The Tao of Martha (4 page)

I scratch Maisy’s ears while I consider my answer. Apparently I have pleased her, because she curls her toes and burrows in closer to me, forcing most of my right butt cheek off the couch.

Worth it.

I reply, “Can’t say for sure, because I never tried to make one.”

He snorts. “Yeah, you know why? Because you were busy actually
trying
to be a writer. You were writing. You were reading. You built a blog audience. You learned your way around nascent social media. You were putting in the effort and not just sticking pictures on oak tag.”

“True da—
Ahem
. True enough.”

Fletch slips into Professor Fletcher mode, and I suspect he’s two seconds away from pulling out a whiteboard. “Okay, you want to be happy. You want 2012 to be a better year. What’s your plan? What’s going to change? What tangible thing can you do to alter your circumstances?”

“Whoa, slow down! I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Oh, yeah? Your year sucked, too. Maybe
you
should think about it,” I retort.

“I have and I’ve made a plan. Happiness guaranteed.”

I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “Really? What are
you
going to do? How are you going to manifest a better year?”

If he’s got the inside track on an improved way going forward, then I’m all ears.

“I’m going to grow a beard.”

“That’s it? That’s your home-run swing?”

“Yes. Besides, it’s easier than growing a jawline. I decree 2012 to be the Year of the Beard.”

I roll my eyes and click play on the DVR, getting back to Carson and the teeming, grinning masses. “Whatever.”

Still, a beard’s more tangible than a vision board.

So there’s that.

G
ET
I
T
T
OGETHER
A
LREADY

W
e’re but three days into the New Year/new beard and I already dislike both. Greatly. I was kind of hoping for some Carson Daly–induced epiphany on New Year’s Eve, but no such luck. The ball dropped, we kissed each other (and the dogs), and that was it. The new year began as inauspiciously as 2011 ended.

We’re currently on our fourth visit to the Restoration Hardware outlet store in Wisconsin in pursuit of replacing the funereal drapes that used to hang in our bedroom. Before Thanksgiving, I found a great deal on some discontinued curtains and figured it was high time for a more modern update.

Not only were the old drapes fussy, but they weren’t functional; they were made only to frame the window. We had decent Levolor pull-down blinds for privacy and light blocking, but Nibble-y Libby and the Boredom Chews ended what should have been a long life span. Keeping the blinds open had come to require tying a system of Gordian knots, so
most often, the bedroom was dark as a tomb.

Fletch tore down the nonfunctional blinds, only to discover that the sun lights up the bedroom like the map room in the Temple of Doom every day at five forty-five a.m.

I fixed the problem by thumbtacking sheets to the window frame.

Yes, I realize that Martha would shudder at my half-assery. But it was that or rising with the roosters until we found a solution that we liked and that didn’t cost as much as a used Honda.

Once we removed the old curtain hardware, I estimated that installing the new rods would take an hour, max. Which it did.

The window-covering situation became complicated only once we determined that we’d hung the rods too low and that the curtains I insisted would match the rug…didn’t. This development precipitated the second trip to Wisconsin and a fair amount of cursing on both our parts. Then, because we’d punched so many holes in the wall, we had to patch the paint.

The old owners were ridiculously organized, and when we moved in, they essentially gave us a guide to living here. We received binders full of appliance manuals and warranties (what, you thought I was going to say “women”?), as well as a huge phone tree of everyone to call in any household situation, including services we’d never once considered, like exterior window cleaning.

Therefore, what happened next is not their fault.

They left us every scrap of extra material, like tile and carpet and wallpaper, all meticulously labeled and stored neatly. After the rods were finally hung and the walls patched and sanded, Fletch went downstairs to find the appropriate paint. When he came back up, he was flummoxed.

“I can only find beige paint labeled ‘sitting room.’ This doesn’t mean bedroom, does it? Maybe this is for the TV room upstairs,” he said.

We opened the paint and compared. Far as I could tell, it was an exact match.

“Seems a little darker,” Fletch said.

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Fletch—who would use two almost but not quite identical shades of beige in the same house? I promise it’s the same. The color will absolutely dry lighter.”

Three days later, Fletch and I had to have a little discussion about promises I couldn’t keep. The project continued to slide off the rails, but once we hang the last set of curtains we’re buying today (because I can’t count to eight, apparently), we should be finally, mercifully done.

“I bet it wouldn’t take Martha Stewart two months to hang curtains in the bedroom.”

Something about Fletch’s invoking Martha’s name causes a spark of recognition.

“Say that again,” I demand.

He smooths his beard and looks apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to give you the business.”

But I’m not irked; rather, I’m inspired. “No, no, about Martha Stewart—say it again.”

“That it wouldn’t take her two months to hang curtains?”

“Exactly!”

Fletch shrugs and goes back to sorting through the bin of reject drapes while my idea takes shape.

Okay: Right now, Martha Stewart definitely wouldn’t consider the way I live my life a Good Thing. Yet that doesn’t stop me from adoring her and respecting her and wanting to subscribe to her newsletter, you know?

I’ve been obsessed with Martha since I tried her buttercream cupcake frosting recipe. “Transcendent” doesn’t properly describe this concoction, and “delicious” is an insult. Her recipe creates something that feels like cashmere and tastes like it was whipped by angels and flavored by God’s own vanilla beans. Seriously, it’s strip-and-go-naked kind of good.

Although I wasn’t a fan of the Martha back when she went to prison, she conducted herself with such grace and dignity that she eventually won me over, and that’s when I started buying her magazine and watching her show in earnest.

See, instead of curling up and dying in that situation, she made the best of it.

She made gourmet microwave dinners.

She made friends.

She made
ponchos
, for Christ’s sake.

She rose to the occasion, and I can’t not get behind that.

Millions of women adore M. Diddy (what the gals in the joint called her), because she can break down even the most difficult tasks into something simple and lovely and doable. I read that she doesn’t own a
bathrobe, which means when she rolls out of bed, she hops straight into the shower. That boggles my mind. I live in a world where pajamas have been worn to the dinner table…on days I wasn’t sick.

I realize Martha Stewart isn’t everyone’s icon, but she
is
mine. I love her because instead of lording her superior skills over everyone and making them feel bad about themselves, she’s out there breaking it all down for even the least talented among us. Had I thought to consult her guides, the curtain project truly would have taken two hours and not two months.

This is not to discount the Magic That Is the Oprah. Millions of women are Team Oprah over Team Martha. Actually, I believe there are only two kinds of women in this world: Martha people and Oprah people. That doesn’t mean one can’t have an affinity for both of them, but my theory is that every chick is more firmly in one camp than the other. The typical Oprah woman is all self-actualized and best-life-y and
Eat, Pray, Love
. The Big O seems like the kind of gal who’d insist we all spend the afternoon wearing jammy pants. And how fun would that be?!

But Martha?

She’s not putting up with that nonsense, and that makes me adore her all the more. She’ll tell you
what
to eat,
where
to pray, and
who
to love, and I appreciate the guidance.

I mean, I
have
a best friend; I
need
a drill sergeant.

(Related note? Were Martha and Oprah to cage-fight, smart money is on M. Diddy, because you KNOW she’s a scrapper.)

On paper, Oprah trumps Martha in terms of fortune and fame and felony convictions. But if the apocalypse my tinfoil-hat-wearing husband (bless his heart) predicts is indeed coming, I have to ask myself: Do I want to follow the lady who encourages me to make dream boards for a better tomorrow, or do I want to listen to the gal who can show me how to butcher my own game hen
right now
?

I’m Team Martha, no questions asked.

After reading and loving
The Happiness Project
, I’ve been mulling over the idea of taking on my own project, but I don’t want to be derivative. Plus, Gretchen Rubin has pursued happiness with such a systematic, analytical, scholarly approach that I could never match what she did, and then I’d be unhappier when I ultimately failed.

Yet if I were to, say, try to live my life like Martha for a year, I suspect I could indeed be happier.

I could possibly feel more like my old self.

And maybe when something truly bad does happen, I’d be better equipped to handle it.

Although I’d never out-Martha Martha, I could definitely emulate her. I could live 2012 by adhering to her dictates from various television and radio shows, books, magazines, and Internet presences. The moniker of Omnimedia isn’t an exaggeration; name me a medium and she’s on it. I have so much respect for her level of saturation in our society.

I wonder exactly what would happen if I were to follow her advice from A(pple brown Betty) to Z(ip-line-attached Christmas ornaments). Would my life be easier—and Fletch less twitchy—if I used her tricks to get organized?

My guess is yes.

Could my dogs be more satisfied if I fed them what she gives to her French bullies, Sharkey and Francesca, and chow chow, Genghis II?

In terms of personal relationships, might I grow closer to my girlfriends who knit and sew when I finally show some interest in their boring-ass hobbies?

Would I morph from the person who gives guests a recipe and instructs them to start cooking to the hostess who goes ballistic if someone dares wear cream to my White Party?

And would that be the worst thing in the world?

Most important, could I be happier if I were to pattern my life from her recipe?

I plan to find out.

As soon as I finish with these damn curtains.