Somewhere between fifty and wiry chin hair I lost my good thing. I had it, so help me, but it just evaporated into thin air. I noticed this the other day when I welded my index finger to a counter top with my glue gun. I was affixing a ruler so I could always have a spot at which to measure, just like Martha. My ruler is day-glo pink, has the name "KATHY" printed in bold black letters, and only measures 11-1/2 inches. Anyway, this was really a fruitless endeavor; my pink ruler counter top would only be a good thing if I actually measured things. I mean, everyone knows that measuring uses essential time and is entirely unnecessary. This is particularly true for me, because I am a wizard with the eyeball system of determining such things as width, length, ingredients, snow depth, square feet, IQ, capacity to float, fat grams, and calories. Measure? Don't be silly, Wonder Man! IÕll eyeball where I need to cut!

This comment can be applied to such skills as: splice, sew, purchase, fit, cook, bake, drive, wake-up, paint, plant, perform brain surgery...you get the picture. This is why my dress hems look like Tibetan prayer flags flapping in a blizzard on K-10, and my homemade note cards have just enough room for Hap Birt.

There have been other subtle hints that my good thing went south--little things, really, like the stunning hair cut I recently gave our calico, who now looks like a cross between the Taco Bell Chihuahua and a lead guitar for the Grateful Dead. Or when I slathered Wonder Man with Ben Gay instead of my homemade lavender super smooth heavenly avocado-based, anti-wrinkle beeswax love potion. (When I had my good thing, I could see in the dark.) I clocked him at 70 mph as he hit the shower.

Up until this tragic turn of events, I was on target for a "Lifetime of Good Things Achievement Award." In preparation for this award, I started wearing white socks with clogs, grew my bangs down to my upper lip, practiced my Polish, and spent several hours each day positioning everything in my refrigerator exactly 11-1/2 inches apart, which was quite a feat considering where my ruler is.

Lest you think I am poking fun at Martha Stewart, think again. I like Martha! The woman resonates with me. Frankly, I have been a "closet Martha" all my life, and have always been into self-sufficiency. For instance, there was the time I thatched a hut out of tall grass deep in the woods, not a hammer or nail in sight. I was twelve. My pony ate it. Or how about the time I fixed a broken muffler with flattened beer cans.

Not to mention my homesteading days, ninety miles north of New York City, when I tried my hand at animal husbandry. Except in my hands it was more like animal butchery. Which brings to mind the time I was faced, indeed, with the daunting task of butchering a freshly killed sheep. Experience in this regard was of no concern: an absolute paragon of practicality, I rolled up my sleeves and plugged in my circular saw. The cutting into sheep parts was done on the kitchen table, which IÕll have you know was next to a wall covered with barn wood I pilfered from a neighborÕs chicken coop and hung with a fist full of spikes and a sledge hammer. Along the wall was a quaint little wood stove that belched black soot because I rigged its flue with a pipe wrench and a spatula. This gave a rather rustic look to the red brick fire barrier I built behind the stove, using a bag of Super Cemento which our Siamese cat used as a litter box before I mixed in tomato juice, trying to create an old world color in the mortar...I have always been into presentation.

Those sure were wonderful days. I had my good thing then. I better get it back before the cat's hair grows in. And besides, I'm still eyeballing that achievement award...