Mature ladies, good with hands

The Interwebs, as we know, have opened up vast new arenas for illicit fantasies and perverse pleasures that would, at one time, have been hidden under the mattress or experienced furtively in darkened rooms.

But not any more, oh no; now, it's all out there to be discovered, experienced and cleaned up after.

And I thought I'd seen my fair share of the Strange and Unusual. But then I discovered a Swiss site that allows you to select a mature lady and have her
do your bidding. The photos are right there; the women are smiling as they demonstrate their manual dexterity. Click an image, and you'll find a teasing quote from the performer.

Gertrud says, "Ich kann nicht einfach nur da sitzen, meine Hände müssen etwas zu tun haben." (I can't just sit there, my hands need something to do.")

Doris B reveals that what she does "ist für mich, wie für andere Yoga" ("for me, it's as yoga is for other people.")

Well, now the whole world knows what you're doing, Doris. You and your socks habit.

Knitting! She's knitting, people! (What did you think it was, huh?)

The service is called NetGranny; you start by choosing a prospective knitter ("Wähle deine Granny") and then click on a sock color (or let granny surprise you with her own design).

Then you pay $40 and wait two weeks.

For a pair of socks.

Wow. I sure hope those grannies know how to satisfy.

Black Tucker boots

I bought these boots from Freeman, Hardy and Willis in Billingham town center. Tucker boots, as we called them. They were on the sale rack; cost me £5. It was 1985.



They have been to London, Luxembourg and Leeds (not necessarily in that order).

They went to a Depeche Mode concert at Whitley Bay Ice Rink in 1988, where the audience stood on temporary plywood flooring atop the ice, and dancing was pivotal to preventing frostbite.

They once became completely covered in thick mud during an ill-advised shortcut through a construction site, and recovered only after many, many hours of careful work with a soft brush.

Amazingly, they're still wearable. Sure, they're a little worn and scuffed, and the suede is pulling away from the heel in a couple of places. But the soles are still sturdy and even, despite many hours of pavement pounding, dancing, sightseeing and lounging.

I've disposed of less-perfect shoes. I've given many pairs to the Salvation Army with hardly a scratch. But these I keep, in part because they remind of being 16 years old, wandering around Billingham with just enough pocket money for a new pair of boots.

Put down the pumpkin; pick up the sunscreen

Spotted yesterday in the Burlington Mall:



That's right: we're seeing Hallowe'en merch in August. And not even so-close-to-the-end-of-the-month-we-might-as-well-call-it-September, but August 16.

Now, I understand that promo opportunities for candle companies are few and far between. But is this really the best they can do? No back-to-school? No end-of-summer celebration? Not even "the days are getting shorter, so fill your home with light"??

Even better: there's a 50% off sale, as though they need to clear the spooky products from the shelves now to make room for the Thanksgiving candles that will doubtless arrive next week.

I guess I should look on the bright (har har) side: if the retail cycle stretches much further, everything will eventually be a whole year ahead. Watch for pumpkins for two years from now appearing late next September.

Exploring Selfridges

Thursday was supposed to be the day we stumbled back to Julie's laden down with shopping bags and hat-boxes, having conquered the West End's retail cornucopia. But on that front we were unsuccessful; a combination of the horribly weak dollar (which meant I had to double the price of everything to convert it to US currency--yikes!) and the terribly '80s-revival fashions (which meant the racks were full of loose tunics, baggy sweaters and a-line dresses--eep!).

So apart from the lovely cropped jacket my mom had insisted on buying me from M&S ("put your purse away"/"no, I'll get this"), I didn't come home with a wearable souvenir this time.

Of course, that's not to say we didn't have fun wandering around Selfridges (oh, the kitchen department with its Andy Warhol tea cosies! Oh, the Agent Provocateur concession with its tiny lacy confections and its platinum-blonde salesgirl in tiny nurse's uniform! Oh, oh, the food court with its homemade merguez and whole rabbits and smoked eel! And its Yo! Sushi conveyor-belt counter and its pie bar, among other dining options!).



Oh look, it's lunchtime ...

Jacob's ladder of savings

Last weekend, in a collision of cabin fever and materialism, we ended up at the CambridgeSide Galleria. I'm not a mall-rat, I swear, but the day was freezing and windy and I was seeking comfort in a new pair of pants.

On the second level is a store called Jacob. I've passed it many times before but always felt unworthy: it's one of those sleek open-plan places, all birchwood floor and white walls, with just a handful of steel racks of tight black clothes breaking up the cool minimalism.

Wait a minute. Tight black clothes? Um, that's my wardrobe! Except that my wardrobe isn't advertising 50% off!

So in we go, The Boy and I, and our jaws drop. Is this sweater really only $20? And this tailored black shirt? And these skinny-leg pants??

Fevered selection ensued, The Boy gallantly acting as pack-horse as I pulled hangers from racks and handed them to him. And then into the (rather cramped) changing room to start pulling things on and off and starting critically at my butt in the mirror.

The final result consisted of just three items: a soft, thin, stretchy turtleneck sweater; a fitted cotton shirt; and the aforementioned pants. All black, naturellement. Total cost: $50.

But as always, I had a moment of Verkaufenbedauern. A pleated mini-skirt, tennis-skirt style, in soft grey wool. Lined, even. Sadly, the smallest size they had was a 5-6 and that was too large (no, mom, I'm not anorexic; it's just that sizes here vary wildly from one label to the next. I tried on a pair of size 6 pants a couple weeks ago that made me look like the "after" photo in an ad for weight-loss).

So I figured, okay, no problem. I can scope out another branch of the store and see if they have anything smaller. And then I checked the website (which, by the way, does not show up in Google because it's all frickin' Flash) and discovered that Jacob, like Tristan and Club Monaco, is a Canadian company. And they have exactly one outpost in the US. In Cambridge.

So either I look for something else, or it's time for another Montreal trip. Okay, scratch that idea. It's even colder up there, and I don't need another skirt that badly.

Shopping, sweetie dahling?

I was going to write about our room at the Charles Hotel (we stayed there during the time of massage and headcheese), and particularly about the fabulous piece of art that dominated one wall. But then I did a little Googling and found this NYT article. That guy is in our room! And that's the art!

The rest of the article is worth reading; it's about the fact that upscale hotels have figured out they can make some cash on the side by making their furniture and accessories available for guests to buy. One the one hand, it's a great way to end up with a little extra on the tab--and it strengthens customer loyalty (the guy who loves your mattress enough to drop 2K on it is more likely to want to sleep in your hotel again).

On the other hand, though, I have to wonder whether it changes the way designers (or their clients) are thinking about the way they furnish boutique hotels. Now it's not "what looks cool and funky and fits with the tone of the brand?" but "will this appeal to enough people that they'll want to buy it? Can we sell enough to make it worthwhile?"

Oh, and note that the article says Doug negotiated and bought the picture. Yet it was hanging in our room last week. So either he didn't collect it yet, or there's a crate full of them in the basement. ("Well, Doug, I dunno ... it's a one-of-a-kind piece ... I guess we could let you have it for ... $1250?")

Anyway, like I know anything about design. Unlike Di Overton of Designer's Block, whose blog I stumbled upon the other day. I want to go shopping with her ... "Sweetie, dahling!!"

Things we don't need from the SkyMall catalog

My list:

The Aqua coffee table
The Breakfix Cereal Dispenser (check out the video: "I really want some cereal, but I only have one hand!")
Thomas Kinkade's Night Before Christmas House (Why? WHYYY?)

The Boy's list:

Basho the Sumo Wrestler Table
The Tiki-Head Tissue Box
The iCarta Stereo Dock

And somewhere--I know this must be true--there's a house containing all of the above.

Things we need from the SkyMall catalog

My list:

The Marshmallow Shooter
The Penguin Teaboy
The 12-bottle Traveling Wine Trolley

The Boy's list:

The Remote-Control Shark (though, as he points out, it doesn't have frickin' lasers strapped to its frickin' head)
The GorillaPod
CubeWorld

This, of course, is what happens when you're stuck on a plane for three hours and the in-flight movie is The DaVinci Code ...

Noise, fire, shopping

First of all, a shameless plug for my coworker Ethan Joy's new song, Sucker. He spends a lot of time putting a new track together, hunting down musicians to play various parts (many of which he writes on acoustic guitar and has them transpose) and fitting in late-night studio sessions. He's a bit of a perfectionist, which in music is a good thing. This one is a nice slice of power pop!

In other work-related news, I am now designated Fire Safety Floor Inspector for my department. Which means, essentially, that in the event of a fire (or, one assumes, earthquake, flood, zombie attack or The Reckoning), my job is to make sure everyone vacates the floor. So not only do I get to go around being bossy, but also it is my official duty to check all the restrooms. Which may or may not be a good thing.

I have a training session next week. I assume that's when they hand out the shiny badges and megaphones.

Yesterday I went to the Wrentham outlets with my friend Jean. I hadn't seen her in a while, so it was nice to hang out for a few hours and catch up. We were there longer than anticipated (including the time it took to get lunch, it was practically a full workday) but at least we got most of the serious shopping done before the hoards arrived. I discovered that I now take a size 4--surprising, as this time last year I was in the 6 to 8 range--and so celebrated with a pair of charcoal-gray work pants. And a crisp white Banana Republic shirt that I suspect will get a lot of use.

Also discovered there's now a White House/Black Market outlet, but as usual it was disappointing. In theory, that should be My Store (as my wardrobe is largely monochrome) but their styles lean toward the loose/drapey/hippy look, rather than the tailored/fitted/clingy motif I prefer. I did try on one very cute camisole (white with black lace trim and black flowers twisting up the front) but sticker-shock and shopping fatigue were wearing me down, so I passed. I suspect it might have been a rat-shirt moment. At least Wrentham isn't as far as New York.

In my defense, it did have rats on it

Last weekend we went to New York, to catch MOMA's Dada exhbit before it closed, to shop, to eat everything in sight. MOMA is one of my favorite museums (along with the Tate Modern, the Brit Mus and the Louvre, which has my most favorite sculpture in the world, a piece I like to think of as Man Getting Bit on the Ass by a Cat). As well as the Dada pieces, I loved Douglas Gordon's Play Dead; Real Time, a 21-minute worm's-eye-view of elephants moving in a stark white room.

The eating was fab, as always, though our unexpected four-hour delay at Logan (yeah, we decided to fly because it would be better than the five-hour drive. How smart are we??) meant we missed out on our tradition of arriving in the city and heading straight to lunch at Margon. We finally got to the hotel with 45 minutes to spare before our 7:30 reservation at Wallsé, and so just had time to force the lock on the suitcase (because someone who wasn't me lost the key), throw on clean clothes and take a cab down to the West Village.

The Boy had scallop ravioli in a saffron cream sauce, then a pork belly dish that was all delicious melt-in-the-mouth fat. I had a simple salad of really fresh greens, and then a rich, peppery-sweet Hungarian goulash. The wine list was almost all Austrian varietals, and the sommelier, for some reason, decided I probably spoke German. Luckily, I was able to fake it.

On Saturday night we went to Havana, Alma de Cuba, a busy, cosy place in the Village with a menu of traditional comfort-food dishes. The Boy went for the lechon, which probably could have used more salt but was pretty tasty. I had the rabo encendido, an oxtail stew that was almost the Caribbean cousin to the previous night's goulash, with a little less of a bite. The rice likewise needed salt (and for me to say that, it's gotta be serious!). Dessert was tres leches cake. I need to make that some day soon.

The one thing I don't yet have the hang of in New York is shopping. I know it's out there; I just haven't quite figured out where "my" stores are. And when I do poke around and find occasional items I love, they're completely out of my range.

Case in point: in some random boutique (populated by three employees and four customers), I found a beeeeyooootiful shirt. Soft, delicate jersey, with grey and black stripes--and a perfect circle of rats chasing their tails on the front. They were velvety-suede silhouettes. There was another rat at each cuff. I was in love. And then I looked at the price tag: $222. Sigh. The Lenny Kravitz-bewigged salesguy told me it was by a really great designer (of course she's great! She puts rats on a shirt!) but I just couldn't bring myself to pay more than I spent on my last two winter coats on something so frivolous.

Naturally, this became the source of that weekend's Nichtkaufenbedauern. "Maybe I should have got that shirt," I mused aloud as we wandered up to Union Square. "We'd spend that much on dinner, and that only lasts a few hours," I reasoned over breakfast the next morning. "It had rats on it," I sighed as our plane soared out of JFK.

The Boy rolled his eyes.