Wasted My Life Again in Martharitaville

(Apologies to Jimmy Buffett for butchering his song title.)


I'm not reMarthable.  If you don't get the reference, you aren't watching enough Martha Stewart.  Unfortunately, I watch her shows way too much.  It isn't healthy.  Not for me, anyway.  As I previously posted, it's just too much pressure.

For those who can live up to that standard, I say more power to you.  I think the difference is in how we tackle life.  People who are reMarthable most likely embrace life.  Me?   It's more like I'm clinging to the last scrap of hope.  And that's one scrap that's hard to turn into something beautiful.

I enjoy cooking.  Sort-of.  The wonderful, delicious-sounding meals I see prepared on Martha's shows would never fly in my home.  I had expected that by this point in my life I would be cooking for just me and my husband, and I was sure I could turn him around to a more gourmet lifestyle if only because he would starve to death otherwise.  But I'm still cooking for three picky people.  Some evenings I'm tempted to set out a variety of jarred baby food and let them go at it.

What can I say about crafting?  Martha makes it look so easy.  But when I go into my cramped, unorganized crafting space (the one I share with our exercise equipment, a large tv, giant desk and various kitchen appliances), for some reason nobody has bothered to lay out all my needed supplies in an orderly fashion.  The same thing with home improvement/repairs.  Recently I watched Martha learning to re-grout bathroom tile.  Not only don't I have an expert there to guide me through the process, but I can be assured that when I personally go to assemble all the necessary tools (because I'm self-reliant that way), something will either be missing or the battery will be dead. 

And don't get me started on how great Martha looks.  I'm pretty sure she's at least 15 years older than me.  I doubt anyone would guess that.   Shouldn't she have wrinkles?  At least on her face if not in her clothes. And speaking of clothes, how can she cook and not splatter grease on hers???  I wear a giant apron and I still come away from my stove covered with stains.  But if things don't change around here soon, in the very near future those stains will come from opening jars of pureed carrots.

Mastering Mediocrity



I started scrapbooking for the fun of it.  Nothing more than a way to preserve memories and have fun doing it (okay, and to avoid housework).  Then I started visiting online communities where people were masters at papercrafting.  After a while I started to measure my simple creations against their works of art, and it sucked the joy right out of me.



A representation of my cardmaking skills
 (I'm even less accomplished at photography)

Then reality struck like lightning.  Sure, I enjoy scrapbooking and cardmaking.  I also enjoy jewelry making and sewing.  And I love to cook.  Well, maybe I just love to eat, and cooking gets me there.  But the point is There are lots of things I enjoy.  I can't be an expert at all of them.

The one piece of jewelry I actually completed

Completed but never worn

Is it really necessary for me to create papercrafting masterpieces that make others drool with envy?  Does every piece of jewelry I make have to sparkle with beauty and creativity?  Must every culinary endeavor result in a dish that would impress even Martha Stewart?  I've always been an underachiever anyway, so maybe I should just dip my toes into all the fun things life has to offer and learn to bask in the glow of mediocrity.



What Can Twenty Dollars Buy?

My youngest granddaughter had hinted for days that she had a special Mother's Day gift for me.  She loves to make things--pretty pictures, cards, even the occasional popsicle puppet (I promise to elaborate some day).  I expected something along those lines.

Yesterday, as I lounged on the multi-purpose space I've occupied for the past 5 weeks (yes, I'm wearing a hole in the sofa cushion), I heard Avery come into the room wishing me a happy Mother's Day, and commenting on the "fancy wrapping" on  my gift (this is a common statement in my family since it seems to be hereditary to "wrap" gifts in whatever bag the merchant put them in.  I'm glad we taught her well).  I prepared myself to exclaim at the beauty of whatever gift awaited in the plastic shopping bag. 

The twinkle in her eyes was telling.  I knew this was a very special gift.  It made no difference what was inside the "fancy wrap".  But first, there was an adorable, handmade card to "oooh" and "ahhh" over.  She showed me all the details she had carefully crafted.  After sufficient time had been spent admiring the card, I gingerly opened the bag to reveal my gift:  a specialty cookbook with a variety of one-dish recipes.

To be quite honest, I wasn't sure what to make of this gift.  I wasn't always a good cook, and for many years it provided a good bit of humor for our family.  But miraculously, over the past several years I realized I really could cook--sometimes even well.  Did Avery think otherwise?  Or perhaps, having heard my husband and me remark on how my cooking had improved over time, she thought a new cookbook would be the perfect gift for a talented chef.

No matter. My husband then told me the story of the purchase of the book.  Avery had come home from school asking her grandfather for twenty dollars.  The school was holding a book fair, and she had found the perfect gift for Nana.  As she told him what she had in mind, he explained that maybe she could find something a little less expensive, especially since we have implemented a new rule that the kids must do chores to earn money to purchase gifts. 

A few days later, as she was getting ready to leave for school, Avery reached into the cabinet where she keeps her money and pulled out a twenty.  "I'm going to buy that book for Nana today", she told her grandfather.  Once again, he tried to convince her that she didn't need to spend so much to make me happy.  But she had already made up her mind. For whatever reason (and it no longer seems important), the cookbook was the perfect gift, and one she had chosen especially for her Nana. 

Who knew that only twenty dollars could buy such a priceless gift.