Dear Women's Health Magazine,

What I would like to say is "WTF" but since my mother reads this I won't.
Instead, I'll say "WTH" for What the Heck?

My husband and I are loyal Men's Health and Women's Health magazine readers. We don't buy them every month, but we do buy them frequently - just not usually at the same time. Sometimes when he's out on a hockey road trip, he'll grab one to read on the bus. When I'm in a drug store and I see Women's Health at the cash, I'll grab it. But we don't usually have Men's Health and Women's Health in the house at the same time.

This past weekend, our worlds collided. My husband picked up your magazine to take to a hockey tournament and I bought one at a store to read while he was gone.

Mine has country sweet peach Taylor Swift on the front (blah. She's like 12. What stresses of real life (9-5 job, kids, home) does she actually have to worry about? And my husband has the new teen heartthrob from Twilight/Never Back Down/The O.C. Cam Gigandet. (Last month's Barack Obama was a much more interesting choice).

Here's the thing. We came home together on Sunday and threw our magazines on our bed.

And, surprise, surprise, they didn't sound the same when they landed.

Now, I'm a sociology major so I did some social science research when I was at Queen's University and after conducting a very thorough examination of these two magazines, I found something shocking:

December Women's Health: $5.99
December Men's Health: $5.99

But check this out:

December Women's Health: 140 pages
December Men's Health: 236 pages

Why is my husband's magazine almost 100 pages more than mine – for the same price?

Truthfully, men's health is far more interesting than women's health. It has better recipes, tech features and exercise stuff - and far less of the frilly "How to Survive Your InLaws" and features on shoes.

So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to buy Women's Health anymore. I'm going to read my husband's magazine.

I know women pay more for their hair and drycleaning, but my husband gets 100 more pages of ads and editorial content? Don't think so.


And here is the rest of it.

There might be more(or not)

A talent for handling raw meat

What mattered most in the Crosbie household when I was growing up was hard work. Just as there are no small parts, just small actors, my parents taught me that when it comes to making and saving money, there are no bad jobs, just bad attitudes.
Like every teenager, when school ended I wanted a summer job that was cool.
(For those of you who think like my dad does, I don’t mean air-conditioned. I mean sweet, fun, comfy, hip – something that would make your friends jealous.)
My very first summer job was working at a community newspaper. I made $9 an hour – which was an incredible amount of money for 1994.
When my job wasn’t available the following the year, I knew I had to go on the hunt and I also knew that it couldn’t get any better than writing stories and columns in a nice air-conditioned building. (Yes, the job was cool on two levels.)
And so hunting I went.
I handed out more than 100 resumes and I waited and waited for a call while all my friends landed what seemed like perfect summer jobs: lifeguarding, summer camp counselors, Gap salesperson. It didn’t get better than The Gap.
And then I waited.
Finally, I got the call. A fast-food place that specialized in fries wanted me to come in for an interview.
I put on a brave face for my parents but I was freaking out on the inside. Fast food wasn’t cool. Being greasy wasn’t cool. But money was money. A job was a job. Beggars can’t be choosers. I remember sitting with my mother in my kitchen going over and over and over possible interview questions.
“Why fries?” the fast-food manager asked the following morning.
“I’m sorry?” I questioned. “Why fries?” was not one of the questions my mother and I had rehearsed.
I had top grades. I had spirit. I had gusto. I had determination.
What I didn’t have was any sort of an answer for this man’s question.
“Why fries? Why choose fries over pizza or subs or donuts?” he said very seriously.
The question seemed far too philosophical for a high school kid looking to making minimum wage (which was $6.85 an hour).
I remember babbling about fries being hot and crispy. Subs and donuts aren’t hot and crispy. No sirree. They’re cold. And with pizza, well, there’s just one pizza slice, but with fries, you can eat just one, or two, or 39. And incredible new advances are being made every day in the French fry industry. Poutine is becoming popular. Some people are making nacho fries, using fries in place of nacho chips. It is a revolutionary idea to add sour cream on fries; a nice way to cool them down on a hot summer’s day, I always say.
I returned home to my parents, completely sure I ruined my one and only interview.
An hour later, the phone rang.
“You seem to have a knack for fries,” the manager said.
“You’re hired.”
I worked hard at that job. No, it wasn’t cool. Mean high school kids flicked pennies and shot spit balls at me when I was working at the cash register and I came home every night slicked with grease. And yes, it was damn hot working around the deep fryers. But I made money. Nothing could compare though to the next summer when, again, I couldn’t get a job – until a butcher shop called me in for an interview.
“You look like the kind of girl who has a talent for handling raw meat,” the manager said.
“You’re hired!”

There might be more(or not)