Ever thought about painting your front door to add a little pop, a little pizzazz? Those folks at HGTV make it seem so easy, and red is often the color of choice. But could you handle something in fire engine red? One of our neighbors can. And did.
Maybe it’s not adding pizzazz as much as a desire for pizzas. After spending my college years in food service, I am well aware that red makes folks hungry. These signs can attest to that.
I’m already salivating! But why would you want to make your guests hungry? That just means you have to serve them. Does the color even have to mean anything? Evidently, it does.
The folks at Home Decor Bliss suggest that red has a welcoming energy, bringing luck, proclaiming protection, and even announcing that you’ve paid your last mortgage payment. Who knew that was a thing? Well, www.apartmenttherapy.com explains that while you may have heard that our friends in Scotland paint doors red to symbolize when they’re “out of the red,” it’s largely a myth. At that point, there’s no money left for a bucket of paint.
Not a fan of red doors? Well, you’re not alone. As the Rolling Stones once sang, “I see a red door, and I want it painted black.” Sounds controlling to me.
The Roaring 20s (which seemed exponentially better than these current less-roaring/more rioting ones) offered these ladies the hedonistic pleasure of mounting a punt on the Thames during the Henley Regatta. To this day, if one is seated in The Stewards’ Enclosure, members must abide by a strict dress code of lounge suits for men and dresses or skirts ( with hemlines below the knee) for women. Culottes are specifically cited as unacceptable. This is a regatta, not a hootenanny! Clearly these gals were less about decorum and more about revelry.
Three-year-old Joyce Bjerk towers high above the ground below in her father Oscar’s barber shop in Karlstad, Minnesota. Pop’s sign above the swanky Maytag washing machine declares a haircut and a shave for a fair price of just two quarters. Joyce seems to be getting the standard kids’ cut of 1934. At least she knows it’s on the house.
Cheryl gets a back-to-school perm in the early 50s, looking positively mortified by the tentacles of the electric permanent wave machine, which brings to mind an early prototype of R2D2. Twin sister Carol had hers done as well, and the results speak for themselves.
This is quite the hairless couple, trim and athletic and healthy. I have never before witnessed such a sheen on a man’s oiled limbs; usually, they are too furry to reflect light. This delightful artwork reminds me both of Vargas pin-up girls, as well as actress Jean Harlow, who shared the platinum hair and pale skin (although rarely a smile). Swimsuits had made leaps and bounds by 1938, with vastly less fabric and stretchier than those of the generation before. Today’s styles hardly differ from these wisp-o-weight Jantzens so many moons ago.
“No monkeying with this price?” Watch out there, Peggy Paige! While you were busy making clothing for folks who were still dealing with the fallout of WWII, using your taxes to support countries ravaged by war and fascism, trying to bring a bit of merriment to the widows and families of the millions of dead military heroes with a colorful printed frock, you forgot to prioritize the most important thing: never ever use a animal-related verb because it makes PETA petulant. Oh, is THAT where they got their name from? I won’t share the list that PETA posted this week, as it’s too ridonkulous to perpetuate. Suffice to say that if you ever told anyone they were hogging the mashed potatoes, you unjustly used an offensive slur, and there’s a good chance you’re a white supremacist. PETA thinks animals have been secretly becoming fluent in human language, solely to learn to interpret metaphors as hate speech and consequently be offended. Sorry, animals don’t have time for that, especially fat, lazy pigs. Yeah, I said it. I’d call PETA batship crazy but that might force them into the fetal position. Guess I’ll just say they’re full of guano.
And for anyone who’d like to hear a more nuanced perspective, feel free to check out JP.
In general, most of us humans are 7.5 heads tall. These sanforized women, however, appear to have streeeeettttcccched to nearly nine heads. Must have been hard to find a frock to fit. But seriously, I do enjoy artistic license, and find the image interesting.
Oh, y’all. How do I tread lightly on this image? My first inclination was to Google the opposite of eye candy, which returned “butt ugly.” Honestly. While I feel that is harsh, my eyes nod in accord with Google. These are skivvies best left unseen. It’s curious that LIFE published this at all, in their 7/11/38 issue, referring to Emmy Andersen (whom you will not find made mention of anywhere else on the interwebs) as a “calisthenist and premier nudist of Denmark.” By the way, if you again Google calisthenics, the example it gives is, “Three women swung Indian clubs while performing calisthenics in unison.” That’s weird, right? It’s not just me?
LIFE went on to explain that Andersen had been a solo nudist on a North Sea island for seven years because Denmark frowned on organized skin culture. Don’t Google that term, because it means something else entirely. She arrived in the USA on June 30th to “ascertain the status of nudism in America.” One wonders what she discovered, or when she returned to her homeland, which declared neutrality the following year, and was quickly occupied by the Germans. I, however, am not a Dane, so I don’t have to be neutral. To the exhibitionist with the nylons rolled down, I give a decided thumbs down.