bandages, decided to market the pads, and thus Kotex was born. And almost died, when it was discovered that women of the time were so mortified at the concept of asking their pharmacists for menstrual pads that they would rather go without. Finally, someone came up with the concept of the "honor box" -- A woman could discreetly go to a box, drop in a nickel, take the pad (in an unmarked box) and walk away as if nothing ever happened. Clearly this is a far cry from today, in which women are shown on television celebrating the existence of "wings."
Commercial tampons followed the introduction of the pads in the 20s and 30s, though there was some trial and error: Not only did the first tampons not have applicators (that wasn't standard equipment until 1936), some of them didn't even have strings . I'm cringing just thinking about it. The manufacturers were apparently also blissfully unaware of the bacterial danger of leaving a tampon in too long; the copy of one early tampon box notes that one wearer left hers in for 48 hours with no ill effects. One wonders if it was the 49th hour that killed her.
Not all feminine hygiene products were of such utility and usefulness. As with so many other products women use, some feminine hygiene products seem designed specifically to intimate to a woman that walking around in a natural state is tantamount to scaring babies and dogs. Specifically, I'm referring to feminine odor products, in which the menstrual order is played up to be the closest thing to raw sewage that ever came out of a person's body, and never mind the actual raw sewage located one orifice south.
One memorable 1948 ad shows a husband stalking out the door while the wife cowers in a chair, weeping. "Why Does She Spend Her Evenings Alone?" the ad asks. The answer: Because she's stinky. You know what I'm saying here (although the putative solution -- Lysol, of all things -- hardly seems much better; if ever there was a place for "minty not medicine-y," this is it). The irony of this is that in 18th Century France, for one, menstrual odor was thought to be seductive, 'impregnated with subtle vapors transmitted by the essence of life,' according to a commentator of the time. This assessment has to be tempered by the fact we're talking both about the 18th Century (as stench-filled a century as there's ever been) and France, a place full of underbathed people who regularly eat cheeses that smell like gangrenous feet. Still, the point is yet in evidence: Normal menstrual odor is not nearly the worst thing to come out of one's body.
Odor products aside, feminine hygiene products allowed women more control of their bodies, and as an extension, more control of their lives. This is something to which most hygiene products don't aspire; most hygiene products merely make you cleaner. And while there's nothing wrong with that (quite the opposite, in fact), in the race for the millennium's best hygienic products, there's really no contest. So, three cheers for the tampon and the sanitary pad.
And now, you'll excuse me. I need to go and shiver uncontrollably for a couple of hours. I'm just a man, after all.
Best Condiment of the Millennium.
Mayonnaise. What, you thought I was going to give it to catsup? Catsup is vile stuff, I tell you -- originally made from fish brine. Yes, fish water. Enjoy that on your fries. These days in America catsup refers exclusively to the tomato variety (thus the lame "Isn't 'tomato catsup' redundant?" crack from the ill-educated posing as the ironic), but in the rest of the world, you'll find catsups made from mushrooms, oysters and unripened walnuts. And here you thought catsup couldn't get any worse.
Well, okay, you say, but mayonnaise isn't any better. Off-white and pasty, it's an ill-flavored goo that's somehow managed to nudge its way into our food supply. Its provenance is unreliable; most of us know it's made from eggs, but we couldn't tell you the process, except to suggest that the eggs that
Commercial tampons followed the introduction of the pads in the 20s and 30s, though there was some trial and error: Not only did the first tampons not have applicators (that wasn't standard equipment until 1936), some of them didn't even have strings . I'm cringing just thinking about it. The manufacturers were apparently also blissfully unaware of the bacterial danger of leaving a tampon in too long; the copy of one early tampon box notes that one wearer left hers in for 48 hours with no ill effects. One wonders if it was the 49th hour that killed her.
Not all feminine hygiene products were of such utility and usefulness. As with so many other products women use, some feminine hygiene products seem designed specifically to intimate to a woman that walking around in a natural state is tantamount to scaring babies and dogs. Specifically, I'm referring to feminine odor products, in which the menstrual order is played up to be the closest thing to raw sewage that ever came out of a person's body, and never mind the actual raw sewage located one orifice south.
One memorable 1948 ad shows a husband stalking out the door while the wife cowers in a chair, weeping. "Why Does She Spend Her Evenings Alone?" the ad asks. The answer: Because she's stinky. You know what I'm saying here (although the putative solution -- Lysol, of all things -- hardly seems much better; if ever there was a place for "minty not medicine-y," this is it). The irony of this is that in 18th Century France, for one, menstrual odor was thought to be seductive, 'impregnated with subtle vapors transmitted by the essence of life,' according to a commentator of the time. This assessment has to be tempered by the fact we're talking both about the 18th Century (as stench-filled a century as there's ever been) and France, a place full of underbathed people who regularly eat cheeses that smell like gangrenous feet. Still, the point is yet in evidence: Normal menstrual odor is not nearly the worst thing to come out of one's body.
Odor products aside, feminine hygiene products allowed women more control of their bodies, and as an extension, more control of their lives. This is something to which most hygiene products don't aspire; most hygiene products merely make you cleaner. And while there's nothing wrong with that (quite the opposite, in fact), in the race for the millennium's best hygienic products, there's really no contest. So, three cheers for the tampon and the sanitary pad.
And now, you'll excuse me. I need to go and shiver uncontrollably for a couple of hours. I'm just a man, after all.
Best Condiment of the Millennium.
Mayonnaise. What, you thought I was going to give it to catsup? Catsup is vile stuff, I tell you -- originally made from fish brine. Yes, fish water. Enjoy that on your fries. These days in America catsup refers exclusively to the tomato variety (thus the lame "Isn't 'tomato catsup' redundant?" crack from the ill-educated posing as the ironic), but in the rest of the world, you'll find catsups made from mushrooms, oysters and unripened walnuts. And here you thought catsup couldn't get any worse.
Well, okay, you say, but mayonnaise isn't any better. Off-white and pasty, it's an ill-flavored goo that's somehow managed to nudge its way into our food supply. Its provenance is unreliable; most of us know it's made from eggs, but we couldn't tell you the process, except to suggest that the eggs that
Similar Books
