Okay, I confess. My sister caught me. I may pretend to be the Red Queen but I�m really Martha Stewart in disguise. Trust me, it�s not a good thing (although as near as I can tell the only difference between the two is that Martha paints her own rosebushes red before threatening to behead the help).

When my sister S. called this past weekend, Mr. Philately had to chat with her for a little bit before I could get my hands cleaned up. I needed to clean up my hands because I had been painting a pair of Kat�s white canvas tennis shoes black. I had out fabric paint and a brush and I was having a grand old time. She needs a pair of black shoes for camp and I�m not going to lay out lots of money for some black shoes she�ll never wear again.

If it were only the tennies, I could plead frugality and continue to keep my alter ego a secret a while longer. But it doesn�t stop there�and S. must have known it because she was laughing her head off at the thought that she had to wait to talk to me because I was painting tennies black.

No, I must live with the shame of it all. Today I�ve been buying a pattern to make a chair cover for the chair in Kat�s room. A few years ago, I took white queen size flannel sheets, made them into curtains and a bedspread, and then took bottles of fabric dye and splotch-painted them to please Day-Hay. I�ve made hair wreathes with fresh flowers and sewed white pearls on little green gloves for a bunch of flower-girls at my mother-in-law�s wedding. (My sister-in-law K. got me into that one but she knew that I�d put up only token resistance. She has me pegged.) I helped Day-Hay make one heck of a clover wreath for her hair.

If it just stopped at crafts, perhaps it wouldn�t be so bad but it doesn�t stop there. I�ve rinsed Kat�s blond hair in lemon juice and I�ve cut Mr. Philately�s hair (much as I hate to admit it in this humidity because that hair is so curly that it�s just wild in the summer).

If there�s any hope for me at all, it�s that I hate to cook and I kill plants. I�m a competent cook despite my dislike but then maybe Martha secretly hates it too. I guess I�ll have to cling to my bad luck with plants to reassure me. Surely Martha wouldn�t forget to water the plants in her office. She wouldn�t stand around and watch them curl up sadly from neglect. She�d take action�or at least buy new ones so no one would know. (Have you ever wondered if she�d do such a thing? I know I have.)

So, plants, do me proud and die. Die now before the receptionist goes on vacation so she�ll be able to bear witness. From my perspective, my soul depends on it. A dead plant? It�s a good thing.

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