Saturday, April 23, 2011

Proud to not be Martha

Turns out I'm a better mother than Martha Stewart.

Last night I was flipping channels looking for my usual nightcap: The Golden Girls*. When The Golden Girls is on, I know all is right with the world and I can go to sleep.

Instead, I encountered a lame talk show featuring Martha Stewart's daughter and her friend -- emphasis on the word "lame." I understand they also have a show during which you watch them watching Martha's show and making comments and, since I haven't seen it, I won't pass judgement, but...really?

Perhaps, though, the "watching the watchers" show was a howling success leading to the snore-fest I witnessed last night. I even stayed with it, mostly out of incredulity (which kind of defeated the snore-fest aspect), but also because I wanted to see how inane and boring this show could get. All I can say is, it must be good to be Martha Stewart's daughter (there must have been some Martha leverage exerted with the Hallmark Channel; like, Martha will agreed to let them carry her show, if they agree to also air her daughter's misfiring attempts at being glib).

That being said, one thing that did catch my attention was when the two of them (don't remember their names; don't care) were discussing what their Easter baskets were like when they were growing up and Martha's daughter said her Easter baskets were those pre-assembled things from the store.

Doesn't that shock you? I mean, wouldn't you envision an Easter basket by Martha Stewart to be hand-woven and dyed, filled with hand-molded Swiss chocolate bunnies and homemade gourmet natural-juice flavored "jelled beans" in glace' bags tied with French satin ribbons?

So, while Martha was in the kitchen folding napkins into fresh floral rings for the benefit of"her dinner guests, she was flinging some gaudy, cellophane-wrapped plastic basket of artificial, cheap chocolate at her daughter.

That makes me Mother of the Year -- by default.

Let me tell you about what Linguini Easter mornings featured.

First of all, see that photo up above*. You can't see it very well, but I made the outfit for the little tyke on his daddy's knee (the "little tyke" being Heir2 and his daddy being Dirtman) -- and you really can't see the hand-embroidered Easter Bunny on the pocket of the romper, nor the self-made piping around all the seams. And Heir1, standing there like a good little nerd? I made his khaki slacks.

I also cut Heir 1 and Dirtman's hair myself.

But, wait! There's more!

That morning when the boys woke up, the Easter Bunny had, indeed, arrived. They knew this because there were carrot crumbs on the floor (I finely-grated a carrot in a path from the door to the dining room table) and he had left them a totally unintelligible note because I've never heard it said the Easter Bunny was particularly bright (I purposely held the pencil between my two palms when I wrote it because...rabbits have no thumbs, of course. Nor do they have a copy of Strunk and White).

And the Easter baskets contained absolutely NO CANDY. Heir1 received art supplies and Heir2 (who was just one year old at the time) had a basket full of homemade, hand-sewn soft toys.

So, okay, for Easter dinner we used paper napkins and my wine glasses didn't match. And I think the dog retrieved most of the Easter eggs hidden by Dirtman. And I'm pretty sure by the end of the day we were all laughing so hard at something stupid because we used those wine glasses extensively in spite of their mismatching quality. And that may have been the Easter Dark Garden taught Heir1 to climb onto the roof of the garage. And someone flushed a battery down the powder room toilet -- I'm pretty sure it was a kid.

So, no...I'm not Martha-perfect. I am, like, on the opposite end of Martha-perfect. Frankly, if I was Martha-perfect, my family wouldn't show up. Or they'd show up and make fun of me.

For instance, the Heirs find it extremely funny that I spent my time knitting these...

...and crocheting these...

My theory is that, to the Heirs, unless they can eat it, it serves no purpose.

Though they do like making the chicks say rude things...

Like I said... my life is SO not Martha...

*Please ignore Dirtman's white socks...

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