The Tao of Martha (25 page)

“I agree,” he says. “What do you propose? Have you got some big Martha party idea you want to try?”

Maisy leans into me and I run my hand over her sweet head. “Yes and no. We’re going to have a party…but
you’re
going to throw it. I want you to be in charge. You figure out the food and the drinks and guest list. You make the invitations. This will be your baby and your gift to me.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Has your Ambien kicked in?”

“Absolutely! But I must have gotten a good one tonight, because this really is a fantastic idea. Hear me out—in order to be a better hostess, I want to come to one of my own parties. I’d like to be my own guest.”

“Meaning?”

“You know how you always see the hotel owners on
Undercover Boss
checking into their own properties? That’s what I want to do. But not in disguise. You’ll know I’m here, because it’s my anniversary, too.”

He nods grudgingly. “This is not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“I know, right?”

We discuss details for a while, until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore and I happily nod off to sleep.

Ambien, you’re the gift that keeps on giving.

A
week later, we’re having coffee after walking Maisy and giving her a subcutaneous treatment. We’re getting to be such pros at this. We got all her fluids in less than ten minutes! She even took her pills without trickery, so I can tell already today’s going to be a good day. Granted, Dr. Thornhill said she’s regressed a bit, so we’re back to fluids twice a day. Hopefully this is just a phase.

Fletch has a couple of folders in front of him and hands the first to me. “Okay, here are the catering choices—with our budget, we can select three items from each tier. Please go through and circle what you’d like. I’ve highlighted the items I think would be the most guest-friendly, according to their allergies and preferences. Now, our order isn’t large enough to have anyone here helping serve, but they will come and set up, which is half the battle.”

I scan the list of hot and cold appetizers, trying to do the math in my head. “Are you sure you have the pricing right? I can’t cater a party myself for the cost of the ingredients.”

He nods in a way that seems almost officious. “Positive. I triple-checked prices and cross-referenced the number of guests with the optimal number of servings per person.”

If he is, in fact, correct and he can throw a party together for less while employing professionals, then…then…then this whole year of living Martha-style has been a lie.

“You’ve got to be wrong. That’s the only explanation.”

He purses his lips at me and I amend my statement.

“Fine,” I concede, “I do end up either throwing out two-thirds of all the party food I make, or we eat it ourselves until it goes bad.”

“I recall having Independence Day hot dogs for lunch until July
tenth this year,” he says. “I was ready to go Boston Tea Party on them and dump them all in the pool, but I figured they’d float and you’d just fish them back out.”

“What you’re saying is that a caterer can’t do a party
better
than me; she can just do it differently.”

Technically this is not a win for me, but I won’t pursue the point.

Fletch flips through the folders. “Anyway, here’s what we’re looking at in terms of liquor. I’m making a Costco run later this week and with the beer we have left over from the Fourth, we’ll have plenty.”

“Cool, thank you.”

Why isn’t he sweating?

Where’s the swearing and crying?

Throwing a party isn’t this easy; trust me—I’ve tried.

I point out, “The house is filthy. I’ve been so busy with Maisy that I’ve not kept up like I want.” Aha, here comes the sweating and crying!

“Not a problem. I have a cleaning service coming in that Thursday.”

“You’ll want to spot-clean the rugs, though.” In the diminishing battles between the New Girls and the Thundercats, the upstairs carpet has borne the brunt of the tail end of the cross fire. I’m not exactly sure how taking a whiz on the carpet establishes one side’s dominance over the other, but that’s what’s happening.

Also? I was having trouble getting meatball stains out of my workout shirts, and Fletch determined that the problem was our twenty-four-year-old washer, so we invested in a new set. We left the door open on the new front-loading washer, and last week one of the cats pooped in there. I really have to teach these assholes to journal their feelings so they can stop with the biowarfare.

He glances down at his list. “Stanley Steemer’s coming on that Friday.”

I’m not sure how the man who forgets to put the milk back in the
fridge every day is so on top of this, but I’m not going to argue. Am I going to be all, “No! Stop! You’re going too good of a job here!”

And yet he’s making me look bad.

“What about the broken faucet in the powder room?” Okay, now I’ve got him.

“The plumber will be here tomorrow.”

ARGH.

I mean, thank you. This is going to be an incredible anniversary, but ARGH. Why is he already better at this than me? He hasn’t been poring over Martha’s entertaining books for the better part of the year; nor has he filled his days watching a massive TiVo cache of old show episodes.

Is it possible that some people are more predisposed to party planning?

Wait, at least I’m on the ball about something.

“Oh, forgot to tell you—I picked up a couple of cans of Off! at the grocery store yesterday. The mosquitoes have really being going crazy at dusk, so I bought enough for everyone.” Weather permitting, we hope to hold the party outdoors.

“No need. I’ve scheduled the exterminator to spray for them.”

I grit my teeth. “Great, then I can concentrate on the decor.” I’m sure that this will be my oeuvre. I’m going to construct pretty paper lanterns and poufs and hang them in the apple trees.

He consults his stack. “The landscapers will string up twinkle lights in the backyard over the weekend.”

DAMN IT.

“And this falls within our party budget?” I mean, he went all Imelda Marcos and the shoe closet here, surely. That’s why the anniversary gathering is going to be fab, right? We’re going to be eating cornflakes all winter because he tapped into our reserves. Or else I’ll have to squirrel away more party hot dogs or something.

Fletch slides a spreadsheet across to me.

He’s not only on time but under budget, so much so that I can now have a cake made.

If smug were a drug, he could sell it by the gram. (Ten points for catching the Vanilla Ice reference.)

He neatens his stack and says, “Of course, I sent the save-the-date e-mail a few days ago, and the hard copies are going out today.”

I guess I can’t be surprised at how on top of things he is. When Fletch planned his high school reunion earlier this summer, he used Martha’s site for guides on everything from suggested vendors that would print and mail invitations to an online RSVP system.

Oh,
that’s
it.

He didn’t do this on his own, not really. He had Martha’s help! That doesn’t account for why he’s better than me at party planning, but it does give me some comfort that he’s not, like, a soiree savant or something.

He shuffles his folders again. “There’s one area where I might need your help.”

“Pfft, finally. I thought you had this on lock.”

“For the most part, I do. But I’m having trouble with the love tree.”

?

“I’m sorry. The
what
?”

“Your love tree. When we discussed the party the night you had the good Ambien, you demanded I plant you a love tree for our anniversary. So I talked to Rich and he’d never heard of a love tree, either, but he was going to check with Bob the Arborist. But maybe you can help us out—do you want something flowering or something that will be at its height at the beginning of September? Also, where in the yard do you want it?”

I’m still confused. I don’t recall a single word of this conversation, as it must have happened deep in the Ambien fog.

“I asked you for a love tree?”

He nods. “You said you wanted it to”—he makes air quotes—“‘symbolize our lives together’ and we could plant it in the yard and ‘watch our
love grow every year,’ preferably within eye line of the breakfast table so you didn’t have to crane your head. You were real specific about that part, actually. Seems like a good idea, though. Rich suggested we plant it where the old ash tree was. I was thinking either dogwood or flowering maple.”

He pulls out his iPad and begins to scroll through our options. Everything is gorgeous.

See?

This?

Right here?

Is why I live for that five percent.

Viva la Ambien!

T
he anniversary party is a rousing success. Almost everyone we love attended, including some of our out-of-town old friends who’d been to our actual wedding. Everything about the night was magical, from the company to the food to the music to the weather. Fletch was so proud of himself, and it was gratifying to step back and look at all we’d built in our lives over the past ten years of marriage.

And yet there’s still a hole in my heart.

Maisy isn’t going to make it.

As she slowly, steadily worked the crowd on Saturday night, I had the feeling she was saying her good-byes. By the end of the night, she was stationed on her dog bed, too worn-out to even lift her head.

When we took her to see Dr. Thornhill the last time, he was somber and didn’t talk about her levels. We received no congratulatory handshakes. Every week when he draws blood, he runs a computer model on her functions, and for the past couple of weeks, they’ve been trending downward. When we asked about scheduling her next visit, he simply said to call him in a few days.

He knew, but he was waiting for her to tell us.

Maisy had a good Labor Day, though. She sat in her favorite lounge chair and quietly panted in the sun, a small doggie smile playing at the side of her mouth. Then yesterday, she and I were taking a stroll at dusk and we spotted three deer in the neighbor’s yard. Instead of barking or losing her mind in the myriad ways she always used to do upon seeing another living creature, she simply looked at me and wanly wagged her tail, turning for home.