New Guy and I were having a chit-chat the other day. You know, just about this, that, and the other thing, and somehow, don't ask me because I don't remember, my undergarments wandered into the conversation.
New Guy is an angel, albeit a little more reserved than I. And when I say "a little more reserved", he's Tom Hanks and I'm Amy Winehouse. So when he gets brave enough to mention my unmentionables, I try my durndest not to make any sudden movements or otherwise startle him.
In my house, if it has Elmo, rainbows, or days of the week, they belong to the kid and we call them underpants. None of the above? Panties. Unless my dad comes over. Then they're "drawers". As in "Put on some clean drawers, we're going out to dinner". He doesn't care if you're three or thirty-seven. He doesn't even care if you're wrapping up a call with the boss. He's got stuff to do, so put yer pants on.
New Guy was raised speaking the Queen's English. I was raised speaking the Jamaica Queens English. He says things like "ahsk" and "petrol", and I say "cawfee" in a husky voice with a cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth and an inch-long dangling ash. So New Guy is being all sweet and gooey, and starts getting all romantical on me and then... says something about my knickers. (needle scratching across record)
Whothewhatthehey?
Knickers are something boys wore in the 1800's, made out of itchy wool. Panties are delicate things. Men say the word "panties" with respect.
Knickers.
OK.
Sexy time over.
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