In Martha’s Name We Pray

Who knew that removing nicotine from my system would turn me into Martha Stewart?

This week end I made a sourdough sponge, bought items for drying handwashables, washed the handwashables, baked bread from the sponge, shopped for holiday decoration materials, decorated a mantle and wrapped a wooden wreath in lights in preparation for being hung strategically to accent the above mentioned mantle.

All I need to do now is get into my bedroom and attack it with a label maker.

I understand that this kind of activity is normal with women of a certain socioeconomic class that is identified by their holiday sweaters. You’ve seen them. I don’t need to frighten you by describing them. What is even more frightening is these women do this annually. Without drugs too. I realize that these women often don’t have day jobs, if you want to assume that running a household isn’t a full time job. It’s the zeal and vigor that they bring to “crafting” that scares me. So as I hit the fifth store to try and fine a double wheeled wreath frame, I began to fear for myself.

It’s when I got angry that a flower shop in the gayest neighborhood on the planet didn’t have basic topiary forms that I realized I was either channeling Martha Stewart or I was experiencing withdrawal symptoms from a substance more addictive that black tar heroin. This was a good distinction to make. As much as I respect Mrs. Stewart for her drive, her creativity, and her ability to make beige trendy, I also understand that her expectations are a little high at times. With that in mind, I also realized that in an effort to not sit around waiting for my head to stop spinning and pivoting like a dreidel on the 7th night of Chanukah, I was probably over compensating in my efforts to keep busy.

But look at what I did! I needed those sweaters washed. I needed to get at least one loaf of bread made. I have been feeling very bah humbugish and needed to break out of it. Sure, sure, trying to do all that in one day left me so tired that at 8:30 I was forcing myself to stay awake. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the pot of coffee I drank at home and the two Starbucks peppermint mocha frappucinos I drank. Nope, nothing to do with supplanting one drug for another. Nope, not..at…all.

I’m sure by the time this week end rolls around I will have found other ways to deal with the diminishing symptoms. My head will have stopped throbbing 4 times a day and I will have stopped needing to fart every 20 minutes and I will have control over the urge to wrap a baseball bat in 50 gauge barbed wire and start swinging it every hour on the clock. Next week end I will be peace and love and harmony and witty barbs aimed at the most deserving of fools.

But I’m warning you now. If I end up taking out some middle aged woman in a sweater at the mall this week because she snagged the last bit of flower arrangement supplies, its RJ Reynolds fault, not mine.

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