A slow death by good housekeeping.


In my latest effort to feel useful I have been collecting magazines for the kids and adults who spend hours and hours or days and days in the pediatric specialties clinic and pediatric ward of the hospital. A very awesome friend left a stack at my door last week.

One of them was Good Housekeeping. I have never seen this magazine except for in the gynecological office waiting room. Reluctantly, I opened it. This pink and orange design promising domestic godess tips of anti-aging, $6 fixes and an interview with *gasp* Katie Couric on the cover with it’s 50’s housewife-esque-before-women-could-vote title, was unleashed in my comfy reading chair while I downed a cherry soda (my version of a nightcap).

And uh, I liked it.

I liked the recipe of chicken with berry sauce.  I read the how to clean your leather purse tutorial. And I even read about Katie.

Good Housekeeping!! I don’t want to be a good housekeeper. At best I am a reluctant housekeeper who is just trying to keep a bare minimum standard of hygiene that keeps the CDC from intervening.  “Keeping” a home still brings back Mad Men visions of primping your hair for an hour before you meet your husband at the door with a platter full of ribs with the picture perfect house behind you that doesn’t look like you live there let alone two little children, who destroy and barf on everything every second of every day, live there.

(Yes, I realize I have severe issues with being a housewife but that is why this blog is called “Bad at Cleaning” not “I want to be June Cleaver”)

But dammit if I didn’t read the advice on how to tell someone they smell politely.

Good Housekeeping.

I like Good Housekeeping.

I want to read more Good Housekeeping.

I may even subscribe to it.

Now I need to go take a shower to wash off my shame, and then burn my bra or do something very women’s lib before they take my feminist card away from me.


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