Don't Hate me Martha

The last present my grandma Marge gave me was Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook . I was sitting on the couch in my grandparents' house on the ranch, and as I unwrapped this Christmas present, at first I was offended. Why does Grandma think I need this book? What has my husband said to her? What has my mom said?



I thanked Grandma Marge as graciously as I could, and started to flip through the book while waiting for my next turn to open a present (yes my family takes turns opening presents, the youngest opens one first, then the next youngest, all the way up to the oldest. Then the cycle repeats. We like to prolong Christmas as long as possible). I was shocked to see the wide range of subjects in the book! All of a sudden, I was much more excited about the book. I mean Martha tells me how to clean the burners on a gas stove, something I needed to do but was terrified I'd singe off both eyebrows.



The book holds a myriad of interesting facts about homekeeping, about cleaning shoes, about polishing silver, and creating a potpourri mix. It even gives a step by step guide to organizing a home office. How neat is this?!



Although, if you look closely on the top right corner of the book, you'll notice a smudge. See it? Look closely? No, it's not a shadow. No, it's not dust.

You see, as much as I would love to be Martha Steward, clean, organized, and immaculately welcoming hostess, I will never be her. I will never be my grandma Marge, either, with all of her clothes hangers carefully aligned in her closest, not a speck of dirt on her shining floors, dust cringing and daring not enter her house. No, I will never live up to those lofty ideals.

For the very night I got the encyclopedia of cleaning and homekeeping, disaster struck. I held my prized, gleamingly clean book in my hands during the short drive back to my parent's house, for it was Christmas Eve, and already way to late for all of us to still be awake. When dad parked the Suburban, the Chef, Mom, Dad, and I grabbed Christmas presents and began hauling the loot into the house. I misjudged my load, and clumsily wrestled the packages to the door. As if in slow motion, my shiny new Homekeeping Handbook slipped from my hands and landed facedown, wideopen to the middle of the book in a fresh pile of mud that dripped off the wheels of the Suburban. I bent to pick up the book, horrified that I'd dropped Martha Stewart's book in the mud, within hours of getting it!

Feeling embarrassed and sheepish for my clumsiness, I picked the book up and tried to wipe off most of the mud. Then I realized, this mud was a bit more fragrant than normal.



Great, I dropped my bible for cleanliness and organization in a muddy glob of cow manure.

Martha, please don't hate me!