Mortality has been on my mind lately. It could be because of the empty nest my wife and I now share. It could be because my left thumb no longer works reliably.
But actually it’s because Martha F-ing Stewart has turned into someone’s grandma with a camera phone.
Only yesterday, Martha could do everything better than you — build a media empire, decorate her Maine manse in a way that makes you want of off yourself before Advent even begins, breed a superior chicken, cook cassoulet for 100 on short notice, make water.
Heck, in the day, even Martha’s croquembouche was a thing of beauty.
But things change.
Today, even if your croquembouche isn’t much to look at, you can be assured there’s one thing you do better than Martha Stewart — Tweet.
Martha invented food porn, bitches. But her Twitter feed is now filled with what appears to be out-of-focus photos of the early bird special at Bill Knapps — or possibly the toilet at the bus station.
Each and every one of her photos looks like something your grandma would show after her lunch buffet at Foxwoods. (Ok, Martha probably doesn’t play the slots in her good sweat suit, but she does eat iceberg lettuce with brown dressing.)
How did the world come to this?
One day Martha is personally crafting the world’s most perfect glittering dried corn Thanksgiving centerpiece, and the next you’re limping around the Target parking lot unable to remember where your car is and hoping you don’t have to pee again.
Martha, forget about the iceberg lettuce and please ask the kid in IT to show you how to use the Instagram.
Now, you get back on that horse. Make a carrot cake that looks like a gift wrapped present from Barney’s costing a thousand bucks — then Instagram the hell out if it. Make every little DIYer in Brooklyn with a baking blog pluck her eyes out in shame.
I will continue working on my thumb exercises. And, after I go back into the store to pee, I will find my F-ing car.
Then things will be right once again.