(Not Quite) Sweating to the Oldies

A couple of months ago my Aunt Diane emailed me and mentioned that she was taking Zumba classes and that she was quite enjoying them. Now, even though I thoroughly and giddily love learning about trendy diets (maybe I delight in the too-good-to-be-true promise of them? Or maybe I'll just take any excuse to sit around and think about food?), I am highly suspect of trendy exercise things. THEY DO NOT FARE WELL WITH ME. But seeing as my Aunt Diane knew that and since we are related and no doubt share an aversion to sweating, I decided to take up her advice and ask for Zumba DVDs for Christmas (which my dear mother-in-law then bought for me! Thanks, Mern!). I figured I would try it with minimal shame in the privacy of my home first rather than explode onto the Zumba scene in all my fat, uncoordinated glory at a gym.

Now, this is not my first dance-based workout video. I'll have you know that I am also the proud owner of Old School Dance Party with Donna Richardson featuring live performances (and a strip show from the guy in white) by The Sugarhill Gang:

It is so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.

But oh my gawd, am I ever the very definition of 'pathetic' while doing Zumba.  I basically lurch around clumsily, my feet a full beat behind while my upper body is half a beat ahead and everything in between just swings around confused and untamed, as if I were a drunk, upright pot-belly pig. And this is all done to the sound of attractive Latinos goading me with false compliments meant for the aerobically unchallenged. "Good, good! Now you're getting it!" cheered Beto as Jen gave up and waddled to the kitchen.

So - while I promise to keep trying to Zumba, I think I'll keep supplementing my day with a workout more my speed: The 1959 Good Housekeeping Plan For Reducing Off-The-Record:

I love you, vintage fitness.

This album is basically the LP version of Jack Lalanne (who also had his own exercise records, including one called Glamour Stretcher Time that used a tension band!). Now, I don't just like this little workout because it only takes half as long as Zumba and has absolutely no cardio component to it. I like it because it is super classy. In my living room, I do little scissor kicks and waist bends to the charming accompaniment of the The Bob Prince Quartet.

I couldn't find a video online of someone doing the Good Housekeeping Plan for Reducing Off-The-Record exercises - and there is not enough money in the world for me to create one where *I* perform these beauty boosters for you - but I did manage to transfer an exercise from the LP onto a USB (just a snippet!), so you can get a sense of the dignified loveliness that is exercising the Good Housekeeping way. I present to you, the crappiest clip ever made with Windows Movie Maker:


I know I'm a sarcastic SOB most of the time, but I think this record is delightful. Ridiculous, laughable, and oh-so antiquated, but none-the-less delightful. I feel like a soft and lovely lady while exercising to this, as opposed to the gyrating barnyard animal I normally feel like when I do modern workouts.

It probably has something to do with the fact that it features old white people music is all so calm that no sweat emerges from my body. That, and the movements feel familiar - like this one for the double chin where all one needs to do is tip the head back and open one's mouth repeatedly - which is funny, because that's a really similar movement to how I got my double chin to begin with:

I don't care if it doesn't work (and I know it's wrong of me to super secretly hope it does). It's darling and fun and doesn't give out scheduled praise. And it makes me laugh every time do "bust enhancing exercises" to a very plucky version of The Yellow Rose of Texas.

Thumbs up, 1950s! Thumbs up!

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Jack Lalanne On Telling It Like It Was

RIP Jack Lalanne
Image Source: Crossfit Oakland

I wrote this on Monday and thought I had posted it right away - turns out it was simply saved and not published. Oops!

I've been working on some 50s Housewife Experiment stuff behind the scenes (I'll share more about that soon - I promise!) and nearly every time I speak with a new person about it, I get asked what my ethnicity is whether I think the 50s were a better time than our modern era.

The answer is no. But if you were to ask me whether this era is better than the 50s, the answer is also no. I guess a lot has to do with defining what "better" is and from whose point of view are you looking at things.

There's this image of the 1950s as some kind of apple pie-infused wonderland where people were happy, pleasures were simple and life was uncomplicated. Nostalgia and age do funny things to our interpretation of the past (weren't the 80s the best?!) - which is why I really liked relying on the actual books, magazines, commercials, TV shows and resources from the time to build the 50s Housewife Experiment.

There's value in getting information from the horse's mouth, so here's another horse for you - Jack Lalanne. Tell me, does his description of life (in the 50s) match your perception of the era? 



Wha? Unhappy people? Unsmiling faces? Stressed out, despite having all these modern conveniences? Out of shape and out of touch with nature thanks to processed foods and sedentary lifestyle? In the 1950s? STOP RUINING OUR FANTASIES, JACK LALANNE!!

Sounds a little too familiar, doesn't it?

Jack Lalanne, who passed away yesterday [Edit: this past Sunday], wasn't one to mince words. The Jack Lalanne Show, a program that provided straight forward nutritional and exercise advice to housewives (complete with goofy organ music), first aired in 1951 but didn't get national syndication until 1959.

I realize that it's hard to take a man in a jumpsuit seriously, but Lalanne actually provided a lot of good tips that are as relevant now as they were then. Take a look:







Good stuff! Thanks for keeping it real, Jack Lalanne.

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He's a Good Sport

Sorry for the delay in getting Day 13 of the 50s Housewife Experiment up! All will be explained with Day 14's post. ALSO: What is *up* with that man's hat in the picture to the left? Is this a glimpse into what happened once Maid Marian and Robin Hood finally settled down?

Never in my life have I ever thought of weekends as "disruptive" - but, boy, they sure are!

My weekly schedule has come to rule my life and when someone is laying on the couch in the midst of it, throwing newspapers and dirty dishes and socks around, I have a weird inability to do my 50s housewife thing as programmed. Instead, I growl from the kitchen (which is still totally my territory) and peer angrily into the living room that is becoming a mess with every second that passes.

Perhaps that is why I decided to serve my most disgusting dish yet, the Asparagus Meat Mold.

I had failed the dessert gelatin, floundered through two salad gelatin creations and now finally graduated myself to the entree level of jell-o based edibles.

This recipe, found in my Searchlight Recipe Book, sounded revolting, which is why I had to do it. The unflavored gelatin was first mixed with beef broth and placed in the fridge to partially set. Then, in a ring mold, the following were placed:

• Asparagus tips
• Chopped asparagus stalks
• Celery
• Cooked chicken livers
• Cooked ground beef
• Salt

The beef broth jell-o was then dumped on top of everything and all was sent to the fridge to set.

That recipe was all kinds of wrong, just like this article -> I found in one of my magazines. In case you didn't know, the term "gyp" is derived from the ethnic group "Gypsy". It's not entirely unlike coming across an article titled "Selling Your Gold: Tips To Avoid Getting Jewed at the Jeweler" Ugh - just writing that made me feel like the worst scum ever.

Anyway, the mold was taken care of earlier in the day so that it would be ready for dinner. I then went about doing several 50s housewife things like the "light dusting" of rooms (besides the living room - as that was occupied by dear husband and would have been pointless), hit the farmer's market with Jacquelyn and Ewan, planned my final 50s housewife meal for Sunday and made a few phone calls to friends (in lieu of e-mail and Facebook messages, my old standby).

By 6 P.M., my Asparagus Meat Mold had enough time to set and the dinner hour was upon us. I wanted this one mold to be perfect, so I used all the advice I had been receiving on gelatin-based structures from the blog's comment section. From my dad's cousin, Barb, I learned to grease the mold ahead of time. From my aunt, Janice, I received the advice to soak the mold, up to the rim, in warm water and then gently squeeze the mold out using a hot tea towel.

I did all of this, and then it happened.

The mold slipped out of the ring like butter and onto the lettuce-decorated plate as desired. Maybe I was caught up in the moment, but I swear the room suddenly filled with the sound of the Top Gun guitar solo. (P.S. Please watch that song's video - I think that dude in silver has to be my next Halloween costume and I need people to 'get' what I am.)

It was glorious. It was inspiring. It was about to get its hole filled with canned peas, olives and mayonnaise. (A sex joke here crosses every line, so I’ll refrain for once.) But, yes, you heard / read me right: Canned peas, olives and mayonnaise. If any of you ever wish to become bulimic and need a good trigger to keep on path, just keep rereading that last sentence over and over again until you're skinny - or just keep looking below:
As pleased as I was with myself for finally creating a mold that worked, the feeling gave way to the smell of the Asparagus Meat Mold hitting my unsuspecting nostrils. Until smell-i-vision is developed, you can get a sensory appreciation for the dish by going to your grocery store's pet food aisle, cracking open a can of ALPO and inhaling deeply.

It wasn't exactly the first time the food I was about to eat had been compared to dog food. My father, for example, has long attested that Chef Boyardee and Dr. Ballard are in fact the same man. It turns out he wasn't quite right about that one; it's Dr. Ballard and Jenny Craig who are the same person. No wonder Kristie Alley couldn't wait to get off that program.

Anyway - according to my rules of the 50s housewife experiment, Patrick had to try at least one bite of everything I made. I knew ahead of time that this thing was going to be vomit-worthy, so what you don't see off-camera is a stack of hot dogs that I made for him as a reward for suffering through his one and only bite.

For your viewing pleasure, I've documented a bit of the Meat Mold action:
It looked like dog food, it smelled like dog food and while I can't totally confirm it, I'm pretty sure the taste we experienced was also just like dog food. Who knew that there would be a time in my life when hot dogs were being used as the chaser.

Once we had our fill of palate-cleansing lips and assholes, it was time to get going as Patrick and I had a date planned! I had tried to think of something that would have been 50s-era appropriate and with no malt shops or sock hops about or a car to go to a drive-in movie, only one thing came to mind - bowling!

We got to Bathurst Bowlerama around 7:45 P.M. and wow - was the place ever jumping:
Want a quiet, intimate date? Go bowling in Toronto on a Saturday night. By the time we left (around 10 P.M.), the "prime" bowling time, only two other lanes were being used.

But back to us! The 50s housewife was finally freed of her heels and got to wear some bowling shoes - the first flat shoes yours truly has put on since this wacky project started nearly two weeks before. I also had my first beer - a Heineken (with a nod to Betty Draper) - that night. I'm still not sure a 50s housewife would have been caught drinking beer (it seems so unladylike) but I was willing to be gossiped about at the PTA in exchange for the cold loveliness of hops and malted barley.

Now, I've been called many things (amazing, talented, bendy in the right places) - but athletic or coordinated have never been one of them. Check out these disastrous bowling scores:
But you know what? It was fun. It was really, really fun. I think we'll be making a return trip, perhaps with a few friends in tow and maybe we can drum up some business for the poor Bathurst Bowlerama. While I'm not sure if our friends can bowl well, I know they'll exceed at running up the beer tab. Hey, business is business, right?

On the bus ride home, Patrick turned me.

"I like being with you," he said.

"I like being with you, too," I replied.

Not a bad way to end a day.

Image Sources: S.O.S. advertisement, circa 1946 and Today's Woman Magazine, November 1952. "How To Beat The Merchant Gyps."

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Looking The Part of the 50s Housewife

The 1950s housewife had a fairly iconic look – the perfectly coiffed soft perm, sharp make-up and a lovely dress that accentuated a nipped-in waist.

I’ll be going for the spirit of that in the 50s Housewife Experiment, if not the authentic costume. I won’t put chemicals in my hair but I will “do” my hair each day (which, sadly, isn’t the current norm). I don’t own dresses in the 50s style or petticoats, so I’ll sub in contemporary versions.

The beauty regiment of the 50s housewife starts right away. Here’s some advice she received:


I like how the advice above considered whether I had a "maidless kitchen." How thoughtful.

After getting her husband off to work, she then did a 10-minute morning exercise routine:


(Basically, a bunch of bending while wearing a bra, underwear and one of those hair handkerchiefs popularized by Rosie the Riveter and Aunt Jemima.)

She then showered, washed her face, and did her hair and make-up. She went about her day, all the while aware of her appearance. Here are some basic tips for staying 24-7 glamorous:

In addition to the daily maintenance, she had a beauty schedule for maintaining her look. Here’s a suggestion from Today’s Woman Magazine (1952):



I’m a little stumped on the washing of one’s hair just once a week (and scandalized that they mention that someone might not need to wash it that often). I’m not sure if I can handle that. Let me put it this way: You know that scene in the Breakfast Club in which Ally Sheedy’s character created a gentle dandruff “snow fall” on her drawing by shaking her hands through her hair? I’m guessing after just four days of Denorex-free living, I would create such a snow storm that Toronto would be inclined to call the military in again.

Anyhoo – apparently it was quite normal for women of the time to go to the hairdresser each week and have their hair shampooed and styled there – which seems like both underkill and overkill at the same time.

We shall see.

Image Sources: The Bride's Reference Book; Today's Woman, November 1952.

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Train Me - Personally!

I've bit yet another bullet (sugar-free!) and purchased 10 sessions of personal training at my gym. I'm one of those people that the diet industry just adores because I am very good at making purchases toward a "thinner me". Very good indeed.

Anyway, Natasha and I have a date with the dumbbells next Wednesday morning. It's not like I don't understand weight training or anything - it's more that I could use someone to scare and threaten me to do it and "Natasha" sounded like the most German / Cold War name on the list.

We're scheduled for 8:30am, two times a week. Which means being at the gym, changed, and starting up a little warm-up for 8:15am. Which means leaving the house by 7:15am. Which means getting up at BAAAHHH!am.

I've said it once already this week, but I'll say it again: Pray for me.

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More Gym = Weight Gain?

What the bloody hell?

Despite hectic and long work days, I have managed to drag myself to the gym 3x a week. In addition to this, I've been bringing lunches to work in the form of Lean Cuisines and other calorie-aware frozen chemicals.

And what happens?

I GAIN WEIGHT.

And not just 0.5 lbs here, or there. LIKE 8 LBS. THAT ARE STAYING. LIKE BITCHES THAT CAN'T TAKE A HINT.

I'm so annoyed. It's not like I can try to dismiss it as muscle growth either. I'm mainly just doing cardio at the gym, plus, whenever I do weights it's not impressive. It's more like I'm casually grazing on the weight equipment like a cow, not totally sure of what I should be doing or if I should put a solid effort into whatever it is I'm trying.

GAAAAAAAH.

I'm going home to visit the parents this Xmas. I love them, but they ALWAYS notice if I've put on pounds. So. Not. What. I. Want. To. Deal. With.

And what annoys me most: It's that I'm consumed by this. How stupid. Of all things to fret about, eight pounds has my attention? I haven't even bothered to care about those poor hostages in whatever middle-eastern country. That's how bad I suck! I don't even know where the silly wankers are, but I do know how many ounces I am!

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Ribbit

I went to la gym this evening.

I swear I'll stop talking about the gym shortly. Either because I'll get over the fact that I'm going or because I'll have stopped going altogether. Har.

Anyway, it was another gymming by bus. Again, my hellish mode of transportation rolled by just as I was getting within sprinting distance of the stop, and since running (let alone running fast) in public goes against every jiggling fibre of my body, I accepted my fate to go get physical, physical.

The problem with going to my gym after work is that it's really busy. I despise a busy gym because you can never do exactly what you want. In an ideal world, I'd go to the particular machines I wanted in the order I wanted and spend however much time I needed complete with nice little rests between sets. Ok, actually, in an ideal world, I'd be hot and slender and would owe it all to a steady diet of Dynamite Rolls, hot dogs, Skittles and beer. So, I guess what I mean, is that in a more reality-based ideal world, going to the gym would be completely user-friendly.

Since that ain't the case around 6pm, I'm instead forced to just grab whatever machine is available, use it and pop over to another open machine in a truly non-sensical order. I'm kind of like Frogger - hopping around to the empty spaces like a big spaz except that there isn't really much of a plan or goal involved (not to suggest that Frogger's achievement of crossing the street was that sane either. Just stay in the pond, fool!).

I'm attempting to go to bed early (like, right now) so that I'll slowly train my body to be able to handle earlier morning wake-ups so that I may go to el gym before work and possible make the most of my silly workout attempts. We shall see.

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Appreciate Me, Dammit!

So, you know of this gym thing I am doing, right?

Well, I don't normally go two days in a row but I was lured into doing it recently. The other night when I went, I was told "Don't forget about Member Appreciation Day, tomorrow!" and was handed a little flyer.

On this bright green piece of fun lay two words that distinctly got my attention: Complimentary Refreshments.

I cannot possibly tally how many functions I have attended because of the complimentary refreshments. I've done boring art shows, bad store openings, random social gatherings ... all in the name of spinach dip. The number would be staggering. Finger food, drinks, samples - I love it like a hillbilly loves his cousin.

The mere thought of whatever dinky food and drink the gym was planning had totally sold me on coming in. I literally got up at freakin' 6am just to enjoy whatever shit they had. I endured the early morning transit rush, got to the gym and found a elliptical machine and got going, all the while scanning the room. First, I saw someone come in with a bunch of balloons. "Good," I thought "very good - it's starting" another ten minutes of sweat passed and I saw the staff members bring in a table to the area. "Excellent - all the better to place the refreshments," I thought.

AND THEN .... nothing. Nadda. They put some fucking brochures on the table and put up a sign advertising that their rip-off exercise clothing was on sale.

Where were the cute sandwiches? Nicely sliced fruit? Cheese squares? Dammit, I wanted to be appreciated via Complimentary Refreshments!!!

What's the freakin' point of coming for a workout if I'm not going to scarf down crap afterward?

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Yay Me

Yay me, indeed.

After completing a rather full and busy day at work (9am to 6:30pm) I was left with a choice: To gym or not to gym. That was the question.

I knew I should go, but I didn't want to. I wanted to drag my ass home, have dinner and watch my Martha. But, I put the money down on this membership because my body needs to be active. Both were compelling feelings, so I did what any sane person would do: I left it up to fate.

I told myself that as I was approaching the gym, I'd see what the bus stop was looking like. If it appeared as though I had just missed a bus, I'd go the gym. If it looked as if one was about to come (ie: a bunch of people waiting), I would just catch it and forego the workout.

Turns out that fate wanted to see me do crunches tonight. As I rounded the corner to where both the stop and the gym were, I was greeted by the site of the bus pulling away. The gym it was.

I'm glad it turned out the way it did. I only did 40 min of cardio & some ab exercises, but I was amazed by how quickly all of my swirling thoughts of work melted away. THAT was nice. However, I was starving afterward. I picked up a sandwich at the nearby grocery store and began demolishing it once I cleared the nest of shopping carts at the store's entrance (had it not been a faux pas to just start eating in line at the check out, I would have done that).

Despite feeling great for having gone after work, I'd like to try getting my gym time done in the morning. Getting up at that hour will suck, but I'm not exactly fond of dining in parking lots and coming home after 9pm, either. Go figure.

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Is This What Old Feels Like?

Yesterday was another day of tennis, but this time it was singles matches. Needless to say, I got destroyed by my opponents but somehow still found it fun. I’m going to snoop around and see what kind of indoor tennis clubs there are in town so that come next season, I’ll surprise the shit out of everyone by being mediocre rather than full-out crappy.

Today I’m paying for my tennis-ways. The body parts that are sore are as follows:
* Back (upper & lower)
* Shins
* Ankles
* Shoulder
* Forearm
* Wrist
* Butt
* Hamstrings
* Calves
* Feet
* Scalp (my headband was too tight and all pull-y on my hair)

My body (minus my left arm and hand which didn’t do anything but mock the rest of me) feels like I went hard-core mountain climbing when in reality all I did was chase a ball around for a combined time of maybe an hour. I am one big heap of pathetic.

How is it that as a child, I could run around ALL DAY, pull myself up on monkey bars and head-butt into pretty much anything and everything – and be totally fine and act as if nothing significant happened – yet as a supposedly stronger version of myself (el adult), the simplest show of movement takes me straight to Acheville and becomes blog-worthy?

Le sigh.

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Tennis, anyone?

This is a day of great (and I mean no disrespect to any 9-11 mourners out there).

Today, Patrick and I participated in a little tennis tournament put on by friends. I am very new to tennis but not entirely horrible at it (not great, of course, but every so often I impressed myself with an unspazzy swing at the ball). Patrick played quite a bit through high school and a little in university, but hasn’t done much of it in years. In other words, we are the underdogs.

A little over a month ago, we played in our first “friend tournament” that was charmingly named The Open VAG (that’s Varsity All Gender, of course!). We came in last. Today’s tournament was the DD Cup (as in Dewson District – where we play, of course!). We raised our ranking to third (of six)! A vast improvement!

I am so enthused by our progress and the fun that can be had when one doesn’t suck that I’ve asked for a tennis racket for my birthday (I’ve had to borrow one for these tournies). Maybe one day I’ll even go so far as to join a tennis club and make friends with people named Sloane and Chip and Margot. Oooh – and I want to get a ‘real’ tennis outfit that has that a skirt with a secret pocket to store balls in! (It’s just too easy to make a joke about drag queens with that one, so I’ll just skip it).

My current tennis outfit consists of a little pink skirt that is entirely too short to wear under normal circumstances, a little striped pink top that reminds me of those cherry-flavoured candy canes and something cutesy with my hair (either little piggie tails or a big bandana). As you can see, I also don’t wear make-up to play tennis but I'm putting this pic up because I look smaller than I normally do in photos (and THAT is FANTASTIC).

Another reason why today was great:
We came home and decided to have a late “French” lunch. We had baguette, wine, brie, pate and grapes. Very yum. Costly on the points, but once I included my hard-earned activity points, I came out right where I should. Oh la la!

A reason why things will continue to be great:
New Family Guy! On tonight!

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What Is "A Song By A Flock Of Seagulls", Alex?

Tonight was running night. Quite frankly, I am surprised that running night has survived beyond the first night because I have quite the talent for quitting exercise programs. This evening’s run, though, wasn’t a great example of me pushing myself. My dear running partner and I met as planned and started the program (a learn-to-run method). We are currently running for 4 minutes, walking for 1 minute and then repeating that for an hour.

Half way through, I buckled and cried uncle and we switched to 4 running, 2 walking. A few moments of panting later I cried great uncle and we ditched the running component completely and just walked the rest of the night. Ha – oops? In the end, we ran for 32 minutes and walked for 43 minutes (we stayed out a bit longer than an hour, so I say we get points for that, right?).

I’m going to vow to get out during the weekend and attempt the 4:1 on my own so that by the time Thursday rolls around I’ll be a bit more prepared. Roar. Grrrr. Hmmm. Sigh. Zzzzzzz.

Speaking of which, I keep having Buffy The Vampire Slayer dreams. Patrick (my looovah) and I have been watching Buffy non-stop (he has only just discovered this show, so I broke out the DVD collection with crazy delight) which explains this. Last night, Giles and I were in a mall trying to find ingredients for a magic spell at The GNC. Bizarro, I tell you.

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