A World of No

As far as 50s days go, yesterday, Day 6 of the 50s Housewife Experiment, didn't feel all that different from our usual Saturdays. While the guides don't specify, I figure the 50s housewife was able to take things down a notch over the weekend. We slept in, ate leftovers (much needed to clear out some space in the fridge, but I'm afraid that means there aren't any fun food pictures) and I tidied. We also tackled the boxes of miscellaneous "stuff" that I had been shoving in the den. Some went to our storage locker, some went to Goodwill and the rest was put away properly. Ah, that felt good! Clearly the 50s housewife thing is sinking in if that's what I think an awesome Saturday entails.

There were, however, a few low points in the day.

Patrick received a cruel lesson in 50s serving sizes when I only made him ONE bacon sandwich for breakfast. "This is a snack," he grumbled.

It was made worse when I revealed one of my favourite finds at the grocery store: glass bottles of Coca-Cola in the original 50s size. At 237 mL (8 oz) each, Patrick thought they were cute until I informed him he could only have one a day and not the entire six-pack in one go. "This is a *shot* of Coke. I could guzzle it without taking a breath!" he exclaimed as I swooned.

Despite having abused and tortured him so, he very kindly offered to clear some dishes. Little did I know it would bring me such pain. When I went looking for a bowl later that day and couldn't find it, I looked in the one place that had been off limits to me.

I don't know how long I stood and stared at my open dishwasher, but it had to have been at least five minutes. My lip may have trembled. And then, so sadly and so slowly while a violin surely played somewhere in the distance, I took the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher so that I could hand wash them. Oh, what a cruel 50s world I live in.

Speaking of which, I was flipping through my magazines and kept finding all these vague ads referring to "the most intimate of marriage issues." I was intrigued until I finally read between the lines and all the strange innuendos ("Have you let your daintiness fall to the wayside?" Um, what?) and finally realized theses ads were for something called "vaginal suppositories." In other words: douche. The most intimate of marriage issues is apparently a vag that doesn't smell like a garden of rainbows and unicorns. Neat.

Then I found the worst offender. Even though the ad starts out awful ("Maybe YOU are to blame"), it gets much, much, much worse when you recognize the product being advertised.

Holy Smurfette, Mother of Smurfs - LYSOL. They used to Lysol their crotches! And here I thought Massengill with its vinegar and herbs salad dressing formula was sick. Ugh. I just imagine poor 50s housewife scrubbing the toilet with the cleaner in hand - "One for you ..." *squirt* "And one for me ..." *squirt*. And all to mask her shame and please the real pussy, her husband. Like he smells like roses (or pine scent or lemon fresh or new car or what-have-you).

So, in case it wasn't obvious, this will be yet another thing I'll take a pass on when it comes to 50s housewife living - and if someone has a problem with that, it will be menus like the one below for the rest of the week (from the Searchlight Recipe Book):