First, a confession: I have the same dirty little secrets most women have. I suck-in my tummy when someone’s taking a picture. I totally want to be on The View. I cry when I can’t flirt my way out of a ticket. And, although I recognize that Taylor Lautner of the Twilight movies is only 18 years old and any feelings I may have for him of a physical nature are almost entirely inappropriate, my head has apparently neglected to inform my body of that fact. But there is one dirty little secret – something I do in the grocery store, discreetly checking to make sure no one is looking, going to a different cashier every time so as not to be recognized, casually slipping it under some produce so my kids don’t see it – I pick up a few embarrassing magazines. I’m not talking about the Cosmo which I openly admit I have a subscription to (so I can point out their rookie sex tips and mock the relationship advice). I am not talking about the Us and People magazines so many of us covet in the lobby of Jiffy Lube or trade like baseball cards at the playground. These are magazines we carry with pride; after all we need to know what celebrity marriages are in trouble and who is secretly dying of what. And I am not even talking about the World Weekly or National Enquirer that I could read with a tongue-in-cheek irony that could still permit me to be perceived as an intellectual. No, I am talking about the “Good First Woman’s Style Day World Housekeeping Weekly” magazines made from paper that has been recycled so many times it will never again know the splendor of its glossy glory days. I am talking about magazines that say things like “God Bless America” at the top and contain weekly segments like “Cute Photos”, “Kids are Funny!” and “Boy was my Face Red!” I am not proud of it, but I can’t help myself from scooping up these magazines and devouring them in the privacy of my own home, never speaking of the revolutionary findings within its pages to anyone lest I be considered someone who openly reads magazines featuring stories of love found, miracles in abundance, and angels watching over us all. The headlines about slimming down, toning up, increasing energy, decreasing stress, increasing energy; how this issue’s super food will cure diabetes, anxiety, wrinkles & rigid fingernails; finding my best jeans, shoes, eyeliner, hair cut, and suitcase so I can finally stop living the lie and become the me I was meant to be – it all just gets me every time. I love reading the step-by-step guide to the tummy tucking, toxin releasing, stamina building, skin clearing, sex-life enhancing, metabolism boosting, teeth whitening, eye clarifying, lip plumping, walking, sitting, losing-weight-in-your-sleep diet plan that always appears in the first 20 pages of these magazines. I then love flipping a few pages to salivate over the cheesy pasta recipes and chocolate indulgence dessert ideas seemingly meant to undo everything I did 10 pages before. This somehow makes me really happy (damn you cheesy goodness!!!). The prospect of being able to change everything I have ever known to be true with a super-charged soup is so appealing to me. J Featured crafts like a happiness bouquet and a gratitude quilt may seem corny, but you can’t hate on the suburban goddesses of these magazines for spreading a little joy with ribbon and glue guns. When my dirty little secrets do feature celebrities, I love that too. There seems to be a homey spin on these ladies that brings back humanity when fame has taken it away. I love that former Playmate and Hugh Heffner girlfriend Kendra Wilson is setting up house and singing to her baby, the ridiculous juxtaposition reminds me that all things are possible and even skanky Playmates like freshly-baked cookies and colorful baskets for organizing. I also love the celebrity style features. I need to know who wore their Oscar De La Renta mini-dress best. My even dirtier little secret is that I almost always believe I would look better in it than both Hale Berry and Natalie Portman. I may be delusional, but Who Wore it Best is my favorite fashion feature. When these sweet morsels of delicious journalism cover the rich and famous, they emphasize the positive things like those we would want for our daughters – engagements, babies, new homes, and new love. When misfortunes like cheating husbands and ugly divorces make an appearance, the articles focus on the strength these women find in friends, family, and shopping. Camille Grammar exercises away stress, while pictures of her keying Kelsey’s car are nowhere to be found. (Full disclosure – I have no idea if Camille actually keyed Kelsey’s car, but I know I would, seriously, like I would write our wedding vows on his Porsche – several layers into the paint, until I hit the steel frame below. Take note, Kelsey). Regardless, we are more likely to see Lindsey Lohan grabbing a latte than face down in her own vomit. And I think that is so sweet. So why am I so attracted by and ashamed of these magazines? Well, if I am honest with myself, I suppose I would have to admit that as much as I like to consider myself a smart, strong woman with the ability to light the world on fire with innovation and wit, the fact is I am a house wife, and these are my trade magazines. I don’t feel the same humiliation when I read parenting magazines because I am proud of my role as a Mom and confident in the honor associated with this position. But reading about keeping a happy, healthy home with an upbeat attitude and learning how to look my best for my husband gives me the socially regressive night sweats. I fear I must choose between being an independent force or a homemaker. But this notion is, of course, ridiculous. We can be both. Someone able to make a home is someone worthy of respect. This is a valuable and elusive goal, and achieving success brings immeasurable happiness into the world with a ripple effect that reaches far and changes the lives of many. Homemaker is a profession for smart, strong women with the ability to light the world on fire. And there is no shame in indulging in a little celebrity inspiration or super-charged soup along the way. So, I am letting go of the shame I have been carrying around and will buy these magazines in broad daylight. I’ll keep the dark glasses for buying porn.

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