While blog surfing last night I ran across this interactive blog called Sunday Scribbling. A word would be thrown out and you write an essay/poem/story what ever your little old heart desires and then link to the site.
"Say the word and you'll be free,
Say the word and be like me,
Say the word I'm thinking of,
Have you heard the word is" ..... GOOD
The first thing that popped into my head is Martha Stewart. I realize Martha has been done to death, but I have not had a crack at her yet.
I must have been the last person on the face of the earth to become aware of Martha Stewart . And when it happened , it was love at first sight.
I believe it may have been in October of a year long past. She was making little ghosts out of tootsie roll pops. I was mesmerized and immediately hooked.
I began buying her magazines at the second hand book store (50 cents, I am one tight bitch). I dreamed of refinishing furniture, planting my own English garden, making a five course dinner for a group of my intimate friends, creating a shadow box from mementos collected from a beach vacation, making my own trellis, furnishing my home with incredible finds at the flea market, turning out the perfect chocolate chip cookie, making my own candles, my own wine.
Martha was my how-to Guru.
She spoke to the latent hippie that lives under my urban facade. To the yearning in my breast to be one with the land. To have my own vegetable patch and hundred acre estate somewhere in Never-Never Land where there are no time clocks, no dead lines, no rush hour, and every hour is happy hour.
I hated to see her go down. Even though all indications pointed to her being a Wicked Witch. I thought her courageous to march off to jail claiming to be innocent rather than cop a plea and avoid the inconvenience of incarceration.
And I applauded her when she emerged, thinner and grayer, wearing a sweater her fellow inmates presented to her as a going home present. One, she no doubt, taught them to knit.
I loved it when she did not obey the rules and was caught leaving the confines of her house detention. She probably had to run to the store and pick up some Chardonnay.
Even though Martha is not the golden girl she once was, I still believe....It's a good thing.