Kissing Martha Stewart

So last night I get a call from Martha Stewart. She’s in town and wants to stop by and say hello. I knew what that meant. I had to kiss her and let her take a look inside my refrigerator.

Kissing Martha Stewart is not on my list of turn ons. Men may like to see two women going at it in a tender embrace and locked lips, but kissing Martha is a little like kissing your next door neighbor’s drag queen uncle. From a distance it doesn’t look half bad, but up close it’s downright scary.

Martha stopped by and I got a little pecker on the cheek, all the while hoping that would be it. We chatted for awhile, and she asked if I’d done any redecorating based on her recommendations. Yeah, like I’m going to shop at K-Mart. I told her no, but she was already headed for the kitchen.

What she found in my refrigerator kept the night alive. I was so hoping it would die young. So Martha started pulling things out of the fridge and telling me what to keep, what to throw away, why plastic is bad in the microwave, and why sodium nitrites give you cancer. Bill loves microwaved bacon, by the way.

The woman is a control freak in the kitchen. If she’d apply that much attention to her hair there wouldn’t be so much gray showing in the roots. Anyway, I hit the panic button. Seriously. It’s a wireless panic button which sets off a silent alarm in my aides quarters. A few minutes later she shows up at the door reminding me of an important campaign contribution meeting, and I’m due right away. It’s all part of the plan.

That ended Martha’s blitzkrieg through my refrigerator and all I had to endure was a going away kiss. Full on the lips and I’m sure there was a little tongue, too. If it’s possible for Martha to have a little tongue. As her lips were parting mine, I pulled her close again, and said, “Martha, that’s got to be worth a small contribution, doesn’t it?”

She smiled that wicked little smile of hers, touched my cheek with the tips of her fingers, and wrote me a check right then and there.