Martha Tries To Improve Lifestyle, Not Life
I never thought I would feel sorry for Martha Stewart, but a recent biography has me teetering on the edge of sympathy. I have this strange urge to drive out to Kmart and pick up a gallon of her namesake paint as a gesture of solidarity.
The book, written by Jerry Oppenheimer and subtitled “Just Desserts: The Unauthorized Biography,” purports to tell us everything about the Gilded One she never wanted us to know: the rows with family and friends, the ugly working conditions of her entrepreneurial efforts, the truth behind her failed marriage.
Presumably, her fans will be as disappointed to read of these things as if they heard she once wore plaid pants with mismatched seams or that she used dyed mini-carnations in a floral arrangement. Oh, Martha, say it isn’t so!
Among the many accusations leveled against her: She is an ambitious workaholic who doesn’t sleep well; she treats her employees in a peremptory manner; she is adept at taking credit for the ideas of others.
Now I ask you, where would corporate America be without people like this? Most of us, at some point in our careers, have worked for individuals who fit the above description.
The rest of us, evil bosses and all, however, are engaged in more mundane pursuits than Martha. We punch the time clock so that we can afford to subscribe to her magazine, purchase her array of linens and paints, struggle on weekends with her home decorating and baking ideas.
“Just Desserts” appears to be a salve to the ego for all of us who failed at her fresh raspberry tart, a store-bought remedy for those who are smarting because their life doesn’t resemble the pages of Martha Stewart Living.
Ah, we are supposed to think: Our souffles might fall, but our marriages are still in one piece; our stencils in the guest room are wobbly, but at least we treat our mothers well.
This presumption of envy sells short the legion of women and men who are stalwart Martha fans. Few of us thought that by following Martha’s hints, we’d have happier homes. Common sense dictates that you can apply gold leaf to a terra cotta pot, but that real life and relationships defy the best efforts at decoupage: Real life always shines through.
When I planned my own nuptials years ago, I bought Martha’s book on weddings. Never, as I perused the chapter on appetizers and sighed over the displays of butter-creamfrosted cakes, did I think my chances at marital success would be better if I followed her plans for a chic reception.
To put it bluntly, a handsome home isn’t necessarily a happy home. All Martha Stewart ever offered was the former.
Certainly, one has to pause and ponder the avidity with which some women follow her instructions. I heard the author, Oppenheimer, on a radio interview recently, and sat in my idling car to listen.
Martha’s fans, he suggested, are incensed that he stripped away the varnish with which she coated her life. All he had done, he whined, was commit biography. Was that so bad?
No, but it is insulting to imply that we mistook her tips on interior decorating as ways to improve our own interiors. The premise of his biography and its sales is that we were somehow ripped off because her life isn’t as harmonious as her gardens or because she lied about her own happy home.
Oppenheimer’s book will sell. It’s the supreme dish for those who wondered about the life of Martha Dearest, a woman so close to self-parody that the best attempts to make fun of her pale next to the actual item.
My guess is that all the copies of the biography lugged to beach houses and cabins this summer will be accompanied by copies of her books and magazines. Smart readers already know the difference between Real Life and Martha Stewart Living.