The Tao of Martha (15 page)

I readjust my sweat-shorts again with my left hand. The elastic on these smallclothes must be busted, because I’m seriously uncomfortable. I hustle to finish my watering and I head directly to the shower. I’m due for lunch with the girls in the city in an hour and a half, and I wasted too much time standing in the woods spying on the streets crew. Better make this quick.

I run the shower to warm it and I step out of the offending underwear. Huh. This pair isn’t so bad. They’re neither worn so thin as to be pornographic, nor are the holes egregious. Shoot, the elastic hasn’t even
begun to separate from the leg holes! These are practically my Sunday best!

I wriggle under the warm water, still bothered by the odd pinching, so I lather up the washcloth and begin to scrub, and then…ow.

What is that?

Is that
something
?

I glance down.

Wait, no.

No.

Nooooo.

That is all wrong.

That’s a…

…OH, SWEET JESUS IN HEAVEN, I’M GOING TO DIE!

“I
have been violated.”

Three pairs of eyes at the community table at Lula’s cut over to me because that’s the last thing anyone expected me to reply when asked, “What’s been going on?”

“Is this about the sidewalk?” Tracey asks.

“Is someone on the Internet wrong again?” Stacey adds.

“Oh, no,” I exclaim. “The sidewalk is great. I’m
glad
people complained about it. The new sidewalk is outstanding. I’m
all about
the sidewalk. I’m talking about violation.”

“Do you need to spell it to tell us?” Gina inquires before taking a sip of her iced tea–lemonade.

We’re interrupted by our regular waiter before I can continue. Gina and I ask for our usual breakfast burritos, only she always gets hers without
avocado. Our waiter, bless his heart, tells us about his avocado allergy
every single time
. There’s not much guaranteed in this world, save for the tides rising, the sun setting, and a skinny-jeans-clad hipster in Logan Square sharing stories of guacamole-based gastric distress.

Once our orders are placed, Stacey leans in and says, “Define ‘violation.’ You tweeted that you were violated when the girl at LaGuardia was wearing acid-washed jeans and a sports bra. That kind of violated?”

“No, not aesthetic violation. This is serious. I’m talking about
personal
violation. My person was violated.” I shudder before parsing out each syllable. “Vi-yo-lay-shun. I was…I was…”

I have to take a deep breath before I can continue. The horror of what happened is almost too much for me to contemplate and I have to steady myself.

“I was…accosted by an arachnid.”

I wait for them to gasp and clutch their chests, simultaneously reaching for my hand while daubing away their tears with a napkin.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” Stacey replies.

I huff, “I’m touched by your compassion. Truly. Maybe you should work a suicide crisis hotline, because clearly you are gifted.”

Stacey goes, “Uh-huh. Still don’t know what that means.”

I try to compose myself. “Okay, there I was, minding my own business in my cutoff sweats, which are great to wear for gardening because they’re loose and breezy and my downstairs lady-theater doesn’t get sweaty.”

“Kudos on finding a way to be descriptive without actually saying v-a-g-i-n-a,” Tracey tells me.

I grit my teeth. “FYI? I hate you all. Anyway, some tick sensed an opportunity and took it. One minute I was smiting Japanese beetles, and the next, this mothersucking tick scurried up my open leg hole and into my flappy underpants and then embedded himself directly in my…my…West Virginia. I was tick-raped.”

I pause so that they may take a moment to soothe me.

They do not soothe me.

However, they do cry.

“
Stop laughing at me, you assholes!
Have you nothing productive to say about this?”

Tracey is the first to compose herself. “I thought ticks were arthropods, not arachnids.”

“You are wrong; I looked it up,” I curtly reply.

“We get covered in ticks at the farm whenever we walk in the woods,” Stacey tells me. “Never had one in my pants, but I did have one in my bra not long ago.”

I hiss, “It’s not the same. Your tick got to second; mine hit a home run.”

Gina pats my hand. “I hope you don’t get West Nile.”

I can feel myself scowling. “Well, shit, I never even thought about that. I’d be all, ‘I went on a happiness project and all I got was this lousy autoimmune disease.’”

Tracey helpfully adds, “I’m sure that won’t happen.”

“You think?” I ask, hopeful that she’s right.

“Yeah.” She nods. “You’re probably more likely to get Lyme disease.”

“Oh!” Stacey crows. “Like Irene on
The
Real World: Seattle
!”

Gina’s face registers a flash of recognition. “Remember when Stephen slapped Irene when she said he was gay? He’s gay now, by the way.”

I bang my hand on the table. “Let me just say this—one of you motherfuckers is buying my burrito today.”

“I think it’s my turn,” Stacey volunteers.

“So, wait,” Tracey says, “you were killing beetles when this happened? You think all the bugs in your yard are in cahoots? Maybe this was insect-world payback, like when there’s a gang shooting.”

Our meals come and Stacey adds, “Makes sense he headed for your underwear. Ticks do go for warm, moist places, you know.”

Then I almost can’t each my lunch, what with my hands clapped over my ears and all.

As I chew my burrito and glower at my friends, I make myself two promises:

A) That somehow I’m weaseling out of paying for lunch next time, too, and, B) that I need to buy new underwear, like, today.

S
ix pairs of Jockey for Her French-cut hipsters have just arrived. Look at them, all fresh and nice and opaque! I try on a pair and they’re snug in all the right ways. Nothing’s sneaking past these leg holes; I can assure you of that. And they don’t hang down in the back like a saggy diaper that leaks! This must be how Kate Middleton felt the day she received Diana’s engagement ring!

Although I can’t credit Martha or her Tao with this particular win, I’m substantially happier than when I had nothing but raggedy drawers, so it still counts.

I shall celebrate this major accomplishment by executing more beetles…in comfort
and
safety.

“M
ike’s worried about your cutting garden.”

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” I ask. Laurie and I are at
our weekly coffee date. “I feel like I’m doing everything right. I’m even dipping my shears in alcohol between bushes so I don’t cross-contaminate them, just like Martha says.”

I’ve gone so far as to research rose hybridization and have plans to mate the Mr. Lincoln variety with the abundant blooming Betty White this spring. The process involves pistils, pollen sacs, male and female parts, and, let’s be honest, likely a bit of giggling on my part, but I’m serious about taking my roses to the next level.

Laurie is not convinced. “Maybe I should check on them anyway. You free after coffee?”

“Absolutely! Come over! I want you to see the hydrangea bushes I planted.”

When Laurie was here a few weeks ago, she helped me to visualize what Martha’s always talking about—sometimes less is more. I had so many different things happening in my containers that they were more distracting than attractive. Laurie taught me the concept of giving the eye a focal point in the garden, and since then, I’ve concentrated more on using my plants to tell a color story, and less on HERE’S EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER PLANTED IN MY LIFETIME. LOOK AT IT, LOOK AT IT, LOOK AT IT! I’ve been delighted with the results.

In planting the row of hydrangeas in calming greens and whites, I even got over my fear of having to put plants directly in the earth.

Okay, so maybe I had Fletch plant them, but I wasn’t anxious by proxy, and that’s almost as good.

The dogs have joined us outside, but it’s so hot that Libby’s lying under a tree while Loki takes a few laps in the pool. I admire that dog’s ability to regulate his own temperature. I’m less fond of his desire to spray us with pool water as he shakes off, but that’s kind of who he is. Maisy’s stationed on one of the lounge chairs, because she’s as fond of the sun as I am.

Occasionally she’ll glance over at us, panting and smiling her enormous
pit bull grin. She’s happy as a lizard on a hot, flat rock. She thumps her tail in greeting and I blow her a kiss.

Laurie casts a discerning eye on the new growth. “I don’t like what’s happening with these buds. I see what Mike meant. Look at this little guy—he’s listless.” She palms a curled brown bud.

“Is it the beetles? Because I’ve been relentless with them,” I tell her. “I have gone Hiroshima all over their asses. I’ve decimated the beetles’ infrastructure and they’re not going to rally for thirty years and until they invent a more gas-efficient vehicle. Then they’ll eventually rule again due to technology and superior math skills, but I’ll probably be dead by then, so it’s fine.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, the beetles usually go for the more mature flowers. I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong here, but something doesn’t add up. Are you using the drip line all the time?”

I shrug. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I do hose them occasionally, like to knock off the beetles.”

“Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you show me how you water them?”

“Uh, okay?” I pick up the hose and blast away. “See? Look at how the beetles fly off when I hit them with the pinpoint of water!”

Laurie claps her hand to her suddenly pale forehead. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“What? No, this is how I always water. The water comes out too slow on all the other settings, and if I use the sprinkle option, it takes forever. Plus, if I spray them really hard, the watering job goes a lot faster and then I can get on with my day.”

“Jen, you can’t spray the roses on that setting.”

I’m genuinely puzzled.

“Really? But I thought a powerful stream would make them stronger, like the plants have to toughen up because they’re being worked so hard.” I lift my arms up to shoulder level and make biceps to illustrate my point.