And the award for worst cellophane AND parenting practices goes to…. Du Pont!

You guys.

I don’t even.


I mean…

I just…

Surely that ad was a mistake, and they’d never run something so completely insane again right?



Well then.


Oh dear.


TGHP Day 7: Ready to take on Cobra Kai

I didn’t post yesterday. A lady cannot possibly blog every single day and maintain her wit and charm, or she’ll get the vapors. No one wants the vapors, so yeah. I took a day off from this. I did not, however, take a day off from housewifing, . Today’s entry is all about wax–not the hair removal wax that I have already proven is too dangerous for me to have– and is a review, because I am a helpful kind of lady when I don’t have the vapors.



Step 1: Wax on. Step 2: Wax off. Step 3: Repeat steps 1 and 2 until desired level of gleaminess is achieved.

All right. Review time! Here we go!

First is Butcher block conditioner:



The butcher block conditioner is a new love of mine, and while it’s not super retro-y, it is super handy to have. As I mentioned before, I picked up some battered (and not in the good way, like mozza sticks are battered) podwood/monkey wood/acacia midcentury  snack bowls at the thrift store for about $0.99 each, and the butcher block conditioner took most of the scratches right out.  I then tried it on my rolling pin and wooden spoons, and they looks better than they did when they were new.

This stuff is really easy to apply, is food safe, and has no significant odor. I’d say I’d buy it again, but considering how little I had to use, I think I’ll be having to bequeath the rest of the bottle to someone upon my death of really, really, really old age.

Verdict: If you have heirs to whom you can give wood conditioner, buy this stuff. Its great!


Next is Johnson’s Paste Wax:



As I told you guys last time, I got a new-to-me vintage dining room furniture set. It’s gorgeous and I love it, and I need to stop talking about it before I dissolve into a fit in excited, incomprehensible babbling and idiotic hand clapping.

I used Johnson’s on it, and while I like it, I also hate it, but I like it… but, I hate it. It gives a great satiny shine, and the wood feeeeeeeeeeeeeels good after being waxed and buffed. It leaves a really nice finish, and doesn’t seem to attract dust and pet hair like furniture dusting sprays do.

(You know there’s a but coming, right? Wait for it….)
(There you go. I bet it feels good to get rid of that “She’s going to say but” anxiety!)
But. It stinks like shoe polish, and I got The Vapors at least twice from the fumes while buffing. And holy cow, it is a chore to buff off completely. As I was buffing and buffing and buffing, I realized that pretty much every housewife who used Johnsons would be able to compete in a pro arm-wrestling circuit, if there was such a thing. It is work.
I actually feel like a whiny baby for about complaining about buffing the table. Apparently, ladies of the time used to do their floors regularly with this stuff. My hat is off to them, but I think I’ll stick with my new fangled floor products. Waxing my floor by hand is a serious limit for me. No. Just no. 
The Verdict: Johnson’s paste wax provided a great shine, a weird headache from the fumes, and a workout like I’ve never had before. I don’t know how I feel about this.
Last up is Jubilee Kitchen Wax:
I saved the best for last, and I’d like you guys to meet my new best friend Jubilee Kitchen Wax. (“Guys, this is Jubilee Wax. Jubilee Wax, these are the guys.”) This was taken off the market for approximately a gazillion and four years, but has recently returned much to the delight of people who are far better housekeepers than I.
And, I admit that I can totally see why. I’m in full on love with it. I guess it’s meant to polish and protect your stove front, your fridge, your toaster and other kitchen food-prep-things, and it does. Everything is reflective and much cleaner looking, and fingerprints seem to wipe off much easier. However, it really shines– pun fully intended– in the bathroom. I wouldn’t use it on the floor or tub because of slipping risk, but omgomgomgomgyouguys, everything now glistens in there, from the faucets to the green tile someone installed to halfway up the wall because it was 1952 and green wall tile was the hip new craze, like the twist or um….going to the sock hop with your best gal in one hand and a malted shake in the other. Anyway, water spots wipe right off, pet hair doesn’t seem to want to stick to the tile, and my bathroom is now so much easier to maintain.
The Verdict: I can’t talk right now, I’m too busy gurgling delightedly over the shininess.
I waxed on. I waxed off. I’m ready to blind Cobra Kai with my shiny appliances, wood furnishings and bathroom tiles. Go me!

TGHP Day 5: The Midcentury Era Thinks You Suck (And So Does Your Spouse)

Today, I really didn’t housewife it up much because the lovely Johnny Rotten and I were out shopping. I finally harangued sweet talked him into going out to look for a dining room table that ISN’T a patio set reject from before we were married, and surprise of all surprises, he not only agreed to look, but we are having a Duncan!! Phyfe!! reproduction!! from 1940ish!!! dining room set!!! delivered some time within the next week.


I guess I’m both cute and vitamin-enriched lately, because he just couldn’t resist my pleas for a real table.

So anyway, I’m 31 flavors of stoked about that, but I really didn’t do anything midcentury at all today, other than the daily tidying up that has become the norm around here. I’ll be posting photos the moment the set arrives, because YOU-GUYS-ITS-SO-PRETTY-AND-AWESOME!!!

Speaking of pretty and awesome though, did you know that you’re not? I mean, I personally think you totally are, and I mean that for each and every one of you, but the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s would beg to differ. In fact, they’ve been meaning to talk to you about a few things.


First of all, your stocking maintenance has really been lacking lately, and you spouse can no longer admire you.


And if you aren’t serving him breakfast in bed on your knees while he’s inexplicably dressed in a suit and tie, you’re wifing so wrong.



I mean, he’s willing to be benevolent, but let’s face it, you’re pretty inept at ALL THE THINGS. Sorry to tell you, but you need to know.



Your choice of coffee is so bad, you deserve to be physically assaulted.Image

Even if you’re an outstanding cook, and your choice of coffee is superb, you’d still better not get older. Your husband won’t love you any more, and understandably so.  Girl, THAT SKIN. Stop it.


It’s not just middle aged women with middle aged skin that go unloved. If you don’t brush with the right toothpaste, 4 out of 5 dentists agree that your husband will stray.

But really, there’s one problem that’s more of a problem than the rest of your (many, many, many) problems.


You haven’t cleaned your nether regions with Lysol, and you suck as a person. More importantly, you suck as a wife.


No. He would not. In fact, it seems pretty clear that you disgust him in every single way he could ever think of, and even in a few ways he hadn’t thought of. Maybe you should go talk to your friends instead?


Just kidding. You disgust them too.


Holy cow, you guys. I need a cookie and a hug just for reading through all of those.

TGHP, Day 3: The Golden Age of Hot Dogs

Please forgive my lateness on this post. I was headachy and feeling yuck last night, and everything I wrote reeked of hot dog water and self pity.

Apparently you couldn’t swing a cat in a mid20th century cookbook without either hitting a gelatin mold recipe or a recipe involving hot dogs.

From the Good Housekeeping ‘Keep Cool Cookbook’, published in 1967, came yesterday’s lunch.


It’s obviously a loafy thing, and we all know how I love loafy things.

I couldn’t see that photo and just pass it by, you know? It’s too full of hot dog and loafiness. It’s the year 1967 itself, mixed into a pan and baked lovingly for 35 minutes.


See? Easy, especially if you decide that the gravy is an “over my dead, cholesterol riddled body” accompaniment and don’t make it.

So yes, I made it bright and early in the morning, so I wouldn’t get lost in my cleaning fume high and forget.


There’s a bottle of 2008 Albarino with it, because 1) I am a lady of class and distinction, and 2) what else would you have with hotdog loaf thing?

Unfortunately, it was stone cold and full of semi-congealed hot dog grease by the time that Johnny Rotten was due home for lunch. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel on it, despite his desperate hopes that I would, so I cut off a generous slice, and grilled it with a bit of butter in a pan like I would a grilled cheese sandwich, and hoped for the best.

He tentatively, gingerly cut off a piece, and put it in his mouth like he was expecting it to bite him back.

“This.”, he said, then paused.

“Ahuh? This what?”, I encouraged.

“This is actually really good. It’s like a corn dog, but the crispy grilled outside makes it better than a regular corndog! You should make this again!”

I couldn’t believe that I didn’t notice that before. Cornbread plus hot dog equals corndog, no matter how you make it or what you call it. This frankfurter loaf is the perfect food for people who love corndogs but are irrationally afraid of food on sticks, who really love loaf pans, or maybe live in an area where sticks are hard to find or something.


Someone should tell this guy that he can just use his loaf pan, instead of going out to look for sticks on the frozen tundra.

Final judgment: Frankfurter loaf was a success. Not just an “It’s okay for a vintage recipe” success, but a “nom, this is good, you should make this again” success. Would recommend.

TGHP, day 1: I knew it was going to be a good day when I confused David Lee Roth with Bing Crosby and then confused a sandwich with a cake.

The Good Housewife Project started today with the cat scratching at the bedroom door, me getting up to let him in and then back out again, looking at the time, and then shrieking at Johnny Rotten that his alarm didn’t go off and that he needed to get up Right Now or he’d be late for work. On the bright side, there was no time to chat or to even consider making breakfast, so it was a lot less awkward than it could’ve been, given the hard line he’s taken against both breakfast and talking in the morning.

After he left, I set about my task of making my home a clean, pleasant place to be– but first, I put on some period appropriate music and got myself presentable.

First song up?


Yes. Bing Crosby, singing “Just a Gigolo”. Let that sink in for a minute. Not David Lee Roth as one would assume, but Bing Crosby. That Bing Crosby.

My mind was blown, and I was pretty sure it was a sign of a good day ahead, because c’mon. Bing. Crosby. Singing. Just. A. Gigolo. Here, seriously… go listen. I’ll wait(Fixed so it’ll open in a new tab. Now you can listen while you read! ~A)

I don’t even know what to say.But, you’re totally welcome for that. Kinda makes you want to light a fire, dim the lights, pour a glass of good wine, and hire a male companion for the night, doesn’t it? No? Just me? Okay. Anyway….

Most of my day was pretty uneventful.I cleaned like I was a prideful housewife and that my most judgmental acquaintances were coming over for a game of bridge and some finger sandwiches. I got my apron filthy. I baked a loaf of bread, made lunch, got compliments from the spouse on not looking like a hobo, did dish after dish after dish, and by mid-afternoon, I looked like this.


Raise one eyebrow if you are under duress, ma’am.

I wasn’t done yet though, as dinner still needed to be made. What to have, what to have? I checked out party food, because today is the first day of TGHP. I settled on something ominously called “party loaf”. I like loaf things. I like parties. How could it possibly go wrong?

I guess I need to explain what “party loaf” actually is. It’s a sandwich, or actually, a bunch of sandwiches, that are dressed up to look like a cake. Please don’t ask me why, because I can’t even begin to guess at ‘party loaf’ logic. It’s one of those things that just is.

Betty Crocker’s version looks like this:


That’s… kind of pretty-or-something, right? Vaguely celebratory? Festiveish?

Mine turned out like this:


So yeah. Apparently, I’m not a prodigy at decorating sandwiches to look like cake. But, I spent hours on it, and I even made a weird olive and pimento flower as a decoration (because that seems like it’s totally appropriate in a situation like this, of course). Were midcentury meals really as garnish happy as I suspect? All Im seeing is olive slice this and radish rose that when I look up recipes. Im not sure if it’s really offputting or if I’m just jealous of their mad garnishing skills.

As it turns out though, the party loaf was pretty good. Batman grinned through a mouthful and gave me two thumbs up.Johnny Rotten was a harder sell, and went from, “Well, I don’t hate it” to “this is actually pretty good! I was expecting it to be so much worse! ” in a matter of a few bites. Success, I think? What they don’t know, in approving of this recipe, that they have opened the door for far more out there recipes. Poor family.

Now, I’m relaxing. Honestly, truly, I have not sat down almost all day. I took a few breaks here and there, but I have been so incredibly busy in doing things in a far more purposeful way. When I cleaned today, I did not wipe a few things, get on facebook, wipe something else, play with the dog, rinse my rag, read cracked, and so on. I cleaned without distraction, and got so much done. I’m exhausted and sore, but the fam is happy and my house is starting to look great. Feels good, y’all.