The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING

  Slowly, Fletch says, “I am hot, I am tired, I am sore, and I am starving. Are we having that pork roast for dinner?” he asks.

  Right at this moment, I love him too much to tell him that I already fed his dinner to the dog.

  “Absolutely.”

  Two weeks later I’m busy researching Martha Stewart Crock-Pot meals when there’s a knock at the door. I rush down the stairs and standing there in his usual khaki tactical pants and fishing hat is Rich the Landscaper. Despite his occasionally delivering ridiculously expensive and unwanted news, I really like Rich. He gets the pricing from the landscape design team, so the extra zeros are never his fault. He’s always willing to help us figure out lower-cost solutions, too. Plus he’s very conscientious to swing by to check on the job that his team did. I appreciate his hard work.

  “You have downy mold.”

  “I have what?”

  “Out front, you have downy mold. On your impatiens. It’s a new disease that came over from Europe and it’s killing everyone’s impatiens. Not the New Guinea ones, though—they’re fine.”

  “I don’t have any New Guineas.”

  He nods. “That’s a shame, because now you have downy mold, which means the leaves on your impatiens are about to fall off and then the plants are going to die. I’ll have the guys remove them on Tuesday.”

  “Whoa, hold up—they’ve only been in, what, a couple of weeks? And I use organic spray on them!” We—well, Fletch—did not do all that work to lose the damn plants in a damn fortnight!

  Rich chortles. “You’re not going to find anything organic that can conquer downy mold. It’s bad stuff. Gets into the soil and can live there up to seven years. We’ve got to remove them, and you’re going to want to consider planting something different next year, like New Guinea impatiens. They’re not impacted. Anyway, just wanted to let you know. See you Tuesday!”

  I rush inside to Google “downy mold” and confirm everything Rich just said. I can’t do anything but laugh at this point. I’d likely be angrier if the whole situation weren’t so damn ironic. Plus, it’s not like I lost my whole (heretofore nonexistent) crop of zucchini. I’m not going to let the incident impair my burgeoning happiness. Laughter seems to be the best way to deal right now.

  Plus, I have a Fourth of July party to plan and a sweet little doggie who’s waiting for a home-cooked meal, so, onward and upward.

  But I was right to hate dirt.

  You can’t deny that.

  BABY, YOU’RE A FIREWORK

  “How’s the little patient? What’d the vet say?”

  Our friend Elaine is here for our usual Friday dog-training session. We met Elaine when we adopted Libby from Elaine’s rescue group, and since then, we’ve worked with her every single week. With two pit bulls in the house, we have a responsibility to make sure they’re always under control. I mean, we’re well aware of how sweet and harmless they are, yet the fact that they even exist intimidates others, so we train for our neighbors’ peace of mind. As an added bonus, the dogs love it!

  After months off from treatment, Maisy’s oncologist suggested we start her on a new course of chemotherapy. She’s been doing exceptionally well since her last surgery in February, so she’s definitely been strong enough to start again. We were told that eighty percent of all dogs who take this drug thrive on it.

  Unfortunately, and for the first time, Maisy’s fallen into the twenty percent.

  Maisy saw her oncologist earlier this week. The doctor yanked the chemo drug and instead put her on some meds to help her stomach and appetite. We have a follow-up appointment on Monday, and until then, we have to watch her, which I’ve interpreted as, “Keep her by your side at all times and have panic attacks every time she blinks.”

  I tell Elaine, “She’s okay, but I’m a disaster.”

  Elaine hugs me and then we get to work.

  She asks, “Maisy, do you want to go first?”

  Even though my girl’s been down, nothing motivates her like a training session. She responds to Elaine’s question with a full-on body wag that’s so enthusiastic she practically bends in half. She barks and skitters across the hardwood, hitting Elaine almost hard enough to knock her down.

  Did I mention that Maisy’s a bit of a chunk? She should be in the high fifties in terms of weight, but she’s presently in the mid-sixties. At one point, when she was on steroids for her treatment, she was close to eighty pounds. I remember asking Stacey, “Does Maisy look a little fatter?” to which Stacey replied, “Maisy looks like an ottoman.” Yet I’ve always known a time would come when the extra weight would help her, so I’ve not been too diligent over portion control.

  I’m just really hoping that time isn’t now.

  Maisy’s so delighted at the opportunity to train first that she cycles through all of her tricks. When Elaine tells Maisy to sit, she first sits, then lies down, then sits up again, then stands, then lies down, all in the course of about ten seconds, and never once taking her eyes off Elaine. Watching her, you can almost see Maisy’s wheels turning as she thinks through every command she knows, offering them up before ever asked for them. We all laugh at Maisy’s version of calisthenics, and I decide to interpret this as positive progress.

  Although Maisy’s tired quickly, she’s very pleased with herself as she hops up onto the couch after her turn. She’s all, “That’s right, bitches. Live and learn.”

  “Have you been able to distract yourself?” Elaine asks, sensitive to what a wreck I’ve been.

  She begins to work with Libby, who’s totally game-face when it comes to training. Libby’s such a silly little free spirit, springing around the backyard like a baby goat and trying to engage everyone in play, so it’s shocking to witness her level of intensity during our sessions. Libby’s long since nailed all the basics, like come, sit, stay, heel, and down, but she’s also highly proficient in dog show training commands, like stand, swing, around, give, and take. One would then believe that this would make Libby less of a prankster around the house, and she wouldn’t perpetually counter-surf and make mischief, but that’s not the case. As Elaine explains it, Libby works when it’s time to work and does what she wants during her free time.

  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.

  My 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

  Um, 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

  Easy-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.

  Before we hit Costco, we’ve got to take Maisy back to the vet for a couple of tests. She’s slowly been getting back her appetite. Her energy’s still low, but that’s likely because it’s so damn hot out. We’re all listless and draggy. Just stepping out the door leaves us drenched in sweat.

  In order to take Maisy without bringing the other dogs along, we have to hide treats Easter-egg style all over the house so that Libby and Loki don’t freak out. The delicious-looking marrow bones I bought on yesterday’s trip to the store should prove an excellent distraction.

  Although Maisy needs a boost getting into the car, we don’t think much of it. Her health’s been so up and down for the past three years, yet every time she’s been ill, she bounces back. We chat about the party all the way to the vet specialty clinic, and I have no inkling there’s anyth
ing wrong until we’re called back to an exam room.

  Wait a minute; we’re never called back to an exam room.

  The vet tech always comes out after testing, gives us an update, and leads us back to a room. Fletch and I exchange worried looks as we’re led back to talk to Maisy’s oncologist, Dr. Feinmehl.

  Without benefit of greeting, Dr. Feinmehl gets straight to the point. “The news isn’t good. Maisy’s kidney function is less than four percent.”

  Fletch and I glance at each other. I say, “I’m sorry; I don’t follow. I thought her kidneys were okay and the issue was her appetite.”

  “Her situation has changed, probably because of the vomiting and dehydration. The kidneys have become critical.” Dr. Feinmehl glances down at Maisy’s file, which is literally three inches thick. “A four percent function is just not compatible with…life.”

  We both nod, intent on hearing whatever it is we need to do when bringing her home.

  Her words take a second to settle in.

  Not compatible with life?

  What??

  She continues. “We have to admit her right now, get her on fluids, and try to raise her red blood cell count, because she’s severely anemic. I’ll need to consult with Dr. Thornhill, who’s a nephrologist. I won’t know more until he sees her.”

  “Are you saying she might not make it?” I gasp.

  “In all probability,” she replies.

  Fletch clutches my knee while my hands turn white from my clenched fists. We’re in such shock that he can’t even find the words to ask questions.

  No. No, no.

  This isn’t how today is supposed to go down. We’re supposed to bring Maisy in, get some more antacids, and then take her home before we buy ice at Costco.