Martha On the Inside

Jailhouse advice for the domestic diva

Elizabeth Koch | October 7, 2004

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The thing you must remember, Martha, is celebrity minions get cravings of their own. Especially glamour girls with prima donna ballerina aspirations, which is a fair description of She-Peter—nevermind her thick, hairy ankles. She's angling to dance in Alderson's Thanksgiving talent show, and needs to practice her pli�s before flag football monopolizes the gym. So she does what any real artist would—dumps her duties on her own anemic sidekick. Which is how Fannie—we'll call her Fannie—becomes your gofer.

From day one, Fannie will rub you the wrong way. During landscaping duty, something about her sycophantic "Yes, ma'am, no ma'ams" is intolerable. You're apt to stab your weed-whacker in the dirt and scream, "Shut up, shut up, you stupid shit! Get out of my way!" You'll be damned if some scrawny Tinkerbell ruins your single peaceful chore. What's more, she's continuously tripping on your lunch chair, no doubt merely to enrage you. Doesn't she know her manners? Precisely two inches must be kept between the cafeteria table and yourself. Which means it's her fault when grape juice splashes on your hunk of chocolate cake. Why not swipe hers?

I'd warn against that. But you're such an indignant diva—what's the use?

Fannie, of course, wants to be caught. Fair is fair, Ms. Martha, and you've humiliated her enough. While you're busy knitting in the craft room, Fannie will grow a set of nuts. She'll wear your package like a nomad carrying grain, and slide, spread eagle, down the stairwell railing. Ann II will gasp, practically weeping, as Fannie crashes at a bend and your pastry box goes sailing. Plunk. Clean-up duty is a race between Ann and the warden's drug-sniffing Doberman.

When will the obvious become obvious to you? Pawning off dirty work will only land you in the cooler—and guess which guard's on tank duty?

Keep ignoring trial wisdom, Ms. Martha, and expect to keep on getting screwed. My advice is simple. While in prison, forget about perfection. Try being human. Listen to your criminal sisters, empathize with their unpaid mortgages, their gruesome homeless years, their asthmatic children now living with chain-smoking ex-husbands. We already know that you're an icon, a one-woman media conglomerate, and that $48,000 is a mere .0006 of your net wealth. Likening yourself to "the poor old tortoise who quietly plods along, building something of great value" seems a little silly, in light of your recent Page Six photo op with P. Diddy. Humility, Martha. Don't forget your New Jersey, working class roots, when obsessing over potted plant dirt wasn't a luxury your family could afford.

Aren't you kinda lonely perched at the top, sitting at the farthest reach from failure you could find? What would happen if your soufflé actually fell? Would your friends stop loving you? Have you dropped the goddess act long enough to know?

Next time you're melancholy, or remorseful, or moved, try shedding a tear or two. Let your friends support you like they're supposed to. Your homemaking empire is a good thing, but as your brother Eddie thoughtfully pointed out, prison might be even better. You've got 60-odd years of bitchdom to undo.

Five months probably won't cut it.