Columnist Susan Snyder: Martha no steward of perfection

Tuesday, July 9, 2002 | 8:19 a.m.

As you read this, I am either being seated on a federal court jury, or I have come up with a plausible excuse as to why I would make a poor juror.

"I think everyone is guilty of something." Or, "I am unable to control the urge to play with hand puppets when I am bored." Maybe, "Lawyers give me hives."

I'll let you know which one works.

For now, let's consider poor old Martha Stewart. I wasn't going to get in on the Martha free-for-all. First, she isn't from Las Vegas. Second, we couldn't begin to grow half of the stuff she cooks, unless we wasted water on our private gardens at the same rate most planned communities waste on their public-park pansies.

But look at how gleeful we all are in learning that the Princess of Perfect Pies ain't so perfect after all.

Sure, we heard the stories about her swearing at her neighbor's landscaper and trying to mow him down with her truck. We all knew that the rumors about her not being invited to help with her own daughter's wedding just had to be true.

But insider trading? Federal investigators have taken a keen interest in how Martha sold off about 4,000 shares of ImClone stock late last year just before it plunged.

And now the Duchess of Decoupage may be grilled by Congress -- and the representatives aren't going to be asking how she makes those adorable pressed-flower photo book covers.

Whatever Congress comes up with, we are ready to swoop in on Martha like a band of vultures.

We watch her show. We buy her stuff. We follow her recipes. We embark on her projects.

And we hate her.

We hate that with a glue gun and "a little planning" Martha could probably build a better-insulated home than two-thirds of the cardboard mansions going up in our valley.

We hate that when company arrives at her home, the towels in the guest room are probably the ones that match the sheets on the guest-room bed.

We hate that she even has sheets on the guest-room bed. Does Martha ever have to apologize that the sheets are the same ones Uncle Larry used at Thanksgiving? Does she ever have to make excuses because her cats have taken up residence on the bedspread and left a fine layer of fur all over it?

Of course not. She even has fussy, long-haired cats that should shed because they breathe. (But they wouldn't dare.)

And we suspect. We suspect Martha is a witch because we have tried to put together those meals, and we know what it's like to be exhausted by the time we've finished making the bay scallop cerviche with melon pearls and still have the main course to go.

We have watched a family devour these meals with all the attention they'd give a pepperoni pizza.

We know how we've sniped at the children, the siblings and the spouses while trying to get that stupid rivet-puncher to work on $200 worth of striped canvas we bought to make covers for $10 director's chairs.

Martha cannot possibly be human. She must be a witch. She must scream at her staff, bark at her broker and crab at the grocery checkout clerk.

Martha has said she's lost $200 million since the news broke. But look at what she has gained in our confidence. We just knew all along she couldn't be nice.

She did better with chicken stock.