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The infomercial landscape of the 1990s held particular appeal for people looking to pursue self-improvement. Richard Simmons advocated for Deal-a-Meal, a trading card-based diet regimen; Tony Little swore he could whip people into cardiovascular shape with his Gazelle; Chuck Norris promised that the Total Gym and its resistance bands would build muscle.

All of these marketing campaigns were successful to varying degrees, but none reached the heights of a crew-cut, bleached-blonde pitchwoman who insisted that losing weight and raising your self-esteem were not a condition of buying expensive equipment or starving yourself. It was a matter of making smart food choices, minimizing fat intake, and sticking to a moderate exercise routine.

The woman was Susan Powter. In 1993 alone, she sold more than $50 million dollars’ worth of simplified, common-sense advice to an audience that was ready to take a minimalist approach to wellness.

"If you can't pronounce it," she told followers, "don't eat it."

Like many gurus before her, Powter’s ascension was preceded by considerable challenges in her personal life. Born in Sydney, Australia on December 22, 1957, Powter's family moved to the United States when she was 10 years old. In 1980, her family relocated to Dallas, which is where—one year later—she met and fell “madly in love” with Nic Villareal. The couple married in 1982 and had two sons. But "the marriage was wrong from the start," Powter told People in 1994. "He was young, and we were too different from each other." In 1986, the couple separated. Powter turned to food to help alleviate her stress, estimating she went from 130 to 260 pounds.

Diets and workout routines were not helpful. Powter once said she rented a Jane Fonda Workout tape and found it impenetrable. Instead, she walked, ate only when hungry, cut out sugar and processed foods, and eventually slimmed down to 114 pounds. After her mother passed away in 1988, Powter used the $250,000 inheritance she received to open a Dallas fitness studio that she dubbed the Wellness Center.

By that time, Powter had adopted her soon-to-be-signature closely-cropped hairstyle, and her energy—which one journalist described as being not unlike a “human air raid”—was distinctive. She proselytized to women in supermarket aisles, counseling them on healthier food choices.

In 1990, Powter approached Dallas publicity representative Rusty Robertson with a request for help getting more members into her gym. Robertson, who understood what it took to get the public’s attention, was immediately struck by Powter’s charisma. She booked Powter on radio shows and for lectures and facilitated a book contract with Simon & Schuster. To summarize Powter’s candid approach to weight loss, one that dispensed with calorie counting and constant use of a scale, Robertson used the umbrella term of "Stop the Insanity."

By 1993, the pair had organized an infomercial (shot partially in Robertson’s home) that spoke to an audience stretching far beyond the Dallas area. For $79.80, respondents would get a Stop the Insanity package that included five audio tapes, an exercise video, recipes, a guide to fat content in various foods, and a plastic skin-fold caliper that made rough estimates of body fat percentages. Roughly 200,000 of the kits were sold within the first two weeks of the infomercial’s airing. From there, Powter moved 15,000 of them a week. Devotees could supplement this counseling with a paperback book, Pocket Powter, as well as the main Stop the Insanity title, which paid Powter an initial advance of $400,000.

“You gotta give [infomercial producer] USA Direct credit,” Powter said in 1994. “They had chutzpah. They must have been biting their nails when I went out there in front of a live audience—a bald woman wearing a cut-off T-shirt, and no script. Our infomercials are the only ones that are not scripted. And our audiences are not paid to go 'ohh, ahh.' They're not paid at all. Other companies that we had approached to do our infomercials wanted to change me. They found me too aggressive. Typical male interpretation."

Fueled by a desire to help dieters cut through the noise, Powter advocated a simple approach. “Fat makes you fat,” she insisted, dismissing strategies involving food diaries or convoluted exercise programs. In person, she communicated with a kind of gastronomic evangelism, insisting women needed to be fit and healthy in order to combat the patriarchy. The press made frequent mention of how she had effectively conquered her own personal imbalance of power, with first husband Villareal sharing a two-family duplex with Powter and her second husband, musician Lincoln Apeland.

One part Richard Simmons and one part Betty Friedan, Powter seemed poised to segue from infomercial star to feminist wellness guide. Then she simply disappeared.

As is often the case with rapid fortune, Powter had problems delegating whose pockets deserved to be filled. She spent a good portion of the late 1990s in a legal battle with former business partner Gerald Frankel, whom she had met at her exercise studio, for rights to her name and the “Stop the Insanity” trademark. ("Susan wants it all," Frankel told reporters in 1995, insisting the deal had been equitable.) The two fought in court for years. While she managed to win her identity, it came at the expense of a personal bankruptcy.

Powter turned down sitcom offers and film roles, preferring to direct her energy toward wellness issues. She didn't want her message to be filtered, which didn't always sit well with radio and television producers, so her talk shows disappeared. Powter largely dropped out of the public eye from 1998 to 2008, resurfacing only when she felt her messages of self-empowerment could be delivered, undiluted, via the internet.

Today, her website seems to be only sporadically updated. The 60-year-old Powter's public appearances are infrequent. Her admonition to reduce fat intake has since been supplanted by advocates of low-carb and high-protein menus, along with strenuous workouts. But for a number of people, Powter was able to cut out the white noise of fad diets and gimmicky machines to create a simple message: Eat less, move more, and the rest takes care of itself.

For the past half-century, PBS programs have provided rudimentary, but crucial, lessons about grammar and storytelling for their pint-sized viewers. If Sesame Street taught kids the alphabet, Reading Rainbow got them thinking in complete sentences.

Eventually, kids graduated to middle school and started to expand their curiosity. From 1983 to 1998, another PBS program titled Newton’s Apple was able to satisfy it.

The half-hour series anticipated a lot of question-and-answer formats that are still popular today, including Mental Floss’s own Big Questions installments. Each week, host Ira Flatow would select a query sent in by a viewer or provided by a member of the studio audience: What is fiber optics? How much of the body is fat? What makes our ears pop? Why do peeled onions make us cry? In live-to-tape or pre-recorded segments, Flatow would delve into the topic, offering demonstrations and expert opinions that illustrated the show’s explanations.

Flatow, a former science reporter for NPR, drew comparisons to comedian Groucho Marx and often displayed a participatory bent, swimming with dolphins or gliding up in a hot air balloon. Celebrities would also make the rounds: Betty White once helped explain why cats purr. If there was a question or concept that ever puzzled a kid, Newton’s Apple had probably offered up an explanation.

“Despite the fact that we try to make science interesting and amusing, I do not intend to allow Newton's Apple to become the That's Incredible of PBS,” Flatow said in 1983, referring to the NBC info-tainment show. “My role as a kind of gatekeeper is to make sure that every show makes good, sound, scientific points. It may be fun, but it'll be the truth.”

Questions were often selected based on how often they recurred in viewer mail and whether the resulting demonstration would make for compelling television. Kids asked a lot of questions about dinosaurs, while adults were more curious about health and medicine. (The most popular question: Why is the sky blue?) Roughly half of the questions came from viewers; the other half were generated by staffers.

Flatow left the series in 1987 and was replaced by David Heil, the associate director of the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, following a national talent search. He made his debut by jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. (Fortunately, it was a tandem jump.)

Produced by KTCA, PBS's Minneapolis affiliate, Newton's Apple was supported by the DuPont corporation for most of its run. When that relationship ended in 1990, the show was effectively canceled, only to be revived for another eight seasons when the 3M company agreed to subsidize some of the production costs.

While the show was used as a teaching aid in up to 10 percent of all middle school classrooms in America (PBS issued information packets to be paired with the broadcasts), the secret of its 16 years on the air was that it was watched primarily by older viewers.

In 1992, the Los Angeles Times reported that 80 percent of the show’s audience was 18 years of age or older. The reason, producers said, was that a lot of people stopped being invested in science as part of their school curriculum in junior high and didn't know where else to turn to for answers to the burning questions they had (this was pre-Google, after all). For its role as a remedial learning tool, Newton’s Apple won a Daytime Emmy in 1989 for Outstanding Children’s Series. Unfortunately, there was no category for Outstanding Children's Series Viewed Mostly by Adults.