I ♡ Martha Stewart

Martha Stewart caught my attention when my husband said he enjoyed listening to her voice.  This was 6 or 7 years ago or maybe when we still lived in Williamsburg, I’m not exactly certain.  All I know is up to that point I never really paid her or her ongoing quest for global domination any attention.  Martha Stewart’s shows were background noise to me, her voice politely yet firmly advising me not to put my knives in a knife block but to place them flat, in a single layer, in a kitchen drawer.

“Make an outline of each knife on a sheet of liner paper.  Place the liner paper in the knife drawer.  Then you know where each knife goes when you are finished using it.”

I thought this woman was certifiably crazy.  Who does this?  Who keeps crime-scene photo outlines of their knives in their kitchen drawer?  She probably had to keep track of the knives in her home in case someone (the maids?  the gardeners?  her daughter?) tried to off her in the conservatory, Clue-style.  “Make an outline of each knife. . . ”  She was like the Jiminy Cricket you couldn’t wait to squash.

But after Karl’s comment I began to take note of her and her amazingly soothing, though somewhat affected manner.  She doesn’t say, “Oh, how pretty.”  Martha Stewart  e-nun-ci-ates: “Oh.  How Prit Tee.”  Like Audrey Hepburn playing Eliza Doolittle.  An exaggeration of a caricature.

I’m not calling Martha Stewart false.  Martha Stewart has this great sense of humor about herself.  I’ll bet she keeps a laminated laundry list of her personality quirks next to her actual laminated laundry list of stain removal remedies.  Look for her clips with Snoop Dogg or Conan O’Brien.  And Martha Stewart’s daughter, Alexis, has made a career out of highlighting her mother’s idiosyncrasies with the latest incarnation of a talk show airing on the Hallmark Channel (aka The Martha Stewart/Golden Girls Channel).  Martha Stewart must have given all of these outlets the stamp of approval, right?

Yet, don’t get too comfortable.  This is Martha Stewart after all.  The one who exudes irritation if her female television guests are taller then she.  The one whose guests will not win the talk-faster, talk-louder war, no matter how important the sentence is that the guest is trying to finish.  She has that classy, New England-style of brusqueness that smacks of exasperation and belittlement but never exactly tells you where to stick it. Martha is the house.  She always wins.  Even in prison.

Out of adoration, I try to emulate Martha Stewart with my burgeoning craft room.  I know what she means when she says, “I find fraying fabric to be quite soothing.”  I have labeled plastic bins full of garland, paint, stencils, etc., with tape and Sharpie and every now and then I contemplate the subscription to Martha Stewart Living magazine.  She can tell me how to fold my towels and fold my egg whites any day of the week.

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