Radio mirror (May-Oct 1936)

RADIO MIRROR foroets name of sweeper wifewanted, so he buys "newest* Sweeper — the Gadget special delivers sweeper but notes Wife seems peeved as she puts •"gadget special" through its paces ON HIS WAY BACK MEETS MRS. KELLY. ASKS HER IF THIS SWEEPER ISN'T *JUST AS GOOD" AS A BlSSELL BISSELL The really better sweeper Grand Rapids, Mich. • LIKES IT BECAUSE IT HAS DETACHABLE MUD-GUARDS, FLOATING POWER, AND ACCORDION— PLEATED HANDLE. HEARS WIFE SAY VTAKE THIS CONTRAPTION BACK THIS MINUTE AND GET ME A BISSELL'" f-^^ THEN LISTENS cjf'^p AS MRS. K. Jk-y/\ ENLIGHTENS HIM.. "As good as a Bissell? Not forme.' Why? Because Bissell is the only sweeper with Hi-Lo brush control that automatically and fully adjusts brush to any rug. That's why a Bissell cleans better! And Bissell is a better built sweeper— and better looking! Just take a look at the new models!" Models from $3.95 to $7.50 Good-»Ve tan AND filECK-LES -Z0 -» Don't Let ^^ SUN-BAKED SKIN TURN SALLOW Lighten and freshen your skin thousands of women have done for 25 years. Apply this dainty cream nightly and watch it clear away the tell-tale marks of the hot summer sun. Uld on money-back guarantee AT DRUG AND DEPARTMENT STORES IDA BAILEY ALLEN'S New Cook Book As Food Editor of Radio Mirror, I heartily recommend this latest edition of Ida Bailey Allen's new Service Cook Book. The 196page volume contains 1500 recipes — and all the things you want to know about : How to Measure, Correct Temperatures for all types of cooking, Meal Planning, Marketing, Table Service, etc. I know you'll be glad to have it. Just send 25c in stamps or coin (wrap securely) to: Mrs. Margaret Simpson, Food Editor RADIO MIRROR Magazine 1926 Broadway, New York City Your book will arrive promptly, postage prepaid. They're Radio's Old Maids (Continued from page 21) lady has positively everything. Slim dark Maxine, who has the longest curliest eyelashes and the most enormous jet black eyes of all the radio beauties, has a problem on her hands no advice to the lovelorn could solve. For a long time she's been crazy about a young doctor in Washington — and she's under contract to her boss, Phil Spitalny, not to marry for three more years! It was Phil who took Maxine out of a campus musical comedy at Ohio State University, gave her her chance on the air, coached her and primed her for success. Naturally he wanted the certainty of her exclusive services for a period of time long enough to justify his investment in her training, so he put a marriage clause in her contract which at the time Maxine was perfectly willing to sign. How was she to know that during one of her very first vaudeville engagements she was to meet the man she wanted to marry? Of course she's at liberty to break her contract and Phil wouldn't make it unpleasant for her if she should, but breaking contracts with a benefactor is not quite cricket and Maxine won't be guilty of it. So the only way she can have her romance and stick to her word too is by dashing back and forth to Washington on brief trips and pining away the rest of the evenings in her artistic Beaux Arts apartment which she shares with Gypsy Cooper, saxophonist in the Spitalny band. So just in case you think a radio career is always the life romantic you ought to hear Maxine on that subject! KAY THOMPSON is another star whom the microphone is cheating of love and this, we say, is a crying shame. For Kay's the kind of good old gal, fun and brainy and regular, who ought to be making some man's life superbly full qf rich companionship. The trouble with Thompson is merely this: She's in one of the most important spots on the air with her choir on the Chesterfield show; she's solely responsible not only for holding her own job but the jobs of the fourteen youngsters in her group too; and the pressure of a responsibility that great is practically working her to death. Seven days a week, mind you, not six, Kay is up at noon and on her toes 'til midnight. You've never seen a dynamo until you see her sitting at that big white piano in her living room, wearing a rummy old sweater and slacks and socks and oxfords, working like mad for hours on end on arrangements and 'parts' and 'licks' and lyrics. If the numbers aren't swell at rehearsal it's all Kay's fault, they'll have to be done over again. In the meantime the riding habit she brought from St. Louis two years ago is gently rusting between tissue paper, her tennis racket in the closet hasn't been restrung since heaven knows when. Kay has plenty of dates, though. Oh, yes. Along about midnight she drags herself under a shower while Mamie, her maid, lays out a frivolous evening dress, gossamer stockings and spike-heeled sandals. Then Kay goes out with the young man of the evening to a night club — always a night club because somehow they relax her more effectively at the end of her day than anything she's found yet. The only trouble is that by that time she's in no mood for what goes with soft lights and sweet music. "It's a well known fact," she said to me not long ago, "that when you're as weary as I am at night even the most devastating man in the world is just a — well, just 78