Dear Parents Magazine,
Lest you think I'm writing this letter out of irritation, let me start off by saying how much I love your magazine. I love the poorly researched articles, the generic advice given by mediocre experts, and the way you lump advertisement pages together so you can't find page numbers, as the pages fly by 25 at a time due to the clump of Target ads. Those are all things I look forward to each month. But there is one thing that is really irritating about your magazine these days. Let me explain.
I love nothing more than curling up with a good magazine or book, climbing into my bed, warm from an awaiting electric blanket, and cracking open what could be hours of fine entertainment. I could remain in this position for eternity, I think. Sometimes, though, I like to mix it up a little, and take my reading material on a little field trip, and that is into the jetted tub for a relaxing bath. Ahh, bubbles surrounding me, no kids bothering me, and word after word, page after page, to keep my mind alert. A little slice of heaven, really.
I open your magazine, only to find the first 15 pages to whip by my fingers as if in a fit of rage. There seems to be a large clump of heavy duty glossy pages right where the page I'm looking for should be. It takes me nearly 5 minutes (!) to sift through all those glossy ads for diapers and PediPed shoes, and baby bjorns before I finally find the article I'm looking for. I roll the front page back, slide a little deeper into the bubbles, and relax in for a good session of parenting advice. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I am accosted by 3, count them, 3 loose subscription cards, falling gracefully into my steaming hot bath. I feel violated. Like a stranger in a snorkel mask has just surfaced. I'm in a tizzy, throwing your magazine across the room to save it from a watery death, reaching two handed into the bubbly abyss to find the drowning cards before they melt away and adhere permanently to my naked body. Let's face it, there's more body in that tub than there is water. In this moment, my bliss is shattered.
My evening of "me" time is down the drain, so to speak.
So thank you for your intense interest in me getting me to subscribe to a magazine to which I already subscribe. I feel like a popular girl who keeps getting asked to prom, despite everyone knowing she already has a date. But at the risk of soundy snobby, just quit already! I don't need to be reminded with every turn of the page that I need the latest baby gadget to make my baby happy. I don't need to be showered in subscription cards to remind me to subscribe, your weekly junk mail takes care of that nicely. Just leave me be, and let me read your magazine naked in a tub like it's meant to be read.
And keep up the mediocre work.