The Tao of Martha (2 page)

Because I share my home with a number of pets who have no problem besmirching a Persian rug, I own three vacuum cleaners, not counting the Shop-Vacs, which brings the total to five, half a dozen types of mops, and a professional-grade RugDoctor to address such indiscretions.

Of which there are many.

Yet my dirty little secret is that the place seems immaculate because I shove everything into cabinets, drawers, and closets to keep it looking that way. Today’s foray into gun cabinet storage?

So
not
my first rodeo.

The worst of it all is located in my nightstand, which Fletch has dubbed the Drawer of Shame. Again, because I live with fragile creatures predisposed to swallowing anything they can get their paws on, I’m insane about scuttling potentially dangerous items out of sight.

The Drawer of Shame is a big, knotty mess of choking hazards like used dental floss and old hair bands, interspersed with free-range antacids, uncapped, half-chewed lip balms, pretzel wrappers, and eight thousand tubes of whatever was the big new antioxidant eye cream six months ago. Whenever I reach for one item, the whole lot comes out, too.

The thing is, all my drawers and closets are disgraceful, much to the hyperorganized Sergeant Fletcher’s chagrin. Open the spice cabinet and it rains bottles of oregano, garlic powder, and artisanal salts. Crack the drawer next to the kitchen
desk and scores of empty plastic grocery bags will explode as though being shot from a cannon. And my closet? Let’s just say it’s a testament to single right sneakers, solo socks, and a disproportionately high number of meatball-stained workout tops.

Yet, honestly, I’m fine with the behind-the-scenes chaos, because I’ve been busy with personal growth.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I might be a
tiny
bit lazy when it comes to organizing. But when I consider the process of getting organized, I feel overwhelmed. I
know
that my desk is filled with antique Jolly Ranchers and dead batteries and ten-year-old business cards. I’m holding on to garbage, essentially. I definitely don’t have the hoarder mentality, where I can’t possibly live without my broken stapler or the gas bill I paid two addresses ago, though. If I could miracle that shit out of existence with one wrinkle of my
Bewitched
nose, I’d be on it in a second. I have zero emotional attachment to crap, and I’m not holding on to things simply because they give me All the Feels.

Rather, there’s so much else I’d prefer do with my time, like drive to the city to have lunch with my girlfriends, or shop for antiques, or hang out in the TV room with Fletch and the dogs, who are perpetually draped across our laps. And are you aware of how many good books were published
this year alone
? Plus, I don’t want TMZ to go out of business because no one’s visiting poor Harvey Levin’s site, and if I stopped paying attention to the Real Housewives, they might cease to exist. I can’t have that on my conscience; hasn’t poor Taylor Armstrong been through enough?

My point is that everything looks superneat and clean, largely because I’m always stashing whatever crap accumulates. Maybe what’s beneath the surface is a wreck, but SFW? Having cluttered closets and disorganized drawers is like wearing a ratty bra under an awesome party dress—no one who hasn’t pledged lifelong devotion to me in front of
God and the Nevada Gaming Commission is ever going to see it, so it doesn’t matter.

Suddenly I remember why I stowed all that junk in the bottom of this particular cabinet in the first place; back in August, my college’s alumni magazine came here to take pictures of me because they wanted to showcase what an amazing, accomplished, savvy, and successful professional author I’d become.

(Pretty sure I’m editorializing on Purdue’s intent. What’s more likely is they opted to feature me, the quintessential eleven-year-plan-only-to-finally-graduate-with-a-C-average student, because they thought that in addition to writing books, I might also write them a check.)

(They were not wrong.)

My point is, I wanted clear countertops in the pictures, so I shoved the pile of important items I’d been housing on the kitchen desk and then promptly forgot any of it ever existed.

So, to answer Fletch’s initial question, no, I’m sure Martha Stewart would
not
stuff her clutter into the gun safe. But that’s not because I’m Martha-bashing.

Far from it, in fact.

I worship Martha Stewart.

I see her as our nation’s overachieving older sister. Like, I might resent her a tiny bit, but mostly I’m in awe of how she makes everything look so damn easy. Whenever something goes awry in my house, we seem to invoke her name, e.g.:

“I wonder if Martha Stewart has to chase her asshole cats off the appetizer buffet?”

“I wonder if Martha Stewart spends four hundred dollars and an entire summer fertilizing a garden, only to end up with two anemic tomatoes and an unholy army of slugs?”

“I wonder if Martha Stewart rights the crooked mirror in her dining room with a wad of chewed Dentyne?”

“I wonder if Martha Stewart’s bourbon chocolate pecan pie is both so liquid and so boozy that it’s technically a cocktail in and of itself?”

“I wonder if Martha Stewart’s guests are greeted at the door with her sweating, crying, and shouting, ‘Here’s a recipe; get to work or we’re never eating Thanksgiving dinner!’”

I live for Martha and her perfect little universe, but outside of cooking, I’ve yet to find a way to incorporate her processes into mine. I mean to, of course, but…

Fletch crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. Gently, he asks, “Can you at least agree that being organized might take less effort than being disorganized?”

To Fletch’s credit, he’s not one of those guys who’ll bitch about his wife’s wrongs and never try to right them himself. I see those asshat husbands on shows like
Dr. Phil
all the time. The guys will be all, “My wife doesn’t do X, Y, or Z.” Then Dr. Phil will ask, “Do you do X, Y, or Z?” which of course he doesn’t. That’s when Dr. Phil will rain down his homespun hellfire, all, “So we’re going to have a donkey barbecue and you’re gonna furnish the ass.” What’s not to love?

Anyway, I figure the key to our eighteen years together is that we don’t attack each other. Tease? Yes. Mock? With good-natured relish and love. (Mostly relish.) Criticize? Never. Instead of complaining, Fletch is perpetually coming up with systems to keep everything in line.

The problem is, Fletch is an odd variation of perfectionist, and he’s never encountered a project that he can’t overcomplicate. Early this year, I asked him to repaint a dresser. Easy-peasy. Just slap some of the extra robin’s-egg-blue paint left over from the island cabinet and there we go.

Instead, Fletch reengineered the whole thing, taking the dresser apart stick by stick before beginning a two-month-long reconstruction project that rivaled the Big Dig in scope and complexity. And suddenly my little honey-do turned into his version of Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man. (He had the technology; he could rebuild it.) He kept
saying, “This will stand up to a hurricane now!” Pretty much I just wanted it to stand up to the weight of a few perfume bottles, but I had mad respect for his enthusiasm.

At least, after the fact.

This is why when he organizes something, I can’t keep it straight. His systems are too complex. I shouldn’t require a country-of-origin spreadsheet to know the garlic is housed in the Mediterranean section of the spice rack.

“Absolutely, hundred percent agree,” I tell him. “Yet it’s the process of
becoming
organized that trips me up. Anyway, we can figure all that out later. Right now, we have a party to prep and I need a clean workspace.”

“Got it. What can I do?” He gives me a little clap and rubs his hands together.

I point to the pile.

“Shove all that clutter back in the gun cabinet, please.”

R
ESOLVED

W
elcome to Holiday Central!

The candles are lit, the Christmas carols cranked, and the buffet is laden with each of my best dishes—pasta with Bolognese sauce, of course, short-rib ragout, Italian brisket with rosemary horseradish, both Caprese and kale salads, the kind of antipasto platter that would bring Mr. Frank Sinatra himself to his knees, a traditional three-meat lasagna, and a roasted-red-pepper version, because my friend Julia “doesn’t like cow.”

The desserts I’m serving require their own separate table, stacked high with apple pies from the Elegant Farmer and Blue Owl (an Oprah’s “favorite thing”), Kahlúa cake, and ten varieties of homemade Christmas cookies.

The wine’s flowing, the guests are mingling, and all the dogs are dancing around in their festive jingle-bell collars wearing perma-grins because ain’t no table scrap like a party table scrap ’cause a party table scrap don’t stop.

(Ten points for you if you caught
The Office
reference.)

The house itself couldn’t be more festive. Each mantel is decked with piles of greenery and lights, and the tree is so big and lush, it takes up a quarter of the living room. Outside is a veritable winter wonderland, with enough LED strings to almost, but not quite, cross the border into
Christmas Vacation
territory. I’m overcome by the miasma of Fraser fir, San Marzano tomatoes, and the spicy cinnamon tang of the rose hips in all the potpourri bowls.

In the dining room, a couple of guests are laughing so hard that the walls practically shake.

This is the perfect holiday dinner party.

And yet all I can think is,
GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE
.

Let’s take a step back—we have wonderful friends and we love entertaining. We bought this house (gun cabinet notwithstanding) because we knew it would be the ideal place for gatherings both great and small. When we left the city, we moved away from ninety-five percent of our social circle, so every time our peeps actually RSVP yes, we’re thrilled to have the opportunity to host them. Plus, tonight’s extraspecial, because our buddies Beef-free Julia and Finch are up from Atlanta.

The problem definitely isn’t the guest list.

The problem is that my ambitions are greater than my abilities, so in order to get this shindig together, I put in three eighteen-hour days in a row and now I’m freaking exhausted. As I watch dirty plates stack up and wineglasses multiply, I just feel weary. I don’t have the energy for this, and that’s so not like me.

You see, this has been a rough year. Not in a huge, job-loss, death-in-the-family kind of way. More like in a poor-little-you,
Eat, Pray, Love
fashion, except with a solid marriage and no road trips.

Starting in January, things systematically began to go wrong in a plethora of small, exasperating instances. Death by a thousand cuts.

I experienced professional setbacks and the consequences of business missteps, then a series of minor yet incredibly stupid and slightly debilitating health-related issues. (Did you know your ears are full of tiny crystals and when they slide out of place, they will
mess you up
? Believe it.)

Over the course of this frustrating year, checks didn’t arrive when they were supposed to, deals fell through, and this summer we lost power practically every other week, which was an added stressor when I was attempting to meet a book deadline. Seemed like anytime something had the potential to go wrong, Mr. Murphy showed up. He and his damn law can kiss the fattest part of my ass right about now.

In February and March, we had to put down our two oldest cats, and then we lost Gus, Chuck Norris, and Odin to an escape attempt. We eventually rounded up all our stray felines, thank goodness, but it was a rough few days. Gus has especially been a jerk ever since we finally captured him again and brought him back inside, registering his displeasure on the curtains in the family room. He’s all, “How ya gonna keep me down on the farm after I’ve seen Paree?” (Sorry, pal. Ranking mammal making the decisions here.)

I know,
I know
…why don’t I run around Italy eating all the pizzas and gelato and then the world can feel extrasorry for me when I give myself a tummyache before I go live on the beach? (Perspective…perhaps I should get me some.)