The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING; Or, Why I'm Never Getting All That Glitter Off of the Dog

by Jen Lancaster

  So I’m pretty much scuba diving inside the covers when all the exertion causes me to—how do I say this delicately?—honk, poot, step on a duck. I’ve just managed to Dutch-oven myself. I suddenly, deeply regret having consumed antique seafood salad at lunch. Granted, I noticed my lunch was long past its first blush of youth, but at eleven dollars a pound, I wasn’t about to waste it.

  Penny wise, pound foolish.

  Breathing through my mouth, I manage to position everything in place, and I’m able to extricate myself once and for all. Still undressed, I grab my box of binder clips and secure the entire north end of the operation. Then I stand back and give the bedding a vigorous shake and…success! Everything falls into place! Cheese cutting be damned, this duvet is filled perfectly and aligned exactly as it should be!

  I’m cheering and jumping around when Fletch enters my office. I’m not sure what specifically is the most off-putting—the prolific sweat, the unexpected underpants, or the fetid fug of indigestible Neptune salad. Openmouthed, he gawps at me until I say, “Got that duvet thing worked out.”

  He nods and backs out of the room, without ever having said a word. The dogs come dashing in the open door and immediately hop on all my hard work.

  From her spot on the edge of the bed, Maisy’s nose wriggles before she eyes me warily, clearly communicating, “This is what shame smells like.”

  Yet this is a victory. Plus, for the first time I feel like I out-Martha’d Martha. That’s not only cause for celebration, but also another revelation in the lately dormant Tao: The universe can be built only once a proper foundation is laid.

  Had I not been so intent on learning Martha’s processes, I’d have never freestyled my duvet solution. I feel like I should write in to Living and tell them that I’ve discovered the right way to stuff a duvet.

  Maybe this is the X factor for which I’ve been searching?

  Maybe this is my opportunity to share my own bit of Martha-inspired breakthrough with the world!

  Yes!!

  But first I’ll get dressed.

  I’m mentally composing my Duvet Treatise when it occurs to me that all those stupid strings may have served a purpose. I pull up Potterybarn.com and I read the description of my new bedding:

  “Duvet cover has interior ties and a hidden button closure.”

  Wait, are interior ties the same thing as fabric tape?

  According to MarthaStewart.com, yes. Yes, they are.

  Turns out all I needed to do was use the flappy strings to truss the comforter into place, exactly as the Homekeeping manual instructed.

  Maisy watches me as I huff and sigh. “Sweetie, your mummy is a dummy.” I sit down next to her and plant a kiss on her wide, flat head. “But at least the bed looks pretty now.”

  In response, she thumps her tail and practically nods and says, “So there’s that.”

  I’m at lunch with the girls when the call comes in.

  I knew what would happen next was coming, but I didn’t think it would be today.

  On the other end of the line, Fletch is understandably upset.

  “One minute everything was fine, and the next…I can’t…It’s just…”

  “It’ll be okay, honey. I’ll deal with it when I get home.”

  Tracey’s, Gina’s, and Stacey’s eyes are trained on me when I hang up.

  Stacey puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Do you have to go?”

  “What’s wrong?” Tracey asks, voice full of concern. “Did something happen with Maisy?”

  Oh, my God, they think…“What? No! I’m so sorry; she’s good. A little tired, but not so much that she’s not still bossy. That’s not why he called. Remember when I told you guys about One Kings Lane? And how my card expired and I was waiting for a couple of shipments? Apparently everything arrived today.”

  One of the reasons I’m such a fan is because OKL is ultracareful with breakables. The first thing I bought was this little ceramic bird, maybe the size of my fist, and they shipped it in a box that was easily twenty-four inches wide and twelve inches high.

  “So there’s a lot?” Gina asked.

  I laugh, imagining Fletch’s distress. “He says there’s a tower of boxes outside the front door that’s about five feet high by six feet wide. He can’t get out the door. He said he looked outside and saw a sea of brown—he thought we were having a zombie apocalypse.”

  “Is he disappointed?” Stacey queries.

  “Probably.”

  We’re all still chuckling when our regular waiter comes up to take our order.

  “Ladies ready?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back. I’m perpetually stressed out when the waiter doesn’t write anything down, despite the fact that, A) we get the same lunch every single week, and B) they’ve yet to not deliver everything we order. But the not noting the order—why is this a thing everywhere now? I hate this. Yes, yes, we’re all impressed that you remember that Stacey likes her eggs scrambled well-done, her bacon burned, and fruit instead of potatoes, and that I prefer my bacon floppy as opposed to crispy. If you’re my server, please just humor me and take a note, okay? You don’t even have to give it to the kitchen. Otherwise, I’m going to spend the next twenty minutes obsessing over your memorization skills.

  “I’m going to have the breakfast burrito, but please hold the avocado,” Gina says.

  “Oh, are you allergic?” the waiter asks. “Because I’m allergic. Can’t have avocados at all, even avocado oil.” See? This is why I get anxious when he doesn’t jot down what we want. Every damn week he forgets that he’s told us all about the avocado thing.

  As our waiter launches into his tale of avocado woe, he doesn’t even notice that we’re all laughing into our napkins.

  Sometimes happiness is a warm puppy, sometimes it’s Fletch’s beard, and sometimes?

  Sometimes happiness takes the form of a flatulent waiter.

  P.S. I love my room makeover.

  THE AMBIEN DIARIES

  The top five best things that ever happened to me in my life list out something like this:

  Meeting Fletch—Self-explanatory.

  Adopting Maisy—Again, self-explanatory.

  Deciding to Pursue a Writing Career in Lieu of Being a Corporate Drone—Which pretty much changed everything. (Please refer to Bitter Is the New Black with any specific questions about the process.)

  Moving to the Suburbs—Peace! Quiet! Privacy! Free parking! One hundred percent fewer crack-induced knife fights in my driveway!

  Discovering Ambien—This may require more explanation.

  By the way, my top ten includes the Nespresso coffeemaker, no-chip manicures, Spanx, in-dash GPS, and the end of the Cold War, even though I’m bummed that no one pens song lyrics about nuclear winter anymore.

  But back to the Ambien—I can’t fall asleep. Ever. I can stay asleep with no problem, but getting there unmedicated? Nope. All of my little neuroses come out to play the second I slip into my jammy pants. Despite how busy I’ve been during the day, no matter how much physical labor I may have exerted, or how much mental energy I’ve had to expend, the minute I hit the sheets, my brain switches into hyperdrive and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by racing thoughts.

  I’m not necessarily even contemplating the world’s problems (or my own); it’s more like every idea, notion, or question I’ve ever had pushes all Japanese commuter–style into the Tokyo Metro that is my brain. The floodgates open and suddenly I’m staring at the ceiling, wondering what ever happened to that kid named George in the fourth grade who used to wear all those silk shirts. How come the hair grows on my legs every time I sneeze? How many people touch the handrail on the revolving door into the Sears Tower every day? Do workers in that building have a higher instance of cold and flu than in smaller buildings? And will any true Chicagoan ever call that place the Willis Tower? (FYI? No.)

  Complicating matters is that now the Internet exists and I can actually find out the answers to my burning oh so stupid questions, and then that
leads me down the rabbit hole that is Google, because George is alive, well, and living in Ridgefield, New Jersey, with his wife and teenage children, one of whom loses her shit over One Direction, which is a band that got their start on Simon Cowell’s X Factor in Great Britain. What’s interesting is that 1D didn’t even win the competition; nor did they start off together as a group. Niall, Zayn, Louis, Liam, and my favorite, Harry, originally auditioned as solo acts, but after they didn’t make it, they…

  Do you see what I mean? The thoughts are relentless.

  To sleep, I require an off switch, and that’s how Ambien works eighty-five percent of the time. I take my pill, read a bit, and then, like magic, I’m lulled into slumber by the absolute solitude inside my head. I sleep deeply and wake up refreshed; it’s borderline miraculous.

  Or would be, if it weren’t for the ten percent of the time that it all goes horribly awry and I end up parading around the house in a shower cap.

  I’m no science-tician, but from what I understand, Ambien quiets the executive function, which is how it puts me to sleep in the first place. But once in a while, with my executive functions dulled, I go to my computer instead of going to sleep. This phenomenon led to the first Great Barbie Head Kerfuffle of 2007 and the 2008 Entire New Set of Bedroom Furniture Incident.

  However, since we moved to the suburbs, Ambien shopping hasn’t been much of an issue, because I specifically put my desktop on a different floor from where I sleep. Once in a while there’s an iPad run-in, like the night I ordered both skinny jeans AND an airplane seat-belt extender. (What was my thought process here? “I’m so fat! No, wait, I’m so fabulous!”)

  For the most part, though, the shopping thing is under control because our master bedroom is on the first floor, as far away from my office on the second floor as physically possible. That’s why I now end up in the kitchen instead of on the Internet, making sandwiches instead of purchases. Granted, I don’t need the calories, but I really don’t need a new master suite.

  At our holiday party, our friends Kim and Wes brought us the greatest hostess gift of all time—a Williams-Sonoma caramel apple. I’ve been obsessed with these ever since Stacey told me it’s her go-to Christmas present for business contacts. Because I can’t do math, for years I assumed the apple’s twenty-two-inch diameter meant radius, leading me to believe the apple was as large around as an old-growth oak tree or Lil Wayne’s spinners. But still, twenty-two inches is just shy of a bowling ball, so trust me when I say it’s more crunchy chocolate and ooey-gooey caramel than one person could ever inhale on her own.

  When we received our magical treasure orb, I immediately shoved it in the back of the fridge, lest any of our guests believe it was for sharing. Over the next week after the party, I’d crack the fridge door all Gollum-style, peering at it while murmuring, “My precious…my precious.”

  And…then I got busy, filled the refrigerator with other items, and kind of forgot about the whole thing, until one Ambien-fueled night when I decided it was time to have a crack at the apple.

  I blame Fletch for what happened next.

  Or, rather, what happened first.

  I’d recently purchased a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer eyeglasses, assuming they’d be as flattering as my sunglasses. What I didn’t account for was how thick the lenses would look in such a large frame. (Imagine Mr. Magoo, only more myopic.) I’d been in my bathroom getting ready for bed and I realized I was out of my makeup removal cloths, so I had to wash my face the regular way. My sink is supersmall, so I always end up splashing myself, which is why I opt for the Olay Regenerist wipes.

  So, my face was clean, but my nightgown was covered in wet splotches. Then I dotted a couple of blemishes with Mario Badescu drying serum, yanked my hair into a knot on top of my head, and threw on my massive glasses. I got a kick out of how unattractive the whole combination was, so I had to point it out to Fletch. I went marching out of the bathroom, announcing, “Hey, hey, here comes the sex machine!”

  Then he laughed at me.

  Which would have been fine, because I knew I was the opposite of adorable at the moment; that was the whole point of my announcement.

  What I didn’t expect was for him to literally double over, clutching his sides, with tears pouring down his face, for two straight minutes.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I said. “Stop it, please.”

  He couldn’t stop.

  “I’m serious; it’s not that funny,” I said.

  He was gasping for breath, and when he tried to straighten up to look at me, he doubled over again.

  “Quit laughing at me; this is insulting!” I insisted.

  Through ragged breaths, he said, “But the trundling…oh, God, the way you were trundling along like a penguin, and the wet spots…and…”

  Then he guffawed to the point that I briefly contemplated giving him a slipper-based colonoscopy.

  “I’m going to go read with the dogs in the other bedroom until you can pull yourself together,” I huffed.

  Which is what I did. Then, every thirty seconds, I’d hear a burst of intermittent laughter through the connecting doorway.

  “I’m sleeping in here because I hate you!” I shouted.

  He could barely get out an “okay” before he burst into another fit of giggles.

  That’s when I took my Ambien.

  After it kicked in, I had a brainstorm. He’d hurt my feelings—okay, my pride—and I was mad. I figured the best way to exact revenge on the Braying Jackass I married would be to eat the caramel apple myself right that minute.

  Yes. This was genius.

  I scurried down the hall, dogs in tow, to claim my great prize.

  Quietly as I could, I retrieved the apple from the back of the fridge. With much stealth, I grabbed a cutting board and a sharp knife. Bracing the wealth of riches with my left hand, I sliced into paradise.

  Here’s a bit of Discovery Channel for you—apples don’t last forever. They can stay fresh for a long time, especially when refrigerated, but definitely not forever, and certainly not from December into the month of March. My beautiful precious had turned brown and awful. What made the whole situation worse is that the caramel and chocolate surrounding the rotten apple were totally okay, like a diamond-enrobed turd.

  I’m not sure exactly what brought Fletch scurrying into the kitchen, but it may have been all my anguished screaming.

  At this point, a non-Ambien-addled person would have swept the whole mess into the trash, whereas I…found the perfect opportunity to channel Martha Stewart.

  “Hello,” I said to Fletch. “Welcome to The Martha Stewart Show. Today I’m going to show you how to salvage your delicious Williams-Sonoma caramel apple. Now, first, we’re going to—”

  “Hey, Martha, hold up a second—I’m going to need to get my camera for this.” Were my executive function functioning, I’d have known never to do stupid shit around a man perpetually five feet away from a camera. Yet such is the price of sleep. Fletch raced over to the charging station to grab his iPhone and quickly adjusted his settings. “And we’re live in five, four, three, two…rolling!”

  Then, in full sex-machine regalia and without benefit of a bra, I proceed to demonstrate the process of extricating the stinking brown apple flesh from the heart of the caramel center, before artfully spreading the good parts over a few stout slices of multigrain bread.

  “The magic happens in the microwave,” I told my imaginary studio audience, comprised entirely of drooling dogs. “And don’t be afraid to use a little butter.” By a little, I meant half a stick.

  After I assembled all the ingredients, I took an enormous bite of the chocolaty, buttery, slathered shamewich, and without even a hint of irony, I told the camera, “The Williams-Sonoma salvaged caramel apple sandwich; it’s a good thing.”

  And then I winked.

  Fletch showed me the video the next morning, laughing possibly even louder than he had the night before.

  Although I’m impressed with my Ambie
n-fueled knife skills, there’s not one second of the recording that doesn’t induce paralyzing mortification, from the topknot, to the free-range, braless swingability, to the wink.

  I guess the good news is that shame often induces realization, and this incident allowed me to uncover another fundamental in Martha’s Tao: Revenge is a dish best not served at all, unless you’re camera-ready.

  Using the threat of death, dismemberment, and divorce, I’ve since convinced Fletch to delete the incriminating footage. He promises he has.

  I’d like to believe him.

  Of course, if I were him, I’d save the footage to use to ensure getting my way at some point in the future. Sometimes marriage isn’t about love and companionship as much as it is a fine balancing act involving mutually assured destruction.

  For insurance purposes, I’ve since convinced him to get his own prescription. As yet, I’ve not filmed him swimming around the shallow end of the bedroom, but rest assured, I will.

  Anyway, in calculating my own personal Ambien odds, eighty-five percent of the time, everything’s fine when I take it, and ten percent, it’s not. But what really keeps me on the zolpidem pony is the five percent I haven’t mentioned.

  The five percent is pure genius, and I mean actual genius and not the caramel-apple-sandwich kind.

  I’m fresh off an Ambien episode induced from watching the Bradley Cooper movie Limitless. In it, he begins to take a drug that increases his mental acuity by, like, a million percent. “So it’s Adderall,” Fletch remarked while we watched it.

  Later that night, I decided that Ambien made me limitless as well, and I demonstrated my superpower, which involved my running sideways faster than anyone else on earth. Sometimes I sleep in the newly decorated adjoining bedroom, like whenever Fletch snores or laughs at me. With the way that bathroom lies, the whole thing forms a big circle that is really the perfect avenue for crab-running while shouting, “I am limitleeesssssssss!”