It doesn’t happen often. Mr Dear Husband will tell you I never make mistakes. It is his #1 rule to surviving in this marriage. I am always right, he is wrong. But yesterday, I will admit, my halo slipped a little and I did something that completely demoralised me. I spent two hours reading the Martha Stewart website.
What was I thinking! I know, right… it’s not like she is perfect, we all know that now. Martha went to prison, not even I have done that, although I will admit to a few close calls…one particular incident at an airport in India, resulted in Mr Dear Husband uttering the words, “Please sit down and be quiet, or you are going to end up some butch axe murderer woman's cell mate, where she will refer to you as her Sugarpie".” You wouldn’t have recognised me, I was as quiet as a mouse.
Martha, Martha, Martha, what are you doing to me. I looked to you for some solace. My house is in that 87% stage of unpacked boxes and renovation and I have just plain run out of steam. I needed inspiration. What did you give me? A big damn dose of inferiority syndrome.
Nobody can be that perfect. The woman has a ‘craft’ loft (not room, but loft). Neatly divided up into separate areas, with all the necessary equipment, stored, labelled and ready to go. It doesn’t work like that here. I am still looking for the sticky tape from before Christmas, thus resulting in all my Christmas parcels being tied up with kitchen string – I told them it was artistic and a reflection on the economic climate – nobody bought it.
This morning I was standing in the cold and nasty room of our cellar that is The Laundry. I kept seeing the bright, shiny laundry room that Martha has. With its neatly labelled baskets, bottles and boxes. A special padded table for ironing, wire baskets on wheels for sorting (with padding around the edge so as not to bump and scrape the furniture), industrial lighting and recycling bins with wheels. Hey, Martha’s laundry is nicer than my bedroom… that can’t be right.
But here is the clincher. This is the point where I broke down and started sobbing at the impossible goal that Martha has set me. In her Guest Bathroom, sat two small, dark green towels. Each embroidered in gold with the words, MAKE UP.
“Martha likes to leave these special towels for the guests so they can remove their make up without fear of marking up the other towels…”
Please kill me now.