I got my first magazine subscription when I was about 6 or 7. It was to Highlights. I remember reading the “Goofus & Gallant” section and thinking, even at that young age, that Goofus was a total douche. If you’re not familiar with it, it went a little something like this: Goofus would do something you are obviously not supposed to do, like hold the door shut on a wheelchair-bound person and make faces at them through the glass. Then, they’d show Gallant in the same situation, only he was carrying the person on his back, up the stairs and through the door and then performing some kind of miraculous surgery that allowed the paraplegic to walk. THAT is what you’re supposed to do – not be a Goofus. Life lessons, shown through crudely drawn black and white illustrations.
Best. Magazine. Ever.
That’s when my love affair with magazines began. From Highlights I moved on to “Sassy” magazine, and if you’re a woman my age, you totally know what I’m talking about. It was the quintessential teen magazine. It had amazing articles that talked about real issues, like how to wash your face properly (a big deal, believe me), how to dress and where to shop, it talked about boys and all the stuff a 13 year old girl cared about. But it was different from the other teen magazines – it was beautifully photographed and written in a way that you didn’t feel like you were inadequate because of your age or how you looked. It also had great interviews - I remember one with Robert Downey Jr.- he was my crush back then. I kept every issue and reread them constantly. And then it went bye-bye.
Before I had kids, I read all the fancy fashion magazines, even though I could never afford any of the fashion they wrote about, nor would I ever look like any of those women, and eventually found myself not really enjoying magazines all that much. There was no substance; I was just doing it because I could afford the $5 magazines and also I wanted to appear as though I knew what was hip and cool. And then I shopped at The Gap and felt bad about myself again.
Mother May I Sleep With Cookie Magazine?
And then the babies came. I had no time for frivolity. Or so I thought. I don’t remember where I found it, but I came across the greatest magazine for mommies. It was called “Cookie” and it was glorious. I immediately sent my check and waited for what seemed like years for my first issue. When it finally came, I tossed the kids a bag of sugar, told my husband where they were and locked myself in my bedroom. I devoured that magazine – read it cover to cover. It had great articles on where to shop for your kids, yourself and strangers if you wanted to. Articles on what it’s like to be a real mom – not a super rich or super hero mom, just stories about every day women and the amazing things we can do. It also had ideas for family vacations, both affordable and fantasy. It had super fancy and expensive stuff and stuff that I could actually buy. But it also had articles that weren’t mommy-centric. It was just a magazine about women who also happened to have kids. It wasn’t pretentious. It was real. It was Sassy for grownups!
As I waited for my December issue, which was about a month late, I became concerned. Where could it be? I paid for a whole year. I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the customer service number, fully prepared with my “I paid for this magazine, where the hell’s my latest issue?” speech, but there was no need for it. I was informed that the magazine was no more. I was also told I should’ve gotten notice in the mail (I got it 3 days later) and that they had planned on sending another magazine in its place and I would receive that first issue in April. April? It was freakin’ November! And, the magazine would be “Lucky.” Because that’s the equivalent of Cookie? A twenty-something shopper’s bible is the same as a true to life mommy magazine? And so it goes.
I flip through my Lucky magazine begrudgingly now. Cursing at the fancy fashion I can’t afford. Wondering why the hell I need to know about super mini pendant necklaces (they’re hot this season!) when I can’t wear them because Jack will just try to rip it off my neck and shove it up his nose or down his pants. Why do I need to look super chic for the weekend, when my big getaway is to the grocery store 2 blocks away? Whatever. Up yours Lucky. You’re no Sassy.
