid and I received free tickets to the Cirque du Soleil. Say what you will about Le Cirque - and lo, they DO attempt to ram the whimsy down your throat with a shoehorn, and they ARE absurdly overpriced. However, J.Q. was absolutely rapt for three hours. Never had my toddler been so eerily silent... until he witnessed the final stunt, a slender gent in a sumo diaper ascending a tower of chairs.
J.Q.: "Why does that man have no pants?"
Me: "I... I dunno, baby... maybe it helps him do his tricks?"
J.Q.: "With no pants I do MY tricks!"
If he ever REALLY pisses me off as an adult, I'm gonna have to tell him about how his mother was sunsequently unable to resist repeating that phrase post-blowjob.
OMG!
Yesteday I saw a girl wearing (prepare yourself)
FRENCH CUFF JEANS.
What was she thinking?
What were we thinking?
Hmmm...I have one of my own, and one from my 20 month old.
Me, 17, incredibly naive, arriving at CDG in Paris as an exchange student, woefully unprepared for the language demands that my high school french class neglected to meet. Had to pee like a mother fucker, so I tried to ask where the bathrooms were and was pointed in the general direction. So there I am, pants around my ankles, taking my first international piss, when a fellow traveler enters to do the same. At the urinal. Fortunately, I had a tragic hair cut at the time and a blue blazer from the Rotary club, so I think I passed as androgynous, at best.
Now, fastforward to yesterday night, I am putting away laundry and my 20 month old daughter is running in an out of my closet. She grabs a pair of my "eatin' britches" (I'm 13 wks prg.) and pulls them off the hanger, marches them over to me, and proclaims, "Mommy funny. Have Daddy pants".
Umm, other than the fact that I went to high school in the early 90s, which in itself is a denim-condemnation waiting to happen, the most embarrassing jeans related story would probably have to be the time in junior high when I insisted on borrowing my friend's denim shorts. She was a size 7 and I was an 11, which at the time felt like I was some freakish behemoth, lumbering around with rolls of fat threatening to loose themselves from my body and smother some unsuspecting stranger to death (oh, God, to be a size 11 again...).
Anyhow, my friend had one pair of size 7 denim cuffed cutoffs that were cut a little more generously, and I, with plyers, squeezed my two-sizes-too-big ass into them and wore them to the mall. And oh, how happy I was! I was a size 7! Woohoo!
And then, the zipper ripped out of them. Luckily, I dodged that bullet because oversized shirts were the rage, and I was able to handily hide the wedge of puffy white flesh protruding from the now-wide-open-fly. But then, the zipper ripped further, and the next thing I knew, I was wearing crotchless denim shorts. At the mall. In 7th grade.
It was breezy, I remember that. At some point, we ran in to Stacy J., the most popular girl in school, there with the other Stacy, the two Brandi's, and Carrie, all in their brown leather bomber jackets, and she made an ugly comment while the rest of the girls sneered. I tried to hide, but have you ever tried to hide in a mall?
Most of the rest of that day, I've blocked out. Repressed, more likely. For many years, that was pretty much the worst day of my life. Good thing I've gotten older and have many new and horrifying memories to take the place of that one! And thank goodness for being a grownup and owning a car and being able to drive myself away from horrid fashion mishaps were they ever to happen again...
I've got two pants stories. One is my sister's, the other is mine.
When my older sister was in junior high in the late eighties, Guess jeans were the thing to wear. My parents were too broke and cheap to buy them, so instead, my mom bought her some worn out guess jeans from the thrift store and sewed the patch onto a pair of Wranglers. Then she managed to convince my sister that it would be ok, and nobody would know. So she wore them to school the next day, where she promptly got the shit beat out of her by the other girls. Kids are cruel.
My pants story happened in my senior year of high school. I had a favorite pair of blue jeans that I wore all the time. I liked the way they looked, and once when I was wearing them my boyfriend actually said that I had a nice ass (even though I know I have negative ass). Needless to say, they were well worn. My first job was working at a vet clinic. One day while I was at work in the kennels, I knelt down to pick up a box with a litter of golden retriever puppies in it and RIP! The ass of my pants ripped out horizontally under both back pockets. My butt was hanging out for all the world to see. All I could do was sit down on the floor to cry. I still miss those pants.
I'd just gotten the assignment I'd been working for: I was going to work for my company's London branch! Woo hoo!
Unfortunately, I arrived a few days earlier than my bags. And I'm American-sized--I'm over six feet tall. But I was desperate--my first day of work was the next day. So I went into Marks and Spencer's and found the first saleswoman I could find.
"Do you have any long khaki pants?" I asked.
The fine fine cultured British woman looked down her nose at me (impressive as she was six inches shorter) and with stiff jaw and nasal sigh, intoned "I believe you mean khahh-ki trouserrrrs."
Sure whatever, I just need clothes. I found a skirt that would do, but I was confused by her attitude. I asked my new coworkers the next day, and as I got to the part of the story where I asked for the khaki pants, the British coworkers started tittering.
Turns out, the American pronunciation of khaki--sort of like "cack-y"--sounds remarkably like slang for "shit-filled".
And "pants"? In England, those are underwear.
So I had asked for long, shit-filled underwear.
Apparently, Marks and Sparks do NOT carry those.
I took my favorite pair of jeans with me on our adoption trip to Ethiopia last summer. On the last day of our stay, we took a trip outside of the city to see the Blue Nile River Valley and to feed the monkeys. The trip ended up taking longer than we expected and we got back to the guest house with barley enough time to gather up our luggage and rush off to the airport.
It wasn’t until we were 2 hours into our 32 hour trip home that I realized that I had monkey poop all over the bottoms of my jeans! Yes, I had to sit in monkey poop for almost 2 whole days! To top it off, by the time we got home they also had baby poop, formula, baby food, and coffee on them. They went straight into the trash as soon as I got home because I just couldn’t stand the sight of them after all that!
Don't have a story to win me some jeans but I have a question about Joes:
I don't have an ass.
I definitely have a FUPA
I can't find pants that fit me well.
Which style should I be considering?
I was 18 and had never had more than a sip of an alcoholic beverage. I was drinking Kahlua with a sweet, cute, nerdy friend (who had a girlfriend back at home) in our college dorm. Slightly drunk, I kept telling him I needed to take off my pants. He kept putting me off, telling me I really needed to keep my pants on, as I got increasingly drunk and harder to convince. Eventually I puked all over my pants. He let me take them off then, and lent me a pair of his sweatpants.
He broke up with the girlfriend. We dated for four years.
I don't have any funny pants stories, but I have to agree with whomever commented on how ANNOYING the Joe's website is!
Are these things sold in actual walk-in stores anywhere?
Shortly after having my first child, my husband and I were to attend a "fancy" party. I, of course, had nothing to wear. I spent hours at the store obsessing over a pair of pants that I wanted, finally deciding they were worth the splurge. I paired them with a pre-pregnancy (and pre-lactating breasts) top I had. I was somewhat--ummm, poured into the top--but hey! it didn't matter. I had my fabulous PANTS! I finished getting ready and went out to meet him in the den. "Honey", he said, "you look great!" I beamed (chubbily), but my smile froze when he said, "that DRESS is great!" I changed my top.
One of the early dates --2nd or 3rd -- with my college boyfriend we had tickets to see a play on campus. As was his habit, he was running late picking me up so we were in a rush to get there on time. It was pouring rain and we had to park really far away from the theater. As we ran up the hill at about curtain time, I slipped in mud and slid about 5 feet on my side down the hill. My pants were caked with thick mud and grass, at least 1/2 inch in some places. It was all the way down one leg, on the seat and the hip, I was pretty much covered. My immediate reaction was to skip the play and go home. My boyfriend had a different idea, he thought we should go. So we got into the theater, discovered it was general admission first-come-first-served seating and so not only did I get to sit through a play in mud-caked pants, I got to do so wedged in between strangers while my date sat on the complete other side of the theater.
I was freezing, humiliated, and a little irritated. When intermission came, I stood up and the mud that had hardened crumbled all over the floor. I went to the restroom, used paper towels to get as much off as possible, which was fruitless. I convinced my date to leave, I would go back to the dorm and change and we would go to the party we had planned for after the play.
Those pants never came clean, which sucked because they were brand new. I was so happy to get warm, dry, non-muddy pants on though, I didn't care.
Julie, the jeans you're wearing in that photo are nowhere near as AWESOME as my circa-1983 baggies. Dark, thin denim with a windowpane check. Pleated and baggy. Tapered down to cuffs. My friend Robin had an identical pair in her size. We rocked the town, my friends; we rocked the town in our quasi-plaid baggies. These were, of course, the jeans we wore when we felt like being a little dressy.
My favorite pants in junior high were kelly green corduroys, and I was wont to pair them with a green hooded zip-up sweatshirt. My mean big sister called me the Jolly Green Midget, but I was undeterred.