Well, I have spent most of this week lying in bed. I injured my left foot while extreme rock climbing. Or so I should be telling people, as the truth is just sad. I tripped at the very core of downtown, 5 PM Monday night, while walking on a sidewalk in Cole Haan ballet flats. How a person trips under these circumstances, I am not sure. When I told my doctor what happened, she raised an eyebrow and said "Oh."
Anyway, I am immobile. This has never happened to me before, despite my incredible klutziness. My main foot concerns lately have been having soft heels and nice nail polish. I had just done my toes with Essie Smokin' Hot. Now, I just want to be able to walk.
Since I can't move, I have been lying in bed watching TV, trolling the internet, and reading magazines. The September Vanity Fair had an article about Martha Stewart, which lead me to what someone who can't move really needs- the Celebrity Trash Memoir. (This is not the time for War and Peace!)
I fired up my Kindle and downloaded The Best of Friends: Martha and Me by Mariana Pasternak. I was initially interested, then I laughed a lot, but ultimately I was angry. This book is utterly ridiculous. Janet Maslin at the New York Times says it so much better than I could.
The book is supposed to be a chronicle of a female friendship but, honestly, with a friend like Mariana Pasternak, you might want to consider becoming a hermit. Every embarrassing moment in Martha Stewart's life that the author witnessed, no matter how trivial, is laid bare in this book, and usually juxtaposed against one of Ms, Pasternak's perfection. It's nauseating, nd after just a few pages, practically unreadable.
Ms. Pasternak is the sort of person who would compliment you thusly: "Sure, you'll never be as stylish and alluring as I, but I could never clean a toilet like you!" Doesn't that make you feel great? Mariana said something nice about you!
Literally everything that has gone wrong in her life is Martha Stewart's fault. Her marriage break up, the end of another romance, the failure of her realty business (though MS receives scant credit for the connections that no doubt helped it soar in the first place).
I laughed out loud as she reminisced about the trunks her grandparents had, with the Ls and Vs on them. We get it, dear. You want us to think you were "high born", or something. I haven't seen that sort of label obsession since I left high school. The author also can't seem to decide if she's flush or poor. She digs at Ms. Stewart for apparently expecting her, though she says she's earning high six figures and has several houses, to contribute to the cost of their mutual vacations. She takes the time to tell us about a wonderful Hermes coat she bought, then cries poor a few pages later.
All in all, the book has some dirt, and it fulfilled it's role as a trash read to take my mind off of my sore foot, but mostly it's a laughable look at an outsized ego. And it's not Martha Stewart's.