It came to me the other day, this term for the modern-day woman (and some men) obsessed with Martha Stewart and all that goes along with that.

Martharexic.

And as soon as it did, poof! I felt like a heavy blanket (chenille, just the  shade of cream to go with a perfectly appointed living room of toile and custom-made shutters and other things you’ll never see in my house but that I feel should be there) fell from my stooped shoulders.

Martharexia. If you’ve got it, you know. Trust me. The Martharexic subscribes to the magazine, pores over the Web site and lurks in the Martha aisle at Michael’s. She squints at her holiday table, trying to make it look just like Martha’s — at least to herself, for a moment.

She attempted to make fleur de lys toffee this year, but the truth is, she does better with old sugar cookie recipes that pre-date the Martha Thing and look bad but taste good, and better still with a big shot of Bailey’s in the hot chocolate as the party guests are arriving.

Yesterday we had our annual cookie party (more cookies than cocktails these days, given all the kids in attendance, though Ray and I remarked this morning on the ability of our friends to chug the booze, given the empty bottle count) and after I came up with my new vocabulary word, I gleefully took the jumbo boxes of taquitos from the freezer, heated and served them alongside my mom’s chili con queso dip (recipe circa 1970s, main ingredient: ginormous block of Velveeta) and plopped a cake plate of Trader Joe’s Jo-Jo cookies on the dessert table, to supplement the homemade cookies I did make.

With an hour to go before party’s end, we’d run out of everything but the queso, which was just then reaching its desired consistency in the crock pot. I’d had way too much sangria to care. “Have a Jo Jo!” I called to the late arrivers, from my perch on the couch.

And they did. And we were all happy. And so what if my guests talked about me on the way home? I’m buying the URL www.martharexia.com today, and by next year, I’ll have made a fortune — or at least enough for custom shutters and a caterer.

Then immediately hungover.

That’s how the holidays feel — binge, buzz, crash. And it’s only December 6th. “You turn into a holiday elf,” my husband says, and he doesn’t mean it as a compliment.

But he went camping this weekend (at my urging — insert evil laughter here) and tonight the girls and I OD’d on holiday cheer. I opened all the Rubbermaids, took out the menorah, hung the stockings. Very Chrismukkah. Not that we’re either, really.

The holiday books came out, and the ornaments (I’ll try to hold the girls back til Ray gets home and can help decide — live tree or silver Urban Outfitters standby?) and the stuffed toys you press to make music. Sophie cuddled with the graying plush snowman, her face bathed in the glow from its ultra-tacky red and blue lights, playing “Let It Snow” over and over again.

Best of all, we busted out the holiday movies. Annabelle kindly let Sophie go first, so we watched “Elmo’s Happy Holidays” before “Pee Wee’s Christmas”. Then “Elf,” my favorite. Sophie konked out in the first few minutes; I let her snore on me for a while. It was time for bed, but I couldn’t help it. “Want to watch `Annabelle’s Wish?’” I asked. Annabelle practically swooned.

 I’d never heard of “Annabelle’s Wish” til my own AB came along. A dear friend who has since move out of town spent weeks searching for it when she heard what I was naming my first kid, assuring me it would be worth it — her now-teen kids always loved it. So did I, once Laura finally presented it. And so does Annabelle. You can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting another Sophie, but Annabelle’s are hard to find, and don’t appear much in pop culture. 

Plus, this movie is terrific, as sappy as they get; I won’t ruin the plot for you, I’ll just say it’s worth seeking out. Watching it made me think of Laura, who has had a really rough year, health-wise. The last time I saw her was at our holiday cookie party last year, when she surprised me by showing up — moving slowly, but with a big smile. I’m hoping for another surprise this year.

And in Laura’s honor, I’m going to put the cranky bah humbugging aside and work on savoring the holidays. Maybe that means sticking to just one glass of sangria — and one holiday movie — an evening. I’ll try. Does “Love Actually” count? I was thinking of digging it out now…..