Every once in a blue blogosphere moon, an item pops up that manages to fuse several of my previously vented vitriolic observations. This is both good and bad: good because the initial rage has already passed through my bloodstream and revisiting the offending issue allows me to take a step back and get a calmer perspective on it — kind of like going back to chat with your therapist after having thrown her crystal paperweight at the wall and screamed "I'm not 'angry'. I just think you're a bitch!" (I swear I never did that, and yeah, I used airquotes when I said it. Oh, wait....); and bad because I may have exhausted all witticisms on the topic. But I'll try anyway.
There's a new hot spot in LA called Trousdale that's super hard to get in to unless you're an A-list celeb like Lady Gaga, Jennifer Aniston or Leonardo DiCaprio. The decor is real swanky-like and the menu is all comfort food-y and continental with stuff like churros and fresh-baked cookies. Yawn, right? Yes, until you spot one of the waitresses, that is, dressed in head-to-toe latex. Now before you picture a human condom or the aforementioned Gaga, see below:
Apparently the uniforms were designed by co-owner Darren Dzienciol and stylist Jessica Paster (who has worked with Aniston, Charlize Theron and Naomi Watts). Each uniform is custom-made for the waitress, must be polished every day and takes 45 minutes to get on. Which leads me to believe that much like the 20-minute wedding dress, these puppies must be pretty hard to pee in. Actually, scratch that. They're probably super easy to pee
in, but I hope they don't.
Now, forgive my ignorance, but I'm not exactly well versed in latex dressing — not the kind that goes on girls, anyway,
wink wink — but how could it possibly take 45 minutes to put on one of these outfits? There really isn't much to put on. It's basically a long tank top and thigh-highs, and Lindsay Lohan can tell you that's the fastest thing to throw on in the morning. Unless they have a collective Ross Geller moment every night of layering lotion on top of baby powder in the hopes of creating a slick surface upon which to slide those thigh-highs (which as the
Friends episode taught us is a bad idea with hilarious results), I'm baffled by the 45-minute time frame. God forbid one of them is running late for her shift. What happens if she only has 30 minutes to get into uniform? Does she end up waiting tables in one thigh-high or no dress? In a pinch, would management let her get away with an extra long American Apparel tank and trouser socks? Maybe she could just work coat check that night. I mean, cut the girl some slack. Forty-five minutes is a long ass time to get into an outfit that once on still looks like you're half naked. File under WTF.
I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I hope these uniforms come with matching diapers. (I also can't believe this would be my third post about diapers in less than a month. Apparently pee is the new black.) If not, I'm sure something suitable can be found at S&M&Things. Or maybe take one of those
bridal ones and dye it black. Or talk to
Huggies.
Now, my overinflated sense of entitlement and inability to take other people's crap without it resulting in some serious new-asshole-tearing (see previous mention of therapist) has always prevented me from working in the service industry, so I don't exactly have first-hand experience with waiting tables. But from where I've sat, it looks like a pretty taxing endeavour. There's a lot of running around, heavy lifting, bending, stretching and figurative dancing for tips. It looks like the type of job that would really make them break a sweat. And sweating in latex can't be pleasant for those waitresses or anyone sitting downwind from them. I'm just thinking about their hygiene...and my olfactory receptors. And
leather shorts. *shudder*
Finally, those uniforms remind me of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere first picks her up off the street. And much as we come to learn she's a hooker with a heart of gold, would you trust that she washed up before frying your churro? Yeah, me neither.
