college, Women


The college scandal continues at every corner I have turned this past week since the story broke. With good reason, it is a dire and despicable example of what goes terribly wrong with too much money not used for the right reason. Despite the plane crashes, the school shootings and the massacre in New Zealand, these college scandals are still in front of us. This is serious business, this college outrage. It is indicative of the layers of entitlement and greed that is nothing new in our young country or world for that matter.

I have an old friend who is almost 97 at this point, walks every single day, lives on his own with his wife and still drives. He speaks the way an old Italian man who survived WWII gets away with. A few years back as we were walking, he said to me in regards to some scandal involving a politician whose name escapes me, “Anytime there is a scandal it is because of money or a woman.” I cracked up. Such an old-fashioned way to put it because I see it with a slight twist. The money and the women are more often the result of the behavior caused by the person causing it- usually a man and of course I said this aloud. It fell on deaf ears. He really didn’t see it this way at all. Now before you think this essay is headed towards some bra burning male bashing, let me assure you it is not. I love men, the good ones. And there are plenty of women who are as guilty of scandal and bad behavior. This is not male centric by any means. But his notion that scandals were because of the women not symptomatic is part of the reason I write today.

I remember reading The Scarlet Letter in high school and feeling so outraged that Hester had to walk around with the big A, not her lover who she protected with a vengeance. Sure the reverend’s identity wasn’t so obvious, but the female shaming was and continues to be so typical. The #Metoo movement finally brought some men out into the open for the parade that women have been walking for centuries and I think this may be progress? I put the question mark because I am not sure. We have had many feminist movements in the past century, yet we still struggle for equal pay, representation in our government and our boards. We still worry about our reproductive rights and our daughters’ safety if they choose to go out late at night alone. This is a universal problem- the double standard of our gender.

What I have found interesting in this recent college scandal is the female shaming. And we barely notice. Why is it that every news story features photos and names of the two actresses? Any story I have seen or heard says, “A list of people including two actresses.” Then their names, their photos, the photos of their children and the endless parade of their shame walk to and from court.

Where are the rest of the over thirty people and more involved? Why are their names not in the news? I am not protecting the two women and their children. Their example is an embarrassment to parenting, BUT so are the rest of them. If the news is not going to show the lists, the faces of the remaining, why should it just be the two women and their daughters? Women have been doing the walk of shame forever, what we wear, what we eat, how we choose our partners, our sex lives, how we have sex, the way we give birth, feed our children, choose to work or not work, constantly we are under the microscope in such different ways than our male counterparts. In the alanon meetings I have gone to for years, just like AA, the first step is awareness. Until we are even remotely aware of the imbalances that the media portrays us in, nothing will ever change. We women barely notice that there is an imbalance because we are just so friggin use to it, it is our norm.

I refuse to call out the actresses in this essay today until the media starts naming everyone, showing pictures of everyone involved, not just two women. I am not protecting them. All you need to do is google college scandal and see what shows up in the search. Two names, two faces over and over again. Once again, the media doesn’t get it right.

As a woman who takes care of women for a living, who employs almost twenty young women in a female centered business, I write today to remind us to start noticing. Just that first step in paying attention and having conversation about how much this happens. Ads that show women in the kitchen, at the washing machine, taking stains happily out of their children’s clothes with great big smiles, men cutting the grass with their John Deere mowers, fixing their cars, the media loves gender pigeon holing. I just turned 54 and in my lifetime I can recall the first time I saw an ad that showed a female doctor. The first time. What came first? Why aren’t we noticing? Our children are watching. This scandal is shocking and sad, but like all bad choices, there are strong lessons to be learned. Let’s start with simply learning that just showing the two female actresses over and over and not talking about the rest is part of the conversation we could be having with our children too. Teachable moments come in all forms. We are having more conversations about why the obvious is wrong, but there is an undercurrent of bias again that is also part of the conversation. Just google it and you will get my point.




There it was, in the cookbook section of the small independent bookstore I have made my way to every year for the past six in the stunning fall foliage of the White Mountains. I had found myself with some alone time, meandering through the small shops of North Conway, New Hampshire and decided to visit my favorite store for the second time this week. My partner was back at the condo reading and resting, I was out on Main St. trying to support the local New Hampshire economy like a good tourist. I don’t really buy books any more. I relish using the library now, the smell, the neatly covered books with their plastic protectors, the interaction with the librarians and volunteers. But here I stood in the aisles among rows and rows of glorious possibilities and found myself scanning the cookbooks.

One book almost impossible to take out of the library is a cookbook. First of all, a cookbook needs its butter smears and gravy drippings on its pages, eliminating it immediately from being a library contender. For a while I was taking books I had purchased to the beach rather than the library book I had taken out for fear of getting it greased with sunscreen. Now that I am a seasoned library book borrower however I have graduated myself to a successful beach outing with the loaner. But cookbooks still don’t really fall into a successful library book borrow so here I was gazing. I surely don’t need another cookbook, I have plenty I haven’t even made my way through yet, but there she was in her aerobic clothing, midriff bare like a teenager, hair coiffed like Farrah Fawcett, perfectly blonde feathered bang, lovely and firm cleavage gazing out at the camera as if she were posing for seventeen magazine in the seventies. Except the difference was she wasn’t seventeen. Unless she got married at thirteen, she had to be at least forty- five since her bio on the inside jacket fold said she had been married for twenty five years with two teenage daughters.

The person I am speaking of was or rather is Denise Austin of famed workout DVD kind, like Jane Fonda fame. I have never worked out to a Denise Austin video, but I have seen her on morning talk shows back when I was a young mother and she was too. She is a successful famous woman who made a business and a name for herself in the fitness boom way before YouTube and Amazon TV. I picked up the book somewhat startled at myself for doing so. I am not generally interested in books like this screaming at me that skinny is the desired word of choice for my future body. Skinny coming from who has a six pack and her real breasts, probably still has her ovaries too for that matter. But for some reason there in the independent book store filled with my peeps and their natural hair color and birkenstocks I bent down and picked the book up. As my fingers made their way to lift the book I did look out the corners of my right and left side to see who might be witnessing because this book was a bit embarrassing to be seen with. Its cover not only screamed SIDE EFFECT: SKINNY, it had a disclaimer on the bottom. WARNING: Reading this book may cause thinner waistline, toned tummy, slender thighs & a sudden burst in confidence.

I laughed a loud. Denise, really? Did you just come from a time warped seventies Cosmopolitan magazine? For some reason I found myself opening the book to the peruse its pages filled with “Denise’s Tips for the first time!” Words like long awaited and redefining the word skinny showing us that “you don’t have to be rail thin to look gorgeous and live healthier.” I stood there speechless, but enamored with her in a twisted sort of way in what seemed like a very dated message. If I don’t have to be rail thin to look gorgeous, then why is she showing her rail thin scantily clad body as an example? She got my attention. As I read on in this granola book store , she, just in the jacket cover alone, used the word tummy and trim making me think I was reading a Good Housekeeping magazine article on keeping my man happy.

I decided to buy the book. I don’t know why. Something came over me as I read her encouraging yet dated words of wisdom. I felt like I was cheating on my entire female tribe by buying this book so I slithered over to the counter purchasing a second book that I could place on top so as not to be discovered by the gender neutral person at the front desk. Did she just roll her eyes at me? Did she think I was to be pitied for having the type of personality and self talk to warrant the purchase of this book? I wanted to let her know I was buying this book as more female research than as a diet book. I don’t believe in diets or diet books I wanted to say, but I didn’t because actually turns out I didn’t care what she thought about my purchase. What a relief.

When I got back to my room, I opened the book and began reading. I can’t remember the last time I read a book like this if ever, but I loved her enthusiasm for skinny, flatter tummies, smaller hips and yes she even used the word sexier (Helen Gurley Brown would have been proud). Her tips and lists of how to start this seven day fat blast diet (which by the way is twenty one days) is really designed for women or ladies as she likes to call us to motivate us with her cheery words who have a lot of time. Her Super Splurge lists on the mandated “cheat day” on the seventh day of each seven day run are foods I wouldn’t let pass my lips even on a dip into the dark side. Kit Kats, Hershey bars, “You may have anything you want on Super Splurge day as long as you keep it to under 1500 calories!” She proclaims like this is some anointing of goodness coming our way. Am I reading a Saturday Night Live skit? For some reason 1500 calories and Super Splurge seem to be on opposite ends of the reality spectrum. I forge ahead though for some reason I am sucked into Denise Austin’s approach despite its warped sense of reality. If my new gal pal Denise was sitting down on the couch next to me she would likely be saying, “Alayne, did you try any of it before you criticized my theories?” My reply would of course be no Denise, I haven’t, but I am open to giving you a try.

I really enjoy starting new food plans, I love the beginnings of them, the shopping to fill up my cabinets and fridge with all of the allotted foods from the convenient grocery list provided at the back end of the book. I love the Sunday prep day cutting and dicing and slicing the inordinate amount of vegetables to get my little plastic baggies ready for quick on the go snacking when I am running late (or starving because I have been eating vegetables for twenty one straight days whatever comes first). There is hope and starry eyed dreams of the twenty first day where the promises of flatter tummies and slimmer hips await. Her advice is counter intuitive to all of the Whole 30 advice I have worshiped mainly because it has worked for me.

Ditch the mirror, the hell with the scale, figure out what foods make you feel shitty (sugar, wine, carbs) and bask in the glory of not having to worry about how you look (because as a feminist and modern woman, looks shouldn’t matter) but how you feel, this is the desired goal. Denise on the other hand aims for us ladies to look skinny, to have flat tummies, which in turn will give us a sense of confidence we didn’t know we were lacking. She wants me to weigh myself at the same time every other day. I can’t remember the last time I got on a scale (which by the way could be the reason her exclaimed Side Effect: Skinny title got my attention. I don’t have to weigh myself to know I have gained weight since my surgery and let’s face the truth here, there is only so long I can use surgery and recovery as a scapegoat for my gain). Excuses and more excuses, but I read through her fat blasting plan with its prescribed daily commitments like morning stretching every day, Denise Austin’s super slimming seven minute walking training every other day and countless other lifestyle changes that require a full time job. But Denise manages to fit it all in and she has a multi million dollar fitness empire, so anyone can!

She has countless ways for us ladies (I am not exaggerating here when I say every time she uses the word ladies to motivate, I have a vision of Aunt Lydia in The Handmaid’s Tale coaching her lovely handmaids to ready themselves for their “celebration nights” with their commanders in Gilead) to move even when we weren’t aware we could be. When we are talking on the phone, (walking the length of whatever room you are standing in), standing in grocery store lines (five tummy tucks), brushing your teeth (leg lifts of course) and about ten other possibilities I was completely unaware of until Denise and I met in her book. Denise in her happy blonde and sparkly way has made me realize that fitness and food planning can be a happy choice we make for better lives for all!

She believes in low fat everything. Has she read the sugar content in all of this lowfat? This is a bit of a shift from all of the otherwise rationale nutrition thinking I have been reading about since I had my first diagnosis almost four years ago. She believes in egg whites mostly, rather than those very fashionable egg yolks that have caused me to buy four dozen eggs at a time from my local farmer (6.00 a dozen thank you very much) She believes that Super Splurge days aka cheat days should consist of an array of shitty candy and fast food which she gives the calorie counts for. Two tablespoons of m and m’s, 1 reeeses, 2 small Halloween candy size Hershey bars, 1 small Wendy’s chocolate shake. Even when I have done a super splurge BD (Before Denise) it surely wasn’t with m and m’s. And even if it were, does smiley Denise think I am the type of woman who would eat only two Tablespoons of m and m’s? As I said though, I am going to give this a try to see if all of the promises deliver. The one thing about me is when I park my mind on a new food plan, three weeks is easy. Who knows, maybe I will be fifteen pounds lighter, thinner hips and flatter tummied. I don’t think a diet is going to make me more confident, though, I think building my own business empire, buying a 3900 square foot historic building on my own, three breast cancer surgeries in three years, not to mention two fabulous new tits, have secured my place in the confidence checklist.

Denise and Alayne hanging out together in beautiful New Hampshire Mountains. Confidence Indeed.



The push up bras with the padding ready for a Sunday afternoon football game made like the designers stuffed overnight maxi pads into each cup stared or rather glared at me, almost daring me to reach for one. I wouldn’t have been able to reach for one even if I had wanted to, you know that range of motion thing I keep speaking about.

As I made my way over to the cotton bikini underwear I have been buying for well over twenty years from Victoria Secret, I asked a non descript salesperson for help. From women who have some booty and some hips out there, like a brand of jeans, once we find the perfect style of underwear, they become a permanent friend in our drawers (seriously, no pun intended). The sales girl asked me what style I wore. There used to be three choices, high leg brief, bikini and hip hugger bikini I think. Now there are about a dozen styles and for a moment I forgot what I wore. I reached down into my lulu lemons thinking I would ask the sales woman to check the style I had on and thought twice. One reason for my hesitation was it is just plain weird to ask a total stranger to put her hands down the back of your pants to find a tag. The second reason were those pesky drains I was about to have removed. Even though I am an open book about all of this madness, I forget that the average Jane is likely not familiar nor chooses to become familiar with the image of liquid filled grenades attached to my body that she would have to navigate around. Mmm. Who knew about all of these choices clearly made for asses my lower body has never seen even in my earliest of years. One pair was called “cheeky” something or other, no thank you, I don’t need underwear to ride up my ass on purpose, it does that anyway.

For kicks here is the link, please don’t buy anything as I don’t want it to seem that I am promoting this silliness we are surrounded with to make us think that our beautiful booties are supposed to even try to fit into these. Warning: Only go to the link if you are feeling loving and secure about your body when you look in the mirror. If you are PMS, perimenopausal, menopausal, pregnant, if it is a full moon, high tide, mercury in retrograde, just got into a fight with your mate because he or she told you the truth when you asked that loaded question, ”Do these make me look fat?” (Do women still do this? Please say no.) or if you are two weeks out from a double mastectomy and reconstruction, oh wait a minute that’s me, what the fuck am I doing buying underwear at Victoria Secret, shouldn’t I be home high on oxy feeling sorry for myself? If any of these descriptors apply, step away from the link, If you still want to torture yourself, click away.

My friend and I decided to do a little shopping before we headed over to the plastic surgeon’s office to, at last, get the final set of drains taken out of my body. Amidst the sexual encounter promoting items I found myself surrounded with, I found a sales person that I had to ask to help me find the cotton underwear I love. Saleswoman. That is a vintage title these days. A dying breed that went out when the last Cherry and Webb and Filenes store closed. They should be called ordertakers because they are all just professional standers waiting for their day to come to an end. I miss good old fashioned saleswomen who understood how to engage and start conversations so that I would end up buying way more than I intended to.

The “sales” girl showed me where my size was (medium these days, thank you Kathy Martin) which were in a low drawer I couldn’t really bend down to. I asked her if she could pull them out for me as she let me know “five for twenty eight dollars.” I guess this is what is considered sales help these days because as she handed me my new bikinis, she told me to tell the cashier to mention “Jackie helped you.” Really? Is this help? Ok, I’ll bite. As I made my way past the plethora of underwear that I will never wear again, (because I don’t fucking want to) no matter how many burpees and squats I continue to do, past the bras that will never grace or rather suffocate my upper body because the second act of my upper body involves a firm lift that will require none of those silly contraptions, (thank you Dr. Michaud and oh yeah, cancer), I was faced with pictures of eighteen year old come hither models at every turn. Once again realizing that I was in yet another store that I have not only outgrown because of my age, but also because they fail to take notice of the statistics that over three hundred thousand women will be diagnosed with the disease this year and forty thousand women will still die from it. Yes there are still women dying from breast cancer, apparently second to lung cancer. Let’s see, it’s an underwear store selling underwear as catalysts for sexual escapades, though they don’t say this aloud, they don’t have to. Cleavage, glossy lips, heavy eye liner, eight foot legs on six foot models scream “Wear this and yes, you will have the sex you dream about.” I would not be tempted by the absurdity of the images because you and I know damn well know by now that besides the obvious of not even knowing what size I would be even if I wanted to wear one, I wouldn’t even be able to hook the fucking bra. I can barely get a t shirt over my head without a struggle.

I must admit I was tempted to ask for a bra fitting just for kicks to see what kind of reaction the last day of my drains might invoke from an unsuspecting Victoria Secret sales person. I decided that this would not be very kind not to mention that it may create a barfing situation which would be very bad. The funny thing about sexual desire after a seven hour upper body surgery is that now my body is split into two parts. The untouchable (aka top half) and the bottom half that doesn’t seem to know that the top half had a major operation. What I am saying is that the two don’t seem to be talking to each other anymore and the bottom half is very much alive and alert, (there must be a God afterall for all of you non believers.) This just proves that all of this underwear has nothing to do with my very happy and awake endorphins, this feeling of desire on my bottom half anyway is all my doing. At least something is positive from all this cancer, haven’t lost my juju. Of course sex with just the lower half of a woman’s body does not lead to a very spontaneous roll in the sack. Similar to the idea of anyone besides your child coming anywhere near your breasts when you are nursing makes most women’s blood curdle, just the thought of an accidental push on my upper body let alone any sexual touching creates a fear that halts any potential of an afternoon romp.

As I made my way over to the salesperson, handing her my underwear, waiting for her to ask me who if anyone helped me, I answered the desired response thinking that real help would have at least been to walk the purchase over to the counter for me, but who cares. Victoria Secret is not marketing to me and whether I shop their brick and mortar stores or online, I am still only going to buy the bikini underwear I have loved since I was thirty.

My friend on the other hand, who needs bras that Victoria Secret doesn’t make, was shopping across the way at SOMA. I have never been into a SOMA, but it seemed to be their answer to the disappointed fifty somethings who went to VS and realized that their low lying breasts didn’t stand a chance. They are trying to get us grown up super chicks to “look beyond sexy, because we are smarter than that. We are about self love.” ( mmmm all I see is underwear, maybe the self loving sex toys are in the back room? Because seriously who will be having the rocking VS sex with this underwear? Oh I thought that is what they meant by self love) Their quality seemed much better, but as I looked around, most of their choices seemed frumpy. I tried to find something to spark me, but they just tried to hard too convince me that I could feel as VS as VS. Of course we fifty somethings know by now that tight asses, flat bellies and firm breasts come with workouts and removing carbs, wine and sugar from our menus. Sure we can buy the bras that wrap our bodies like a Scarlet Ohara corset from Gone With the Wind, but when we take them off (and actually are able to breathe again,) what stares back at us is the truth. For me though at least what stares back at me these days is saluting and standing to attention new breasts that don’t need their flipping bras anyway.

Thanks SOMA for the old college try anyway of letting me know how sexy my self respect is. I agree, but with a double mastectomy and new reconstruction the wild romp can at least be a goal, can’t it? Too early too young to give up the ship yet. Not this super chick with at least half of a awake body.




I know I am getting older when I look at the front cover of a Good Housekeeping Magazine and don’t even recognize the woman in the front cover. Last I checked I thought I was Good Housekeeping’s target audience. I mean this has been happening since I was about forty when I happened to pick up a fashion magazine and had no clue about who most of the women were as the magazine was reviewing their dresses from some function they attended.

“There’s nothing sexier than life experience,” Connie Britton is quoted on the front of this month’s GH. I turned to page 44 to see who Connie was. Apparently GH made the assumption that all of us women knew who she was. Then I noticed that GH got the bright idea to do two more covers, like covers within covers. Tracee Ellis Ross, “I wear what makes my heart sing!” and lastly Rashida Jones, “I push myself to do something new and uncomfortable every year.” Again, having no idea who any of these women were, I quickly turned to the section to see what sage advice they would be giving filtered of course through the Good Housekeeping seal of approval lens.

It is funny, I love women, I love women who own their shit (literally and figuratively as we all now by now), but I have a deep disdain for magazines. In my business I have never allowed them because I can’t stand the comparisons we naturally make just because it our female nature to do so. But because I own a beauty business, I get about five to ten magazines a week as promotional pieces (aka free). After doling the ones out I can’t bear to look at, I usually keep the ones that are more targeted for fifty somethings.

Today when I glanced at the quote from Connie, “There’s nothing sexier than life experience,” I just had to go cynical for a moment. What the hell, it’s Easter and I am sure that even Jesus must have had some cynicism at some point in his short life, (like maybe the crucifixion).

First off Connie is a beautiful white woman, actress, champion for poverty and women’s empowerment, has even been to Rwanda and Kenya (to prove it?) And she just recently adopted a boy from Ethiopia. She is fifty and smashing, starring in Friday Night Lights, (yes, I actually have heard of that) among other shows, but as I sit here with tubes and drains hanging off my back, tits as hard as baseballs that are starting to turn kind of lumpy (this is perfectly normal Dr. Hottie assured me at my last visit) I am not quite sure that this part of life experience is that sexy. What does sexy even mean and why is Connie telling me that is the bar I am supposed to be reaching for?

Of course as you can imagine, I turned to the second cover and low and behold, there is Tracee Ellis Ross, daughter of Diana (defintitely know who she is….ohhhhh love to love you baby or is that Donna Summer? Google, take me away. Yes Donna Summer. Sorry Diana.) “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” There we go. Now that has a message especially from a powerhouse like Diana Ross in the time she became a business woman. Oh GH, how come Tracee is not the cover? Are we still in the fifties where blond white woman are the preferred front cover? At least you tried with second and third place. Third cover is Rashida Jones as in daughter of Quincy, know him, and Peggy Lipton. OMG Peggy Lipton! Mod Squad Peggy Lipton. Definitely know who she is. So third place goes to mixed race Rashida. Really GH? Well it turns out that Tracee is mixed race too, but her dad is Jewish, good going GH, you covered the industry pretty well. Connie’s parents had both died within three years of each other so not sure who they were, but obviously her life and image was deemed Cover # 1. Mmmm is there a possibility that the three covers are being shown differently throughout the country depending on the demographics? Alright I have to stop this madness. I don’t really fricking care and this is why I don’t read magazines. But as I stared at Connie in her “fit and flare” off white dress, “This dress is all the proof you need that you don’t have to show cleavage or bare arms to look and feel sexy,” some GH beauty editor crooned.

Why am I going through all of this reconstruction then if I don’t have to show cleavage ever again? (Because I actually like my cleavage for one.) I felt relieved because I was seriously concerned about how my life may go on and now thanks to Good Housekeeping I have realized that I can be hopeful that my sex appeal is check marked. Let me just take one more sneak peak and just see how this dress may fit into my life (not that I would be caught dead in this dress ever). Well the shoes ($120) are available at Macy’s (.com because brick and mortars are on their way to extinction) except for Bloomingdales where the dress is. (I will have to get a ride to Newton, Mass because I can’t drive, you know that range of motion thing and for those of us who have been on 128 North, you know you need full range of motion.) No price listed. Let’s see, Bloomingdales not listed as .com and no price, I am guessing that this simple little number is likely over five hundred dollars. So Connie’s eight foot legs and slender arms and waist not worrying about cleavage and bare arms anyway seems to be the perfect role model for me and my sexy aspirations. I don’t know, but if I had proud Connie’s fifty year old legs and slender arms and no mastectomied breasts, I think I would be showing all that shit off. After all it takes a lot of work to get to fifty and even have that to camoflauge. Why hide it?

I think it would be fun to have GH do a spread on women with drains and new construction after lumpectomies and double mastectomies but not make it a point. Just throw us in as we are with all of our scars and incisions and lymphedema potential and bald heads for those of us who couldn’t miss the chemo step (thank you God, I was saved from that one) and radiation burns. Just like they shouldn’t be pointing out the mixed race women and the women who are proud to show their curves like that is something special (according to Rashida who pointed out that there was an actual “J Lo Effect” her words not mine) How about just treating women as women, women who have more than twenty percent body fat, cellulite, women who have some arm flab because unless you are my fitness instructor, Kathy, it is likely most normal woman have some.

Ok, let me take off my cynical hat now and say I am sure Good Housekeeping has come a long way. So I decided to take a look briefly online to pose the question to google, “When was the first black woman featured on the front cover of Good Housekeeping?” The only thing I could come up with without going to a library site. to authentically research the question was a paper written by Connie Johnson from Minnesota State University in 2015. that covered questions I had never even considered like objectification, white masking and hypersexualized imaging. I am putting the link to this research paper here because it is pretty interesting if you want to be gender smarter today.

The harsh reality was that only 4.2% of the top magazines had an African American woman on the cover where white women where featured 81% of the time. Ms. Johnson was really looking more at the hows of the features versus the quantites, but it was a great mind opening for me and reminded me of how much I love gender classes. But I couldn’t find a single link with my question of who was first African American woman on Good Housekeeping. Stay tuned. This will be on my list of something to occupy my time this upcoming week as I am feeling so great, this will be an interesting task that doesn’t require much physical, but lots of mental and this I love.

Anyway enough ranting about silly things. I know their job is to sell magazines. Pictures of chemo or radiated or double mastectomied women no matter how much we are used to looking at ourselves does not sell magazines. At this point though I don’t buy them anyway. So if I can’t even find the date that the first African American woman was featured on Good Housekeeping’s front cover since it’s first release in 1885, they have a long way to go before a fifty two year old self confident formerly radiated newly mastectomied and reconstructed mama, entrepreneur, friend anointed Wonder Woman and self proclaimed inner beauty advocate gets her time in their sun. Thank goodness I create my own.

October 1965 the year I was born. Glad to see GH focus was 120 ways to please a man with their special section on food, beauty and most importantly homemaking. Guess Cosmopolitan’s Helen Gurley Brown’s influence was starting to permeate even the most wholesome of magazines.