Martha Stewart

I am not a homemaker, by any stretch of the imagination. If there are pantyhose on the floor in the living room, that is where they are supposed to be. If the DVD library has the wrong disc in each case, it is like that for a reason. It is my own personal Dewey decimal system. I like having food plates out for several days in a row, and they belong on the nightstand. They help me to go to sleep.

I am a fucking slob and I don’t care. Among the garbage and stacks of paper, books and unopened mail, there are ancient works of art, valued objects sacred and profane, my husband’s sculptures, brilliant and numerous, a real Damien Hirst, paintings depicting murder and mayhem from my stepdad – my favorite genius, a tiny temple from 1800s India, a Vatican issued framed “Veronica’s Veil” – kind of like the Shroud of Turin, but if the shroud is couture, the veil is ready to wear, a Georgian reliquary of two saints, the sarcophagus of a mummy or two, a massage chair from Brookstone, fountains for feng shui, surround sound with two turntables and a microphone, and the most paranoiac security system known to man, not that I have anything worth stealing. None of this ephemera is of real market value, but it is mine, and I love my home, but it isn’t sweet, rather a den of iniquity. The walls are blood red, the carpet is on the ceiling, dogs eat at the dining table. I don’t remember ever even seeing a copy of Martha Stewart Living.

The domestic life is about indulgence and comfort and being waited on, hand and foot. I thought the oven was a clock, and never used it for the entire first year we lived here. Mine happen to be somewhat gloomy. Only Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie would walk in, turn around and say. “It’s fabulous!!! I could stay here. It is my perfect bed and breakfast getaway!!!” Taxidermy is what I consider the ideal knickknack, but they have to be vintage/garage sale cast offs, and dead for at least fifty years, because I wouldn’t kill any animal just to accent a space.

I am not a Martha fan, just because I know that I am weird and possess the most bizarre taste in décor. Interiors should reflect my interiors, and they do. Yet, I cannot believe the injustice that she is facing. Just because I don’t embrace pastels, especially that light mint/sage that she loves so much, doesn’t mean that I would turn my back on her. I honestly don’t think that Martha Stewart did anything worse than what her male counterparts would do on a daily basis. This type of big business comes with the element of crime, and there is not a self made billionaire CEO in the world that has the right to say that their position was attained without some kind of fraud, however small, some fixing numbers, some deals made under the table, even paper clip theft.

It seems to me that America inherently hates it when women are wildly successful, and there is a built in punishment that comes along with that kind of wealth. I cannot follow a recipe for shit, but I can spot misogyny from miles away. Why do we hate women who beat all the odds and come out on top? Why are books written to ‘expose’ their financial ‘deviance,’ as well as their ‘ambitchiness?’ Double standards abound, when reality shows are devoted to the tough inner life of the poor soul who must play sorcerer’s apprentice to Trump’s Merlin, and from scratch making, raffia using, household tip knowing Martha Stewart is facing a possible jail sentence of twenty years. If her manner with the people she worked with was ugly, if she were truly the megalomaniac monster we are told she is, why are her male counterparts glorified for displaying the exact same behavior?

Personality faults should not be worthy of such a sentence, for if this were true for all people, I would be throwing my last meal of fried chicken and Pepsi at the guards before being taken to the chaplain escorting me to my lethal injection. I would refuse to take the governor’s calls. I never want to have ecru chenille slipcovers or homemade beeswax candles scented with lavender from my own garden, but I believe that all charges should be dropped against Martha Stewart. She might be guilty of trying to make you stencil sunflowers onto your kitchen walls, but that is not a crime.

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