Mutha Magazine Alison Mutha Magazine Link

Within a year, "Mutha Magazine" had a circulation of 10,000. Within three years, it was a glossy (but still slightly smudged) national publication. Alison never fired Martha; she made her the "Mutha Emeritus," the magazine’s conscience.

She laughed. It was a wet, cracked, real laugh. mutha magazine alison mutha magazine

Inside were no airbrushed photos of serene mothers breastfeeding in linen dresses. There was an essay about finding a half-eaten gummy bear in your hair at a job interview. A comic strip about the feral rage of stepping on a Lego at 3 AM. A recipe for "Depression Pasta" – butter, noodles, and the tears of your toddler. Within a year, "Mutha Magazine" had a circulation of 10,000

The story began, as all good stories do, with a mistake. She laughed

Dear Alison Mutha, I don’t know who you are, but you have written the thing I have been swallowing for fifty years. Enclosed is a check for $200. Print another one. Tell the truth again.

The book club was composed of six women between the ages of 68 and 82. They passed the copies around like contraband. By Friday, Martha had written Alison a letter, handwritten in looping cursive:

She used the $200 to print 500 more copies. She wrote a new column called "Ask Your Mutha," where she answered questions with brutal honesty. ("Dear Mutha: My child only eats beige food. Is she dying?" Answer: "No. She is thriving on a diet of air, spite, and chicken nuggets. You are doing fine.")