When You Can’t Remember If You Closed The Garage Door
Category: Fun
Into The Wild Blue Yonder
Eskimo youth with model airplane, Nunivak Island, Alaska, 1942 by Amos Burg
This Cat Is Fire
You know how magazines have those sections where they stuff all the cheapo ads together, and you wonder if anyone ever grabs a magnifying glass to read their teensy font? Well, today we’re checking out those ads.
These all come from April of ’54, and you can see that hippity hoppity, Easter was on its way. Seriously, that’s a weird car, right?
Anacin has been around longer than anyone reading this page, and you can still get it. She sure looks glad that she did.
Some ads are so tiny, you wonder what was the point. And was it really necessary to spell kiwi phonetically?
Vernell sounds like that great-aunt who lost her husband 30 years ago and wouldn’t think of remarrying, but she’s a really good cook and could definitely score a spouse if she would just move on with her life.
This next one is so fun with our friendly Nirc making his debut on this blog. Not to be confused with Narc, this little guy is concerned with the cleanliness of your rugs. They needed a mascot for that?
And speaking of weird acronyms, this next ad is for NCB, accepted from pole to pole. So odd!
We’ll wrap up with something none of us ever thinks about, fine driving lights. I knew cars were usually feminized, but I didn’t know headlights were as well. Now that I type that, it makes sense. Do you ask your husband to run to Auto Zone and grab a couple Lorraines?
Does Lorraine make you think of quiche or Newman?
Looting The Furniture Store
Yes, There Really Was A Douglass Crockwell
Isn’t it eerie how similar Mr. Crockwell’s paintings look to Mr. Norman Rockwell’s? It’s even the same subject matter. I mean, the style is nearly identical. Check out another Crockwell. From beer to Coke, two of my favorite things!
Honestly, it sounds like an SNL skit, like changing Mr. Rogers to Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood. Stranger than fiction. Crockwell also did this fun outdoor scene.
In any event, I can appreciate both artists. I wish our summer looked more like this one!
Worship At The Altar Of Laconian Debs
Must … wear … Laconian Debs.
Y’all, it is rare indeed when a Google search turns up with zilch, nada. But such is the case for Laconian Debs. I guess they only existed for this one moment in my 1947 Seventeen magazine, which evidently could hardly contain their foot fetish. Apparently, those weren’t the only Debs around. Polly Debs were climbing up the charts.
I just don’t get this. These are NOT super flat. They have at least a one inch heel. And what a metaphor! Is a Coke comfy? That’s an odd word choice. You’ll love them like Mink? What? Are we talking about fur now? I’m so confused. But it’s good to know they’re live. All shoes should be live. Shouldn’t they?
Let’s move on to Kickerinos. That’s just fun to say, like Vinnie Barbarino. Anything -ino. It must be eye-talian!
Next up are the musical Monomacs, in either elk or Bucko Calf. Bucko Calf? There’s another thing Google’s never heard of. What a banner day!
I don’t know what music has to do with moccasins, or why tiny elves are handstitching the seams, but there you go. Now on to something south of the border!
Finally, something I’ve heard of. Huarache sandals, too …. A bushy, bushy blond hairdo … Surfin’ USA. ♫♪♫ Calf skin? I’m familiar with it. I get it. Wait, they come with foot shortening vamp? What the heck is that?
Who knew shoes could be so complicated?
Before a cutter was a person who took a knife to their skin just to “feel something” in a world of apathy, Cutters were shoes worn to catch men’s eyes. Maybe he’s not a breast or a thigh man; maybe he’s more interested in your arches. Super. And these would have been the choice for any butterface gal back in ’47 (that’s a woman who looks lovely everywhere “but her” face).
Let’s enjoy the symmetry of this next ad.
Three shoes, six gals, three shoes. Finally, some order. Everyone needs a few smooth, young Connies. Wouldn’t you agree? But smooth, young Connies grow up to become Old Town Trollers. It’s inevitable.
Two more years and I’ll be one myself. But at least I’ll be queen of them all! Still, nobody likes a troller. I’d take these adjectives any day. 
Soft and supple. By the way, I’ve heard about Teena’s “brilliant night play.” Now, THAT’S something Google understands.
And Now The Whole Sorority Is In Quarantine
The girl in the center is suspicious, trying to determine which one transmitted it to the rest.
Probably Margaret.
Coke Date Fashion
Back in 1947, folks weren’t meeting up at Starbucks for $6 coffees. They were meeting at diners for nickel Cokes. Never coined Sprite nor Big Red nor Fanta Dates, this ad hyphenates it as “Coke-Dates.” No gal worth her salt would show up to sip soda in a t-shirt and jeans. Perish the thought! So Joan Miller made this fantubulous dress of men and women, gussied up in hats and suits, drinking Cokes themselves. Add a ruffled collar, and voila! Coke-Date material. Literally.
But it wasn’t just ensembles that needed vetting for dates of Coke. No, siree, Bob. You needed bonafide Coke-worthy shoes as well. And what better to marry that fizz than with leather moccasins, in five gay colors? You could get the traction you needed on asbestos-infused linoleum flooring. After all, you don’t want to spill the very drink for which you came.
The boys were home, Hitler was dead, and all was well on the western front. Time for snazzy frocks and fizzy drinks. Time to celebrate!
Let It Wip
It’s guaranteed not to sour, so I say we try this old can out and test the claim for ourselves.
In any event, I bet I’d prefer 1954’s version of Qwip to today’s:
How To Make That Bob Mackie Miss Starlett Dress
Could there be a more fetching color than kelly green? I think not. And “if you want to make like 1947” (which we all do, let’s be honest), then you’d do well to keep a longer hem. See below for more tips on how to be slimmed out like a soda straw.
Remember this classic?
More Fagotting Brings The Boys
So much beautiful fagotting going on here.
It’s okay. It means joining two hemmed pieces of fabric together with decorative stitching. But can we just talk about her enormously thick Peyton Manning head, balancing on a neck that is even thicker than her waist? Have any of you a waist smaller than your neck?
And what of her hips? Has she any? How is she to put forth more Peyton-headed children from such slim loins? ‘Tis a mystery. I don’t get it.
Neither Ink Nor French-American Midget
