In so many ways, what Martha Stewart does can be broken down into the Tao of Maisy, too. Clearly, she’s already nailed the Be Awesome part. You don’t become a household name without those credentials. In teaching everyone the best way to handmake a wreath or needlepoint a tea towel or cook the perfect vanilla-bean cupcake, she’s giving her awesome to the masses, which she gets back by way of wealth, power, and recognition.
Those following Martha’s way of life are part of the whole cycle, too. For example, when I made my first Thanksgiving dinner, it was because I was at a particularly high point in my life. I’d achieved Being Awesome, so much so that I wanted to share it by hosting a dinner and Giving Awesome. In return, I Got Awesome back from friends who’d enjoyed being a part of the celebration. The Tao of Maisy is whatever the opposite of a vicious circle is, as the more one Bes, Gives, and Gets, the more it perpetuates itself into happiness.
In order for Maisy to receive the maximum amount of awesome between now and the inevitable, I have to give her back awesome, because she deserves it. Her favorite thing in the world is to go for a walk, and honestly, we’ve not done that so much since we moved here, assuming the acre of fenced yard would be plenty.
For the first time in her life, I don’t have to put Maisy on a pinch collar to walk. It’s taken two kinds of cancer and kidney failure to instill proper leash manners. What’s ironic is that people still cross the street to avoid what’s surely a vicious pit bull. Argh.
We walk only to the end of the block and back, which would normally take about ten minutes. But Maisy’s very much into looking around and taking everything in, so we follow her pace. Sometimes it takes half an hour, and that’s just fine.
When I was on my book tour, I found myself running through airports in stupid shoes, and I’ve since given myself a case of plantar fasciitis. Almost every step I take feels like my heel’s pressing down on a knife, but my foot will eventually get better and Maisy will not.
So I hobble along beside her, wincing with every step I take.
Because there’s no place I’d rather be.
PUT A BIRD ON IT
“You know, glass is an excellent way to add an inexpensive pop of color to any room.”
I’d normally roll my eyes at anyone who ever uttered such a statement, except the person who just said this is me.
I’m at HomeGoods shopping for knickknacks, and a woman just commented on the contents of my cart. I’m working on redecorating a room, because I figure I’ve been on top of cleaning and organizing, as well as gardening, it’s too hot for cooking, we just had a party, and pet care now takes up about twenty-five percent of my day.
BTW, a quick word on the things I have to do to get pills into this dog? Last week she wouldn’t swallow any meds unless they were wrapped in meat that I prechewed.
I know, I know.
Just recently there was a story about how Alicia Silverstone goes all mama-bird and gives her kid prechewed bites. Everyone on the Internet is just appalled, whereas I’m all, “You do you, Cher Horowitz.”
I’m feeling particularly effusive because Maisy’s had three positive checkups in three weeks. Dr. Thornhill said everything we’re doing for her is working and her kidney function is up to six percent! We’ve even been able to cut back on the fluids we give, so we’re down to IVs once a day. She still tires so easily, yet yesterday she rose from her slumber just long enough to steal a bone from Libby. Then she trotted back to her spot on the love seat and went to sleep with it clutched in her paws. Libby didn’t have the heart to swipe it back, and I was too busy cheering to help. I love when Naughty Maisy comes out.
Anyway, decorating seems like the most expedient way back into Martha’s world. So I’m currently working on the bedroom next to the master. I haven’t done much in there since we had the wallpaper stripped after moving in. Hell, I’m still displaying the IKEA prints I bought back in the dot-com era. Although with the eight thousand powder-blue wallpaper bows gone the room’s much improved, it still needs an update, because it’s boring.
A couple of weeks ago, I had a big book event with my BFF/author Stacey Ballis, Sarah Pekkanen, and Jennifer Weiner. Considering I’d have put Jen’s photo on my vision board if I made them, it’s so badass to have the opportunity to participate in a signing with her. However, the event wasn’t exactly perfect, as we discovered far too late that the venue wasn’t air-conditioned. In July. In Chicago. In the third-hottest summer since the weather’s been tracked. (We had a great time, despite my having sweated entirely through my bra.)
Point? Jen Weiner’s a class act, and she gave each of us a cool little glass plate to commemorate the occasion. I loved mine so much I decided to decorate the room around the color scheme.
I don’t want to spend a lot of money in here, so I’m not replacing the perfectly serviceable furniture; nor am I setting fire to the Cookie Monster–blue carpet, despite my overwhelming urge to do so. Instead, I’ve repurposed two old shelves from Fletch’s office and I’m painting them a robin’s-egg blue to match the dresser. I also ordered a couple of white shelves that will bracket the daybed.
My plan is to fill the bookcases with little pops of blues and greens, which is why I’m in HomeGoods. I just found the most awesome vase for five dollars and a pretty bowl for seven! This discovery has made me so happy that I’ve morphed into Helpful Jen, the random customer who takes great delight in giving you her unsolicited opinion and speaking in many exclamation points wherever she shops, e.g., “Try that dressing; it’s delicious!!” and, “Those pants are so cute that I insist you buy them right now!!!” I’m greatly annoyed by Helpful Jen, but she comes out only when I’m in a particularly good mood, so I’m going to let her loose until she tries to invite strangers to lunch, and then I’m reeling her back in.
The bulk of what I’m placing on my new shelves is coming from OneKingsLane.com. I found all kinds of cute blue and green items with birds on them. (Fine, Portlandia. I’ve put a bird on it. Happy now?)
I discovered this site while trolling Martha’s archives. In April of 2011, she hosted Susan Feldman and Alison Pincus from OKL, and they discussed how they’d built their discount home decor business. Curious to learn more, I visited the site and quickly fell in love, because it’s like eBay without the assholes. Items come up for sale in groups and they’re available only for seventy-two-hour periods. Plus, when I shop, whatever I get remains in my cart for only ten minutes, so I either have to pick more stuff to extend my time or check out. Once an item’s selected, but before it’s paid for, it’s marked with the stamp “IN ANOTHER MEMBER’S CART.” But if it’s something I want, and the other customer doesn’t act fast enough, I can scoop it up before they can place it in the cart again.
Okay, so maybe I can still be an asshole.
Even though the site occasionally features shops selling old Birkin bags and Chanel jewelry, this is my go-to place to find adorable, affordable knickknacks. In addition, they feature new antique items every day, so once in a while I can satisfy my vintage trophy fix.
The only glitch is that OKL doesn’t bill credit cards until the item ships, and mine expired midmonth. So they held everything until I updated my details, and now I’m waiting for a big shipment. In the interim, I found a wall mural of van Gogh’s almond branches and applied it behind the daybed like wallpaper. Someday when someone else buys this house, I’m sure they’ll mercilessly mock my taste, but I don’t care. I’m decorating this for me, not for resale value. (I feel a sudden kinship with whoever covered these walls in that hiddy bow wallpaper. I hope it brought that person as much pleasure as my silly mural brings me.)
Anyway, as tempted as Helpful Jen is to trail after the customer who had the bad sense to start a conversation with me, I have to restrain myself. Maisy has another appointment this afternoon and I need to get home for it.
“Six-point-eight!”
The normally reserved Dr. Thornhill shakes both of our hands.
“Maisy’s kidney functions
are up to six-point-eight percent. Congratulations. You’re doing such a good job. She’s well hydrated, too, so let’s take her fluids down to two hundred and fifty milliliters,” he says.
A few weeks ago, we didn’t think we’d get past five percent, but she’s steadily been climbing. She’s even wolfing down her food again and taking her pills without benefit of chewing. Even though we know her health is a tenuous balance, we can celebrate today’s victory. Every day that Maisy wakes up happy and rolls around to scratch her back is a good day in my book.
As we drive home, Maisy’s in the back attempting to stick her nose out the cracked window. She takes big gulps of air and then blows moist sneezes in our direction. Her little rosebud ears flap in the breeze and she’s the very embodiment of joy.
“Who knew that the key to happiness is six percent kidney function?” I say as we round the corner onto Milwaukee Boulevard.
“No, the key to happiness is not watching you chew the dog’s food,” he replies.
But we both know if it weren’t me doing it, it would be him.
Later in the day, I receive further evidence that Maisy’s feeling well.
How do I know?
Because she just quietly, systematically tore all the batting out of the comforter on the bed in my office.
One minute, she’s happily snoozing in the sun next to Libby on the part of the bed with the best outdoor vantage point, and the next, it’s snowing stuffing. Maisy’s now wreathed in a cottony beard with bonus bits stuck to her eyebrows. As I stare at the carnage, she cocks one be-puffed brow as if to say, “And?”
Normally it’s Libby who engages in such shenanigans. Like when Julia and Finch were here over the holidays? We went out to dinner, and upon our return Libby had not only dragged half a dozen bottles out of the wine rack, but had also counter-surfed a can of decaf coffee, which she then pried open and dumped on the living room floor. Clearly her intention was to provide us with postmeal refreshment, as she’d also left a pair of my panty hose on the floor, no doubt because she couldn’t reach the coffee filters.
I should absolutely discipline Maisy, but it’s pretty much impossible to yell at a dog completely nailing a Santa Claus impersonation. So I rationalize her behavior by telling myself the comforter was old and ugly and due to be replaced anyway. Maisy’s knowing look says, “Take the hint.” So I log onto PotteryBarn.com and peruse their offerings.
I’m not overly fond of any of the comforters or quilts, but I find a lovely discounted duvet cover. The background’s powder blue and there are butterflies and big pink apple blossoms all over it with cranberry accents that match the drapes. Yeah, I could live without the butterflies, but they blend to the point of being nonoffensive. Butterflies are a lot like rainbows: They’re phenomenally beautiful in real life, yet no graphic representation can do them justice; ergo, it’s best to forgo. Regardless, the overall look is light and cheery and would be perfect in here. Yet I hesitate before clicking the order button, because I hate duvet covers. I don’t hate them like I hate war, cancer, and Halloween, but they’re a close fourth.
I mean, in terms of aesthetics, a duvet cover is ideal. That’s not the issue. I appreciate how I can make the surface supersmooth by simply spraying it with a bottle of hot water and engaging in a little oppositional tugging. (This is the sum total of everything I learned working as a hotel maid one summer in Boston, FYI.) Also, duvets offer the flexibility for me to decide how toasty I want the bed—I can opt for a lightweight coverlet inside when it’s warm, and something extradowny for the winter. And, as the duvet cover is essentially two sheets sewn together, I can launder it here instead of sending it off to the dry cleaner. Major bonus.
The problem comes in getting the stupid comforter inside the stupid duvet. I’ve never been able to master this task, to the point that it causes me existential angst. This job should be as easy as sliding a CD into its case or filling an envelope, but no. I always end up sweaty and cursing inside a fabric prison cell, attempting to align all the corners, which I never freaking do. Without fail, ninety percent of the damn thing gets wadded up in the far left corner, and then it’s nothing but sheet for the bulk of the cover. No amount of hot, squirted water can smooth it when it’s bunched, either.
As I debate, I note Martha’s Homekeeping Handbook on the corner of my desk. The manual’s more than just a prop—it’s a definitive guide to cleaning everything in the home. I guarantee there’s a section on Duvets for Dummies, so I proceed with the transaction, confident that Martha will show me the way.
“Okay, Maisy, I placed the order,” I tell her. “When it comes, maybe you can try to not destroy this one.”
Maisy’s slow blink in response tells me everything she’s thinking.
“I promise nothing.”
And I’d expect nothing less.
When my new duvet arrives, I dig a lightweight down comforter out of the TV cabinet in the bedroom. Our house was built back when televisions were still small and square, so in terms of watching the news from bed, the space is useless. But it’s the perfect place to store linen, so it’s all worked out.
I bring everything up to my office and consult the Homekeeping book. “Okay, Martha, baby, lay it on me,” I say.
And that’s when I discover that Martha has no advice other than using fabric tape. What? Eight hundred pages of text and all she can suggest is fabric tape? I don’t even know what fabric tape is, let alone understand how to operate it in regard to a duvet.
Damn it! First her July calendar and now this? I can’t believe it. This is how I felt the first time I ever saw one of my teachers in the grocery store, all odd and disconcerted.
No, no, this won’t do at all!
So it looks like I have to figure out how to stuff this damned thing myself.
As I unwrap the packaging, I realize that my singular goal in life is to someday have someone stuff my duvet covers for me. We used to have the house professionally cleaned, but then, once I began the Martha project in earnest, I figured I’d learn enough tips and tricks to maintain the house on my own. Thus far, I have.
I’ve started to clean wall-to-wall, meaning I begin in one corner of the room and work my way around, tackling everything in my path. For example, when I tidy the kitchen, I initiate the cleaning sequence at the counter where the mail accumulates. I sort and put all those items away, then spray the granite, before moving clockwise to wipe the wall of cabinets. I proceed around to the island for more disinfecting and organizing, finally finishing with the breakfast area. This way I move with a purpose and I don’t have to rearrange items to wipe under them. Before I had a system, I’d be distracted by all the different components, but by proceeding in a linear fashion, I can hit everything without getting sidetracked.
In retrospect, my chambermaid job would have been far easier if I’d read Martha back then, but I was a lot more interested in meeting hot guys from Tufts. Oh, well.
The point is, my house has stayed orderly even though I’m doing everything myself.
I suspect this is largely because I’ve lowered my own standards in regard to cleanliness.
Whatever.
Anyway, I spread the duvet across the bed, and immediately wet dogs burst into my office to dance all over it. I see they’ve been swimming, like, thirty seconds ago. Maisy’s still really just wading into the pool to get a drink, but wet is wet.
I shoo them out, shutting my office door behind them. Maisy keeps snorting under the door while Loki nudges the doorknob. I hear Libby take off after a cat, because she has the attention span of a hummingbird.
I lay out the duvet again and position the opening at the bottom over my head. Then I grab the edges of the comforter and begin to tunnel toward the back. The temperature inside my office is approximately seventy-four degrees, but inside this duvet, it’s more like twenty-eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit, which would be superconvenient if I were trying to melt structural steel.
I shove and bunch and sweat, and when I belie
ve I have everything situated, I exit the duvet’s birth canal. Grasping the comforter at two corners, I shake it out, hoping everything will fall into place.
Everything does not fall into place. In fact, everything is skewed. The dimensions of the comforter versus that of the duvet are diametrically opposed. Why? Why is this? Why aren’t the damn duvets shaped like the comforters? Why is there no standard? Beds are standard sizes so sheets can fit, so why hasn’t anyone come up with a benchmark in regard to duvets and fillers? How much easier would that make everyone’s lives? Although I’m prone to favor smaller government, I would GLADLY support a National Bureau of Ensuring Shit Fits Properly.
I rip out the comforter and turn the whole thing ninety degrees to the left before starting the process again. I keep a death grip on the end of the comforter, guiding it through the Amazonian rain forest that is the inside of the duvet. Once I’m in the belly of this thing, I’m aggravated because there are all these long strings hanging down on the seams. Way to make the inside of your product raggedy, Pottery Barn. Sheesh.
Before I can do anything else, I have to immediately remove my shirt or else I will pass out, and I’m not kidding. Rivulets of perspiration roll down my back, and my ponytail is practically saturated. All the stupid strings are tickling my neck and I keep thinking they’re ticks, leading me to have a series of mini heart attacks.
I have to hold open the bottom part to get a breath of air, and that’s when I notice that there’s a binder clip on my floor.
Wait a minute. Could that work? What if I were to clip the comforter to the duvet with the binder before I shake it all out? Yes! Genius!
But before I can do that, I have to line up the rest of the comforter. By now, I’ve generated so much heat inside the duvet that my whole office is roasting. I figure the most expedient thing is to remove my pants, too, because I’m simply not built for heat.
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING; Or, Why I'm Never Getting All That Glitter Off of the Dog Page 14
