Martha, Martha, Martha

When I left you, dear readers, I was wandering around Manhattan with a buttonless coat, a half-torn contact in my eye, a blister and a dying cell phone.

But enough about my drama--you want to hear about Martha!

Martha, Martha, Martha.  I just love how one day, she's in the slammer, and the next, she's donning a sunny yellow cardigan and prim khakis and beaming through our television screens like the perfect housewife next door. 

I know Martha is the arbiter of all things good.  I know she's idolized by many.

But I just don't get it.

Maybe it's because I don't have the patience for anything involving glue guns and glitter.   Or maybe it's because I can't even keep a houseplant alive and consider boxed macaroni and cheese a complete meal.

Whatever the reason, the truth is that I've always found her pretentious.  Condescending.  Annoyingly perfect--with the exception of that prison term, of course.  

So, I'm not quite sure how this decidedly UN-Martha blogger got invited to attend her show.  But I wasn't about to pass up a chance to expense a trip to New York City and observe the creature in her natural habitat.

Which was warm and cloyingly cute.  Kind of like the bright colors they forced us all to wear (I settled on a cobalt blue dress and turquoise tights--that's as bright as I get, folks) and the squealing mommy bloggers who packed the audience.

There were the requisite cooking segments.  Pad Thai with @chezpim and orange almond cakes with Jeff Blumenkrantz, who stole a page from Julie & Julia and wrote a blog about cooking Martha's recipes, which of course led to a cookbook and will invariably make it to a theatre near you (after all, Blumenkrantz is Broadway actor--can the Martha musical be far behind?).  

The other guests included Martha's extremely frosty daughter, Alexis, who looked beyond pissed that her mother had interrupted her morning of bossing around servants and shutting down city streets to deliver her furniture to come to the studio to chat about blogging; the very likeable Jennifer Koppelman-Hutt, who played the recorder and joked about surfing porn  online and seemingly had nothing in common with her blogger-in-crime, Her Highness Alexis; and semi-stalker Andrew Ritchie, who has a blog all about Martha, which naturally led to an invitation to be on the show and participate in some tedious yarn craft.  So, if I start a blog about Dolly, will she invite me to sing on stage with her?  A girl can dream.  (by the way, Happy Birthday, Dolly!  I love you!)

In spite of my growling tummy (even with the abudance of food, no one offered to share with the hungry masses) and my complete inability to sit still for longer than fifteen minutes at a time, I really enjoyed the experience.  Martha was very engaging, and you have to admire anyone who can not only rock six inch Yves Saint Laurent heels, but survive a public scandal and land right back on the top, with grace and ease.

So, thanks for the memories, Martha.  And click here for my one second of fame (opening shot, on the right, less than a second in)! :)

Misadventures in Manhattan

It's not a trip with me unless there's some drama.  I'm an expert traveler--I navigate security with the best of them, I can shove thirty pound bags into the overhead with ease and stuff more liquids than you would think humanly possible into that quart sized Ziploc. 

No, the drama is usually of my own making.  And mostly induced by my complete inability to plan.  

After my Christmas travel fiasco (which involved me taking two bags because I was too tired and rushed to edit my wardrobe and accidentally putting my liquids in the non-checked bag--oh, and did I mention that I never check bags, but again, I was too frenetic to deal with packing), I was determined to plan better for my New York City expedition.

It started off well.  I packed in plenty of time.  I even got in a run.  I arrived just in time to board and managed to get tons of work done on the plane.

And then I landed at La Guardia.

And my phone battery was fading quickly.  And I couldn't locate my charger.

Frantic, I plopped down in an abandoned concourse and starting tossing belongings onto the floor.  Jeans, scarves, and yes, even my skivvies were on full display as I searched in vain for the charger.  Meanwhile, my phone was making loud, gasping noises, and I had no idea what hotel room I was staying in or where I would be meeting my friends for dinner.

Brookstone to the rescue.  I finally broke down and bought an overpriced charger, knowing full well I'd find mine in the bag as soon as I got to the hotel (wrong: charger was actually on my kitchen table, along with my Cliff bars, so if I faint during Martha, you'll know why)!  I sat down, drank some water and let my phone charge enough to get me into the ride into the city.

But the fun wasn't over.  As I boarded the bus for the city, a button popped off my winter coat (the second to fall off that day), which basically means I couldn't close it and protect myself from the freezing cold.  And there were random threads hanging out everywhere.  Uber classy.

All was well until I got off the subway at Times Square and realized I'd developed a huge blister on my left ankle.  And my stuffed overnight bag was starting to feel really heavy. I limped the two blocks to the hotel, where the lovely desk clerk gives me a bandaid.  Another crisis averted.

Until later that night, when in the middle of dinner in Soho with good friends, my contact tore in my eye, and when I went to the bathroom to try and pull it out, I realized that I only have one earring in, because I've apparently also managed to drop that along the way (and my sister gave me those as a bridesmaid's gift, so they're quite sentimental).  The contact was still lodged in my eye, so I returned to the table, mascara smeared, eyes red and blurry, rocking the 80's earring look and just had to laugh.  It was just so me.  To the outside world, I look like I have it together, but in reality, I'm walking around Manhattan with a buttonless coat, crazed, bloodshot eyes and a big zit in the middle of my chin, hoping I blend in with the masses.

Me? Martha?

In case the squeals of delight have somehow escaped your ears, you know that me and three other local bloggers--Shameeka Ayers, aka "The Broke Socialite," Tami Hardeman of Running with Tweezers (named 2009's best blog by the AJC) and Ashley Leckey of IceMilk Aprons--are headed to New York City tomorrow for Thursday's taping of the Martha Stewart blogger show.

The four of us sat down last night in Shameeka's "studio" to chat about the show for an episode of Gasp. Swoon. Faint.  And it occured to me that I was woefully out of place.

I am so NOT Martha.  I rarely cook.  I have no home decor to speak of.  In fact, I'm kind of a slob.  I don't do crafts.  I can't even sew on a button.  Like any good Southern girl, I do have monogrammed stationary, a full set of china and decent linens, but I can't remember the last time I used any of the above.

But hey, I like pretty things as much as the next girl, and I'm not about to pass up a trip to New York City to see an American icon.  So, as long as I can find something suitable to wear, look for me on Thursday!

It's a good thing.