DDK + MS 4EVER

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.   

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock  

            Several weeks ago, Moma Rock asked us to write about “girl crushes.”  In my valiant attempt to catch up, here’s my take:

            Moma Rock assigned this subject to us more than a month ago.  It was during my “moving-500-miles-away-with-three-kids-and-three-cats” period, which gave me good reason not to type up a quick post, but in all honesty, it took me until now to think of any woman over whom I’ve come even remotely close to “crushing on.”

            It’s not really surprising; I’ve always struggled a bit with girls.  I’m not what you would call a “woman’s woman.”  Perhaps a result of growing up on a block with a dozen boys, I’ve always had a much easier time relating to males.  Indeed, some of my longest lasting friendships have been – and continue to be – with boys.  

            That affinity for the opposite gender has trickled into most areas of my life.  There are very, very few female singers whose voices I actually like (Pat Benetar back in the day; more recently, Pink).  I can’t think of many female comedians I like (Joan Rivers was decent, but I much preferred Jake Johansen).  I’ve never really thought of female professional sports as “sports” (sorry, athletic female friends!), and my favorite sport, baseball, doesn’t allow women to play.  Even my favorite chefs are male (the best meal I’ve ever eaten was at Nola, Emeril Lagasse’s New Orleans restaurant; to the contrary, the sound of Rachael Ray’s voice makes me feel stabby).  I’m drawn to men – not just sexually, but across the board. 

            And so perhaps it’s not so surprising that the woman I’d call my “girl crush” has often been compared to men.  She’s known as (sorry) a ball buster, a toughie, a hard ass. 

            Yup, you guessed it:  my “girl crush” is on Martha Stewart.

            I heart Martha, and I always have.  She is uber-talented and super smart.  She’s also pretty – did you know she used to model when she was a student at Barnard?  She lives the life I’d love to live:  multiple gorgeous houses, which she carefully renovates and meticulously decorates; exotic trips; yards full of animals and gorgeous gardens, being her own boss.  She writes books and edits magazine articles.  She regularly visits with David Letterman – and she gives as good as she gets.

            I’d totally date her if I was a guy.  (A much older guy.  But still.)

            Martha catches a lot of flack.  She’s a bitch, people say.  She’s mean, they opine.  She steps on people to get what she wants.  Funny thing:  she behaves no differently than hundreds of male CEOs, but she is singled out . . . because she is a woman.  That kinda makes me like her even more.  Martha worked her way up from a lower-class childhood in Nutley, New Jersey, to becoming the head of her eponymous billion-dollar corporation.  Did she break a few eggs on the way up?  Oh, I’m sure she did.  Did she whip those farm-fresh Araucana blue eggs into the fluffiest omelet you’ve ever seen?  You bet your handmade apron.

            My “girl crush” may, in actuality, be rooted more in aspiration than in true attraction.  Martha embodies perfection in almost every area of life.  She’s a successful businesswoman.  But maybe more importantly, she’s become the poster child, the mentor, for how to create and run a beautiful and well-appointed home.  There is value in that.  Sometimes, it really is the small stuff that makes a house a home:  a slab of homemade soap; a slice of warm, homemade bread.  Hell, years ago, I watched an episode of Martha’s show wherein musician John Legend made his grandmother’s macaroni and cheese recipe.  I copied it – and it’s become a family favorite, repeatedly requested at parties and gatherings.  I’m no Suzy Homemaker, but I have to admit it feels good to watch someone take a bite and smile. 

            I’ve got Martha to thank for that.  (And John Legend’s grandmother . . . but I’m not crushing on her.)

            Martha has never really been known for her physical beauty; during her early domestic goddess years, she modeled the preppy Connecticut mom look, which made her seem dowdy.  (A velvet dress and a headband, Martha?  Really?)  But for 73 years old, she looks pretty damn good.  

            I know there are many Martha haters.  I say, let the haters hate.  I’m used to the noise that comes with adoring the unpopular – you can’t be a lifelong Cubs fan (or Bon Jovi fan!) without catching a great deal of flack.  I will continue undeterred to read Martha’s magazines and cook her recipes and imagine life at Turkey Hill and Skylands.  I’ll think of Martha whenever I see a piece of Jade-Ite (a rare and expensive find, given she snatched it all up) or whenever I use my Martha Stewart pots and pans (damn fine products, I might add). 

            And I’ll wonder whether Martha would like me, too.