July 14, 2009

Working Mother

One of my very best friends, Barbara (love you, B) sent me a Facebook post, asking me if I was interested in her back issues of "Working Mother Magazine." I laughed out loud, thinking she was being her typical, silly self, attemping to make me laugh.

I thought she was kidding. However, "Working Mother" is not only a magazine, but it apparently sells copies!? And is lucrative? What? Now you must understand my surprise.

The conundrum: how does a publisher sell magazines to an audience (a working mother) who has absolutely no time to read? Said publisher must not have paid much attention in business school.

Working mothers have no time to read a cereal box, a book for pleasure, let alone a magazine that tries to tell us how to "be everything to everyone with a smile, while simultaneously slenderizing our hips in just five minutes a day." Stupid Working Mother will be out of business in months.

Maybe not. Because here is the absolute evil genius behind Working Mother Magazine: not only are working mothers the busiest freaks of nature on the planet, but they also carry around the patented working-mother-guilt like Atlas...and thus, are always seeking to figure it all out, to be better to the kids, the husband, their sacred temple of a body, etc. etc. etc.

Hence, Working Mother Magazine will help *YOU* (working mother) figure it ALL out!
*YOU* can cook meals in six minutes a day!
*YOU* too can have a perfect body in only thirty-seconds a day!
*YOU* can relax with only a bath and a Ped-Egg!
*YOU* can make pipe cleaner crafts or cupcakes in your car, during your two hour commute!
*YOU* can spice up your sex life with only a toothbrush and a handful of Goldfish crackers!
*YOU*can do it ALL!


I cannot wait to get my hands on all the back issues. Maybe it has the secrets to making this horrific circus of a working mother life become calm, vacation like, a day at the pool... I'm foaming at the mouth.

I think they have a new subsriber. D'oh.

1 comment:

kelly said...

How I long to read a novel, a poem anything that doean't have a cat with a hat on the cover. As I read this post (and type) I am jiggling a baby swing, trying to eat a bowl of Apple Jacks of which Spencer is eating every third bite anyway. Yeah-mommyhood!