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Exorcising Martha is a labor of love

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Published in The Kansas City Star

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

By  STACEY HATTON

Hello, my name is Stacey and I was a Martha Stewart addict…

My pitiful story started in the mid ’90s, when I began devouring all of Martha Stewart’s magazine articles and books. It seemed harmless at first. Then her television program appeared where she had the innate gift of making everyone feel inadequate about how uncrafty they were. How could one woman have such control?

Her gorgeous autumn magazine would materialize in my mailbox and I would cancel all plans just so I could have my evening alone with Martha, uninterrupted. Then I would create the perfect cup of tea, which I would pluck from the November 1994 issue, Page 45 (fictitious example, please don’t try to look this one up), apply a dab of lavender to the lightbulb and curl up under my crocheted blanket Martha had designed the previous season. I would savor her every word.

I swear to you I was not the only person under her powers, and there was nothing we could do. The worst part was as we labeled our guest linen closets with our label makers (each towel properly folded and placed in descending order according to size and color) we knew something was just not right about her methods, and someone needed to force us to walk away from the proverbial Kool-Aid. But I couldn’t do it alone; I was in too deep.

Only when Martha was incarcerated was able to open my eyes for a split second and see she was “just a person” running a business. Thank heavens for white-collar crimes! No longer was she the arts-and-crafts-cooking-and-decorating deity I had let her become in my brainwashed mind. I repeated my mantra each day…

Cancel the subscription to her magazine. You can cut her loose. You don’t want decorating tips from an inmate! (Even though I bet her prison cell was amazing!)

So I started my own detox program, which I am now willing to share with others in crisis:

Step One: Just saying “No!” to the magazine was the beginning of exorcising my inner Martha Stewart. Then I had to throw away all of the truckloads of mail that came to my home, without opening it, of course. I’m sure those letters were begging me to take her back. They pulled at my empathetic heartstrings but I stayed strong.

Step Two: I told friends of my plan, so I was held accountable for my actions. This had to be female friends, I learned, because I found out that men did not exactly feel the same way about Martha’s methods as I did.

Step Three: I started talking to friends who I thought were well-adjusted. These persons had a balanced life between family, household and work. I interviewed them by plainly asking what their sock and underwear drawers looked like.

“What?!” you ask.

This is the perfect determinate of how Type-A (aka “Martha Stewart”) a person is. If you neatly fold and organize your underwear in your drawer (perhaps in rows) or fold socks and arrange them in a color-schemed rainbow, you might have been brainwashed. On the other hand, if you toss everything in drawers knowing guests will not see the contents, you are like the majority of the world, and perhaps more stable and definitely with more free time on your hands.

The problem is, the Martha Stewart revolution has not gone away. She has left a huge imprint on women across this country. Even after she was released from prison, women continue to escape from their hectic lives through crafts. I understand this, ladies. I was there.

Unfortunately, as far as I have researched, there is not a formal support group for this hollow assembly of people who are sucked into the scrapbooking, cleaning/organizing and decoupaging world, but I’ll tell you what: Your family misses you!

So exorcise that bossy, blonde convict from your head and drop the beads and hot glue gun, honey! You must reintroduce yourself to your family because I promise you — one former “prisoner of chores” to another — they want you back!

Stacey Hatton is a pediatric registered nurse, writer and public speaker. Her humor blog can be found at http://nursemommylaughs.com.

Note: If you still have the love in your heart for Martha and want to get “One Autographed First Edition Hardcover of ‘Martha’s Entertaining:  A Year of Celebrations’ and One Admission Ticket per Person,”  call 913.384.3126 or click on www.RainyDayBooks.com for your admission package to her “MEET MARTHA” on Friday, November 11, 2011 @ 7:00PM at Unity Temple on the Plaza, 707 W. 47th Street, KC, MO.  I’m sure she will make you feel warm and fuzzy and so incredibly “crafty.” ~ Nurse Mommy


The Kansas City Star (w.7.16.10) Stacey Hatton Commentary

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The Power of Saliva

One of my fears of publicly covering this topic is strangers will assume I am a member of the top-secret union of Spitting Parental Units. The FBI has them classified in their own division, the SPU division.Are you wondering why you haven’t heard of the SPUs? Because they’re classified!

Millions of SPUs have been keeping underground about their child-cleaning methods for hundreds of years. These “spit shiners” are lurking behind every photo booth, church and/or synagogue parking lots and backstage at Little Miss competitions.

Now I that I have outed this group, they probably will start tapping me on the shoulder in the grocery store and whispering, “I refuse OxiClean because my own spittle can out-clean any product — in record time.” These poor caretakers can’t seem to control themselves because they are the offspring of a multi-generational line of spit cleaners.

Now, chemically speaking, saliva is 98 percent water, along with a little mucus and some digestive enzymes. But a law introduced by Rep. Y.O. Mama still says parents can’t clean their children with saliva.

Even though public spitting is frowned upon here in the Unites States and most countries, and Emily Post rolls over in her grave every time it occurs, expectoration hasn’t always been condemned.

•In the Middle Ages, spitting was acceptable in everyday life. Actually, it was considered rude to swallow it back down.

•In the 1700s officials put a kibosh on public spitting, so spittoons showed up everywhere. Now they had a glorious place to collect disease and flies. Great invention!

•The 1918 influenza pandemic killed more people than WWI did, so the early OSHA — Old Spit Haters of America — disposed of all contaminated spittoons and about 20 to 40 million corpses. Talk about poor health care!

•In the 1940s, a sect of overly clean mothers decided it was acceptable to pull their crumpled up hankies out of their sleeve, and after a sufficient moistening, scrub their protesting children’s faces in public. A good, wet swipe of a boy’s cowlick was common practice, too.

•During the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics, China — one of the few countries where spitting on the sidewalks is acceptable — had to officially curb the behavior so as not to gross out the rest of the world. A courteous host.

•In the armed services, the tradition of “spit shining” these days relies on warm water instead of actual saliva to create the perfect shiny boot. I’m not going to argue with a soldier on this one; they are armed and this nurse/mommy doesn’t pack heat. But maybe they should change the name or just fess up?

Today the H1N1 influenza, the common cold and tuberculosis can be spread by respiratory droplets — another name for spit balls. Caretakers of our little future leaders, I implore you, let’s put a stop to the spit shine business! I know spit happens, but let’s just use saliva for the job it’s meant to do: digesting your children’s leftovers.

And for heaven’s sake, if you can’t control yourself, switch to baby wipes. You don’t even have to have an infant to stock up on these treasures. And you can quote me on this: baby wipes are the new spit of this decade.

Stacey Hatton is an Overland Park RN and freelance writer. Her blog can be found at http://nursemommylaughs.com.

Large Trash Pick-up Day is Huge

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The Kansas City Star news

STACEY HATTON COMMENTARY

Now that we’re starting summer, there’s so much to look forward to!

Family vacations pent up in crowded vehicles traveling coast to coast, relaxing poolside while gazing up occasionally to make sure your young children haven’t drowned, all-day spouse golf outings to which you are not invited, and according to many acquaintances, the best day of the summer: large trash pick-up day!

I actually enjoy watching how some people’s eyes light up at the mention of this sacred day. Some treat it as a national holiday and get the whole family involved, while others have cute family names for the big day.

If you have experienced this event, you realize there are two ways of looking at it. Either you are the Type A Personality who relishes getting the family on board to clean out the basement, attic, and/or garage and then place all tired items curbside or you are a (whispered) secret shopper.

Fess up. How many of you have been curbside boutiquing, Dumpster driving or nighttime free drive-buying? If you haven’t packed the family up in the minivan so you can have the fastest getaway with the prime goods, I’m sure you have seen or known someone who has.

My favorite shoppers are those who hook trailers to their old, banged-up trucks. Some even rent big flatbeds. These guys are professionals! And I must say watching a king-sized bed frame, a dishwasher and a hide-away couch traveling through the ’burbs at 2 mph cracks me up, unless I am late for a meeting and stuck in one of these crazy traffic jams.

My neighborhood association has the annual neighborhood garage sale extending over a few days and then the following day is large item pickup. Brilliant! Whoever came up with this idea should get a medal — and a wake-up call from me at 2 a.m. when the scavengers come out with floodlights that fill our bedroom like a scene from an alien movie.

To avoid this annoying late light show, I have vowed, “No more garage sales. Ever!” No curb dumping the remnants of a sale that was so bad no one wanted the junk I didn’t want. I’m also hoping to slow down the night traffic on my street a bit — doubtful, but a gal can wish.

However, I must admit I am not against cleaning house to find the more simple way of life. And in the past on large trash pick-up day, in certain neighborhoods I might have been known to slow down and stretch my neck to assess the curbware. And perhaps on a rare occasion, I may have circled the block for a second look. Is that so wrong? After all, to quote Gandhi (or maybe it was The Beatles), “One man’s rubbish is another man’s load of junk for next year’s event.”

Leawood has tastefully changed its event name from “Haul off my Junk Day” to “Large Item Recirculation Day.” If only we were all so classy.

Stacey Hatton is a pediatric nurse and freelance writer. You can find her blog at http://nursemommylaughs.com.

Posted on Tue, Jun. 01, 2010 10:15 PM

KC Star article: Why did I have to wake up old today? (w04.14.10)

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I have a confession. I lived an exciting, full life before children, loaded with adventures and colorful stories — and some I will even share with my girls when they are over 21.

I especially loved birthdays. Some were fabulously shared with best girlfriends and occasionally the men’s KU basketball team, but no one wants to hear about that.

Today as the sun peeked through my dusty blinds, two munchkins leapt my peaceful dream, screaming “Happy Birthday!” A little loud first thing in the morning, but endearing still. This is not a big day for me. Birthdays have been anticlimactic for me since I birthed children. And up to now, aging hasn’t affected my psyche.

Age 30: Just glad I was out of my 20s and ready to enjoy the decade.

Age 40: Thought it was going to rock my world, but according to Elton John and my heart monitor, I was still standing.

Age 41: I thought the age might hit me then, closer now to 50, but it was just another opportunity to eat cake; and unfortunately, I mean an entire applesauce cake with caramel icing. Not the best idea my children had, but children are such fragile characters and you don’t want to disappoint!

So today I donned the 42-year-old birthday-girl-tiara and my husband smirks, “Do you feel any older?” Well, why don’t you back over me with my grocery-store-parking-lot-dinged minivan!

Normally this question would have received a mere eye roll from me, but this morning he heard, “You would feel old, too, if you just spent the last 10 minutes assisting Munchkin #1 (our oldest preschooler) locate 42 candles in this house! Do you realize how many candles that is? Don’t even think of answering that!”

The reality of aging hit me as hard as if someone said, “Today is bring your own stool sample to work day!” Whatever am I going to do with this? It is clear that from now on I am going to get birthday cards bearing pictures of blazing cakes with a nearby fire extinguisher. Unfunny acquaintances will warn me to change the batteries in the smoke detector prior to lighting my candles. The once decadent chocolate birthday cake will resemble a newly aerated yard after removing my plethora of torched candles. I ask you…how did this happen?

When I married six years ago (or was it 12?), my husband and I decided to skip the honeymoon phase and start a family. My biological clock was ticking so loudly I could have been used as a torture method.

“Tell us how you planned to destroy the world.” (Place the thirty-something childless woman next to the terrorist.)

“No, keep her away! That ticking will drive me crazy. How about putting my fingers in a vice instead?”

I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked by feeling my age. It didn’t just sneak up on me and shout, “You’re on the downward slope, Honey!”

There were subtle signs of my impending doom. The first occurrence was when I was at Target shopping for diapers. After trying to read the fine print and noticing my arms needed to grow about two more inches to make it legible, I settled for purchasing my first reading glasses. There was an insane moment when I burst out laughing. I had the new glasses on because the first thing to come into focus was a cart full of diapers. No mommy should buy diapers and reading glasses in the same shopping trip! It’s not right.

Another pre-elderly slap in the face was when I took Munchkins #1 and #2 to the playground. It was a beautiful day full of bonding moments until out of the blue, a stranger said how cute my grandchildren were! Grandchildren? I am not old enough to have grandchildren.

But after several flippant comebacks (which thankfully never left my mouth), I assessed the math and saw that I easily could have kids with kids. Setting the record straight and reducing the complain-o-meter a notch, I am thrilled I started my family at a later age. I normally have the courage, patience and wisdom to raise children in a way that I know I couldn’t have done in my 20s.

My only regrets are my girls will never know their great-grandparents, they will never sleep in a walk-in closet at a party because their parents couldn’t afford a babysitter and most tragically, they will never see their mother do a back walk-over on a NYC subway car. Some stories I will keep in the vault!

Stacey Hatton is a pediatric RN and freelance writer. Her blog can be found at http://nursemommylaughs.com.

©2010, Hatton. All rights reserved.