Time to air the dirty laundry. Not literally, people--for once I'm somewhat caught up on the laundry and there's no need to dry or clean anything, much to the chagrin of the neighbors from elsewhere who still can't figure out the whole concept of hanging laundry out to dry.

Nay, I must admit to something far more unpleasant than little white boxer-briefs on a clothesline. Truth of the matter is, I like Martha Stewart.

There's just something about her that speaks to me. I think it's the combination of ancient housekeeping ritual with the "I'm better than you are" attitude. So Baltimorean, and so very Richmond.

I perused a copy of her self-promotional rag lately. "Martha Stewart LIVING" is a very strange animal, indeed. Martha's ideas are a combination of the sort of things I consider common knowledge and the sort of things that no one in his right mind would ever do. I mean, really--who's ever going to take the time to actually cut out and make heart-shaped boxes for Valentine's Day candy? Unless, of course, one lives in some benighted city that no longer has its own wonderful confectioner to take care of the matter. Even so, I can't see anyone that I know sitting down to spend several hours constructing the stupid candy boxes. On the other hand, Martha also tells us how to make biscuits. Biscuits are the most basic of skills. Superlative biscuits are one thing, but the creation of useful, everyday biscuits is about as difficult as, oh, say, breathing.

But Martha knows her audience. She realizes that the days of women (and the occasional man) at home, doing housework simply as a fact of life, are long gone. Though I might consider biscuit baking second nature, there are millions of people who are mildly frightened by even Pillsbury biscuits-in-a-can. (Actually, they kind of frighten me, too--they taste weird and that creepy FOOMP when you open the can freaks me out.)

So the audience for "LIVING" gets a double whammy. They can learn to do things "just like Grandma," the sorts of things that were once second nature to everyone but are now nearly forgotten. And they can learn to do goofy stuff that they would never actually do, but which sounds really cool, and might get tried out for the one dinner party they have annually.

And then I turned to the page that showed Martha's basement. I pray to God, Wotan, and Clara Bow that this is not truly a picture of the woman's basement, because it scared me half to death.
It was so freakishly clean and so insanely organized that I could picture even the most meticulous German housewife reeling in shock.

Now, let me put this into perspective. Most of you who read this space know perfectly well that I am approximately as well-organized as a brain-damaged chicken. However, there is a certain deranged logic to my household; I know where most of the important things are. There is the occasional frantic burst as I realize that I cannot find something desperately needed, but for the most part, I can find the coasters, the ashtrays, the record I want to hear, and the appropriate silver to serve whatever glop is going on the table. (There may be another frantic burst of terror if I have forgotten to make ice.) My counterpoint is the rather more typical North Baltimore household, which operates under a Prussian system of order and precision. I've noticed, however, that those people are just as often stymied as I am when it comes to finding a specific item. Their system of organization breaks down under pressure. Mine, which is no system at all, is unfazed by pressure and therefore is every bit as effective.

Every household I know, whether organized on the mad confusion model or the Imperial Navy model, shares a common closeted skeleton: a basement that looks like mayhem. Nobody ever has to see the basement. Most people, even in the house itself, do not bother to visit the basement. Therefore, it becomes a repository for: all the crap that you do not really want but cannot bear to throw away; those items used for precisely one week every year; whatever items are not in season (my summer rugs and summer curtains are down there right now), tools, paint, and cleaning apparati. When I look at any Baltimore basement I am always reminded of the scene in the "Addams Family" movie, in which Morticia looks through a storage space full of ancient wardrobe bags: "Cousin Knick-Knack's Summer Wardrobe...Cousin Knick-Knack's Winter Wardrobe...Cousin Knick-Knack..."

How can anyone's basement be so...sterile? I admire the thought of a well-organized storage space. It must be wonderful to be able to say "Oh, yes. It's time to put away the winter rugs; you'll find the mothballs in Bin 84-C and the Varnolene for the floors on Shelf 23." I do find it more endearing and normal, however, to hear a voice from the basement yelling "Where the hell is the gray porch paint? Say, did you know Aunt Vesta's old summer hats are still on top of the furnace?"