Year of the Dog

Last New Year's Eve wasn't a particularly happy one. I had just returned from a nice Christmas with my parents but brought an awful cold home with me. I therefore decided to stay in that night rather than infect anyone else (not that I had massive New Year's plans anyway, truth be told).

I didn't feel like I had a whole lot to look forward to in the New Year. I was weeks away from handing over all my money to someone who had betrayed me, all in order to keep the home that *I* had bought. I was stewing over the unfairness of it all; the consequence he faced for breaking our vows was walking away richer. But mostly, I felt like a moron for ever trusting him in the first place. I should have known. I should have never bailed him out of trouble those times. I should have insisted on a pre-nup. I should have dumped him when he never came home that one night. I should have left when he showed up late to our very first date. I should have, I should have ...

I was calmly and dignifiedly wallowing in these thoughts on that New Year's evening when a minor incident turned me into a sobbing mess of First World self-pity:

While attempting to put a new bulb in the overhead porch light, the entire thing came down except for the electrical wires that kept the heavy fixture precariously clinging to the ceiling of my porch. The sky was quickly darkening as I stood on my step ladder holding the glass fixture over my head. As my hands were busy, my nose took it as an opportunity to drip uncontrollably, stinging and chapping my upper lip. Over and over again, I tried to get the damn fixture up without success. Gloves made it impossible to feel the spot where the light was supposed to latch onto, so I stubbornly kept at it even though my bare fingers were numb from the December cold.

After an hour of frustrating effort, I was forced to leave the stupid fixture hanging there, where it swung about in the growing wind. I thought a flurried gust would surely pull the fixture too hard, the wiring would get ripped out, and an electrical fire would somehow ensue. I would die stupid and alone and the ex would walk away with the insurance money because the house hadn't been fully transferred into my name yet.

The last part, especially, made me mad.

And so I cried.

I wondered why I was fighting so hard and relinquishing every bit of savings I had (and didn't have) in order to keep a house I was too inept to manage. I mean, I couldn't even change a lightbulb properly! I wondered why I was the one who had to deal with this shit by herself. Why was I the only one dealing with consequences. And why the fuck was I financing his latest romantic getaways. I wondered how I got myself into this stupid position with the stupid light fixture and stupid house and stupid life to begin with. At one point, I'm pretty sure I even screamed, "WHY!?!" in a moment of ridiculous drama that puts Darth Vader to shame.

And that's how I ended 2012: screaming and crying my sorry ass to sleep.

The next day was infinitely better. With the promise of a new year, the arrival of a morning's light, and a build-up of mass hysteria purged from my system, I conquered the porch fixture. I never could get it back up, but thanks to phone consultations with my dad, a friend's husband, and the Internet (the trifecta!), I figured out how to turn off the power, remove the connected wiring from the fixture, and cap the wires. ALL BY MYSELF. I even took a frigging picture of it.

I capped those wires. Yes, yes I did.

(Mind you, I didn't replace the light until later in the spring, but that's not the point.)

It's amazing what not feeling helpless will do for a person, and that's something I've taken with me since that night.

But onto the real point of this post ...

Even though I didn't know it at the time, The Great Removal of the Porch Light wasn't the best thing to have happened that day. I wouldn't realize until months later that something else fantastic occurred on January 1, 2013.

You see, my sweet Huck, the heartbeat at my feet, is a New Year's baby. Somewhere around the time that I was figuring out my breaker panel, my darling little dog was being born.

The rescue organization took him in right away that day. He looked like this but smaller:

 
And last night, curled on my bed as the old year softly drifted away, he looked like this:

While this New Year's Eve was another quiet night in, it wasn't sad. It wasn't helpless. It wasn't drowning in self-pity. It wasn't wasted thinking bitterly about exes and poor decisions made.

It was gratefully spent with one of the best little treasures to enter my life. It was serene. It was warm. It was a happy New Year's.

What a difference a year makes.

If you've seen my Instagram feed, the fact that I love my dog should come as no surprise. I am, undoubtedly, obsessed with this little mutt of mine.

While I have many other people and things I appreciate, love and am overwhelmingly grateful for this year (including the best family ever, terrific friends, a good job, my health, a home of my own, and my first ever food garden), Huck / Huckers / Huck McDuck / Huckleberry / Dr. Huckstable / The Mother Hucker has been this year's standout.

He makes me laugh. He's forced me to become patient. He's taught me to let go. He's shown me how to enjoy the moment. He gives me the best excuses to stop what I'm doing and play.

He is 65 pounds of unconditional love.

Today, on his first birthday, I'm making it all about him. We're about to hit the dog park. And then nap. And then play catch. And then eat treats, nap and play some more, including goofing around with the toys that annoyingly squeak. I'll even feed him his fave, tripe (or as I call it, Death in a Can). And we'll hang by the window and get mad at all the cats that dare to enter our fields of vision. And maybe a last-minute walk. And then we'll call it a day - a very good day.

Happy New Year to you. Happy birthday, dear pal. You've made my year.

Read more...

The Year That Was

MAN HANDS is BACK!

Hello.

So, it's been a while, right?

First, I want to thank everyone who commented or wrote to me over the past few months. I appreciate the notes. You're all dollies. I also apologize for the fact that I basically responded to no one like the ungrateful slob I am. I guess I mostly didn't know what to say.

Perhaps I haven't written back or updated this blog because I didn't want this place to rival the depressing vibe of a departing gate in the Las Vegas airport. Don't get me wrong, my life really isn't that bad (in fact, I'm a lucky person in a million, zillion ways) but I just didn't have it in me to put on a brave, smiling digital face for everyone. It's tiring enough to do that in real life.

I was also worried that if I turned to the ol' blog during this time, I'd use it to vent and lay out some dirty, dirty forklift-foot-level dirty laundry about a certain someone and that would interfere with this whole 'taking the high road' facade I'm trying to keep up.

With the exception of some very recent paper signing and key-handing-overs, I haven't seen Patrick since he moved out in May. Well, that's not quite true. I was out one day and spotted him with his girlfriend downtown. (It is taking a fair bit of willpower not to add adjectives and a different use of nouns to that sentence. *HighRoadHighRoadHighRoadHighRoad...*)

This GIF perfectly demonstrates how that encounter went:



Yep. I hid. It was either that or ... I don't even know. A million savage / glorious / humiliating / underwhelming / regretful things come to mind.

We've essentially only been communicating through very civil e-mails and lawyers. And I'm totally, totally cool with that. I probably should be bothered that I haven't had any real contact with the person I spent eight years with, but ... I'm not. I guess that's what happens when you don't want someone in your life anymore.

Besides the super-fun annihilation of my marriage, the agency I worked at and really enjoyed working at all but closed its doors. Despite having an amazing team that was doing great work, some shit happened behind the scenes that was beyond our control and the bulk of us - including yours truly - wound up without a job. This, as I was paying lawyer fees out my ass and buying Patrick out of the house.

Oh, and just as tragic, I found my first white hair. Not grey. White. Like a fucking piece of dental floss sprouting out of my scalp.

So, to recap, I'm:

• divorcing
• unemployed
• broke
• about to turn into the Crypt Keeper

Ain't that just a bit of terrific.

But 2012 wasn't all a shit show. A year never is. You especially realize how small and stupid your complaints are when, sadly, other people in the world and your community have faced truly horrible things that we can't even wrap our heads and hearts around.

So, some of the good stuff that happened included:

• I got to see my friends and family at their very, stellar best. I am so tear-jerkingly lucky to have some really solid, wonderful, beautiful people in my corner and in my life. They're basically the best humans on earth. Fact.
• I had a job that I really loved (well, most of the time) that gave me the chance to work on cool projects while paying me well enough that I was able to save a bunch of money to ...
• ... keep my lovely home and buy it from Patrick. Part of the buy-out is done which means the deed (and mortgage, hurrah) is transferring solely into my name (maiden name, y'all!) now.
• I met some amazing people when I was with the agency, including someone who is now a really good friend. He's happily married (to a woman I'm pleased to also now call my friend) and Brazilian which makes him almost exactly like a gay BFF. I also now know more random facts about Brasil than any Canadian who ever existed and have consumed more Caipirinhas in 2012 than in all my previous years combined. My liver is not amused.
• I listened to a fuck-tonne of music, discovered new bands and have basically become one with Tina Turner. I made a playlist of what I've been listening to on repeat if you're interested in hearing what the soundtrack of my life is like (but the song I've been listening to ad nauseam is at the bottom of this post).
• I enjoyed some nice walks home and stops in the park during a beautiful summer and even got myself a bicycle. Now if only I had the courage to ride it on streets containing cars.
• Romney not getting bloody elected. Yes, even us little Canadians care about that.
• I got my first thing ever from Tiffany's (from my actual gay BFF). Appropriately, it's a vessel for alcohol.
• I experienced Ontario cottage life not once but twice this summer. I think I'll have to make it an annual thing.
• I ate all kinds of stuff and in true hipster fashion took pictures of most of it. How cool of me.

So ... I really do have plenty of things to be happy about.

Which brings us to the next question: What's next?

I mostly don't know. But I'm thinking:

• I obviously have to get my career back on track. Or not. There are days when I seriously consider applying to the neighbourhood grocery store, becoming a checkout girl, and not giving a flying fuck about having career aspirations. And then there are days when I really want to afford HBO again.
• I might have an opportunity to take a totally different spin in the 50s Housewife Experiment thing (clearly different, what with that whole lack of being a wife technicality and all. Heh.). I don't want to say too much about it as it might not happen, but it could be pretty funny. Or get me sued. We'll see. (And no, some of you have asked, I had nothing to do with Wives in Beehives. I caught the show, though. It had potential but I was disappointed that the producers decided to take it in the tired 'lady dramz' direction. Boo.).
• I'll probably get a dog. (!!!) I've wanted one forever and now that I don't live with someone with allergies, I'm free to make that happen. The idea of this makes me really, really, really happy.
• A return to blog writing. I've missed it. I've missed you, whoever you all are.

And that's basically it. That's what's been going on and not going on. I'm sure to make Barbara Walter's Most Fascinating People list.

And you? How are you? Let me know.

Read more...

History Month

February kicks off Black History Month - a reminder of not just the history of black people, their accomplishments, and how they rose up against inequality and intolerance, but it's also a reminder of the history of the people who challenged progress (or, to be exceedingly kind about it, "didn't know any better"). It is the history of a multicultural society that has made leaps forward, and can continue to make leaps forward, provided that we learn from the past.

A little while ago, I shared one of my not-so-fun vintage finds, an article from 1965 about neighbours giving their opinion on the prospect of a "Negro family" moving onto their street. While I can't claim to have the most extensive of vintage media collections, that article was among the earliest I had in my hoard pile possession that straight-forwardly dealt with race relations and bigotry. Because I tend to collect magazines and books targeted to women in the 1950s, the content of the material I have is decidedly focused on homemaking, family relationships, and fashion. Current events tended to take a back seat to "Easy Flower Arrangements You'll Love" and "How To Choose A Fur".

But if you specifically look for examples of how civil rights and attitudes around race were addressed in the 1950s mainstream media, you'll surely find them. Below is a half-hour drama called Crossroads that aired on CBC in 1957. Directed by the National Film Board's Don Haldane, Crossroads is a "sensitive drama that tells the story of a couple, Roy and Judy, and the reactions they encounter when they announce their intention to marry, reactions complicated by the fact that Roy is black and Judy is white."

According to what I've researched, Crossroads was well received by the Canadians who watched it on TV in 1957 and was applauded for its sensitive and accurate portrayals of people at the time. One wonders how it would have gone over in the United States.

It's interesting and sad, inspiring and infuriating, and it's a part of your history and mine, regardless of where our ancestors came from. It's a history that shapes relations and politics today within our countries, and it's hopefully a history was can continue to learn from.

Read more...

35 Facts About My Parents That I'm Going To Share With The Internet Whether They Like It Or Not (Because They're Not The Boss Of Me Anymore)

35. It's my parents' 35th wedding anniversary today!
34. My mom's name is Marie-Paule, but she just goes by Marie to appease the anglophones of Alberta.
33. My father's name is Joe, he has always gone by Joe, even though in his high school yearbook he's referred to as "Joey". He claims he has no idea why someone would have written that.
32. In my mom's high school yearbook, she was given the nickname "Lips". She claims it's because she has big lips, but we all know that isn't true.
31. I mean, this is what she looked like back then. You just know she was beating the boys off:

30. With a stick. WITH A STICK, you sickos.
29. But surely my dad was quite the catch, too:

28. Uh ... anyway ... they got married in a tiny ceremony at city hall. They had a party at their home afterwards.
27. The bride was 19. She wore a white dress and gigantic glasses.
26. The groom was 26. He wore a velvet clip-on bow tie.
25: See for yourself:

24. It was the 70s.
23. Evidence:

22. They lived in a town that looks like what every American thinks of when they think of Canada:

21. Back then, they did weird things for fun:

20. And wore a lot of short shorts with sandals with other people who wore short shorts and sandals:

19. But then after a couple of years, they ruined it all:

18. Parenting did not always come naturally:

17. But despite that, they decided to have another kid and this weirdo showed up:

16. And because no one used sunscreen back then, their older child turned into a little Mexican. The couch stayed the same:

15. See - no sunscreen!

14. It got to the point that the little Mexican eventually turned into a small Indian woman. And the couch still stayed the same:

13. They celebrated many Christmases together and styled their children's hair into festive mullets during the winter months to make up for their lack of ethnically-confusing suntans:

12. Now that the family had conquered style, Marie decided to finally get a new couch. Actually, she just reupholstered the old ugly one. This was right around the time the eldest child's looks peaked and she started to look Italian, while the younger one had turned into a boy:

11. But Marie and Joe kept up the glamour; Marie with a can of hairspray a day and Joe with his promise to not let his beard get all "I-am-the-leader-of-a-cult" again ...

10.  ... like it had been in the '80s:

9. And Joe and Marie kept on living it up with things like curling at MacDonald Island, hanging out with their friends, and working at companies that make Al Gore cry.
8. Eventually their children grew up and moved away and Marie and Joe had nothing left to live for celebrated this by moving into a whole bunch of houses - first to Edmonton, then to Saskatoon, and finally settling in Okotoks.
7. They've retired and now do lots of travelling, especially to areas of the world that allow them to let it all hang out:

6. But when they're home they like to do the very opposite of what I like to do, and that's go outside and not eat. They especially like it if this outdoorsy-ness involves hiking up the side of a mountain:

5. But they also do things that I can relate to:

4. And during all this time and despite all the challenges - like cancer, stresses of raising a family, 80s fashion experiments, and jerk children who spill family stories on the Internet like the time Marie went nuts and threw out ALL of the children's toys - they actually still seem to like each other.
3. You can even see it in other people's wedding pictures:

2. They are such a nice couple and such nice people that even when their silly children talk to each other on Skype they say things like, "how cute are Mom and Dad?" and "I love how they're still in love" and "they really showed us what good marriage was" and "I can't believe how lucky we were to have them as parents". It gets even more mushier and smooshier than that if one or both of the children has been drinking.
1. Everybody who knows them, and even some of the people who don't (right, Internet?), wish them a very happy 35 years of marriage and many, many more happy years together.

We love you.

Read more...

WWJD

As far as years go, 2001 was pretty much a flaming bag of dog shit and donkey balls. Of course, there's that standout reason why 2001, as a whole, has a bad rep, but I've observed that a lot of people had additional things happen in their lives - before and after September - that helped cement 2001 with the title of Worst Year Ever.

For me, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, which wasn't a big tragedy or anything and was actually / eventually a good thing, but it was a tough change. A week or two later while we were still living together, he got jumped by some real winners and was stabbed in the neck. He survived (and we're still friends. He came to my wedding, even!) but spent a good deal of time in ICU and recovering at home under my care and it was an incredibly fucked up time, to put it lightly. Later in the year, after I had just moved into a new apartment, I got unexpectedly laid off from my job and couldn't find work in my field for months. So, yah, 2001 sucked it just fine without terrorists coming along and mind-fucking everyone.

One day in early July of said heinous year, I got a call from my dad. His voice sounded so weird - so hollow. He said, "I have some really bad news."

My stomach dropped and I felt like I had turned to stone from standing so still and waiting for what felt like an eternity for whatever horrible thing he was going to say next. It had probably only been a week earlier that he had called me with a hesitation in his voice and with a similar lead-in to the conversation: He had then let me know that he had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.

I mentioned that 2001 was a total asshole, right?

"No, it's not that. It's not me," he quickly said, guessing that this was now two bad news calls in a row and that I probably thought they were related.

A sense of relief flickered for a second, only to be replaced with a new sense of dread. God, what else? What now?

"Um," he stammered for a moment, "Your cousin Jonathan has died," he finally croaked out.

When your brain is running around in that moment of waiting for bad news, your 18-year old cousin dying in a car accident tends not to be among the possibilities. I remember feeling all cold and nauseous and then immediately feeling waves of sadness for his family and the shock and grief they must have been in the pits of.

That was 10 years ago this weekend.

At the request of his family, this anniversary isn't to be marked with sadness, but we'll instead remember him fondly, share memories, and as you'll soon see - partake in some of his quirky passions.

My strongest memories of Jonathan are mainly from when he was younger - he was probably around nine or ten-years old or so. We lived a solid 12-hours drive from the Staniec's farm in Lanigan, Saskatchewan, so we didn't see the family all that much, but when we did, the visits were memorable. We often did "kid switches" where I would stay with the Staniecs for a week or two and their daughter, Jill, who is my sister's age, would came back with my parents and hang with my sister in Fort McMurray (and then vice-versa where my cousin Kim and I would go back together to Alberta).

I remember thinking it was oh-so clever of Jon (although, sure, totally mean) that he used to call his sister "Heather" - "Heifer". It was word play! Farm word play! And he wasn't just calling her a cow, he was calling her a virgin cow! Oh, how hilarious I thought that was. Because I, unsurprisingly, was a ho-bag and a word-geek even then.

I also recall all us kids listening to this one particular Ian Tyson song in a car ride into Saskatoon called "The Coyote and the Cowboy" by Ian Tyson. It was recorded in a bar, and there's a part where Tyson and the crowd sing about a "son of a bitch", and just like the people in the bar, we would SCREAM the word "bitch" every time. Hey! Don't blame us! Just following the lyrics! There's also a part of the song that we would get into fits of giggles over because it sounds like Animal from The Muppets is hollering in the background (from around 2:05 through to 2:20 in the song, should you be listening for it. I listened to it today and it TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL. We were so right!). We'd play the song over and over and over again until my Aunt Janice justifiably yelled at us to knock it off:



I remember after one particularly grueling trip out to the farm, my family had driven over a stretch of highway that was just being paved and was in no condition for a car to go over it. My dad was seriously pissed about this, as a bunch of wet tar and asphalt had kicked up and splatted all over the hood and around the wheels. We had gone to a professional car wash before arriving in Lanigan and even these guys couldn't get the muck off.

For Jonathan, this was his Everest.

"Can I wash your car, Uncle Joe?" he said, his eyes glimmering as he looked over the tar-speckled minivan.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Jonathan," my dad said, slightly surprised by the request.

"But can I?" Jonathan asked again.

My dad was stunned. Maybe it was because he was the father of two brats girls who would view having to clean the car as a form of punishment.

"He likes it," my cousin Kim said. "Like, he, really, really, REALLY likes cleaning cars."

"Well, if you insist," my dad said, still perplexed. "But if you can't get that tar off, don't worry about it. The guys at the car wash couldn't even get it off."

This look crossed Jon's face as if to say, "this car hasn't met me yet."

The rest of us kids went off to do the things we most liked doing on the farm: ride the ATVs, form a secret spy club with headquarters in the barn, play with the new calf, and pee our pants from laughing too hard - something someone would later blame on an animal ("I sat in cat pee ..." Sure, Jen, sure. Something you should know about me: I've never let a full bladder get in the way of a good, hard laugh. It's disgusting, really.).

Jonathan, however, went to work on the minivan with a determination worthy of an inspirational 80s power ballad. I even remember him working through lunch, something I've never let happen in my 30+ years on earth.

Hours later, my dad had summoned us all to marvel over Jonathan's work. The beige-but-blackened minivan that had tiredly rolled onto their gravel driveway earlier that day now looked like it had just come off the sale lot.

"Jesus Christ," my dad said, staring at the sparkling vehicle before him. "You really did a hell of a job on that. I mean it. You really did a phenomenal job."

Jonathan smiled with a quiet pride, simply said, "thanks" and strolled off. This, too, stunned my father, as he was generally used to kids - namely a certain daughter of his - lapping up the compliments like a pig and spending the next hour explaining exactly what she had done and how hard it was and why it was so important that it be done in the manner she had painstakingly done them.

Jon's love of cars - and cleaning them - became a hallmark of his, as was the way he mowed a lawn (alternate directions each time, no going back and forth, and whenever possible, he'd get two mowers going to pretend that he had a dual combine set up). There was the wrong way, the right way, and the Super Meticulous Jon Staniec way of doing these things. These things were so much a part of him that this weekend, his family recently asked everyone to mow their lawns or wash their cars "as Jonathan would" while thinking of him.

D-bag Condo Girl here has neither a car nor a lawn, so I improvised:

It is so not the car Jon would go for, but alas, the little gift shop I went to had no sports cars. It was this or a pink new Beatle with flowers on it. Of the two, I'm pretty sure this is the better choice to honour Jon's memory with:

Sparkling new!

And for the lawn ... the closest thing I could find was organic wheatgrass at the market:

Thank you, superfood-loving-hippies-and-yuppies of Toronto.

Even with scissors, I didn't do nearly the good job Jonathan would have done. That, I can guarantee.

If you're a friend or family member of Jon's, please share your thoughts here or on the Facebook event that Jill set up.

To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.
-Thomas Campbell

We miss you, Jonathan, but you are far from forgotten.

Read more...

Oh. My. God.

This is a random picture I found online of a
dorm room in Rundle Hall. The man in the
picture isn't me. Or Heidi.

This blogging thing has finally paid off!

A week ago, my roommate from first-year at the University of Calgary - Heidi - sent me a Facebook Message asking for my mailing address. My best guess as to what she was sending? Proof that she could blackmail me.

I didn't leap to that conclusion because Heidi is some kind of crazy bitch. Rather, I figured she was going to blackmail me because I really, really had it coming and owed her some payback.

You see, Heidi and I were strangers who were assigned to live together in a single room in residence. Little did she know, she'd have to share a space the size of a shoe box with someone who was mentally ill. I wasn't technically mentally ill, but it's the only non-shameful way to explain why I was such a disastrous roommate.

We were sort of like The Odd Couple. Heidi was a pretty and charming nursing student who liked to paint, drink Growers Cider, hang out with her friends from Drumheller, and prove to anyone who asked (or didn't) that she could do the splits. Then there was me - the uncouth Communications student who liked to braid her arm hair, drink - well - anything, hang out with the TV, and couldn't touch her toes if her life depended on it (my inflexibility is so bad that I even took part in a study done by the university's Kinesiology department on the issue. That's nothing to be proud of, and yet I smile as I recall all those future sports therapists huddling around me in awe as I showed off my limited range of motion).

Where Heidi's half of the room was very tidy a la Felix Ungar, I was Oscar Madison - slob extraordinaire - that is, if Oscar liked to buy vintage clothes and put up posters from John Hughes movies. My junk possessions literally created a line down the middle of the room. You see, I was "considerate" enough not to let my mound of shit go onto her side. Never mind the fact that when you opened the door, you were greeted with my piles of CDs and dirty clothes. Never mind that Heidi pretty much could never have her friends over for fear of being humiliated. Never mind that I had probably created some kind of health and fire hazard that she had to sleep in every night.

The other thing she got to put up with? The whole fact that I never went to class. Oh, sure - each day I had intentions to take advantage of the higher education my parents I had paid for. But then the alarm would go off and I'd be bagged from a late night of watching The Jerry Springer Show and then I'd remember that I didn't technically have to go unless there was a test. And so I'd keep sleeping ... without bothering to turn off the alarm. And just a few feet from me Heidi would be lying there without my gift of being able to ignore obvious things.

"Um, you gonna go to class, Jen?" she said, surely through gritted teeth.

The question would annoy me because I figured she was judging me. Which she probably was, as anyone would, and was the least awful thing she could have done.

"Mmm ... no," I'd mumble. "It's cancelled today," I'd lie.

"Okay," Heidi would say with the patience of a saint, "so, can you turn off your alarm?"

Ugh. Sheesh. And then I'd use my ab muscles for the first and last time that day and stretch over to the foot of my bed and stop the ringing.

What's a miracle about this whole scenario is that Heidi never once lost her shit on me. Papa Smurf knows, she was entitled to it. I would have lost my shit on me. And that's why I thought that maybe it was only now that she was going to get back at me, seeing as my blog has reached celebrity status with its audience of 12. I'm quite certain she has a fair amount of things she could share with the world that would be of embarrassment to me: photos of my half of the room; details of how I used to write two paragraphs of an assignment and yank at the paper as it was coming out of the printer as to create the illusion that my printer had jammed - and then take that paper and go to class armed with fake tears in order to get a free extension; video of me doing an exceptionally insensitive recreation of the last days of life of the Heaven's Gate cult members ...

And anything Heidi could demand would be fair: That I fly out to Alberta and clean her home until it's spotless. That I wake up whenever her children squawk in the middle of the night and tend to them, allowing her to sleep in. That I keep a steady supply of Growers Cider and Dairy Queen Blizzards coming her way.

But instead of any of that, she's sent me a hand-written (!) note updating me on her (She lives on a farm! She has two darling children! She likes my blog!) and a fantastic care package consisting of these:

Peanut Butter Slice and Puffed Wheat Squares!

Oh. My. God.

What I've pictured is nothing - she sent me a whole box of them! Happy memories of Alberta flooded my body as I munched on Heidi's homemade gift. And then Patrick came in from work and I was all, "Look!" and he was all, "Where did you get those?" and I was like, "An angel sent them to me!" and then he dropped his bags and just stood there with his mouth open waiting for me to feed him.

I wish I had a video of Patrick's First Peanut Butter Slice and Patrick's First Puffed Wheat Square, like how parents have documented the major milestones of their children. He was enamoured with the Peanut Butter Slice, but the Puffed Wheat Square officially gave him a food boner.

"Oh, my, this is so divine."

I love that when it comes to talking about food, my husband says things that only an old woman or a gay man would normally utter.

And so we laid there in the hotel eating these treats made by someone who could have told me to eat shit instead. Is Heidi nice or what?!?

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!

Read more...

That Could Have Been Me

In late 2001, I was laid off from my first career job - a communications position at The Comedy Network. Losing a job was terribly humiliating, but the silver lining meant that I was no longer forced to watch The Mike Bullard Show for a living. The Mike Bullard Show was the kind of program that people would say "I wouldn't watch that if you paid me" and the fact that I was employed, in part, to watch it, proved once and for all that I was a liar whose standards could be bought off for the low price of $31,750 a year (before taxes).

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only person who got the post-9/11 job-heave-ho and I recall that a lot of people were out of work in my field. Because opportunities were incredibly lacking, I spent the greater part of 2002 working as a temp in various offices (oh, the stories I could tell), doing part-time work for a call centre of an online casino (another story goldmine), and daydreaming about winning the lottery (I probably still have the Excel spreadsheet somewhere detailing how I would divvy the money up among family. Just kidding, I wouldn't share any of it).

During this time, I also explored a few different career paths and seriously looked into going to Teacher's College. I even started filling in the form. That is, until I got to the part of the application that suggested I acquire a few hundred volunteer hours working with children. And my reaction:

Volunteer with kids? UUUGGGHGHHHH. Fuck that.

And that's when I knew that I probably shouldn't apply to be a teacher.

But if I had gone along with it, I can 100% envision myself being the kind of professional Cameron Diaz plays in this trailer for Bad Teacher (except without the hot bod, the need for a boob job or what will surely include a Full House-esque lesson - delivered by children - about how great it actually is to be a good teacher. Pretty sure I'd still be horrible and dead inside.):

Warning - the language is awesomely colourful (see: lewd). If your workplace, spouse or child isn't down with the f-bomb, you might want to put on headphones!

Read more...

Bye Bye 2010 ... Hello 2011!

Image Source: Queen Poison Slayer

It's New Year's Eve Eve (New Year's Adam?) and since we're travelling tomorrow, I wanted to write a quick post to wish you all well and reflect a little on this year.

Like all years, 2010 had its ups and downs but undoubtedly the biggest thing that impacted us was the sudden passing of my father-in-law, Paul. I won't dwell on it here, but losing Paul has been pretty tough on the Byck family and I hope that 2011 offers some healing and plenty of things to celebrate and feel grateful for. While we can't replace the holes left by people who pass on, we can continue to let ourselves grow and honour the memories of our loved ones by living the best lives we can. So, here's hoping we do just that.

On the pluses for 2010, Patrick is enjoying his new job, my freelancing is going well and the 50s Housewife Experiment has brought some potential opportunities my way, plus it's connected me to some cool peeps on the blogosphere and beyond. My sister's engagement and happiness has been a pretty nice highlight as has my dad's ability to keep cancer at bay this year. All good stuff that I'm super thankful for.

As for 2011? It's a clean slate for us all. I'll hopefully be working on some 50s housewife stuff behind the scenes but she might resurface on the blog again - you never know! I'm toying with the idea of doing a 1940s Housewife Experiment (I have oodles of resources, specifically concerning wartime activities) or even a 1960s Experiment focusing on a special collection of materials I have (hint: It's from a glamorous woman's club!). Any preferences, bloggy readers?

Our New Year's Eve celebration won't be era-focused - instead we're hopping on a plane and going to Las Vegas! Eeee! (Don't get any ideas, would-be-robbers; we have someone staying at our place while we're gone!) As you can imagine, it will be all class - because nothing is classier than me, on New Years, in Las Vegas. Heh. The toxicity in my body will likely be higher than the time we ate the Asparagus Meat Mold, so I have a feeling that for the first few weeks of January, you'll be hearing about vegan this and juice that and other hippie nonsense that I'll believe will cleanse my insides.

Should you be disappointed with the lack of 50s New Year's stuff on the blog, I dug up this video that I found online. It's of a wee New Year's Eve Party from the 1950s, complete with Vienna Sausages *shudder*:


Thanks for coming by the blog this year! I hope your New Year's Eve is hap-hap-happy and safe, and that 2011 is your best year yet!

Read more...

Things To Remember

Yesterday, I shared with you my most ridiculous and self-indulgent blog post ever (although I'm sure I'll best it before you know it - I have a knack for acting like a twit). Now, I'm awkwardly switching gears to touch on something completely different and not nearly as idea inspiring absurd as Patrick's Man Cage.

Today in Commonwealth countries and the Netherlands, we recognize Remembrance Day. In the U.S., it's Veteran's Day and in France, it's Armistice Day. In Germany, it's We Really Can't Be Trusted With Right-Wing Leadership Day. Aw, I kid, Germany. I like you .... now.**

**(Edited to say: Ack - I just don't have the heart / balls / other anatomical feature to leave that joke hanging there like that today. In all seriousness, the average German person was just as much a victim of expansionism and fascism and runaway government power as the rest of the world. I genuinely don't want to belittle that fact or appear like an ignorant dick. "Too late, Jen," said the masses.)

[Back to serious ...]

It was 92 years ago today that World War I - "the war to end war"- was officially over. As a society, we seem to be very good at coming up with catchy slogans and unfortunately very bad at living up to them. The estimated 55 Million people who died in World War II alone (which started just 21 years after World War I ended) is sad proof of this.

Today we think about and honour our fallen, those who served and those who still serve. They deserve our respect and reflection not just today, but every day.

This is not a pro-war sentiment. If anything, facing the grim reality of war should act as a deterrent for violent aggression of any kind. War should not be romanticized. It is not Andrews Sisters songs or handsome uniforms or brightly coloured flags. While we often see true examples of courage, determination and loyalty in the midst of it, war is a story of death and despair. It is brutally efficient in its ability to rip apart families, maim the body and spirit, and destroy human potential in ways we can never measure. We'll never know what marvelous possible inventions, cures, ideas, inspiring words, works of art and moments of happiness were stamped out with all those precious lives - military and civilian.

I'm reminded of this fact by some of my books (and no, I'm not thinking of all those cookbooks I have that could all basically share the title of Good Housekeeping's Book of Why We Now Have Food Stylists). Second in size to my shelf of 1950s housewife-focused material, is my collection of books and publications produced for the British and North American war wives of the 1940s.

Every one of these is amazing and interesting and worth sharing, but one especially stands out for me today.

They Can't Ration These was written by Vicomte De Mauduit, a food enthusiast who considered himself a "wandering nobleman" and enjoyed life in France, England and America. Originally printed in 1940 (mine's a reprint), the book details all the ways a person can find unexpected food and fuel sources available in the wilds and country-side. With food and fuel scarcities being real problems for the people of wartime Britian (an issue that often fell on the shoulders of wives and mothers to resolve), Vicomte De Mauduit's tips on identifying and cooking things like wild grasses, roots and birds and information regarding which types of bark, plants and forest material could keep a fire going best may have saved, or at least, bettered countless lives when in the hands of industrious women. He even showed people how to have a little cheer, with tips on making homemade wines, beer and the odd beauty product.

Vicomte De Mauduit was a person of greater stature than the average war wife and likely didn't always have the same concerns and needs that she did. And yet, he used his resources during this difficult time to get such a book out to her. Along with attempting to show others how they could fulfill their basic needs, Vicomte De Mauduit was also inspired to promote a sense of optimism of the future and better days, a time in which he hoped this information could continue to help people. In the book's preface, he says:

During the war [this book] will serve to relieve some of the strain on the nations' food supply and will teach those of us who will turn to the country-side for immunity from direct war destruction how to maintain life in the case of difficulties with regard to the carriage and distribution of food.

And when Peace will again come on Earth, the people of Britain, already made conscious through food rationing that meals no longer consist of a hot and then cold "joint with two veg", will find this book a practical and valuable guide to better things.

The little boost of cheer given by Vicomte De Mauduit is sharply flattened by news on the book's inside flap:

Vicomte De Mauduit wrote four cookery books, THEY CAN'T RATION THESE (1940) being the last. He is believed to have been captured by the Nazis after the Fall of France and to have died in Germany.

It makes your stomach flop to read that. He became another brilliant soul snuffed out (we presume, it's horrible that we don't even know for sure what happened to him) just like millions of other brilliant souls the world never had a chance to know to begin with.

And so, today, as we honour our soldiers present and past, consider taking a moment to also think about the other victims of war and the larger impact it has on our collective being. We owe it to our troops, the memories of those before us and the future of those ahead to think about this every time someone in a position of power attempts to rally a battle cry. Thinking about whether it is worth the cost - the real cost - is the very least we can do.

[I promise, my next post will be more cheery than this ... unless it's about a JELL-O salad, in which case, I apologize in advance for the depressing turn this blog has made.]

Image Sources: They Can't Ration These by Vicomte De Mauduit; Veterans Affairs Canada; Persephone Books

Read more...

Lessons From A Husband-Obsessed 50s Housewife

Before I begin yammering about the lessons that I learned from the husband-obsessed 50s Housewife Experiment, I want to make it clear that - just like the initial list of 50s housewife lessons - I'm not suggesting that these notes are specifically for wives-only - they're applicable to anyone, regardless of gender, occupation or marital status. Frankly, I'm not even comfortable suggesting that any of this should be considered advice for anyone at all. After all, I'm just some random loudmouth you came across on the Internet. I'm not Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz or any other FrankenGuru spawned in Oprah's Laboratory™.

That said, I took what I consider to be the best ten nuggets of wisdom from the past week and explained them below. Some are really simple and obvious and some will BLOW. YOUR. MIND. Well, probably not. You might, in fact, just find them all to be as pointless and as confusing as the Rogers ringback. That's OK.

1. Know Your Meat
We ate more meat this time around to satisfy Patrick's bloodlust palate. If you eat meat (and you don't have to) it's in your interest to know more about it. There's different ways to marinate, cook, rest and pair different cuts to capture the best flavour and / or texture of this protein. Some cuts are just as wonderful as others when prepared right, but available for way cheap. Don't know what's what? Talk to a butcher! They're fantastic and knowledgeable in their craft and happy to help you out. Do also know that the meat your grandparents ate likely isn't like the meat you're getting at the grocery store today. All this talk about antibiotics in feed and factory farming and effed up crap (of the literal variety) getting in our food supply isn't just for dirty hippies to be concerned about. Do check out the information available if you feel so inclined.[/lecture]
* Only getting the best when getting meat - keeping it.
* Asking the butcher stupid questions - keeping it.
* Eating meat nearly everyday - ditching it.

2. Salads ARE For Lovers
If you love your health, you'll add some more leafy greens to your daily diet. They were part of the "Basic 7" foods every housewife was suggested to serve her family each day - and she was encouraged to eat and serve more of them if she was concerned about her or her husband's weight. Consider this: the average waist size of the American woman in the 1950s was 25". Today, the average is 10" bigger. That sounds like an ExtenZe testimonial gone horribly wrong. In any case, I'm sort of inclined to take the wee-waisteds' advice on this one.
* Having at least one salad a day - keeping it.

***Because I'm so appallingly desperate for attention nice, if you comment in this post, you'll be entered in a draw for a chance to WIN a copy of Good Housekeeping's Book of Salads (here's a lovely picture from within it. Mmm!) Please refer to my other vintage cookbook giveaway regarding the condition of this prize and the fact that you'll need to provide some way that I can track you down if you win. Comment about anything you want - there is no wrong thing to say. There is only Zuul. Deadline for the draw entries is Monday, November 15, 2010 at 6 PM EST.***

3. Maybe We're Addicted To Things That Go "Bing!"
This particular lesson is somewhat of an extension of the observation I picked up the first time I did a 50s Housewife Experiment - that lesson being "Maybe We're a Bit Too Distracted." Like last time, I did my best to avoid technologies not available in the 1950s (except when it came to blogging, obvies) - and man, was it ever hard. We had a rule that there could be no use of cell phones or computers or TV when we were dining or talking with one another (you can't lize and text!) and it got to a point that we literally had to turn everything OFF in order to accomplish this.

Like Pavlov's dogs, at the sound of the little alert (indicating a new e-mail, a text message, or a notice that someone had retweeted one of our *genius* musings), something strange would come over us. We could be in the middle of the deepest conversation of our lives (likely topics: doughnuts, Muppets, gout) and we'd hear a little "bing!" and life would stop. It would take everything in our power not to lunge for the gadget. And then we'd just stare at it - drooling. I'm not kidding, it was like some kind of drug response.

Turning everything off allowed us to concentrate on things-not-digital. It didn't kill us to be disconnected from that which went *bing!* for an hour or two and in fact allowed us to better connect with the other people in the room.
* Going out without cell phones - as if.
* Turning off all electronics for some private time together - keeping it.

4. Get Your Game On For Guests
For the most part, when I go out to parties and get-togethers, the main form of entertainment is drinking. Let me make it clear - I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Drinks are wonderful, wonderful things. Let's never, ever question that. That said, you can have drinks and games, like the amazingly fun night of Name Game.

The next time you're hosting people, consider encouraging a round of a favourite game, just like a 50s housewife would have. Want to know what's priceless about someone doing a charade version of Michael Keaton? It's the person in the room who was born after 1990 who asks, "Who the hell is Michael Keaton?" It's the fact that for a rare moment in time, NO ONE is looking at their iPhone or Blackberry or Not-Worthy-of-Mentioning-Brand of communication device; they're too busy losing their minds over the person flapping his arms and pouting and pretending to drive a Batmobile in your living room ("Mel Gibson?! Are you Mel Gibson?!"). Those are the moments we cherish, people. Those are the moments. *Tear*
* Forcing guests to participate in organized entertainment - does a clam have body odour? Hells, yes!
* Writing "Pacey Witter" as a name for the Name Game - no, because I was only person who shamefully knew who that was and therefore got yelled at for making an unfair suggestion.

5. Stop And Listen. No, Really, Really Listen
<- Now that's some epic lizing! Have you ever had a conversation with someone where you could tell they weren't really listening and yet you kept on talking? Why do we do that? Do we just like hearing ourselves talk? Or is it because - in our desperation to be heard - we don't give up on the hope that they might suddenly start listening? I know not every conversation we have will thrill us (trust me, I once dated someone who had a passion for trains. Oh, yawn), but putting in just a touch of effort by making eye contact and *trying* to concentrate on what the other person is saying (instead of spending that time formulating our own responses or reliving childhood shames in your head), is an appreciated gesture. It's probably also a good exercise in patience and focus.
* Lize like you mean it - keeping it
* Catching the ol' brain the next time it boots up an 80s TV theme song instead of focusing on the conversation at hand - keeping it

6. Advice Might Be Overrated
*Said the jerk giving pseudo advice* The original idea from my 1950s books - that a husband "doesn't desire" his wife's input, as if it's some kind of blanket statement for every relationship and situation, is a load of sexist bull. However, not constantly butting in with my amazing wisdom wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It let Patrick instead spend that time venting, or answering my questions or coming up with a solution on his own. And sometimes that's what he needs more. Perhaps the lesson is that there's a time and place for advice; a time and place to help people figure things out for themselves; a time and place to encourage; and a time and place to listen. And how do we figure out what's best at that moment? Maybe we simply ask the other person what they need. Go figure.
* Assessing or asking what he's looking for in our conversation - keeping it.
* Never giving advice - heh. So ditched.

7. Asking + Imagining = Consideration + Empathy = Better Everything
According to 1950s advice, a wife should learn all that she can about her spouse's workplace so that she could figure out ways to help him out. I actually don't think that's crap advice - but let's apply it to, well, everyone! Instead of letting stereotypes, misinformation or huffy first impressions influence us in what life is like for [a stay-at-home mom, a woman running her own business, the building janitor, an executive dad, a gay student in high school] - ASK them what goes on in their day - or in the very least, try to really imagine what their reality is like.

Once you have that information, use your imagination to its fullest to put yourself in his or her shoes. Why? Because the sooner you've gained a perspective of how another person lives and feels, the sooner you can (and are motivated to) stop judging and possibly even help them out - because we all could use a considerate gesture. I think a sense of empathy is the best trait a person could ever have - and I say that with utmost sincerity. Using the advice of learning more about Patrick's day and putting some mental energy into coming up with ways I could make things easier or better for him, I was able to truly improve my husband's week, and for all my goofing on the subject during this experiment, that matters to me immensely.

Again, it's not just a tip for wives to use: After having chatted about this very subject together, Patrick acknowledges that if he had stopped and really used his imagination to have thought about what I was likely going through while getting our dinner party in order, it would have resulted in better decisions on his part too.

This is not a 50s resource, but the point above is driven home far better, deeper and absolutely brilliantly in a Harvard commencement speech by J.K. Rowling (who also talks about the value in failing, also fabulous). If you decide to click on anything in this post, click on that - it is probably one of the best modern speeches I have heard (but I warn you, it's not about Muggles or Quidditch or Bertie Botts).
* Putting myself in others' shoes, including my husband's, more often - keeping it.
* Acting on that information more often - keeping it.
* Asking Patrick more questions about his job - keeping it.

8. The Nag Jar Isn't All Evil
Just writing that title makes me feel like I've walked into Chief Feministo's office, slapped my vagina on the desk and said, "Here! You want it? Well, there you go! I'm off the force!" and then strutted out of the office, my mullet flowing behind me, prompting Danny Glover to mutter, "I'm too old for this!"

And that's the second Mel Gibson reference in one post. Yikes.

But please hear me out on why the "fines" for nagging actually had some value (and not just to Patrick who spent his Nag Jar "winnings" on a Mustachio chicken and eggplant sandwich. "Mmm ... hot nagging goodness," he said as he bit into it.): It made me catch myself. It forced me to stop and think, "is this worth it?" - the 'this' being my squawking about something and the 'it' being $2. It made me actually think about picking my battles and the nature of nagging, something I sort of viewed as being an activity I was "forced" into by my partner ("if you just did what I wanted you to do in the first place, I wouldn't have to nag."). The fact is, no one is forcing you. If you don't like nagging, if it isn't very effective anyway (or it causes more drama than the original issue) recognize that there are other ways of getting things accomplished that will actually make you feel better.

The thing I can't co-sign about The Nag Jar is the bit about being penalized for "showing irritation." Shutting off a part of your healthy emotional range can't be good and can't lead to good things. You have to be honest in a relationship and to yourself and that includes moments of irritation. The only thing I'll nod about is that fully giving into feelings of irritation as if it were a part-time job is not how I personally want to go through life. I have an acquaintance who is bothered by everything. No one can do anything right. The world is against her. Every minor so-called grievance is worth harping about. Her Facebook statuses make Angela's Ashes seem cheery. If she had been keeping a Nag Jar in all the time I've known her, it could probably pay off my mortgage.
* Picking my battles - keeping it
* Stopping to realize he (and everyone else) is not a mind reader. What I'd like to see done at that very moment is my own deal, not necessarily his - keeping it
* Having a nag jar in our home - no, that thing is going off a cliff, Goofy style

9. Figure Out The Ends, Experiment With The Means
As I was researching and doing my best to stick with the husband-obsessed journey, I was reminded of The Taming of the Shrew - which is probably one of my favourite works of Shakespeare's. And no, I did not just compare this very silly blog with a masterpiece by Britain's most famous playwright. This blog is far more like Jesus's teachings - duh.

If you're not super familiar with the The Taming of the Shrew, you can watch a couple versions online like the popular Franco Zeffirelli version, a modern, updated one from the BBC series, ShakespeaRe-Told (featuring a very fetching Rufus Sewell!), even a claymation (squeee!) version. The movie 10 Things I Hate About You is also based in part on the story.

Anyway, super quickly, here's the main jist: Kate is a very headstrong and hot-tempered woman. In some ways she's awesome, in some ways she's a bit of an asshole. For reasons not initially motivated by love, Petruchio, who's a bit of scoundrel and a misfit like Kate, decides to woo her (quite amusingly) and marry her. Once married, he goes about various methods to "tame" her. There's much more to it than that (hijinks, reverse psychology, a battle of wits, a very silly wedding - you really must watch it to get it). Kate eventually catches onto his act. Regardless, it turns out that the two are actually quite well matched for one another.

There's a lot of controversy over this story when it comes to its ending. Kate, now a much happier woman, espouses to her female companions about the virtues of being 'tamed' and how a wife must obey her husband. This is *not* the Kate we knew. What's up for debate is Kate's sincerity in her statement. Some people take it at face value and are pretty much horrified by the sentiment. Others suspect that Kate has clued in that by acting like she 'obeys', she actually really gets what she wants in the end, that she is in fact the puppet master, and it's she who has the last laugh. And then there are some who think Kate is saying this completely ironically, and that she's actually using air quotes throughout her speech. Personally, I tend to go with theory number two.

Here's where I finally get around to connecting this all to my husband-obsessed 50s housewife experiment. The reason I like the The Taming of the Shrew is because it demonstrates that sometimes we're too focused on controlling how we're going to get what we want rather than knowing what our true goals are. The play also dives into understanding the psyche of the people around us and figuring out their true needs (sorta that ego, order and appetite thing I was mentioning the other day) as a way to fulfill your own. Much of the advice in my books are counter-intuitive, and appear at times rather selfless, and yet, some of the tips kinda sorta brought more happiness (the ultimate goal) to my own day and to our home. Would that still be the case if I did this all long-term? Not for everything, but for some things ... perhaps!
* Letting go of some stubbornness - keeping it.
* Trying out a different road map once in a while - keeping it.
* Keeping the main goal in mind - keeping it.

10. It's Clearly Not for Everyone (And That's OK)
We all knew that one already. Lesson Number 9? Totally not for everyone. Working in an office? Totally not for everyone. Being a homemaker? Totally not for everyone. That last point was becoming more and more a reality in the 1950s. Take a look at that article to the left (click to expand it). It was written by Judith Chase Churchill for her "About People" column in the July 1959 issue of Woman's Day. In it, she describes a trend among American teen girls: they wanted to get married, but they didn't want to be homemakers; only 3% "have any idea of doing housework." Talk about a shift! The article goes on to explain that the girls of 1959 were developing different aspirations: to work outside the home (which makes the article's title rather odd). Perhaps girls had watched their mothers toil in the home and saw it as a thankless, ongoing job that stunted their mothers' full potentials and interests. Perhaps it was because all these new career options seemed much more exciting and empowering. Perhaps it was because they presumed that the grass was greener on the other side.

In the 1940s and 1950s, North America had reached a point in history where working outside the home was a more and more realistic option for women and that - gasp! - men were also starting to pitch in with the running of the home. We all know what happened next. Domestic disaster The pendulum swung and the opportunities and pressure for women to earn an income became the norm. Is another pendulum swing on the way? Who knows.

I'm all about choice, something afforded to us by an evolving society - including the work of feminists both male and female. What you want to do in life may be different than what I want to do - and hopefully we're both lucky enough to be able to follow our own paths (because even with options available, circumstances can make it tough for us to do what we really want).

I'm not into absolutes, though. I don't think everything from the 1950s housewife life was dandy, nor do I think everything from that time was foolish. The same goes for the options and expectations set today.

The next big wave in feminism (and you might disagree with me that this is even a feminist goal at all) is one I think we're pretty far from achieving: the removal of judgment concerning the life choices of others. One tiny spin on the Interwebs will net you a never-ending pool of snark and opinion:

"Someone needs to tell Michelle Duggar that her womb is not a clown car."

"My sister just bought a BMW. Who does she think she's impressing?"

"I'm not voting for someone who can't even run her own home properly."

"I guess she thinks she's too busy and important to have kids. I feel sorry for her - she'll never know true happiness."

"She went to university, got a masters degree and now spends her day making crafts and cooking meals for her husband. What a waste."

"I can't imagine anyone actually wanting to go back to work when their baby is just a month old."

"He 'works from home.' Must be nice to have Sugar Momma."

"If you really have your child's best interests at heart, you would try harder to make breast feeding work."

I'm not innocent in this discussion either. But I'm trying. Maybe I need to create The Judgey Jar. What an experiment that would be.

So that's the big mind dump from this round of 50s housewifing. Now, comment below and enter in a chance to win that vintage salad cookbook! There's a whole section in it devoted to molded concoctions. Let it be said: IT IS AMAZING.

Image Sources: Practical Housewifery; Esquire Cook Book; Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book; Woman's Day Magazine, November 1956, "Mrs. Dunbar Dyes Her Hair."; Slope of Hope; Second-hand Swag; ; John Bull Magazine, March 1950; MoviePosterDB.com

Read more...