Anonymous Is A Woman

When this magazine was still just an idea, I asked for feedback about it. Specifically, feedback as to whether it was the kind of thing that people would mind having around the house for everyone to see.

One woman said that, although she'd love to get the magazine itself, she probably wouldn't have the nerve to order it, because she really didn't need the grief from the mail carrier about the name on the return address.

Well, I don't blame her. I don't always feel like coming out as a secular homeschooler, either. Especially to someone who might not like the idea, and who has some control over when and in what condition my bills get here.

When it comes to the product, I'm idealism itself.

When it comes to people actually getting the chance to read the danged thing, I'm all about the pragmatism.

So when I'm printing up return-address labels, I don't use the name of the magazine. I use my own.

I use my full address, too, right down to the apartment number. Hey, I've got sixteen neighbors in this building. If a copy comes back -- and one does now and then -- I want to know right away.

Gail, our advertising guru, has suggested that just to be on the safe side, I might want to think about getting a post office box.

Part of me is just too cheap. And lazy. Our post office is only several blocks away, but they're fairly icky blocks, especially when you're a woman walking alone. Even during the day, there's enough creepiness that I find myself making excuses to drive. (I combine errands, just so my carbon footprint doesn't become positively Sasquatchean.) And there's no parking lot to the place, which means that I have to take my chances that I'll get within a couple of blocks. Not so bad, unless I'm lugging a box with a couple of hundred copies of the magazine all sealed up and ready to go. But not something I want to have to do every day, or even every week.

More than that, though, I guess I'm just not paranoid enough.

Don't get me wrong. I do take care of myself, in terms of not putting myself in the position of being an easy target. I don't walk late or alone. I always have a phone with me. I'm aware of my surroundings.

But I just can't care that much about my address getting out there, at least to people who paid perfectly good money to hear from me. I live in a gated building, surrounded by people who hear it every time I drop a pot lid. (I've been known to call out, "Sorry!" after such noisemakers go off, even when I'm alone in my apartment.) I have a big hairy Sicilian husband, and I'm never more than a few feet away from something mean and sharp that I'd be more than happy to use on the right person. (Or the wrong person, I guess I should say.)

So if you're thinking about ordering the magazine and are worried about what the neighbors will think, now you know. They'll think you've got a friend in California.

(You don't have to tell them she's a screaming redheaded editor. Even I appreciate having a little privacy.)