I'm Basically The Worst Unemployed Person Ever

Image Source: FunCheapSF

... because instead of refining my résumé for the millionth time and glumly living off of Sapporo Ichiban, I'm going to Mexico this week.

HEEEEEEEEEEEE!

It's my incredibly irresponsible way of rewarding myself for not having a job or a husband anymore. (And I must say, I've really excelled at both.)

I'm going with a girlfriend who also had a crappy 2012. We've vowed to make it one of those trips where the details of what goes on during it aren't allowed to be shared with anyone we know, and that probably includes "The Internet". (Sorry.) Just know that in reality, I will most likely spend at least two days of this vacation watching episodes of Friends dubbed into Spanish in the hotel room while I recover from a sunburn brought on by falling asleep by the pool. But let's all at least pretend that I'm going to have a wild and glorious time in the land of sun and tequila, ok?

After booking the last-minute deal, we started diving further into the reviews of the resort and there was one - a complaint - that gave both of us hope that it may indeed be a dandy of a trip after all:

... everything was great until a new group of guests came in, which unfortunately included a couple Argentinian football teams. These guys were interested in anything in a skirt ...  

To which my friend and I responded:

Oh, please, Baby Jesus, make it so.

And if going to Mexico isn't indulgent enough for someone with no income, yesterday I went and got eyelash extensions (so that I didn't have to bother with mascara on the trip), a manicure and a pedicure.

You see, I received a bit of Christmas money from my grandfather, and I'm pretty sure at the bottom of the cheque it said, "For whoring it up." - so I kind of had to spend it on this:

Local Business Plug: I am wearing zero make-up in the picture, and look at how dolled-up my eyes look! If you want to get eyelash extensions in Toronto, I highly recommend Balanced Beaute - she is so good, won't make you look cartoonish, and is probably one of the most affordable pros in the city. Yay!

My other bit of prep work from this trip actually saved me money: not buying food. Not buying food meant I couldn't eat anything, which resulted in me going down a glorious 11 pounds since Christmas. Thanks, starvation! High five, desperation! This weight will all come screaming back on as I stuff my face at the resort's buffet and swim-up bar, but whatever.

The final thing I did in anticipation of going to Mexico involved harnessing my very novice skills as a seamstress: I made my own bikini. I can already smell the humiliation that will surely happen while wearing this. Not simply because it's a bikini (GAH!) but because I chose the fabric based on how pretty it was and not based on the trivial matter of how well it deals with water. Heh. So, you have that account to look forward to, readers.

I'll probably do one more tiny post this week, but that will likely be it until I get back. And then hopefully I'll become a bit more regular with the updates and thoughts and first-world gripings after that.

Your notes from my previous post were all really appreciated. How did such nice people end up stumbling on this blog? Boy, I'm lucky.

Adios for now, muchachos!

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Yeah, I've Still Got It

Source: TheStar.com

This morning when I was taking the crowded subway to work, I noticed in my peripheral that there was a man sitting across from where I was standing who was slowly checking me out.

From the corner of my eye I could see that he was starting at my face, was making his way slowly down my bod, down my legs, all the way to my ankles and then back up again. He didn't seem to care about how obvious he was.

It was a little boost of self-esteem, and I found myself casually trying to stand a little straighter as I oh-so-gently ran my fingers in my hair.

And then I decided to glance directly at him.

It turned out that he was asleep and was merely bobbing his head.

Yeaaaah, me.

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It's Time To Invest In A Full-Length Mirror

I just realized that I went to the grocery store wearing ankle-skimming palazzo pants, harlequin-adorned socks and Mary Jane slipper shoes. People probably thought I was an off-duty mime:

There should be a rule that the next time I dare to wear this combination, The Music Box Dancer should suddenly start playing, and I should have to twirl and skip around regardless of where I am at that moment.

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Head Games

Are you someone who occasionally watches television that hasn't been Tivo'd and want to find an alternative to mindless eating when the commercials are on?

My new favourite game is to mentally replace the word "hair" with the word "penis" whenever a shampoo or dye ad is on the TV. I find it especially entertaining when the commercials talk about all of us girls being "tired of weak, limp hair" in which we need a shampoo that "coats the hair shaft from root to tip."

Just look at how much fun these new and old commercials become when you use the power of your dirty, childish brain:












You're welcome.

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Vintage Nail Ads Again Prove That Nothing We Do Is Original

Remember that gross pointy nail trend that had women everywhere silently wondering how Fergie was able to masturbate safely? It turns out The Dutchess didn't invent the tapered talon look - your Grandma did.

I was flipping through some 1943 Ladies' Home Journals when I came across this ad from Cutex:

Yep, should the vivacious Mrs. Stringer take a break from washing dishes, I suspect those claws could totally do some damage to her lady bits.

I found an even more extreme example of the tapered nail on another page. Admittedly, this is an artist's rendering of nails - exotic "Oriental" nails at that - so I have serious doubts that anyone outside of The King and I theatre productions were sporting these in the 1940s. But what's even more surprising? Look at the colours available! Green Dragon? Blue Lagoon? Ming Yellow? Black Luster? Who knew Chen Yu had essie beat by a good 40 years?

Edit: I have no idea why the ad is appearing sideways?! Blogger is being a weirdo. Here's a right-side-up close-up of the nails and colours I mentioned:

Neat, huh?

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Bangs And Thick Hair Are Great ...

... but sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I look *just like* Mandy Patinkin from The Princess Bride.

At least it starts each day with a laugh. For Patrick.

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The Jersey Shore Colour Palette

This picture of the Jersey Shore cast is from an article on Jezebel. The whole gang is apparently in Italy and are up to their wacky hijinks, Eurotrash Style. I don't want to spoil the new season for anyone, but I'm guessing we'll be seeing Ronnie and Sammi fighting, Ronnie and Sammi making up, everybody getting drunk, a new acronym that will describe something related to hygiene or sexual encounters, everybody dancing badly, everybody trying to get laid, everybody succeeding in that except for Snooki, and the desecration of at least one Renaissance-era landmark.

But enough about the plot - I'm all about that picture. What colour are these people? Let's find out:

I actually think this little palette sample of the Jersey Shore skin tones - which I lifted from the picture using Photoshop's Eyedropper Tool - is pretty accurate. I saw Pauly D in Vegas in January and the guy looked straight-up Indian. If it wasn't for his hair and his squawking of "T-shirt time, yeah!" he could blend right into any street of Calcutta.

Not surprisingly, the most non-human of the bunch is Snooki. It She reminds me of that horrible Arizona / Southwest / Tuscan / Santa Fe terracotta decorating style that was so popular a couple decades ago. Just put her in some turquoise earrings, a cream-coloured dress, some Pauly D-brown boots and place her next to a cactus and you have the makings of a Better Homes and Gardens cover from 1992.

Hilariously, the exact shade of Snooki on ColorLovers is called "Good Time":

I think that would make her happy.

But more captivating than their colours is how reflective they all are! I don't just mean reflective of our decaying culture and how we've gone wrong as a society, but of light. Those foreheads are like high beams. Perhaps Guido is the new energy source? It's toxic as hell, but, boy, does it ever burn brightly.

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Time For An Update!

Wow - so much can change in a week, huh?

Since the last time I blogged:

1. Osama Bin Laden was still walking around like the sack of shit he was
2. There was hope in the air about the kind of government the voters of Canada would elect
3. I still hadn't seen some of my University friends in nearly a decade
4. There was more hair on my face
5. My sister was still a single lady

Naturally, I'll focus today's post on the most important thing on that list: my sister's wedding horrible eyebrow wax job.

So, my mom graciously takes my sister, fellow bridesmaid Susan, and me to go get mani pedis at a nail bar a few days before my sister's wedding. I had mentioned before to my mom that I might go get my brows tidied while I was there as they could use a bit of shaping. For all my joking about my facial hair on this blog, I really do take relatively good care of it. We weren't talking about a "Bert" situation on my face - I just needed a little sumpin' sumpin', ya dig?

Anyway, we're getting our manis and pedis done and I'm noticing a couple things about the place and service that were a little different from what I was used to. Like, when dealing with the dry parts of my feet - which I've learned are called "móng guốc" in Vietnamese - I've been told to never use a metal object (like a razor or those cheese grater-like Ped Eggs) on them. But, alas, such an item was used to slough off the protective rock-like barrier from my heels. No longer can I walk on broken glasses, fiery coals and the pungent underwear of Rock of Love contestants past without cuts, burns or disease. An uneven nail here and a nip from my cuticle there and I wan't feeling super confident in the place. Certainly not confident enough to let them put melted wax near my eyes.

As we were waiting for our polish to dry, my mom brought up the eyebrow wax. Unfortunately, she did this right as an aesthetician was hovering nearby.

"No, I don't really need to get it done. I'll just pluck when I get in," I said.

"Oh, Jennifer, just get it done here. It will take two minutes," she said.

"Umm ... how are we on time? Should we be heading back to go to the wedding rehearsal?" I said, searching for an excuse that wouldn't offend the staff.

"We have plenty of time. Just get your eyebrows done here and be done with it," my mom said, oblivious to my excuse-making.

"Yes, you want eyebrows done?" the aesthetician chimed in. "Come with me," she said happily.

Ugh. Why, why, why was I raised to be so two-faced polite?

"Ok," I said stupidly and followed her to the hair ripping room. And wouldn't you know it, it was my nail tech who was doing the waxing? Great.

I will long story short this by saying that when I came out, my own mother, the person who is supposed to support and nurture and foster that elusive thing called self-esteem looked at me and SNORTED. Loudly. With spit flying about. And even after she contained herself and the conversation mercifully carried on to another topic, she would glance at me and start howling again.

I was even asked if I was wearing dark eye shadow. Nope - that was my normal skin colour. That glowing hot whiteness just above it was the skin on my brow that had literally never seen sunlight until that day. It was exposed for the very first time, an effect that made me look striped.

Here's a pic of all of us in the party - I am the short toad on the end. Would you believe I was wearing 3" heels? I was. That's how unfair life can be. Would you also believe that I used a brow pencil that day? So even that sliver of eyebrow you see in the photo below is about double of what I was actually left with for the wedding:

Oh, right, the wedding. I should probably talk about that, right? Well, there is my beautiful sister, with her handsome new husband, who threw one hell of a party, who probably didn't get asked that night if she was expecting (unlike a certain sister of hers - despite said sister enthusiastically drinking like a non-pregnant person would). She's in Hawaii now on a honeymoon and will then depart for a life in France where she hopes to take the spring off before taking up a vocation - probably pastry making. Please join me in saying it: What a bitch. Congratulations!

I'll post more about the festivities a bit later. It deserves a post of its own!

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All Dressed Up And (Thankfully) Nowhere To Go

This is an account of Day 6 of the 50s Housewife Experiment: Husband Obsessed Edition.

Friday evening had been a busy one for us, so we were looking forward to a calmer Saturday. I woke up to the sound of something marvelous and positively un-50s: my husband doing the dishes. Me thinks it was an attempt to make amends for the previous night's jackassery faux pas of arriving late to our dinner party. I suppose for the sake of a so-called 50s housewife blog I should have run out there and stopped him and insisted the dishes were my job to do, but letting myself sleep in a bit felt much more right.

Since I wasn't up to make it, neither of us had breakfast. Therefore, I decided to serve an early lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup. Campbells products are pretty heavily advertised in 50s-era magazines, although they're rarely portrayed simply as an actual soup. Rather, their purpose in culinary life appeared to be to completely drown other foods - like as shown in this ad:

I opted to go for the "classic" usage, as you can see. In the sandwiches, I used processed cheese, a product that is promoted almost endlessly in some of my cookbooks and was even suggested as a "health food." Good motherfucking grief, Charlie Brown.

Patrick had plans to meet a friend to watch the Manchester United match at a local sports pub, so I took the time at home to get reacquainted with (and newly introduced to) some 1950s beauty tips.

While the act of lotioning and potioning ourselves beautiful may seem like "me time", advice from the 50s suggests we should be doing this with our men in minds:

"Cater to his tastes ... even in your appearance. Indulging his wishes, even his whims, is a sure way of convincing him that you really want to please him," said an article in the Ladies Home Journal of September 1950.

(This particular project just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it, ladies?)

Patrick is a man of simple tastes when it comes to my appearance: the more boob, the better. He's not the type of bumbling husband who can't tell if you've gotten a hair cut. In fact, he's pretty quick to offer compliments when I've done my hair or make-up or have put on a new dress. He seems to appreciate even the small efforts without ever really expecting them.

This made my "job" of catering to his tastes pretty simple - just do something. You can read about some of the previous 1950s beauty advice I found and how I applied it back in my original 50s Housewife Experiment, but here's some new information I came across since then:

• If you wish to have darker hair, rub a touch of olive oil on your scalp before going to bed (in the morning, take your pillow case and make a salad with it)
  
• If you wish to have lighter hair, wash it in beer every two weeks (perhaps this is why Patrick has never really had a thing for blonds - they might waste the precious)
• To stimulate hair growth, rub the scalp with kerosene (a totally genius thing to do in the age of unabashed chain smoking)

I also found a recipe for homemade dry shampoo in the Modern Household Encyclopedia. As I neither wanted to a) look like the personal pooping grounds for a bird nor b) look like the personal buffet for a bird, I decided to skip it (but if anyone tries it, do let me know. For all of my mocking of certain finds, I'm actually curious to see if this kind of thing works):

Once you're done taking care of your hair, you can move onto your face. Girls over 25 were encouraged to avoid that "matronly look" by using Pond's cream as follows:

Keeping with the theme of skin, to give your hands the Michael Jackson treatment (whitening them, not sending them and other under-age hands for a sleepover with a skeletal 50-year old man), the following advice was found in the Modern Household Encyclopedia:

Once your hands were taken care of, it was onto the nails. Long, beautiful, perfectly manicured claws were highly valued because they were considered quite feminine. I spotted several ads in my magazines about how women could achieve this goal with a simple cocktail:

Since I had deprived myself of jello moulds this time around, I figured I owed it to myself to get at least one gelatin fix in. And so, I tried this tip and dumped an envelope of Knox unflavoured gelatin into a glass of cranberry juice.

*Shudder*

Did you know that unflavoured gelatin has the smell of vomit? I do now! Down the hatch it went anyway, including all the chewy grains at the bottom of the glass. Oh, the things we do for beauty.

All gooped up - inside and out - I then put on some make-up, attempted to do my hair in a 50s style (it always ends up looking more 40s, though - probably has something to do with the fact that I don't have a perm) popped on my perkiest of bras (because, as the ad on the left shows, having your chest ogled means you're being loved) and then put on a vintage cocktail dress and necklace (a birthday gift from the folks!).

Emotional! Antennae! Activated! Husband Status: Curious

"Was she going out?" "Were we going out?" Patrick clearly wondered these things when he arrived home to find his wife without her usual mask of facial hair all dolled up.

The occasion was "Date Night In" - a quiet, economical evening of what Mrs. Dale Carnegie called "raising our standard of loving." A wife does this by showing her appreciation, being affectionate, demonstrating understanding and caring, being generous of spirit and being good-humoured.

... Or I could just make his favourite food - Italian. There happens to be a fair amount of Italian cooking featured in my collection of 1950s cookbooks, specifically in the Good Housekeeping's Around The World Cook Book.

To get into the mood for reading about our dinner, enjoy Rosemary Clooney's 1954 "Mambo Italiano":



It's understandable to wonder whether 1950s American cookbooks could really "get" true Italian food. I imagined they would dumb the food down by substituting things like Cheez Whiz for mozzarella or Marshmallow Fluff for amaretto. Thankfully, you can tell straight away that the recipes in the book are authentically Italian because there are little drawings of the Italian people on the pages, and those *certainly* capture the essence of this fine culture.

(If you think that's goofy, you should see the depictions of "Orientals" - their phrasing, not mine - when dishes from Asian countries are featured. Yikes.)

The cookbook suggested hunting down antipasto from an Italian bakery or import store. Admittedly, I just went to the grocery store. There, I picked up marinated mushrooms with artichokes, roasted red peppers (Patrick's favourite), prosciutto and bread. The entree was Salsa alla Sophia (spinach, ricotta, milk, nutmeg, butter, Parmesan over spaghetti).
I served the pasta with Kraft Parmesan because an ad in one of my magazines indicated that real genuine Italians like-a it-a so-a much-a.

Over dinner and coffee, we played a made-up game called "Smize, Lize or Dize." The object is for a person to "make eyes" and the other has to guess if the person is smizing (Tyra-style smiling with the eyes), lizing (50s housewife-style listening with the eyes) or dizing (modern-style dying from boredom - and having dead eyes - during a conversation not about ourselves). We both excelled.

Afterward, we watched one of my favourite movies of all time, the 1959 Some Like It Hot. I realize a true housewife in the 1950s would not have had access to DVDs - but give me a break, will yah? I haven't watched TV all week (except for the news), even though I heard a superbly good episode of Community was on.

Here's another picture of John Hodgman Patrick and I during the evening, our "standard of loving" raised to a lovely level ...

And here's one of us being us:

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Keeping Up Appearances

I've talked a fair bit about the food we've been eating and the cleaning I've been doing, but I haven't really revealed all that much about what I've been doing about the 50s housewife edict of being beautiful and showing pride in her appearance. So, here we go!

A friend was reading through the list of things I do for the 50s Housewife Experiment and asked if I really do the following:

Yes, I really do, despite really not being a morning person. The bow-and-lipstick look on me is less sweet and darling and more What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. You can see what I mean from this picture Patrick cheekily took of me one morning while I was preparing his orange juice.
What a vision. That is the face that launches my husband's ship to work everyday. Thankfully, my face comes with a side of bacon and eggs.

And, yes, I've also been putting on make-up even when I don't plan to go anywhere. You have to understand that I'm not really the make-up-y type. Sure, it's fun to play with and get glammed up, but if I didn't have time before going out, I didn't think anything of leaving the house bare-faced. But make-up is really just a small part of the beauty regime.

One 50s-era magazine suggested a weekly schedule for beauty and hygiene. I have to admit that I didn't really follow that all very well last week. Because of that, I opted to dedicate the afternoon yesterday toward glamourization. I gave myself a 50s facial (which involved cleansing, "ironing" my face with ice, an egg white mask and moisturizing), tweezing, a scalp massage, a nap (dreamy!) and going out for a manicure and a pedicure. I had a gift certificate for a local nail bar so I was free of feeling that cheapo 50s housewife guilt. And there's a very silly pose of me to show you the outcome, complete with my stubby hand trying to still my pounding martyr heart from all the self-indulgence. Admittedly, the look is little more 40s than 50s, but I'm not willing to set my hair with a home perm, so there you go.

I mentioned before that I wasn't sure how I was going to deal with the whole wash-your-hair-once-a-week craziness of the 50s. Thanks to a suggestion from Paige, I tried Batiste Dry Shampoo Spray. Wow! I haven't washed my hair in the shower since girdle day and not once have I been compared to Nick Nolte's mugshot. Amazing!

At the end of the day, the 50s housewife used cold cream to remove her make-up and clean her face. I happen to have some, so I've been using it daily. It's just like breakfast - greasy. Let me put it this way, if you run out of shortening (and following the 50s diet, you will), just grab a jar of Pond's Cold Cream and carry on with your recipe. It gets the make-up off, but then you spend another five minute getting it off ("That's what she said." - Michael Scott).

But that isn't all. The mindful 50s housewife ensures she is the vision of glamour before retiring for the night. You see (and sorry for the scan quality - this magazine printed close to the binding):

The bedroom is not strictly for sleeping? Ah, right. Eating.

Arf, arf. No, I do understand what they mean. According to my guide, a wife needs to consider her beauty at all times while maintaining a little mystery about how she achieves such a look. It went on to explain all the things she should do in the bathroom. And then ...

I'm about as mysterious as a Hardy Boys novel read back to front, so getting prepped for bed in the bathroom was definitely out of the ordinary for me. In fact, one night while I was getting "bright and clean and delicious" Patrick bellowed, "are you masturbating in there or something?"

Well, geez, not anymore.

Anyhoo - back to Day 9 of the 50s Housewife Experiment ... Since my day was so busy with the hard work of looking beautiful and shopping for groceries, I decided it was the ideal time to break out the 50s housewife's greatest secret weapon - the TV dinner.



While Swanson now carries contemporary dishes for the sophisticated modern palate - like chicken nuggets and ribs - I wanted to go classic so I picked up a turkey and a Salisbury steak dinner. The biggest differences between the current and 50s versions are that there isn't a soup serving, the dessert is primarily made of corn starch and everything is cooked in plastic rather than tin. Mmm, mmm.
For a treat, we ate them by the TV while we watched an episode of I Love Lucy. At first, Patrick was disgusted (he opted for Salisbury steak) but a few bites later, the Swanson chemicals flavour kicked in and he was lapping it up.

My, that Swanson made my day so easy! So fast to prepare and clean-up was a breeze! Why, I could go for manis and pedis every day if Swanson was on the menu. That said, I'd also be hassled with funeral arrangements for Patrick on account of him getting some nutrition-related disease, so in the long run, it's probably better that I cook the rest of our meals, as gross and time-consuming as some of them may be.

Speaking of which, I best get on with the day. Catch up with you later!

Image Sources: Avon advertisement, circa 1958 and The Bride's Reference Book

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The 50s Housewife Goes Outside

As the title says, I ventured outdoors yesterday. Yes, I went three full days without sunlight and fresh air as the prison daily schedule of 50s housewife chores kept me so busy that I couldn't leave. Oh, Vitamin D, how I missed you.

My planned stops included:

• The Bank
• The Drug Store
• The Department Store (looking for ramekins for an upcoming dessert)
• The Library (to pick up Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, a book about veganism that I've been in line to get for some months. So not the sort of thing I want to read while "living" in an era that espoused the virtues of milk, gelatin and organ meat)
• The Video Store (returning something from the pre-50s experiment days)
• The Liquor Store (you can never have too much booze!)
  
• The Market (for fresh produce, meat)
• The Grocery Store (for canned and packaged "food")

With my list and many coupons in hand I was ready to go, but not without taking some extra time to look "properly and pridefully Mrs." Now, I realize that I mentioned that I would not be wearing 50s era clothing as I didn't really have any, but for this outing, I decided to make one self-hating exception: the undergarments.

In the 70s, women were told not to leave home without their American Express Card. Up until the 60s, women were not to leave home without their foundation pieces. So, on went a rather structured longline bra, a girdle (just me, or is that word gross?) and nylons, held up with garters. Yes, I am ridiculous.

In the ads of the time, these pieces are described as "hugging" the body and curves. It feels about as much like a hug as I imagine a straightjacket would. No, binding is really a better word. Or suffocating, if you prefer. While I won't deny suddenly having a super-defined waist was pretty cool, it came at the cost of breathing and graceful movement.

So all that, along with a dress, heels, full make-up and hair trotted out into 30 degree weather.

First stop was the bank to pull out some cash. No, not at the ATM: In line, with all the elderly people who were doing the same thing. For some reason, I expected some kind of double-take or a "Ma'am, that's what the machines are for" but I received nothing of the sort. I guess they're used to that and are possibly even appreciative to serve someone who is there with her bank card and ID in hand who knows exactly what she'd like to get. My behaviour was a touch different than the 80-year old man in front of me in line, who fumbled with his cheque book, didn't understand what kind of identification he needed to provide and after a lengthy conversation about how much he disliked service fees, eventually withdrew $24.85 from his account - not without mentioning that he'd probably be back tomorrow to take care of something else. Newly added on the people-I-feel-sorry-for list: bank tellers.

The rest of my errands were relatively uneventful, except for the fact that I was really feeling the curse beneath my dress. Breaking in a girdle while walking around in the hot sun and carrying many objects is not the best of ideas - something I'm sure you all already knew. To put it mildly, I was sweating like a pig and losing circulation throughout my body. My beet red face and Frankenstein-like shuffling was the furthest thing from looking proper or prideful and I have a feeling I made it onto other peoples' people-I-feel-sorry-for-list.

The saddest thing was that I actually had to stop home partway through to drop stuff off as I couldn't carry everything. Oh how I was tempted to not go back out. But, no, I just had a glass of water, refreshed my make-up (which involved cleaning the mascara off my CHIN), took a deep breath and carried on.

That resolve made my return that much more heavenly as I felt I had really earned the right to immediately rip everything off the instant the door shut behind me. Off went the heels, the nylons, the dress - and finally the girdle and bra. As I unfastened each hook, parts of my body exploded out, in a way baking bread would, provided it contained live yeast.

If you're keeping score at home, that makes two times now since the 50s Housewife Experiment began that I've wandered around my home sweaty, defeated and nude in the middle of the afternoon. I wonder how that compares to the real wives of the time?

I then had a shower - and yes I washed my hair and it was GLORIOUS - and changed into what is generously referred to as "Jen's MuuMuu" - a dress of mine that makes the Snuggie look formal.

Patrick had a soccer game after work and hoped to have a beer with his teammates immediately after that, so I was off the hook to get dinner ready right away. That gave me time to do some much needed research. You see, last night's planned protein was liver. I knew that if Patrick was going to freak over anything, it would be that. It was the one time that 50s cover-and-smother cooking techniques would come in handy; to my total dismay, liver was apparently the one meat housewives treated with reverence and respect. Every recipe I found allowed the flavour of the liver to shine through, untainted by Campbell's Cream of Crap. This was not good.

Finally, I found a section in one of my household guides that discussed cooking for children, and in it, it referred to ways to make liver more acceptable to young eaters. There were three suggestions and I used them all: Soak the liver in milk for at least one hour; Flour the liver; and cook some bacon, reserve the bacon, and cook the liver in the bacon fat - tossing the cooked bacon in with onions when nearly done.

Along with the liver I made "Sweet-Potato Volcanoes" (why they put the hyphen in there, I'll never know). The illustration of this dish from Good Housekeeping's 1958 "Book of Vegetables" caught my eye because it looked totally bizarre and because the children seemed so wowed by it. Whatever floats your boat, kids. I also took a picture of it before it went into the oven as I figured correctly that the cooked marshmallows would likely not stay in place and would in fact make the dish look revolting. Each of those mounds in the that "after" picture makes me think of every over-simplified film on evolution where some wretched sea creature claws its way onto the beach so that it could sprout legs.

When Patrick got home, dinner was ready. When he asked what was being served, I said "beef" - WHICH IS NOT A LIE. Then I waited and watched.

"Mmm! This is good!" he said between bites. I nearly fell on my ass.

Maybe it's because I knew it was liver, but to me, it was not good. It was livery liver liverstein, a meat I've probably only suffered through three times in my life (besides pate) for good reason.

"Well, that's great. I was worried," I said.

"Why? I love beef. Mmm ... beef," he said.

"It's a different, um, cut than we usually get," I continued.

"Like what?" he asked.

"It's liver," I fessed up.

"Oh. It's still beef though, right?"

"Yes. Well, it does come from a cow," I said.

I was also pleasantly surprised when he didn't complain about the sweet potato things - as they contained pineapple (another thing he hates). I never mentioned that fact though, and he'll only find out that when / if he reads this.

Dessert was jello (you knew that would be making an appearance sooner than later, right?) - a "quickie" recipe called Grape Cooler that involved grape and lime jello and some fresh grapes which promised to be a "pretty-picture dessert." The jello really did not like those grapes being in there because the mold didn't entirely set, as you can see (that's what I'm presuming. Jello can't go bad, can it?):

How appetizing. It looks like I gutted a jellyfish that had been eating olives.

The rest of the evening was spent watching the remainder of the Habs game with a very happy husband - happy for their win and to have cold beer in the fridge (because I'm wonderful that way).

It's now Friday before the long weekend so I have a bit of planning (and cleaning, of course) to do. Off I go!

Image Source: Food of the Fifties

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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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Manic-cure

This weekend I decided to bite the bullet and get my ragged nails taken care of. Here's the exchange when I showed up to my neighbourhood beauty parlour:

Me: Hi, I was wondering if I could get an appointment for this afternoon.

Receptionist: Sure ... *looks at her computer for an opening, then looks back up at me* For an eyebrow wax?

Heh... Normally I would have saved us both the embarrassment and been like, "Yes. Also a manicure" but I hadn't done my mental preparation exercises that usually accompany any ripping-of-hair-out-my-skin event. So it was just the mani with a side of awkwardness:
Rest assured, I don't have jaundice - it's just the weird lighting. I can't, however, explain how my thumb suddenly became obese for this picture.

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And WHY Can't I Look Like This Everyday?

We just got our pro pics in ... Just when I was starting to become a human again the wedding stuff strides back into my life ... sigh. Poor, poor me.

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