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I have a few vacation days to use up, so last week I took a couple of “Paulidays” - a day off for me to do… whatever it is I do when I’m not doing it for work.

This time around, it was nothing fun, per se, unless you define “fun” as replacing your faucets. And getting your carpets cleaned, your locks changed, etc. I’m still wrapping my head around this grown-up thing… blowing a thousand bucks on your vacation used to be way more fun than this.

Anyhow, a couple more items on Paul’s List of Chores were taking some new pants in to get altered, and some shirts to get dry cleaned. Believe it or not that was actually a tiny bit of fun, if only because normally the only attention I pay to clothes is to wash them and frown at the wrinkles. What really made the trip, though, was that I got to wander down my stretch of Queen Street East and visit some genuine old school mom & pop stores.

Leslieville is a neighbourhood with a history. Hell, when they shot key scenes from Cinderella Man here, they didn’t have to do anything to half the stores - and some of the others kept the movie fascades afterward - they were considered a marked improvement. (See my previous entry on that, plus my fleeting encounter with Russell Crowe.)

Anyhow, visits to both the tailor and the dry cleaners were like stepping into a time machine. Hand-painted signs, hand-tailored clothes. Linoleum floors. And yes, for what it’s worth, the cleaners were Chinese and the tailor was Italian.

But the thing I had to take a picture of - and in a more modern store, would be discouraged from doing so - was the cash register in each place. Both were huge metal machines, painted in a faux woodgrain. Big, clanking buttons, and no hint of electricity (or much cash, actually.) Both had been in use in those locations for an estimated 40 years, and both had stories to go with them.

Above is the one from the cleaner - and notice that the fee for one dress shirt and one wool sweater was a rather reasonable $4.90. The family that runs the business bought it second-hand in the mid-1960s, but estimate that it’s probably twice that old.

Here’s the one from the tailor - with buttons for $1, $10, $20 and so on, and rectangular cards that pop up to display your purchase. The tailor did upgrade to a small electronic register - small enough to be stolen a few years later. So they went back to this model, which a thief would have a hell of a time tucking under his arm.

The tailoring was a little more expensive than the cleaning, but perhaps the two stores are in cahoots - the pants smell faintly of the Italian cigarettes the tailor no doubt smoked while he worked his magic. Yet another throwback. Still, smoke ‘em while you got ‘em - after generations in Leslieville, the tailor is closing down for good in a few months.

I wonder what will fill the gap in Queen St. E., and what they’ll do with his register.

Posted by: Paul Gorbould | 02-25-2008 | 12:02 AM
Posted in: Toronto | Comments (1)

Shot with Cupid’s blaster

A few days ago, my four- and six-year-olds went out looking to buy Valentine’s cards for their classmates (”Valentimes”, as my youngest calls it, and I’ll be damned if I’ll correct her.) We started out looking for friendly, non-branded cards like back in the day - you know, the ones with the bad puns. No dice, so we would have settled for non-violent, non-gender-stereotyping branded cards… Dora, Snoopy, anything… struck out there too. And this was what was left, rather clearly delineated by gender:

I’m pretty certain none of the Grade 1 boys know what “sentient” means, and the kindergarten girls can be called “stylish ” only if wearing pink rubber boots, pajama bottoms and your bathing suit is haute couture.

They all enjoyed the cupcakes, though.

(Speaking of Optimus Prime, I did rent the Transformers movie last week - effects good, writing schlock. But I couldn’t hear “Optimus Prime” without thinking that a more timely hero/villain would be called Optimus Sub-Prime, chiz chiz. I even started to mock up a Photoshopping image to go with it, but then I did a Google search and found someone had already done it. Good on ya.)

Posted by: Paul Gorbould | 02-15-2008 | 01:02 AM
Posted in: Kids | Comments (0)

The furthest thing from cat

This is Gringo, the cat with no shame.

He belongs to Lily, a friend of my two little girls. He’s sitting in a box, playing the part of the baby.

In case you are wondering, yes, he’s wearing a scarf over his head. And a pink T-shirt. And when they said, “Here, Gringo, cuddle this giraffe!” and put it under his paw… well, he kept it there. For 15 minutes.

I’d like to say Gringo was heavily sedated, or drunk, but no. He just puts up with anything. He’s not even going to be embarassed that all his friends will see this on the internet.

This is a problem, because my girls are lobbying hard to get a pet cat next year. I’ve worked rather hard to give them realistic expectations about cat nature, but this fuzzy aberration has ruined my credibility along with his own.

Posted by: Paul Gorbould | 02-04-2008 | 12:02 AM
Posted in: Kids | I hate nature | Comments (4)