Welcome Home, Martha

Hope y'all had as good a weekend as I did. Lots of fun family stuff, spent all day Sunday working in the yard and finally did something I've been looking forward to for the past 5 months.

Every now and then, The Light Of My Life (hereinafter referred to as TLOML) and I kick around flea markets, "interesting" little downtown shops and other assorted Outposts of Retail Hell - one of those things you do to ensure Continued Domestic Harmony®. A couple years ago we were poking around in a place that specialized in candles, potpourri and various kitchen accessories in the shapes of barnyard animals. Now, I realize that by openly acknowledging this, I run the risk of having Sir Elton and Rosie O'Donnell (ignorant cow) show up at my door to personally revoke my Homo Union Card, but I would rather have my testicles braided than spend a day being dragged through those places.

Anyway, while I was manfully enduring the aromatorture as TLOML was oohing and aahing over sundry items of overpriced crap, I came across something that

I.
Had.
To.
Have.

A little background: Our parents raised the four of us to be totally self-reliant, especially on the domestic front - their argument was that my brother and I shouldn't end up getting married because we were tired of TV dinners and out of clean underwear, nor should my sisters have to Rely On A Man to fix a flat or kill a spider. For the most part, it worked. C'mon over and I'll feed you better than Grandma ever did, provided you leave the white glove at home. I don't do spotless, and I sure as hell don't do Perfect. So naturally, I've never been a big Martha Stewart fan. (aha- what's that on the horizon- might we be meandering back toward the point!?)

So, there I was, praying for the sweet release of death as the cloying scent of candles, sachets, potpourri and God knows what invaded my body through every pore and orifice to the muted strains of Kenny G... when I saw it. A plain, small wooden sign, about 8x2", barrel-stave rustic, with simple white lettering which read:

Martha Stewart Does Not Live Here

That sign hung over our kitchen sink for two years... until October 8, when she began serving the prison sentence handed down in her ImClone railroading.

You probably remember enough details of the witch trial that I don't need to remind you that she was basically singled out as a target of opportunity while various Bush Cronies were given passes for committing acts of multimillion-dollar theft and fraud. I also don't need to remind you that the only charge they were able to make stick was not insider trading, but "lying to investigators." Some say that the combination of Bitch Goddess and die-hard Dem is what made her a prime target. Some also say that having wife-beaters on the jury didn't bode well for an independent, successful businesswoman. Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless of the reason(s), she got a raw deal.

Lying to investigators... does that ring any bells?

Back to Martha. In an impressive display of class - or showing just how fucking nuts she really is (you be the judge) - Stewart requested that, instead of dicking around with an interminable appeals process, she be allowed to go ahead and begin her sentence so that she could be out in time for Spring planting. After the obvious bias of the trial, that show of bravado clinched it for me: I'm now an FOM.

And that's why I was so happy Saturday morning to take my little sign out of the drawer and hang it back in its place of honor... above a sink full of dishes.


Meanwhile, Kenny Boy and the Enron bandits are still walking around free.