Your big house or mine?

An open letter to my future live-in girlfriend Martha Stewart:

Martha, my dear,

Here I sit, quietly counting the days till your house arrest comes to an end. (Whew, if I had a buck for every time I’ve said that to a woman over the years.) Oh, what I wouldn’t give to slip off that mean old ankle bracelet myself -- if you know what I mean.

I don’t get it. Robert Blake. O.J. Michael Jackson. You’re like the only famous person to ever get convicted of anything. Try spending more time in Southern California. Jurors here are totally cool.

Anyway, Martha, I’m writing on behalf of all the L.A. women who need your guidance. Hate to say it, but they’ve lost their way. Sure, some of them lead the nation in great tans, butterfly tattoos and indie film roles, but can any of them set a decent table, for example? Most women I meet don’t even eat at a table. That’s because it’s usually buried under unread copies of Vogue, Vanity Fair and old checking account statements.

Hello? Any of these gals ever hear of online banking?

Check it out, Martha, I’ve seen more than one L.A. gal dine over the sink -- or even sitting on the couch watching TV. I know! Single women in this town are turning into, well -- single men.

How many, for example, can build a napkin holder from popsicle sticks and twine, like you can? Or make a chicken cordon bleu to die for? Or do several months in the joint and emerge positively ravishing? None that I’ve met recently, I can tell you that. The women I meet wouldn’t know risotto from rigatoni.

What’s going on here? Men are still expected to do the “guy” stuff, correct? That is, work full-time, fund a Roth IRA, fix cars and solve any computer/technical/plumbing issues that might come up.

Also hammer, drill, sand and paint. I could go on.

And guess what, Martha? You think our hard work is rewarded with a tasty dinner of steak tartare -- whatever that is? Maybe a plate of your delicious balsamic roasted potato wedges? No. Here’s what you do get:

“Hey, thanks for fixing that. Let’s order in.”

Order in? Honey, I could have done that without painting your living room three shades of peach.

I hate to complain, Martha, but you wouldn’t let that happen, would you? You’d whip up a quiche, a stew, a creme brulee or something that wouldn’t insult the editors of Bon Appetit should they pop in for dinner one evening. (Let’s have them over soon, by the by. It’s been way too long.)

You see, somewhere along the line, L.A. women lost these once-valued domestic skills. I guess it’s simple evolution. Their ability to cook up a decent hot meal will soon go the way of other useless things in our lives -- like phone books, our little toes and morning radio.

But still, they get away with it. I think it has something to do with them being so much darn cuter than we are. You know, they’ll go slip on something we bought them for Valentine’s Day and, well, you can only imagine where that leads. They might even open a bottle of wine ... if they can somehow figure out how to use the corkscrew.

See what I mean? They have this thing wired.

Martha, if you can just talk to these gals -- maybe show them how to thread a needle now and again, or just pass along some recipes. Even something they might throw together in a microwave, assuming they can set the self-timer, which I highly doubt.

Oh, never mind. I’ll just call Domino’s.

Yours, Howard

P.S. Just checking -- what sort of wine goes with Buffalo Chicken Kickers?

Howard Leff can be reached at [email protected].