The Tao of Martha (19 page)

Of course, nothing Libby can do now compares to exactly how bad Maisy was as a puppy. She never met a boot she wouldn’t chew, and her will was ironclad. If she wanted something, she’d whine, push, woof, and bully until we finally gave in. When she was very small, we lived in a city loft with a roof deck, so she really had to reach and stretch the time she managed to lock me out on the deck. Another day, we were up on the deck for a party right before gardening season. I’d bought a bunch of bags of potting soil and hadn’t yet hauled them upstairs because they were heavy. At
one point, I came down the stairs and looked at the floor—drinks were involved—and briefly wondered, “When did we get black carpeting?”

Also? Pillows used to make her angry.

Very angry.

I don’t miss the swath of destruction she used to cut, yet I’d do anything to bring her back to the state where she was vibrant enough to destroy everything I owned.

“Actually, I have,” I reply. “I’ve been trying to get out of my head by planning our Fourth of July party.” Never in my life have I been so grateful for a diversion. Every time I open a book or Web page and see Martha’s kindly visage presiding over an Independence Day bash, I feel like things are going to be okay. See? Look at all those smiling madras-clad WASPs, surrounded by flag decor, munching away on roasted corn and lobster. Nothing bad happens in Marthaland. They don’t even dribble drawn butter on their alligator shirts. All is well.

My original plan entailed making my own decorations, and I wanted to create the star medallions and gazebo trim in
Martha Stewart’s
Handmade Holidays Crafts
book. Yet I was so busy trying to interest Maisy in eating that I never quite made it to the fabric store. But then I had the brilliant idea to see if Amazon had any premade Martha-type items and I hit the jackpot! I found banners and bunting and flags and swags!

And…then I found oversize novelty Uncle Sam
hats and flag-printed sunglasses, and red, white, and blue tiaras, and tiny rubber duckies dressed like the founding fathers.

At some point during the ordering process, my plans for an elegant, tasteful Fourth of July party went off the rails.

Horribly, horribly off the rails.

This is not going to be an elegant affair; rather, it’s going to be a fun party, and frankly, I could use a little joy right about now.

As we watch Loki run through his training paces, Maisy sticks her nose in my armpit and nudges so I have to wrap my arm around her.

Okay, sweet baby, whatever you say.

M
y friend Angie’s leaving for China tomorrow, so we’re saying good-bye on the phone today. Even though she lives in Michigan and I see her only twice a year, I’m going to miss her terribly while she’s gone, largely because she’s never afraid to tell it to me straight.

“You didn’t send out real invitations? How do you not send written invitations to a Martha-inspired party?” Angie squawks. I don’t need to be on the phone to feel her discontent emanating from three hundred miles away.

“Oh, I suspect the Martha-inspired bit flew out the window the minute I bought the red, white, and blue leis and Statue of Liberty headbands,” I admit. Smart money is on Martha never ordering half of all the Oriental Trading Company’s inventory for her Hamptons fete. I bet Martha didn’t even pick up stars-and-stripes bandannas for her dogs.

“You’re putting all kinds of time and money into this party, right?”

“Yeah, of course. We have something like fifty people coming. I’m buying a ton of food,” I reply.

I seem to have gotten her all stirred up. “Do you not get it? The level of effort you’re putting into the party should be reflected in the invitation. That’s why you never receive an
Evite
to a
wedding
. And you’re
buying
food? Caps-lock double-yew-tee-eff? You should be making the food. You should be hand-hewing every burger with the cow you butchered yourself, and stuffing your own casing with your homemade sausage mix.”

I haven’t told her anything about Maisy’s new issues, because I don’t want her to worry about me while she’s away. “I’m cooking the potato salad myself. The baked beans, too,” I argue halfheartedly.

“Well, congratulations. Then that parade you see on TV Wednesday morning will be for you.” She sighs heavily. “Are you at least serving a signature cocktail?”

“Yes.”

Um, I am
now
.

“Well, thank God for that.”

“Ange, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m going to miss you,” I tell her.

“And I’m beginning to wonder if I need to stop in Lake Forest on the way to China and kick your ass back into domesticity.”

I have to smile. “Fair enough.”

After we hang up, I consider what Angie said. Hate to admit it, but I really have lost the whole Martha thread on this party. The party’s right in spirit, but will be less so in execution. I realize I don’t have to conduct
my celebration exactly as
Living
dictates, but that was the point of the project, ergo my year. Founding father rubber duckies are not going to pave the path to the Tao.

I figure the best way to recapture the spirit of the project will be to really immerse myself in Martha’s world going forward. I need to live this month exactly as she does hers. Therefore, I’m going to follow her calendar.

I freaking adore Martha’s calendar. Featured prominently on both her Web site and her magazine, Martha’s calendar contains her “gentle reminders and important dates.” Take her June calendar, for example. Some of the entries are really specific, like when she has to pick up her clothes from the dry cleaner on June 4 so that she can pack for Tokyo. Yet many others are less personal, such as how she has to sow seeds for the cutting garden on June 15 or weed the vegetable beds on June 22. So, if I spend July following her calendar, I can’t help but fall more in step with All Things Martha.

Tomorrow’s July 1, so I’ll start then.

July 1

Deadhead Roses and Perennials

Clean East Hampton Pool

U
m, not to second-guess you here, Martha, but don’t you have people for that?

Hell,
I
have people for that.

When we moved in, there were a few systems in place—Mike the Rose Guy, the landscapers, and the pool cleaners. Since we lacked the
necessary equipment to complete any of these chores, and it would cost more to invest in the infrastructure than to keep things as they were, we simply took over their contracts.

The pool guys came every couple of weeks, and I never seemed to be home when they were here. Every time I missed them, I grew more and more curious.

“Hey, Fletch, have you seen the pool cleaners?” I asked after we’d lived here a month. We were sitting on the couch, Fletch watching television, and I was thumbing through the new
Us Weekly
.

He pressed pause and turned to face me. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ve been making jokes about hot pool boys fanning me and feeding me grapes since, like, forever. And now that we actually pay guys to clean our pool, I have to know—are our pool boys cute?”

“Why, do you and the rest of
Cougar Town
want to ogle them?”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Maybe?”

He laughed. “I told you no good would come of seeing
Twilight
.”

I gave him a little shove. “Oh, just answer the question.”

“How would I know if they’re cute? What’s cute?”

“I know it when I see it. What do they look like?” In my head, I pictured either Enrique Inglesias or that adorable surfer kid from TMZ with the big mane of sun-bleached blond hair.

“I can’t believe I’m humoring you. Okay, well…the guys I’ve seen are middle-aged and short. Sort of heavy.” Then he snapped his fingers as though he remembered a crucial detail. “And the taller one has a gunshot wound on his shoulder. Is that your version of cute? Is that what you were looking for? Should I have some grapes for them to peel next time they’re here?”

Anyway, the guys were here on Friday, so the pool’s still clean. Yet I’m intent on following Martha’s instructions, so I put on my suit and grab a scrub brush, making sure to scour all the pool tiles as well as the surrounding bricks. It’s in the high nineties out here today, and the forecast is that it’s
supposed to be even hotter for the rest of the week, so I’m glad guests will have the option of a swim when they get too hot.

When I’m done, I hit the roses and kill some beetles.

You know what? That was kind of fun.

This calendar thing is going to work out just fine.

July 2

Plan Menu and Table Setting for July 4

E
asy-peasy. I’ve got the table settings down cold. All of my incredibly patriotic shipments have arrived from Amazon, and I’ve already cooked all the homemade items. Today’s largely going to be comprised of a Costco run, after which I’ll start arranging beverages in the big cooler on the back porch. The ice will last only about a day and a half, but we’ll get more tomorrow afternoon, and that way all the drinks will have a head start on getting cool.