What happened at What Katie Did

A while back, I was on a visit to London and paid a visit to the brick-and-mortar shop of What Katie Did. Nestled in a little corner of a shopping concourse off Portobello Road, I was surprised at the size of the shop in relation to the range of their items online. So many corsets and frills, and so little time...

But what really surprised was an exchange one of the sales clerk had with another woman who came in to the store enquiring about a cincher. The shop was about to close for the day, but this woman was adamant about getting her cincher right away, so the sales clerk hastily picked a black satin number off a rack and started fitting it her over clothes (no time to fit properly in a dressing room, apparently). The client asked some questions which led me to suspect that she had not done her research either in corset care or wearing, such as, "Can't I just unsnap it from the front?" and "But I want one tighter than this," despite the fact that she stated this would be her first foray into lacing at all.

The sales lady explained that no, you have to loosen the corset from the back first or you'll warp the boning, and that corsets shouldn't really go much tighter than 4 inches less than your natural waist. The customer was nonetheless quite pleased with her appearance, and asked the sales woman if she could wear it every day. "No, absolutely not," she replied. "You'll hurt yourself."

I typically am a fairly quiet person, and don't gravitate towards conflict of any kind. But this, I could not abide, and told both of them that I have been wearing a corset nearly every day for about three years.

"Well, you shouldn't; you'll get a hernia," said the sales lady, as the client's face lit up at my announcement.

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't had any problems. You just have to ease into it." And then, sensing some tension and still wishing to make a purchase of my own with minimal awkwardness, I added, "But my every day corset isn't nearly as nice as that one." Which is true. The satin cincher, though pretty, would not hold up to regular lacing. But my boring, beige, cotton twill corset has served me quite well, since it was built with durability in mind over elegance. Nothing more was said on the subject until my man and I left the shop, and he said, "What was that back there? That was awesome!"

What happened was that I felt personally insulted by the sales lady, and by her spreading of misinformation to someone who was enthusiastic about corsets and needed some level-headed guidance. Threatening a hernia doesn't much help. Like anything else, tightlacing is perfectly fine as long as it done properly. You don't go from never having worn a corset at all to suddenly wearing one every day at a 4-inch reduction. You work up to it, over a few or several weeks, and I bristled at the statement that, categorically, regular tightlacing will give you health problems. I visit my doctor regularly, who specializes in internal medicine, and he has never commented that I am unhealthy in any way at all related to tightlacing.

I feel that misinformation such as what was offered by the sales lady does a disservice to all corset enthusiasts, both spectators and lacers. We're not freaks. We're not putting our lives on the line, if we're being smart. All I know is that when I wake up in the morning, I want my body to be shaped in a way that no amount of exercise will achieve, and as far as I know, you only live once.

Back in the saddle

About 15 years ago, I had a bad accident while biking home from a friend's house. As I was riding along, my bike ran over what I swear was at least a pebble and hit it the wrong way so that the front tire stopped. I didn't, though, and flew over the handlebars, landed on my jaw, and skidded on it halfway into the street. Thankfully, there was no traffic, and although I was in bad shape my bike was fine. I was halfway between my friend's house and my house, so I decided to continue on home. Cars flew past me, and I saw people looking at me, then wincing when they saw the blood and scraping on the side of my face. No one stopped to help. My mom thought I had been in a fight until I explained otherwise. She took me to the emergency room, and somehow my jaw had not been broken, but lodged out of place. Because of the accident, my jaw still doesn't align quite right; the doctors said I have TMJ. However, it's not quite bad enough to warrant surgery, and they gave me a retainer to try to get my mouth fit back together properly. It helped and I do still wear the retainer, but sometimes the pain returns. Advil does the trick. (For those who are wondering, I was wearing a helmet.)

The real lasting damage is that I have never since ridden a bicycle, and have never been motivated to get back on, until now. New York is beautiful when seen from a bike, but it can also be a dangerous place for cyclists. Like any other city, there are plenty of idiot drivers, and a person on a bike is considered by most people to be not quite a pedestrian (and so does not have automatic right of way) but not quite traffic either (so they're expected to yield at all times to all things). Despite all of this, a bike is a great way to travel, providing freedom to travel without buying a subway card or a tank of gas, and it's good exercise besides. My sister just completed two triathlons, and since my man and I moved to a building closer to the park, he's been riding his bike more often. For these reasons and more, I decided it was time to get back in the saddle, and today was the day.

We went to Ride Brooklyn and rented a bike for me to ride for the day. It actually felt good to be back on a bike, and after practicing a little in a nearby schoolyard, we left to meet up with my sister and another friend to go to Red Hook and check out the food vendors. It was a great ride. I gradually got more comfortable, and I had never seen so much of the Red Hook waterfront as I did today. Since Ikea and Fairway landed in Red Hook, the area has gone through some major renovations, but remains largely inaccessible by subway. We rode past boutiques, cafes, art galleries and garden centers that I never knew existed and thought I might like to visit again. There was not much car traffic where we were, so I could relax and remember what it feels to tool around on a bike. I had a great quesadilla from one of the food vendors, and thought about how much easier it would be to come do this if I owned my own bike. All things considered, it was great, and I realized how much I'd been missing by not getting back on a bike.

The ride from there on out was different. We went down Clinton Street, where there are parked cars on one side of the bike lane and traffic whizzing by on the other. I started to feel claustrophobic and spooked about my abilities to maintain balance, then began imagining what would happen if someone opened a car door or tried to leave their parking spot, leaving me with no place to go but headlong into traffic. I got anxious and had to stop a few times. I biked on the sidewalk and that was easier, but obviously there are still plenty of obstacles like strollers, pedestrians, gates, etc. When we returned the bike, I was definitely done for the day.

For all of that, however, I do still want to keep riding. (There's a pink Electra cruiser which caught my heart and eye at the shop, plus it's on sale.) One of the central tenets for me of being a pinup is that you only live once. Just as there's no reason not to look and feel your best every day, there's no reason to let one experience, however tragic, hold you back from exploring. I figured that if I'm brave enough to look the way I want to look, and to be going after my dream of performing burlesque, then surely I'm brave enough to conquer my fear of a bicycle.

As I was practicing in the schoolyard, my man was working with me to get me in a comfortable place. A man and his son were there too, playing with a soccer ball. The son couldn't have been more than 4, and was in his own little world. I tried to stay out of his way, and the father tried to get him to do the same, saying, "She's practicing...bicycling." But, eventually, they left. The father went to say a few words to my man, who explained to him that I had been in a very bad accident and that this was my first time on a bike in many years. My man told me later that the father said he too had a bad biking accident and hadn't ridden since. He said that I was an inspiration to him.

A Sorry and (Part One Of) A Story

So, you may have noticed that it's been a while since I've written here...I have lots of reasons, like massive layoffs at work (I was spared, but now have more responsibility), illness, travel and writer's block that probably happened as a result of all of those things. It also happens that I've been a bit remiss in responding to a couple of questions, which sucks because I really like it when you ask me stuff. Please consider this my make-up post, an attempt at an apology for having stayed away too long, and I will now finally give you the attention you deserve.

Q: Do you have any idea where to find a pair of retro lacey gloves? I have this killer outfit, and I *need* gloves to finish the look. --from "Elizabeth"

A: One of the best sites I've found for gloves is GreatGlovesOnline.com. Yes, they have lacey gloves, but they also have dyeables, opera length, fishnet, leather, crochet, silk and pearl gloves, plus lots more. No matter what your budget is, you should be able to find at least one thing here that will work. They also have a million (or so) colors. I've ordered from them, and have been quite happy. And no, they're not paying me to recommend them! You can also take a trip back in time and read my post in June 2008 about gloves here.

Q: I was wondering if, one of these days, you might expound on your own entry into tight-lacing, perhaps including some of the mistakes you made along the way and how you got started? You mentioned false starts - were they a poor choice in the corset you began with? I'm not planning to make a go of it until the summer is over - it's already in the 90s here, so I'm sure it's going to be a hot one. I would really enjoy seeing someone else's journey as they entered this world. --from a private email

A: I remember very well when I announced to my man that I was going to start tight-lacing. I was wearing a backless dress, figuring that my time in them was limited if I'd soon be wearing a corset 24/7, and we were out to a very nice dinner. I swear he almost choked, but I'm pretty sure it was from excitement. Not long after that, we went down to our favorite fetish shop in Chelsea, and I tried on some styles. I had already been in a few, but never with the idea that I would actually wear one out of the dressing room, and it is a totally different mindset. This time, I paid more attention to what kind of shape I wanted--did I like a gentle curve, or a sharp wasp waist? If I was planning to wear it every day, did I really want one with the most exotic colors that would make it difficult to wear under light-colored clothing? Plus, overbusts were out of the picture, since underbusts are best suited to tightlacing, as I had read. I also had to make my tightlacing intentions clear to the salesperson, since not every corset is designed to withstand hours and hours of wear, day after day. (It should be mentioned that there is a great section on tightlacing in William and Gloria Brame's book, Different Loving. Even if you're not interested in corsets, it's a must-read if you want to learn more about the psychology of BDSM in its various forms.)

I decided on a blush-pink corset by a man named Shane Aaron, who used to work at the shop but had since relocated to Las Vegas and was filling custom orders from his studio there. I fell in love with a very light, silky fabric, had my measurements taken, and off went my order. A couple of months later, my corset arrived, and I was elated. I wore it out of the shop, my man's hand in mine, very proud. But then a few days later, the fabric appeared to be thinning. I brought it back to the shop, and it turned out I had confirmed Shane's fear that the corset material was too light for tightlacing. It couldn't stand 23 hours of wear, and couldn't hold up to the friction caused by rubbing against my clothes. The corset was sent back, and in a couple of months I had the exact same model in a more durable pink fabric.

For the first few weeks, I slept in my corset, as I understood this to be the true definition of tightlacing and if I was going to tightlace, then by God I was really going to do it. Eventually, though, I questioned whether sleeping in the corset was really making much of an impact on my shape, and I felt my skin needed some time to breathe. In addition, I thought it might also be good for the corset to rest. Even though the fabric was more durable than what the first corset was made of, it was still fairly light, and I reasoned that rolling around in bed probably wasn't good for the garment. Ultimately I think that sleeping in the corset helped me get used to wearing it, but then the need for that passed, and I felt quite comfortable while laced. (Rather, let's say reasonably comfortable. I don't care what anyone says. Corsets are not 'comfortable' in the strictest sense of the word, no matter how long you've been wearing them.)

More or less, that was Season One. The weather got too warm, and I sweated through the corset so I had to take a break. The perspiration was neither good for my skin or for the corset, as over time, sweat will basically eat the fabric, especially material that is on the delicate side. Which led to my decision for Season Two's corset, but that is another post.

Valentine's Day has never been a particularly big deal for me, perhaps because I didn't usually have a date. Now that I do have a constant date, though, it still isn't that big a deal, and we have never made a big deal of it. I think Valentine's Day is a reason for people to spend time together and celebrate love--which is not something most people take time to really cherish. It's easy to take partners for granted.

However, this year we decided to go out to dinner. In years past we've cooked a nice dinner at home, but a few months back we discovered a tasty, creative restaurant in the neighborhood and were looking for an excuse to return to it. Valentine's Day seemed like a good one, plus my man leaves today for a business trip.

Unfortunately, the restaurant was a disappointment. Whereas before, my man and I had dined on foods we never would have tried, and sauces made with ingredients we would never have thought to combine, the Valentine's Day menu was just dull. For the entrees, they offered a standard fish dish, a roast chicken dish, and a steak. There was no option for dessert either, so you either took what they had or nothing at all.

Still, the evening was far from a bust. We made each other Valentine's day cards, me using my sewing skills, and he using his drawing skills. The conversation over a disappointing meal was lovely as always, and undisturbed by the cares of dining at home--there were no loud neighbors, no animals pestering us for attention, and no dishes to do at the end. And after dinner we of course had great sex. All in all, it was a wonderful evening. Expectations for a special night can be high, but as long as you have one key ingredient--a pair of people deeply in love--you really can't go wrong.

My bed of nails

I am hopelessly devoted to S., my manicurist, because of her amazing talent and charm. She's the best, and everyone in my neighborhood knows it, as is evident by the women who will wait for hours to see her, refusing to see any other manicurist at her salon who happens to be available. For a long time, I was afraid of nail extensions because I didn't want deal with them breaking, chipping, splitting--I refused to be someone who lived in constant fear of whining about broken nails. But with S., I have suffered a broken nail only once over the course of three years, and we're talking three years of typing, bulb-planting, cooking, baking, dishwashing, knitting, cleaning, sewing and general clumsiness. So, it's been with surprise that over the past few weeks my nails seem to be having a hard time staying put.

I saw S. this week, and immediately I knew something was wrong. As she was preparing to do the fill, she brought my hands up close to her face and said, "Oh, that's not good." Worse words could have come only from my tattoo artist. She explained that I had a weak nail bed. What? Me, a weak nail bed?

She went on to explain that over time, the chemicals in acrylic nails can weaken the natural nail upon which the acrylic nails are set, making them thin as paper. When that happens, the acrylic has a harder time adhering to the nail, and the nail cannot support the weight of the acrylic, which is relatively heavy. Every time water gets around my nails, like when I wash my hands, the water gets in the space between the acrylic and the actual nail where the nail can't hold on to the acrylic. That little bit of water takes its own sweet time to dry, meanwhile effectively rotting my nail. There doesn't appear to be any infection or anything like that, but the nail ceases to be anything more substantial than a Kleenex.

No part of that sounds sexy to me, so I asked her what I should do. S. told me that most of the white girls she works with have this problem with acrylic, and in fact I am her only white client who has managed to have long acrylic nails for such a long time. Her other white clients use a silk wrap, which is much lighter, though more time-consuming to apply and slightly less durable. She says my nails are still not so weak that I have to resort exclusively to the silk wrap route, but that keeping the nails shorter will do a lot to help ease the weight and pressure of the acrylic on my natural nail.

I tell this as a tale of caution. Long nails are beautiful, but long and unkempt nails are not; you have to find the middle ground that's right for you. Be careful not to go overboard, because you can't keep it up forever. My man is not happy at all that my talons are trimmed, but as I tell him almost every day, he's just been spoiled for the last few years.

Me too.

Favorite Things Roundup: January 2009

1. Corset liners by Amy Crowder (Wasp Creations)

Any regular tightlacer knows how important corset liners are. They're often overlooked, partially because they're completely unglamorous and not meant to be seen, but they can't be ignored. Corset liners help protect your skin against chafing and absorb some of your perspiration and natural body oils that can damage the corset itself and shorten its lifespan. (And there's no getting around the fact that you do have to fork over the dough for specialized corset liners, as anyone who has ever tried to use a thin tank top as a corset liner will tell you.) However, important though they are, I have found exactly one corset liner that I like, made by Amy Crowder at Wasp Creations. For a while, I only had one of her corset liners and wore it constantly, and went into denial when it eventually failed to serve its purpose. So you can imagine my joy when my guy put two of the liners in my Christmas stocking!

Like many other corset liners, hers are custom-made with your measurements, but my favorite thing about them is that they are long. Some corset liners are cut to cover just the section of skin under your corset, but this isn't enough. Over the course of a day, corset liners have a tendency to move around a little, inching their way up to your waistline, and that sucks. Amy's don't do that because there is length to spare, but also because of the ribbing she puts around the top and bottom of her liners which help them stay put. She also adds some red stitching to the side of the corset that is meant to be worn on the inside touching your skin. Really, it doesn't get easier than that. (For the record, her corsets are pretty incredible too, and among my favorites.)


2. Pin curls

I won't claim to have mastered them yet, but I've certainly improved with the help of my pin curl book and duckbill clips. One of the secrets is to have the patience to wind hair in appropriately small sections; it's tempting to take too much hair for one curl. The other secret is the aforementioned duckbill clip. Bobby pins make unsightly creases in the curls, but duckbills lie flat across your hair. Plus, they're easier to remove than bobby pins, since they're bigger. The look that comes out with proper pin curling is one that looks natural and holds better than any set of rollers I've ever used, be they foam, plastic or velcro hot rollers. Yes, it's a bit of extra work, but trust me--it's worth it!

3. Aretha Franklin's hat

I may be going out on a limb with this one, but I have to say I liked it. She's gotten some teasing about it, but on the flip side there has been a rush of orders to the milliner who made it. I think it was at once both bold yet appropriate for the occassion. Opting for a blue-grey color was subdued enough for the inauguration, and I love that the hat was not much more than a pillbox with an oversized bow, and a border of rhinestones to catch the afternoon sun. Being Aretha Franklin, she could have shown up wearing a giant-brimmed rainbow job teeming with feathers and pulled it off, because after all, the inauguration was a joyful event well worth celebrating. She toned it down from what she might usually wear onstage, but stayed true to herself and kept some of her bravado in style, all while evoking the big-hat style found in many black congregations--for this was a holy occassion in many ways. And may I say that standing on the Mall listening to her sing, I felt there could be no compromising of her style regardless of her clothing.

4. Puppy Bowl

Okay, I know it's not at all related to pin-ups, and technically it takes place in February this year, but Puppy Bowl has to be added to this list. Watching puppies roll around and play in a playpen tricked out like a football stadium is so much more enjoyable to me than football. And then they have the kitty half-time show, and the parrot singing the National Anthem to open the whole thing, and I'm gone. As in, I'm trying to convince my man that we need to adopt more puppies and kittens immediately. Watching it makes me happy, which is more than I can say for most things on TV.

Under My Tree

Happy new year, readers! Apologies for taking some time to post this week. It's taken some time to get back to life sans holiday plans…holiday life was fun while it lasted.

It lives on, though, in the amazing gifts I had from Santa under my tree. The big present from my guy this year was a pair of shoes by Natacha Marro. If you're not familiar with her, you should be. She's a French shoe designer living and working in London, all of her shoes are custom-made (my guy slyly traced my foot months ago), and they can often be found gracing catwalks and red carpets all over the world. Mine are the Tango in black patent, and the heel is a perfect six inches tall. Especially smart is the metal end she places on the bottom of the stiletto--ever notice how that plastic piece on your heel wears down so quickly? Plus, the insides are super-padded, so these vertigo-inducing shoes are actually quite comfy to wear.

Another favorite gift is a hat from Noxenlux Chapeaux. Like all great hats, it is a piece of sculptural art in itself, and makes a statement that is at once simple, bold and elegant. I wore it on a recent day out, and several smiles appeared as I noticed eyes drifting upwards at my head. Of course I get pleasure from wearing it, but it's especially fun when others get some sort of pleasure from seeing it.

Finally, in my stocking I got a gift that keeps on giving in a book called "1940s Hairstyles." It is my understanding that this book is no longer printed, making it very difficult to find and purchase. Having seen pages of it here and there online, it is one I have long coveted, and now it is mine. Perfect pin curls, pageboys, finger waves, bumper bangs and many other assorted hair styles are covered, giving you what you need to know in order to make yourself pinup perfect the same way ladies did it over 50 years ago. With the book I got a set of pin curl clips. Together with the book, I've been practicing my pin curls, sometimes with much frustration. I'll get it right eventually. Practice makes perfect, and some of these styles are a lot harder than they may look.

And when I say it is a gift that keeps on giving, I mean it: I am giving it to you. "1940s Hairstyles" exists as a PDF file, which is shared for free from folks in the know (copyright be damned). So go ahead--click here, practice, and enjoy. I hope it brings you joy and beauty through 2009 and beyond.

Coming soon: The First Pin-up Tales Giveaway! Check back here on Tuesday, January 13!

Favorite Things Roundup: December

I've given this some thought, but the truth is that there is only one thing I could possibly put on a list for December:

1) Christmas

I am a complete nerd when it comes to Christmas. My man had to practically hold me down to keep me from putting up the tree early--I don't see anything wrong about a Christmas tree mingled with jack-o-lanterns, do you?--and I was happily able to put up some more decorations this year since we are home for the holiday.

I realize there are lots of haters out there when it comes to Christmas. Yes, it's completely commercialized, yes, it can be a major source of stress, and yes, it can be really expensive. But I love the warmth in winter, the lights, the colors, and the anticipation (which might be my favorite part). My heart still leaps a little when I see presents under the tree on Christmas morning, and not because I got more stuff. My family says I'm impossible to shop for, and generally buy straight off my list or buy gift cards, so there actually aren't many surprises. (It should be noted here that my man is an exceptional gift-giver. His are ALWAYS surprises.) I get excited because somewhere in me there is still a little girl who thinks Santa or a Santa-like entity still exists who wants to give us one day when being thoughtful is celebrated. I love giving presents; my man has to hold me back on that as well. If he didn't, we'd be totally broke. I love the eating, I love the holiday specials and I love the carols.

For the Scrooges out there, I feel badly that Christmas has been lost for them. Christmases for me have been great, but I know that's not the case for everyone, and some people have a long list of reasons why they personally have learned to dislike Christmas. I think that ultimately each of us have our own definition of Christmas, or whatever winter holiday we choose to celebrate. As for me, love and magic are at the core of my Christmas, and I wish you both this year.

(So get off the computer! Go be with people! I'm only online because I'm stuck at work.)

The Corset Cover-up

One of the perks to my new job is a very steep discount on membership to a health club. I myself have never really been one for working out, the problem being that I don't like to sweat (I'm always worried it will cause me to break out, even though my skin has been under control). I like Pilates because it makes me feel strong, but it's expensive and I get bored doing the same workout all the time. So, I decided to start out with a one-week trial membership and see how things went.

I slipped into my tennis shoes and imagined them waking from an age-old slumber, much like the cartoon bullets that spring to life in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? when Detective Eddie Valiant enlists their help in Toon Town after many years of disuse. These are the same gym shoes I got when I started working my very first retail job in high school, and tennis shoes were a required part of our uniform. I washed my face, filled up my water bottle and went up one floor to the cardio room.

It took some time for me to reacquaint myself with this land of nefarious contraptions designed to inflict non-sexual pain. First, I forgot to be mindful of which treadmill I chose, and didn't take into account what channel was playing on the TV, so I wound up watching ESPN meatheads digest the Sunday football game. I was too embarrassed to move, though, and stuck with it. The first half-mile was hard, not least because I was in front of a mirror and saw how awful I looked as I ran. After a mile, I switched to another machine, and then headed up to the weight room for part two of my workout.

Back in the day, I used to be very enthusiastic about weight lifting. I got a weight bench for my birthday one year, and even brought my barbells with me on family vacations. I credit the weightlifting I did in my years of early puberty as the reason why it's not very difficult for me to get my arms back into shape. But recently, my man was sitting next to me on the couch and said, "You look great in that dress, but you would be devastating with toned arms." At first I was offended, then felt sad because he was right. I had allowed my once-beautiful arms to lose their muscle tone, and was now determined to restore it. This I knew I could do, and was doing some curls on the weight bench when a large man came over to me and asked me if I was okay. I told him I was fine. He asked me again, and I told him I thought I was doing fine, but it seemed like he thought otherwise, so tell me what I'm doing wrong. He showed me the proper way to curl (how could I forget?!?) and then demonstrated to me how some of the machines worked.

Ever since that day, I have been in pain, but the pain feels good. My thighs scream at me when I sit down, and my calves share the sentiment. I went back two days later, and though I'm still sore, I like that I'm getting strong. I can already see a difference.

The thing I realized is that I had let myself go because, in a corset, I look great. I'm not fat, but I have gotten soft, which is not something I see when I'm laced and looking in a mirror. In a corset, my waist looks great and my tummy is flat. The shape of my legs doesn't matter much because my skirts generally fall below the knee, so I don't notice so much if they expand or contract. And I gave up on my butt a long time ago. However, none of this is any excuse for not taking care of my body. Even if I look good, that doesn't mean I have a healthy heart. Flexibility is important, and working out helps me feel less guilty if I eat poorly one meal.

My father was just diagnosed with diabetes, himself having once been a star athlete who later let himself go with the various stresses of life. Now he can't eat the way he'd like to because he's spent the last few years eating whatever he wants with no regard for his health. It's hard on him now having to make sudden, big changes, and it's hard on my mom as well. My corsets are great and I won't stop wearing them, but I also can't let them trick me into thinking I am healthier than I am.

R.I.P., Bettie Page

Today we mourn the death of Bettie Page, unquestionably the queen of pin-ups. In her obituary in today's New York Times, Bettie is quoted as saying, "I want to be remembered as a woman who changed people's perspectives concerning nudity in its natural form."

I think she did. One of the great things about Bettie is how natural she looks--no implants, no tanning. Her trademark hairstyle is often a little frizzy, and her locks are never ramrod straight. I imagine she rolled out of bed, showered, and let her hair air-dry as she drove to a shoot. She doesn't wear lots of make-up, and generally isn't dripping in jewels and rhinestones. More or less, she's wearing underwear that happens to match.

Another thing I take from her referring to "nudity in its natural form" is her SM photography, although I am sure that is not what she meant. Nudity inspires different feelings and thoughts for everyone, many of which stem from a culture that treats nudity as taboo. Her work helped to make it okay for people to have their dirty thoughts, partially because she herself was so clean and tasteful. One thing that can be very difficult about enjoying SM play is that most people go through various stages of denial, in much the same way that I imagine gay men and women do as they come to realize their homosexuality. It's hard to admit that you enjoy being spanked or tied up, or to confront an innate desire to inflict pain on someone you love. Bettie helped make SM public, and it became part of the sexual revolution she inadvertently helped launch.

It's my belief that there is still an awful lot of prejudice and misunderstanding about SM and the people who practice it. I myself am extremely private about it, whereas my man is not, because I am very sensitive to the criticism I anticipate from others. But the message Bettie sends has helped me be at ease with my own desires. Sex is fun, and it's fun in a lot of different ways; there's really no right or wrong way to enjoy it and assumptions to the contrary are thrown out when you look at the scope of Bettie's photos. Like Bettie, you can be a good girl in soft lace some of the time and still be the bad girl in leather at other times. Because come on, admit it--you are a little bit of both.

A Pretty Pauper

Unless you've been living under a rock this week, you've heard about the continuing devastation in the financial markets. Since I work at a bank, this week has been particularly difficult. I consider myself one of the lucky ones because I still have a job, but as someone whose father was frequently between jobs, I have a great deal of sympathy for the vast numbers of people who have found themselves unemployed. There is no question that we are living in difficult times.

However, when you're down, it's important to try to keep yourself out of a funk. If you're going to find another job you have to project an image of confidence and strength. Even if you have to fake it at first, you might find that paying a little special attention to your appearance will have you on the road to the type of positive thinking that can get results. You might be asking yourself, "How do I do that on a budget?" Well, I've been on a budget all my life, so I've learned a thing or two about beauty on the cheap. Here are some of my favorite tips, and you should also check out my DIY post, which is also about budget-friendly style. Please feel free to share your tips--I'd like to do many more posts on budget beauty!

1. Double up in the shower

Until recently, I would only use shower gel/lotion/whatever as a backup for shaving cream when I was extremely desperate. Shower gel never got foamy enough, and I always felt as though I was shaving bare legs, which hurt. But, as I said, times are tough, so when I was out of both shaving cream and shower gel at the same time I decided to go the double-duty route and tried Aveeno Positively Smooth Shower & Shave Cream. It works well, and I know I saved money buying one thing as opposed to buying two different products. But, the best part came when my man suggested I use his shaving brush to mix up a lather in the palm of my hand. Using a quarter-sized amount, the brush whips up enough soapiness for all my shaving. I used to use that much just to do one leg, so not only did I save money in the first place but I'm also extending the life of the product. The shaving brush trick would probably work wonders with just about any shower gel, so no matter what you've got in your shower right now, it's worth a shot.

2. Maintain your smile

You could have radiant skin, a sharp figure and a gorgeous head of hair, but if your teeth are crooked and rotting, then you might as well forget the rest. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there are no Vargas or Elvgren pinups with sub-par smiles. I know quite well that dental procedures can be costly, and if you're one of the growing numbers of people without health insurance, then it might not even be an option. The best thing to do is take care of what you've got, and minimize damage which will cost you later. Floss your teeth every day; I mean it. I know you're tired from being so pretty all day, but you are not allowed to be lazy and go to bed without brushing your teeth. People (read: my man) make fun of me because I still wear my retainers to bed a few times a week, but I have seen too many veterans of braces who now have crooked teeth as adults. I will never listen to them--and not have to pay to have my teeth realigned.
And while you're at it, use that smile! It will make you feel better, and just might inspire others to do the same.

3. Use palettes

When you've run out of your old stuff and it's time for new makeup, look for palettes and sets. Not only do they save space in your makeup bag, they save money in your wallet. Check out the combination sets available online at sephora.com--many of them are all you need for eyes, face and lips. Those of you who have been reading here for a while should know that my favorite brand of cosmetics is Besame, and it should come as no surprise that my favorite product of theirs (ok, it's tied with the red velvet lipstick is their Vanity Case. It (and my lipstick) is all I use, every day, plus a liquid liner and mascara which doesn't set me back too much. However, they have ignored my plea to keep the Vanity Case and it is now discontinued; they claim they have something else coming, but until I see it I'm not convinced it's better. Until October 31, Besame is having a close-out sale of what's left, and selling each case for only $12. They used to be $90. I don't know about you, but I'm stocking up.

4. Minimize your hair products

I'm a hair product junkie. Even though I know better, I fall for every hair ad I see, and honestly believe that (product name here) is the thing that will give me soft and defined curls, smooth flyaways, add shine, save the whales, whatever. You may know about my man's policy for shoes, and the same holds true for hair products. As far as I'm concerned, there are only three things you absolutely need: a decent hair gel or mousse, decent hairspray, and something for shine. I like Fructis Curl Scrunch Gel, Sebastian Shaper Plus Hair Spray, and MOP Styling Tonic. If you're after straight hair, I like Bumble and bumble Straight. It's a little pricey, but it lasts a while and it beats buying ten other things that don't work.
As far as shampoo and conditioner goes--I've never been a major devotee to any particular product, though I do really like the Neutrogena Triple Moisture Shampoo and Conditioner. Beyond that, try not washing your hair every day. My hair is actually easier to manage when it's a little dirty, and it's easier on my color to wash it only every other day. And, you'll use less of the product, ultimately saving money for the things that really matter--like shoes.

Check out my guest post

This is just a quick note to let you all know that I have written a guest post on my man's blog. It's the inside scoop.

On Judgment

As I consider this to be primarily a place for discussions around vintage pin-up fashion, I don't often sit down at my computer compared to write a heart-to-heart about my relationship. Obviously pin-ups are a favorite topic for me, but, as the walrus said, the time has come to talk of other things.

My man and I are in a dominant/submissive relationship, whereby he is the top and I am the bottom. It's something that has taken us years to work out in all of its particulars, and every day we continue to work on it and make new discoveries together. We can only do this with a great degree of honesty, openness and communication, and at this point we've been at it for over four years so I have to believe we're doing something right. I enjoy taking direction. Not only do I find it freeing, but it also helps me to grow as a person and explore my world and my identity. There are many different types of food that I would not have tried were it not for my man's instructions, and countless erotic scenes and experiences have been enjoyed because of his orchestrations. I do my very best to take an attitude of, "I'll try anything once," and he does his very best to keep talking to me and staying aware of my limits and desires. I enjoy things like spanking, whipping, being tied up and more that others might find appalling. All in all, I happen think that what we have is a beautiful thing.

We do have some friends, however, who are at best a little distracted by some of what they see. One mutual friend once asked my man (in my absence) why it is that he makes me wear corsets. On other occasions, my man has made a decision for me and someone else might say, "Let her make up her own mind." In both of these examples, the outside party is jumping to conclusions in a major way, although in some way they're doing it out of love for both of us. What confounds me is when other people fail to consider that perhaps I wear a corset every day because I want to. It's true I didn't wear them before I met my man, but that doesn't mean I never thought about it. In many ways, he just gave me permission to indulge a curiosity and then I decided how far I would take it. I like it when he makes decisions for me, or when he orders for me at a restaurant, or when I become interested in something because of his suggestion.

One of the interesting things is that none of the people who make these criticisms have the balls to speak with me about it. They assume I am being oppressed or made a puppet, when in fact there is nothing of the kind going on. I've changed since I met my man, but in my opinion, everyone changes when they enter into a serious relationship. When we moved in together, we each had to make compromises of our previous living habits so that we could inhabit the same space. I care about things I didn't used to, and many of his interests have shifted as well. In the end, we're both different people in some ways, but in many others we're each exactly who we've wanted to be for a long time.

The moral of the story here is to think first before judging other relationships. What works for your friend may not be the same thing that works for you. What makes you cringe might make your friend cream. Unless you're looking at a truly abusive situation--and believe me, you'll know it when you see it--stand back and love the fact that two people who want the same thing have actually found one another. It really is a miracle.

A Mannered Performance

It seems to me that somewhere along the line, women forgot how to be ladies. As a New Yorker, I see women every day who would be otherwise beautiful were it not for their piss-poor manners. I grew up in the Midwest, and was raised by the kinds of parents who pretended not to hear me if I a) spoke a sentence using less-than-perfect grammar, or b) dared to ask for or accept anything without saying please or thank you. My impression after several years of living in New York is that one must choose between being a lady or a New Yorker. I choose to be a lady, but there are few of us here.

The standards of etiquette were laid down most famously back in 1922 by Emily Post, pictured here, and the Emily Post Institute has ensured that those standards evolve with time to include manners with regards to mobile phones, online friending, skiing and more. It may seem silly to spend time researching etiquette, but I assure you it is not and I myself intend to devote more web time to refreshing my memory. In my definition, a proper pinup acts like a lady and commands that respect, but this is difficult to do if she appears to have been raised by wolves.

For starters, you should always use "please," "thank you," "you're welcome," and "excuse me." None of these words are difficult to utter, and unless they are spoken with great sarcasm, I cannot think of a situation where they are hurtful. People here are constantly rushing and busting by others, but a simple "excuse me" at least demonstrates a small amount of consideration for other people. I don't think it's fair to take waitstaff and salespeople for granted, or to treat them any differently than you would a dear friend. I spent many years waiting tables and working retail, and was happy to oblige even the most outrageous request if it was clear to me that the other party considered me to be a human being and not a slave.

Be nice at the table. We all get sloppy, including myself, but proper table manners are key in your personal and professional life. It's worth it to watch your language and generally be on good behavior, even though it's difficult sometimes. My man, wonderful as he is, is sometimes lacking in the table manners department, eating off of his knife or performing stunts like pretending to snort his cutlery up his nose. I don't have a problem with it when we're at home--one of the things I love about him is his goofy sense of humor--but when we're in a restaurant I have to say something. There's a time and place for everything.

I could go on, but won't for fear of exhausting you and sounding like too much of a priss. It all really comes down to treating others in a way that you yourself would like to be treated. For example, I don't want to have to listen to your cell phone conversation any more than you want to have to listen to mine, so put the phone away at the table, on a train or in a bus. (I recently spent a weekend with someone who could not stop herself from texting on her phone, no matter where we were or what we were doing. I love her to death but found it rude and annoying nonetheless.)

I'll leave you with this poem, "Time Tested Beauty Tips," often attributed to Audrey Hepburn but in fact written by Sam Levenson for his grandchild. It was, however, one of Audrey's favorite poems, and read at her funeral. I think it does a good job of summing up the importance of manners in beauty:

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; Never throw out anybody.

Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

Carrie, Closets and Curmudgeons

I was reading my New Yorker this morning, and had a bit of a revelation while reading, of all things, a letter to the editor. It was regarding Anthony Lane's recent review of the Sex and the City movie, and the part that got me was when the writer responded to Lane's disgust that women should react so strongly to the part when Big builds Carrie a closet from heaven. The letter's writer, Annabeth Bondor-Stone, says, "Am I an unrepentant materialist if I smiled when Carrie got a big closet? Can't I harmlessly indulge in fantasies of traditional femininity while the predominantly male audience next door drools over candy-colored cars?"

Exactly! The thing that wears me down during a lot of discussions about Sex and the City is that people seem to take it so seriously, when really it's like an action movie for women. Every woman I know will readily admit to an awareness that the movie is pure fantasy, and not possible for the vast majority of women in New York or elsewhere--those of us who live here and pay ridiculous rent for a shoebox knows firsthand that there's no way Carrie can live alone in that apartment on a freelance writer's salary, never mind maintain a closet full of Manolo Blahniks and Christian Dior. At the same time, however, I don't know of any men (smart ones, anyway) who walk out of a movie like The Fast and The Furious and fully believe that the lifestyle of drag-racing with scantily-clad lustful women could or should be theirs. I feel pretty comfortable when I say that most action movies are not scrutinized for their cinematic value nearly as closely as Sex and the City has been, even though in many ways they live on two sides of the same coin.

Over the last few weeks, my man and I have spoken often of Sex and the City. He didn't come with me to see the movie, and hasn't even seen one full episode of the show. He's pretty sure that he's seen all he needs to see to get it, a statement with which I disagree. In many ways, it's not his fault. He's not a woman, so he can never truly understand what happens in female friendships either in a group or on a one-on-one basis. It's also not his fault that the show is in lots of ways mistitled, as it isn't really about sex.

It's about friendship, support and growth shared between women--and yes, it makes you want to max out your credit cards so that you can have as much fun getting dressed in the morning as each one of the girls does. But can you blame us? Clothes and fashion are forms of self-expression, shaping how we are presented to and received by the people in our world. Most people don't want to be dull and boring, but it so happens that the pieces which are the most exciting also cost the most money. Patricia Field is an incredibly talented designer, but of all her successes perhaps her greatest is that she makes it all look so fun and playful. That sense of lightheartedness is refreshing in life and in any other escapist movie. The next time I hear someone coming down on Sex and the City as though it were trying to be the next Lawrence of Arabia, I intend to ask firmly but politely that they remove the stick up their ass.

Two great news items popped up today, both in the New York Times:

The first is that the July issue of Italian Vogue will use exclusively black models, all photographed by the venerable Stephen Meisel. This makes me very excited. If I haven't written much here about racial diversity in pinup art of the 1940s and 1950s, it's because there isn't much to write about. In all my browsing of Vargas, Frahm and Elvgren, I don't recall having ever seen a woman who was anything but white (the exception is that you can find some suggesting the women are from or visiting Mexico or South America). I can't blame the artists; their editors wanted them to make money and probably didn't think black pinups would sell very well. PLEASE correct me if I'm wrong on this, but meanwhile, here's to more diversity in contemporary mainstream pinup icons and inspirations.

The second is a short post by Elizabeth Spiridakis on her blog with the Times regarding this photo released of Amy Winehouse cleaning house, beehive and all. Winehouse is commended for maintaining her look even while performing mundane tasks, and this is probably something I should try to do myself. She's fortunate--or smart?--that her look isn't polished; it's bedraggled and messy, so it's not terribly difficult to conjure during a drug bust or a late-night romp through London. My problem is that my look is fairly polished, but I'm inherently lazy and can't muster the energy to put on makeup and dress nicely if I'm just hanging around the house. I'm sure my man would appreciate it if I did more. Perhaps that will be my resolution...starting next week.

End of the Armor (for now)

I knew it would happen. It was inevitable, and in fact has happened before.

Corset season has ended.

As you may know from previous posts, I don't lace every day of the year. It gets too hot in New York, and the perspiration is good for neither my true skin nor my second skin, and so from about May to September I let it all hang out and give the corsets a break. They need it, too--my two solid standbys will be spending the summer in rehab, as I reinforce their casings which have been worn down by friction.

This time of the year is always bittersweet for me. Although I love lacing, there's a part of my personality that is inherently lazy and doesn't mind not having to perform another step while dressing and choosing an outfit. It's also nice to be able to eat what I want without regard for the constriction of the corset. I don't mean that these months are spent eating fast food every day; there are some foods that are fairly healthy but still make me uncomfortable if I eat them while laced. Sushi is a good example, as is most soup, since both tend to be high in sodium. And then there are times when I'm cramped, and the corset just increases my unease. Don't get me wrong, I understand quite well that discomfort is a big part of lacing, but that's not the reason why I do it.

I do it for the hourglass shape, for the discipline of sitting up straight and eating smarter. It always takes some time for me to get used to how I look when I'm not wearing a corset--it's a little like getting your braces removed in that they were foreign and unnatural at first, but then they became a part of you and something seemed off kilter without all that metal in your mouth.

I also do it because my man really enjoys it, and the end of corset season is hard for him too. He misses the shape, and does his best to understand--since he doesn't wear one himself, and never has worn one, he can't really know the full toils and joys that are involved, but he gets that all the sweating is a bad thing. He does his best to be patient for the weather to cool off again, but in the meantime, my exposed flesh is subject to extra tickling.

I've tried to find a way to wear a corset in heat over about 75 degrees, but nothing has worked. My "summer corset" is made with fabric with breathes, but the liner I wear between my skin and the corset is decidedly hot on its own and so nullifies the benefits of wearing a light corset. I've tried drinking lots of water, lacing a bit more loosely, staying in air conditioning as much as possible...but there's no getting around the fact that seasons change, time marches on, and this, too, will pass.

Dispatch from the Recovery Room

If you live in New York, chances are good that you've gotten sick recently. If you haven't, count yourself lucky so far and look out. I don't usually get really sick more often than once a year, but in the last two weeks I've been knocked off my gartered ass into oblivion, first by my first-ever case of food poisoning (suffered simultaneously by my man) and then by an extremely nasty cold, the dregs of which I am still fighting. It's not even March and I've already used up half my sick days. This does not bode well for a year where 100% of my vacation time has to go to my wedding and honeymoon.

Whenever I'm sick, I find it really hard to be a pinup. All I have to do is wear little or no makeup to work, and suddenly people are telling me how awful I look and that I should just go home and get some rest. I use this trick sometimes when I'm leading up to playing sick for a day, but when I actually am on my deathbed, it pains me to think that the sight of my face inspires pity. Like mercury rising in a thermometer, my health can often be surmised by the shade of my lips. Nude to pale pink means I'm struggling, but red means I'm back in business.

Today I'm wearing heels for the first time in a few days, hoping that by looking better I will feel better. It seems to be working a little, as the phlegm in my throat is intimidated to the point of moving on. More importantly, perhaps, I feel like myself again. Being removed is one of the hardest things about being sick, and coming back, though difficult, is your reward. Although days of camping out by a humidifier with my faithful pets, a hot pot of tea and old movies is a welcome respite from the grind of my day job, I eventually find myself in a state of depression at being a total waste of space. My man is happy to take up the slack around the house when I'm sidelined, but it doesn't take long before my innate sense of guilt takes over and I'm beating myself up for being an invalid slacker.

Slowly but surely, the pinup awakens from her slumber.

A Shoe for a Shoe

There used to be a rule in my house, imposed by my fella: If I bring home a pair of shoes, I have to get rid of a pair I already have. This has been a point of controversy among my friends, all of whom shudder with fear at the thought of throwing out shoes. I defend my man, like any good girl--his reasoning was sound, being that I have so many pairs of shoes I never wear or that he dislikes. And if he doesn't like them, it's not worth his bellyaching for me to put them on, and those shoes tend not to be my favorites either.

It was quite an upheaval, then, when he came home the other day to discover that I had brought home two new pairs of shoes from an unbelievable sale at the Steven store near my workplace. First he insisted that I didn't tell him about the purchases, which I insisted with equal vehemence that I did (I did!), and when I reminded him that he can't even remember what movie we watched two nights ago he kind of gave that one up. But next he pulled out all of my shoes from my closet, and asked which ones I was going to kick to the curb outside our building for someone else to take.

We went back and forth on this for a while, and the gist was ultimately that I felt that I shouldn't have to throw out any more shoes because both of us like all the shoes I currently own in addition to the ones I just purchased, I wear all of them with some degree of regularity, I pay for them with money that I earn, and they reside in my closet instead of his. He came back with a moving monologue about how much he hates accumulating random things into ever-expanding piles of stuff, and I got so frustrated I almost started crying. "But why does it have to be the shoes?" I pleaded. "Can't I get rid of something else instead? And what about your five kinds of mustard and salsa in the refrigerator?"


In the end, the argument was resolved when I said that I would clear out all of my spring dresses I don't really like, all of my underwear that expired ages ago, and all of the t-shirts that haven't seen the light of day since the college bar crawl for which they were created. For his part, he agreed to lay off the shoes and that, before going grocery shopping, he would seriously evaluate whether another condiment was needed.

I bore you with my relationship details only because there is moral to this story, which is: Keep your closet fresh. Often times, we hold onto things because we have attached some sentimental value to them, or because we hate throwing things out, or because we don't want to spend the money to replace things, or because we delude ourselves into believing that all things last forever. To all of those thoughts I say: It's only a t-shirt, get over it, sell your old clothes, and they don't. If you have things you don't wear anymore, give them to someone else who will wear them as lovingly as if they if they were brand new. Get crafty and use the material to make something new, anything as long as it means you're re-evaluating your look and your own sense of style. Vintage, classic pieces are always in fashion, but not if they don't keep up with you as a person.

Leave the fear, take the compliment.

As usual, I was way overdressed. Casual by my standards is what most other people call cocktail attire, and cocktail attire for me is black tie to anyone else. That evening I was wearing a tea-length dress, corseted and wearing my crinoline with contrast-seam stockings and five-inch cherry red heels. I was getting a lot looks, but only one made me uncomfortable enough to prompt a glare that read, "Seriously?" After all, it was a charity event for one of my non-profits, and the sad truth is that we need money so we have to be nice to everyone.

As people were leaving and we were cleaning up, one guy found himself standing next to me and was kinda looking at me while I shuffled some papers. Caught in his cross-hairs but not knowing what to say, I resorted to the old stand-by of every polite hostess.

ME. Thanks for coming, have a good night.
HIM. Oh yeah, we had fun.
ME. Oh good, glad to hear it.
HIM. You know, you have a whole delicious thing going on.
ME. Oh--thank you.
HIM. Yeah, I kinda wanna steal you and carry you off.
ME. Well, I think my fiance might have a problem with that.
HIM. Oh no, nothing by it--girlfriend's right here. I'm just saying you look nice.

At which point my face turned as red as my shoes. Here I was, dressed up and prepared for people to look at me, and then I feel threatened when someone actually says something. What's up with that? What is so hard about just taking a compliment?

The thing is that I've been deep-conditioned to put up a big red stop sign whenever someone says something to me that might have even the slightest potential to escalate to harassment. In that way I suppose I'm not so different from lots of other women who grew up with sex ed classes as part of Girl Scouts or who were taught basic self-defense moves in high school gym class. Instead of being taught that I have the power to decide what's okay, I've been taught to anticipate the attack with such zeal that I don't even recognize when the situation isn't dangerous. Of course I have to take responsibility for my own anxieties, and it isn't fair to just blame what I was taught. I haven't really taken the initiative to un-learn what I don't want to know anymore, and that's nobody's fault but mine.

Walking to a bar later, I caught a man's eye in a restaurant. I did nothing but hold eye contact for perhaps a few seconds. My man picked up on him looking at me, but not on the fact that I may have provoked it a little, and threw up his hands at the guy as if to say, "I'm right here, man."

ME. What are you doing? What happened?
MY MAN. That guy was looking at you like he was going to lick your thighs off.
ME. Really?
MY MAN. Yeah, with me right next to you.
ME. Ohhh...I may have done that on purpose.
MY MAN. Why? Why would you do that?
ME. Because it's fun, and I can.
MY MAN. ...Awesome.