MARTHA STEWART, Dating and Her Up Till Now.....Secret Twin Sister, DARTHA!

The following was delivered to me by courier in the dark of the night with a plea to make this public. As a purveyor of truth, I am only releasing this in my role as a model citizen and a breathtakingly beautiful blond. Oh wait, that’s someone else!

SCOOP: I AM MARTHA STEWART’S TWIN!

By Dartha Stewart

I was surfing Match.com, every hour on the hour, as usual, when all of a sudden several of the men contacting me expected me to grow my own coconuts to prepare fresh Pina Colodas while knitting them a tuxedo by the weekend.

That’s when I knew it wasn’t me they were longing for. “She” was their prey!

Well, the secret is out. I have been hidden and silent till now.

Yes, I am Martha’s younger (by 1 minute) twin sister, Dartha and it is time for the world to finally know I exist before the TMZ expose'.

Flashbacks: During delivery, sis fashioned a duvet from the placenta to cover mummy. Gold-leafing our umbilical cord while nursing, she sprayed a touch of vanilla around mom’s areola. I drank mother’s milk straight from a Schmucker’s® Jelly glass.

She smirked when the doctor patted her bottom. I moaned and gave him my adult web site. I simply did not fit in.

Mother thought adoption would be best. She traded me to a cousin for a year’s supply of polish sausages.

Though separated by time and space, Martha and I led comparable lives. I too, give advice. My friends call it nagging and hate it.

We have similarities as well as differences.

She is looking for a perfect potted Poinsettia. I am looking for a sober one that isn’t rude. You see, while sis talks to plants, revealing nothing, I tell mine everything. My plants hold their ears when they see me. The plastic flowers all have silk worms with puzzled expressions. Many hanging plants (they didn’t even leave a note) were originally table sitters. They whisper, “Here comes Mudder Kevorkian.” I do not think that is funny.

I would love to visit Martha. We could nosh on her homemade sautéed tiger tail appetizers. In turn, I would reveal a hint that could save hours of spitting and cursing. See, I too, know stuff.  Just this one revelation could transform her life to include bathroom breaks.

I know she spends many hours attempting to un-stick Saran Wrap® from itself. Does she know if you put it in the fridge next to the panty hose, they both will be easy to peel off?

This tip would also give sis time to tend to the trees she uses for crafting stationary. Then she could drop me a note with ink made from squid and octopi that are staples in her home.

Oops! Hold on while I answer the door.

Oh, how nice. It’s a special delivery.

“MS. Dartha Stewart has been awarded Good Housekeeping’s ’Seal of Disgust’

Aha! This explains why people wipe their feet after they leave my home.

Well, to continue. Here is a personal wish for my twinnie:

Martha, do not envy me for receiving the one honor that is beyond your grasp. Instead, visit me. I will divulge the delights of defrosting. We may need to wear high boots and pith helmets to keep from forming a fungus while walking through my home. Then again, you can always glue-gun us the more stylish Manolo Blahniks thigh-highs for the walk-through.

Oh, one more thing. Martha, please be extremely careful as to what you ask for on a dating site.

I requested a “tall guy.” He arrived on stilts. We actually got along really well.

 I finally had to end it though, when I kept getting splinters in my thighs.

Yours forever, Dartha (the cuter baby sister) Stewart.

NEWS ITEM: SINCE OUR VIEW OF MARRIAGES MAY BE ALTERED THERE HAS BEEN TALK OF DRAFTING A BILL TO CHANGE OUR VOWS FROM “TILL DEATH DO US PART” TO A THREE-YEAR LOVE CONTRACT, WITH AN OPTION TO RENEW.

ETHEL: Harold, I’d like to talk to you.

HAROLD: Ethel, I’m watching the rerun of the highlights of Monday night’s game. Can’t it wait?

ETHEL: No, dear. We have to talk right now.

HAROLD: OK. What do you want?

ETHEL: Well, as you may know, we are due for a renewal.

HAROLD: What renewal?  Do you mean our renewal for Colliers magazine?  I told you I want to cancel our subscription because they’re slow on delivery.

ETHEL: No! I’m talking about our marriage contract.  It’s up in three days.

HAROLD: So?

ETHEL: So I want your answer now.  Do you intend to renew with me?

HAROLD [brusquely]: Do you expect me to make a major decision like that in a few seconds?  Let’s talk about it tonight.

ETHEL: I can’t wait, Harold.

HAROLD: Why not, for heaven’s sake?

ETHEL: Because I’m ordering stationery with my initials on it, and I have to know if I’m keeping the same ones.

HAROLD [getting angrier]: Ethel! Will you leave me alone and lemme watch this little league game?

ETHEL: Well, we could negotiate that, Dearie.

HAROLD: What do you mean, ne-go-ti-ate?

ETHEL [smoothly]: Look.  It’s very simple.  If you renew with me, for an example, I won’t bug you when you sit around all day doing absolutely nothing around the house besides watching TV.

HAROLD: Hey, that sounds terrific.  It’s a deal.

ETHEL [archly]: Just one minute, Sweetheart.  In return, we don’t see your mother so frequently, OK?

HAROLD: My mother?  I thought she was your cleaning lady.  I mean, I’ve never seen the house look so clean.  Just kidding.  OK, that sounds reasonable.  How about promising you’ll never starch my button-down collars?

ETHEL: If you never leave the gas tank empty, Harold.

HAROLD: Gee! This is getting exciting.  Will you vow never to make that lousy liver casserole again?

ETHEL: Sure, if you pledge to take me to first-run movies and not gripe about the crowds or the cost, for that matter.

HAROLD: And you will learn to modulate your sweet little voice.

ETHEL: You won’t whistle in the morning before I’ve had my coffee.

HAROLD: You’ll keep your icy feet off my backside at night.

ETHEL: That’s going a little too far, Harold.

HAROLD: Well, at least approach me slowly, OK?

ETHEL: OK.

HAROLD: And Ethel, no more yawning when I tell a joke you may have heard once before.

ETHEL: You mean 200 times before.  Which reminds me.  Promise to learn a new one.

HAROLD: If you won’t interrupt when I tell it.

ETHEL: OK.  And remember to let me drive home if you’ve had too much to drink.

HAROLD: Are you implying that I drink too much?

ETHEL: No, I just said if.

HAROLD: Hmm.  Fair enough.  Well, I guess that takes care of everything.  Here, I’ll sign the paper after you.  Let’s shake hands.

ETHEL [with airy sweetness]:  You are wonderful, darling.

HAROLD: I know.  I know.  Now, please let me watch the rest of the game in peace.

ETHEL:   Certainly, darling.

       [A little later]

ETHEL: Harold.

HAROLD: What is it now, Ethel?

ETHEL [defensively]:  How come you never talk to me?  It’s always football, baseball, soccer, basketball then football re-runs again.

HAROLD [aghast]:  I can’t believe it.  I just cannot believe it.  We just signed a contract, didn’t we?

ETHEL:   Yes.

HAROLD: I made all those concessions so you would let me watch all my games without interruptions, right?

ETHEL: Right.

HAROLD: So why are you bugging me now?

ETHEL: Because, my Darling, all those agreements were for our new contract.  We still have three days to go on the old one, and it seems such a pity to waste it.  Gee, they had a special on liver today.  I think I’ll make a casserole … Harold.  Stop it.  That’s enough.  Oh, geez. You know how I hate to see you cry. I should have mentioned that when we were making a deal. Harold, are you aware that it is a federal crime to rip up and spit on a legal contract? Harold ...

DEAR EXERCISE NUTS

Hold on to your barbells. I have news for you. This expose is going to rock the diet world and every exercising person who’s breathing in through their nose and out through their guppy posed lips. It’s more important than my first study, where I proved that daily consumption of any type of Pasta with Sara Lee pound cake for desert is healthier than Vitamin C and penicillin combined.

Don’t get me wrong. I, too, naively thought dieting and workouts were essential to attractiveness. I even felt successful as I jogged when I thought I heard applause while running until I realized it was just my thighs clapping together. That troubled me until today, when the final tests from my own lab report. The study showed that flabbiness is a sign of extreme intelligence. Did you hear? EXTREME INTELLIGENCE!!!

And this is the most astounding part. The report 

concluded that having cellulite indicated incredible sensuality! Yes! The more cellulite, the more sexual was that individual. Pity the Playboy Bunnies and Sport’s Illustrated swim suit cover gals promising dreams that will only disappoint.

Please forget the insanity. Use your 90 minutes to check out a great restaurant.

Who knows? There is a possibility that the Pillsbury Doughboy may finally met his match…me!

MARRIAGE-EQUALITY and/or HOW TO TELL WHEN IT’S KAPUT!

The talk about fairness regarding the wish to marry is a worthy one. Everyone should have that opportunity or else they will be forced to send out for aggravation.

What has been neglected in the discussion is that if one is already in the relationship, how to tell that it may be coming to its final conclusion.

The following may give one an indication of subtle cues that it could be over.

. When you discover he has joined the group “Parents Without Partners”

*

. If you ask him whether anything is bothering him and he sets fire to your dress.

*

. If he occasionally introduces you to his friends and business associates as his “former wife.”

*

. When he advertises on a giant billboard that says “I LOVE YOU MYRNA” and you name is notMyrna.

*

. When you return from shopping and find all the locks have been changed and learn, coincidentally, he is “napping” with an old army buddy.

. And finally when he says he is going for a hike on the Appalachian Trail and returns with one Hot Tamale dripping from his thin lips.

I suggest it could be time to meet at Starbuck’s for a tiny, itsy, bitty chat.

Mind you; these are only guidelines!

Dear Justin Timberlake

There are things you should know about granny and other sexy old broads. True, you are used to quick Twitter messages, but since I am Twitter-less, I urge you to keep reading to the end where, I guarantee, before the year is over, I will get to the point.

In the past when I shouted, “Is there a doctor in the house?” in a crowded venue, it was usually to introduce him to my neice. Since she does incredibly well on her own and in fact, has a restraining order against me for mentioning her, I choose now to shout that at an actual doctor’s office where they frequently keep me waiting an hour and half beyond my actual scheduled appointment.

Though my days are fully occupied searching for keys and plucking the hairs on my face, to others sitting in a doctor’s office this might seem wasteful. In fact; it is most enjoyable and is the only reality show I watch. The waiting areas are usually mobbed. My number (as in take a number and sit down, lady!) is 48, so there is lots of time to observe.

I heard one woman mumble as she reviewed her multitude of medical forms to fill out in order to be seen by a specialist, “Left nostril, heart valve, ear, buttock, pinkie toe on right foot, pinkie toe on left foot;” then she frustratingly stood up and burst out in song; “All of me; why can't they take all of me?”

We sympathized and hummed along. 

Another fellow in the room had been waiting so long that he called the receptionist from his cell phone while in that very room wanting to speak directly to the Urologist.

She asked if he could hold and he shouted “if I could hold I would not be asking for the Urologist, you*%!%^”. He had a point. We applauded then washed his mouth out with a Gray Goose liquid, and ours as well.

Go figure; when doctors were on strike, I stayed healthy. I had so much leisure time once that I went to a palmist for fun. She said I would meet a tall, dark stranger and...he would remove my gall bladder. I went to a palmist for a second opinion. She removed my ring.

Now I visit actual healers. My primary doctor is a "Recommendologist." Whenever I see him for any reason, he says I have a virus which is Latin for I don't know what the hell you have. Then he recommends a specialist, usually one not covered by my insurance. 

So my dear Justin Timberlake, you are now considered one of the most talented people in the universe-I simply loved you on Saturday Night Live and your week guesting with Jimmy Fallon, Wowie!

By now you must know how much I appreciate you. I may in fact, be your oldest groupie.

About that movie you did-I happen to like the title and the idea. i even agree with the premise of friends with benefits as a way of life.

Frankly, there is no need for me to marry again as I am granny whose been around the block enough times that they ought name a street after me.

Justin, as much as I admire you, we do have our creative differences in movie making.

I know what yours is, and I am totally all for that philosophy in my stage of life, though in addition, my film would tack on an added scene that would feature a romantic rendezvous with a man.

This man would include me on his health insurance plan. This for me is the actual definition of …

"Friends with Benefits."

See you at the Oscars, Emmy's, Grammy's and any other place they give out awards. You are simply awesome!

P.S. Do you happen to have a single ole granddaddy on Medicare?

MY POSTMAN IS NOW MY STYLIST

MY MAILMAN IS CHANGING HIS NAME TO BLOOMINGDALE'S.

I never thought I’d see the day when the postal service stopped delivering snails and brought me a bustier instead. What if others decided to add a side line?

FOR EXAMPLE: What if everyone wanted to be a therapist?

Scene 1: THE CABBIE

ME: Taxi! I’d like to go to Francois’ Beauty Salon, and could you hurry, please?
CABBIE: This compulsion for promptness — do you look at Francois as a father figure, thus your fear of displeasing “daddy?”
ME: Huh? I’d just like to be on time, or he’ll give my appointment to someone else.
CABBIE: Ah! You see the other customers as a symbol of your resentment toward a younger brother or sister. Perhaps you have a little sibling rivalry going.
ME: [sotto voce]: I can’t wait until that lousy bus strike is over.
CABBIE: What was that?
ME: Never mind. Just drop me off here.
CABBIE: Did you know that leaving an 80¢ tip on a $8 ride indicates a holding back, an unwillingness to let go … ?
ME: And did you know that my slamming this door on your nose reflects my uncompleted relationship with Pinocchio?
CABBIE: †§$%$(%¢%
ME: Same to you, fella!

Scene 2: THE HAIRDRESSER

ME: Hi, Francois. Listen, today I think I’d like a change from the old way you’ve done my hair. How about a shorter haircut?
FRANCOIS: I can see an obvious conflict that I must bring to your attention. You think by changing your outer self, your internal enemy can be placated.
ME: In that case, cut it for both of us. The real reason I’d like it trimmed is because it gets in my eyes while I’m playing tennis. I’d just like to be able to see the ball when I miss it.
FRANCOIS: You don’t want to miss. You probably are extremely competitive, which stems from your need to be in charge … I sense that you are agitated. Tell me, what are you feeling right now, at this very moment?
ME: You really want to know? I’m feeling great hostility toward your leotards. As a matter of fact, I’d like to be perfectly candid. I never thought you had the legs for them.
FRANCOIS: Well, I never …
ME: I can believe that. Goodbye!

Scene 3: THE BARTENDER

ME: Set ‘em up, Joe. I've got a little story I’d like you to know.
BARTENDER: Lady, can’t you just ask for a drink like everyone else? I sense a bit of the exhibitionist in you. Were you ignored during your formative years?
ME: Listen, these are my formative years. Being ignored would be the highlight of my day. Why don’t you just give me a Bloody Mary and then go freeze your daiquiri.
BARTENDER: I sense a deep-seated fury raging in you. Obviously you could have chosen from over 1,000 cocktail combinations, including a Sweet Casi's and soda. Why did you choose that particular mix?
ME: I did it for purely medical reasons. My body craves the vitamin C that’s found in the tomato juice.
BARTENDER: I think you chose the Bloody Mary because it reflects your preoccupation with violence, blood, and gore.
ME: I’m getting nauseous. Leave me alone.
BARTENDER: I can see your rage. Who do you suppose really is the recipient of your wrath?
ME: I’m looking at him.
BARTENDER: Oh, no. You don’t mean me. I’m merely a therapeutic stand-in for someone else in your past. Tell me, who are you angry with?
ME: I’m not angry.
BARTENDER: Ha. You can’t kid me. If you’re not angry, then why are you pouring your drink down my apron?
ME: It was a childish impulse. I once accidentally set fire to my hula hoop, and for a moment I was transported in space, and I attempted to put out the flames.
BARTENDER: Ah! Now we seem to be getting somewhere, but your time is up. Why don’t you go home, take two martinis, and call me in the morning?
ME: Listen, whatever you say. You’re the doctor.

Perhaps changing occupations is a good thing!