LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life:Too Much Of A Good Thing |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
My name is Michael F., and I am a Marthaholic. Thats right, I am addicted to Martha Stewart, Goddess of the Art of Living Beautifully. It started innocently enough. I would catch a glimpse of Marthas television show as I was flipping channels. She would be briskly dipping French toast into batter speckled with cinnamon, or deftly winding sage leaves into a cunning wreath. I could do that, I thought, and I did. It was easy. It made my life a little brighter. Things went on in this way for a couple of months. I was satisfied by the occasional fix of Marthas helpful hints and her winning smile. Like a freshly-baked muffin brimming with ripe blueberries, my encounters with her left me feeling content and happy. But then I found that these small Martha doses just didnt do it for me anymore. I looked at my perfectly poached salmon reclining on its bed of blanched endive, at the cheerful stencils dancing merrily along the edges of my walls, and I wanted more. So, I subscribed to Martha Stewart Living, the magazine devoted to my guru and her ways. Each month I had delivered to my mailbox a new installment of the Gospel According to Martha. What a joy it was to rip off the protective plastic bag and stroke the glossy pages with trembling hands before delving into the mysteries awaiting me inside that only She could reveal. With Marthas guidance, I whipped up lemon tarts so light and fluffy they floated out the window. I learned how to refinish and install the clawfoot bathtub Id always wanted. I tossed together a kitchen herb garden in no time and discovered everything there was to know about Fiestaware, which I began to collect with abandon. Soon editors began to phone, frenzied when promised manuscripts failed to arrive. "Its almost done," Id lie, cutting out gingerbread men with my free hand. Worried friends left pleading messages that went unanswered as I experimented with making my own lavender-scented soaps or made plans for constructing a charming Italianate grotto in the back yard. Finally, I unplugged the phone. Free to immerse myself entirely in Marthas spell, I devoted my every waking moment to her. I copied her personal calendar (helpfully provided in each issue of the magazine), making sure that on the day Martha was ridding her gutters of fall leaves, so was I. On Marthas birthday, I built a chicken coop in celebration. I pictured Martha pruning her apple trees, the stray hairs of her carefree bob clinging to her slightly damp brow, and wished for an orchard of my own. Things finally came to a head the night of my annual Christmas party, which I went forward with only because it was an opportunity to celebrate all things Martha. The handmade invitations, addressed in my finest calligraphy, had gone out two weeks earlier. The fudge was finished, all eighteen kinds individually wrapped in glistening cellophane boxes and decorated with found objects. Presents, all of them handmade according to Marthas own specifications, sat under the tree. And, oh, the tree. How it sparkled with the ornaments Id spun from glass and carved from wood into fantastic shapes. The tiny hand-dipped candles twinkled as I sat sipping my mulled wine and waited for the guests to arrive. By midnight, when no one had come, it hit me. After months of scorning my friends for the company of Martha, they had abandoned me. I looked at the dilled shrimp and plum pudding languishing untouched on the gaily laid table and wept. I was alone on Christmas Eve, and even the spirit of Martha couldnt save me from my despair. I needed professional help. The next day, after a fitful night spent tossing and turning on the crisp linen sheets that graced my antique sleigh bed, I plugged the phone back in and called the mental health clinic. "Help me," I sobbed when someone picked up. "I cant take it any more." Much to my surprise, the young woman on the other end quickly referred me to a local chapter of M.A.Martha Anonymous. It was held at a nearby address, and there was to be a meeting that afternoon. Knowing that I needed help to break my Martha addiction, I went. The room was full. Men and women of all ages sat in folding chairs in front of a podium. Some chatted quietly amongst themselves. Others sat, hands neatly folded, looking at the floor as though they were picturing in their minds exactly how it would look sanded and refinished in knotty Carolina pine. A cheerful woman approached me. "Hi," she said. "My name is Anne, and Im a Marthaholic. Is this your first meeting?" I nodded. She seemed normal enough. I wondered what her addiction had cost her. "Thanks for coming," she said. "Have a cookie." My eyes widened in terror. A cookie! Wasnt that exactly what a Marthaholic would want? I pictured slim fingers of chocolate, delicately beaded with candied violets, or perhaps the thinnest of butter wafers dusted with a scrim of vanilla sugar. Anne sensed my alarm. "Dont worry," she said reassuringly. "Theyre Oreos." I sat down, sipping reluctantly from a styrofoam cup of bland instant coffee, and Anne began to tell me her story. "It started with the Good Things," she said. "I made little labels for my kids clothes, covered old shoes with shells and painted them gold, wove ribbon into the edges of my pillowcases. Then it got worse. Soon I was making peach pie kits for people I barely knew. I emptied the kids college accounts to pay for terra cotta planters. I wore gloves so no one could see the marks on my fingers from pushing cloves into orange pomanders. It was sad." "But youre okay now?" I asked hopefully. "Oh, no," Anne said gently. "Once a Marthaholic, always a Marthaholic. I still cant walk past a yard sale without breaking into a sweat. But dont worry, we can help." That afternoon I heard story after story of people whose lives had been devastated by Martha. People who, like me, had been tempted to ruin by her promise of enchanted living, losing lovers, jobs, and friends in the process. From them I gained the courage to face my problem, and Anne became my sponsor. We started with the First Step. "I am powerless against Martha," I would repeat to myself every morning as I ate a plastic bowl of plain cornflakes, resisting the craving to improve it with fresh berries and honey from the hive Id installed out back. It was hard, but I was determined. Out went all the back issues of Martha Stewart Living. I emptied my closets of potpourri, the kitchen drawers of arcane Japanese cooking utensils. I ate store-bought baked goods, gagging on their mass-produced taste. Arugula became a forbidden word in my home. Slowly, my system rid itself of Marthas insidious poison. I no longer felt the need to marble every bare inch of wall space. I found that I could indeed eat vegetables that were not grilled over mesquite and doused in raspberry vinegar. After several months of daily phone calls with Anne, I was even able to part with the collection of animal-inspired egg cups Id collected in my heyday. I am still not completely cured. Marthaholics never are. I still sometimes pine for a perfectly-trained grape arbor, and some mornings I think I wont be able to get out of bed without a day of transplanting pearl onions or creating whimsical picture frames from antique ribbon to look forward to. Holidays are the hardest. But I persevere. Besides, the other night I discovered Norm Abrams and The New Yankee Workshop, and the grotto would look so nice with a Shaker table in it. Michael Thomas Ford is the author of Alec Baldwin Doesnt Love Me & Other Trials from My Queer Life. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 13, September 18, 1998. |