The old owners were ridiculously organized, and when we moved in, they essentially gave us a guide to living here. We received binders full of appliance manuals and warranties (what, you thought I was going to say “women”?), as well as a huge phone tree of everyone to call in any household situation, including services we’d never once considered, like exterior window cleaning.
Therefore, what happened next is not their fault.
They left us every scrap of extra material, like tile and carpet and wallpaper, all meticulously labeled and stored neatly. After the rods were finally hung and the walls patched and sanded, Fletch went downstairs to find the appropriate paint. When he came back up, he was flummoxed.
“I can only find beige paint labeled ‘sitting room.’ This doesn’t mean bedroom, does it? Maybe this is for the TV room upstairs,” he said.
We opened the paint and compared. Far as I could tell, it was an exact match.
“Seems a little darker,” Fletch said.
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Fletch—who would use two almost but not quite identical shades of beige in the same house? I promise it’s the same. The color will absolutely dry lighter.”
Three days later, Fletch and I had to have a little discussion about promises I couldn’t keep. The project continued to slide off the rails, but once we hang the last set of curtains we’re buying today (because I can’t count to eight, apparently), we should be finally, mercifully done.
“I bet it wouldn’t take Martha Stewart two months to hang curtains in the bedroom.”
Something about Fletch’s invoking Martha’s name causes a spark of recognition.
“Say that again,” I demand.
He smooths his beard and looks apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to give you the business.”
But I’m not irked; rather, I’m inspired. “No, no, about Martha Stewart—say it again.”
“That it wouldn’t take her two months to hang curtains?”
“Exactly!”
Fletch shrugs and goes back to sorting through the bin of reject drapes while my idea takes shape.
Okay: Right now, Martha Stewart definitely wouldn’t consider the way I live my life a Good Thing. Yet that doesn’t stop me from adoring her and respecting her and wanting to subscribe to her newsletter, you know?
I’ve been obsessed with Martha since I tried her buttercream cupcake frosting recipe. “Transcendent” doesn’t properly describe this concoction, and “delicious” is an insult. Her recipe creates something that feels like cashmere and tastes like it was whipped by angels and flavored by God’s own vanilla beans. Seriously, it’s strip-and-go-naked kind of good.
Although I wasn’t a fan of the Martha back when she went to prison, she conducted herself with such grace and dignity that she eventually won me over, and that’s when I started buying her magazine and watching her show in earnest.
See, instead of curling up and dying in that situation, she made the best of it.
She made gourmet microwave dinners.
She made friends.
She made ponchos, for Christ’s sake.
She rose to the occasion, and I can’t not get behind that.
Millions of women adore M. Diddy (what the gals in the joint called her), because she can break down even the most difficult tasks into something simple and lovely and doable. I read that she doesn’t own a bathrobe, which means when she rolls out of bed, she hops straight into the shower. That boggles my mind. I live in a world where pajamas have been worn to the dinner table…on days I wasn’t sick.
I realize Martha Stewart isn’t everyone’s icon, but she is mine. I love her because instead of lording her superior skills over everyone and making them feel bad about themselves, she’s out there breaking it all down for even the least talented among us. Had I thought to consult her guides, the curtain project truly would have taken two hours and not two months.
This is not to discount the Magic That Is the Oprah. Millions of women are Team Oprah over Team Martha. Actually, I believe there are only two kinds of women in this world: Martha people and Oprah people. That doesn’t mean one can’t have an affinity for both of them, but my theory is that every chick is more firmly in one camp than the other. The typical Oprah woman is all self-actualized and best-life-y and Eat, Pray, Love. The Big O seems like the kind of gal who’d insist we all spend the afternoon wearing jammy pants. And how fun would that be?!
But Martha?
She’s not putting up with that nonsense, and that makes me adore her all the more. She’ll tell you what to eat, where to pray, and who to love, and I appreciate the guidance.
I mean, I have a best friend; I need a drill sergeant.
(Related note? Were Martha and Oprah to cage-fight, smart money is on M. Diddy, because you KNOW she’s a scrapper.)
On paper, Oprah trumps Martha in terms of fortune and fame and felony convictions. But if the apocalypse my tinfoil-hat-wearing husband (bless his heart) predicts is indeed coming, I have to ask myself: Do I want to follow the lady who encourages me to make dream boards for a better tomorrow, or do I want to listen to the gal who can show me how to butcher my own game hen right now?
I’m Team Martha, no questions asked.
After reading and loving The Happiness Project, I’ve been mulling over the idea of taking on my own project, but I don’t want to be derivative. Plus, Gretchen Rubin has pursued happiness with such a systematic, analytical, scholarly approach that I could never match what she did, and then I’d be unhappier when I ultimately failed.
Yet if I were to, say, try to live my life like Martha for a year, I suspect I could indeed be happier.
I could possibly feel more like my old self.
And maybe when something truly bad does happen, I’d be better equipped to handle it.
Although I’d never out-Martha Martha, I could definitely emulate her. I could live 2012 by adhering to her dictates from various television and radio shows, books, magazines, and Internet presences. The moniker of Omnimedia isn’t an exaggeration; name me a medium and she’s on it. I have so much respect for her level of saturation in our society.
I wonder exactly what would happen if I were to follow her advice from A(pple brown Betty) to Z(ip-line-attached Christmas ornaments). Would my life be easier—and Fletch less twitchy—if I used her tricks to get organized?
My guess is yes.
Could my dogs be more satisfied if I fed them what she gives to her French bullies, Sharkey and Francesca, and chow chow, Genghis II?
In terms of personal relationships, might I grow closer to my girlfriends who knit and sew when I finally show some interest in their boring-ass hobbies?
Would I morph from the person who gives guests a recipe and instructs them to start cooking to the hostess who goes ballistic if someone dares wear cream to my White Party?
And would that be the worst thing in the world?
Most important, could I be happier if I were to pattern my life from her recipe?
I plan to find out.
As soon as I finish with these damn curtains.
Since I’ve decided to live My Year of Martha, I have to set up some parameters, like what I plan to concentrate on and how I’ll measure success. My first task is to figure out what makes me happy.
So I ask Fletch.
“Can you tell when I’m happy?”
Fletch is sitting at his desk, going over bills. He swivels around in his chair all Bond-villain-style to address me. “Oh, God, yes. You’re an entirely different person when you’re in a good mood. You’re effusive, you’re chatty, and your voice goes up. You whirl around the house like a maniac and you’re just, like, delighted at everything. When you’re pleased, you clap like a seal. You also spend a good deal of time congratulating yourself.”
I flop onto the couch across from him. “Huh. Didn’t know that. What do I do when I’m unhappy?”
He strokes his chin and looks up at the ceiling while he thinks. “Your voice is flatter an
d you get really quiet and withdrawn. You don’t sing—badly—while you’re cooking. You don’t bust out your patented disco dance moves like you do when you’re just overcome with joy. You’re less social, and you’re a lot less likely to leave the house. Also? You argue with strangers.”
That doesn’t sound right.
“I argue with strangers when I’m happy, too. It’s kind of who I am, like with the complaining. I’m often delighted to be able to bitch about something inconsequential. Like, I live to grouse about our postman.”
He nods. “True enough. But when you complain and you’re happy, you don’t take the situation personally and you’re just trying to be funny. So, how about this—you ruminate more when you’re not happy. You don’t take a perceived slight and turn it into something positive or a call to action. You fixate. You stew. You have trouble moving past the most minor thing. You’re a lot quicker to escalate.”
Chuck Norris saunters into the room, jumping over the pile of dogs perpetually in my wake, and settles into my lap. I knead the fur at the back of his thick neck and he purrs appreciatively. “Sounds kind of awful.”
“For better or for worse, you know? Last year did a number on you. But don’t worry; the beard understands,” he says while lovingly rubbing his chin. (I cannot be held responsible if someone shaves him in his sleep.)
As I greatly dislike the description of Unhappy Jen, I’m determined not to let 2012 get the better of me, so I need to nail down this happiness business.
Because I’ve been so tuned in to what made me unhappy in 2011, I’m at a definite advantage. I simply need to take a look at everything that made me cranky and then do the opposite.
Chaos and disorganization made me unhappy last year. Like, I despise being late, yet I was delayed walking out the door at least a hundred times when I couldn’t find my stupid shoes. Much as I want to imagine I’m still all cute and perpetually twenty-two years old, flighty and adorably seat-of-my-pants like I was in college, I have to admit that this haphazard way of life no longer works for me. I don’t have my college metabolism; nor do I have my college capacity to thrive in disorder. I need to be deep-down organized, and not just what-looks-good-on-the-surface tidy.
The idea of living a more orderly life is seriously attractive. I suspect that Julia and Finch are so happy because they’re organized. They always have a plan. Julia’s a pharmaceutical rep and a mom, and if she couldn’t manage all those details of both jobs, she’d never have time to take care of herself. Finch is a pilot; if he weren’t meticulous and systematic in his checklists, people could die. They’re poster children for lives free from chaos, and I’d do well to model myself after them.
I also feel like I spent a lot of time last year being reactive, rather than proactive. Like, the first time the power went off, we were caught completely unaware. We had to run out and buy everything—ice, coolers, flashlights, etc., and I hadn’t had the foresight to keep any of my electronics charged. I hated the insecure feeling of not even being able to make a call because our mobile phones were dead and our landlines required electricity to work. (In addition? Not being able to Google to settle a stupid bet on whether Paul Michael Glaser played Starsky or Hutch is torture!) (Duh, he was Starsky.) Since then, we’ve made sure to be prepared, and that feeling of security is a key component to happiness, at least for me.
I spent so much of 2011 trying to act like an adult, I forgot to have fun. I wasn’t silly. I eschewed irreverence. I was too mature for foolishness. Like I said, I don’t remember having any hands-in-the-air “WOO!” moments last year. I imagine last year would have gone differently had I simply played more.
I enjoy the process of learning, and I didn’t take many opportunities to expand my horizons last year. I spent most of 2009 and part of 2010 working on My Fair Lazy, and in it, I tried so many new things, like going to the theater and wine tastings and cooking classes. I kept up many of these activities long after I finished writing the book. I was in perpetual motion for the longest time and I loved it, but somehow I didn’t keep the momentum going once we moved in 2011. Although I don’t need to be in a classroom, per se, I definitely want to be a student again.
The above point dovetails into my next parameter—there’s nothing I enjoy more than leisure time after having been busy. There’s no greater feeling than getting to sit down and relax after having plowed through all my to-do items. I’m not sure I accomplished much in 2011; ergo, my downtime didn’t feel like a reward.
Having once been broke, and having learned the importance of a cash reserve for unexpected expenses like multiple dog surgeries, I’d like to up our level of fiscal responsibility this year, too. I want to be less wasteful, more mindful. I hate being banged with late fees when I don’t get around to paying something on time, even though I actually have the money in my account. That’s unacceptable. Plus, I want to be thriftier so that I can afford to be more charitable, because I realize it’s not all about me.
Speaking of charity, I spent a whole year volunteering, as I’d hoped to write a book about the experience. Although the memoir didn’t pan out, I have such an appreciation for the value of extending myself, my time, and my effort. Being helpful makes me happy, in whatever capacity that may entail, so I definitely want to bring more of that to the party.
In terms of which of Martha’s dictates I’ll pursue, I need to narrow my focus on a few areas. I can’t do everything she suggests, because that would be impossible. Since I’ve already established my desire for a less chaotic home, I’m definitely embracing the notions of organizing and cleaning, with a dash of decorating thrown in, because I swear there’s nothing more soul-satisfying and therapeutic than rearranging a room.
And, of course, I want to make sure the four-legged members of this household are copacetic, so I’ll also focus on ways to keep pets as happy and healthy as possible.
A few years ago, I was broiling naked pork chops within an inch of their lives and then slathering them in store-bought, MSG-laden barbecue sauce. Although my culinary skills have come a long way since then, I’d like to continue to evolve as a home chef, so cooking will definitely be a consideration.
I thrive when I’m around people I enjoy, so I’m absolutely going to concentrate on entertaining, with the goal of actually spending time with my guests, rather than just functioning as a glorified caterer.
Until now, I’d forgotten that when I was unemployed, I used to make jewelry and tile mosaics. Both of those activities really took me out of my own head, so I definitely want to add crafting to the mix.
Finally, and because I love a challenge, I want to conquer an X factor, meaning a yet-unnamed category. During the course of this project, I hope to blaze my own path in some activity. I’d like to see if there’s some tiny niche that Martha hasn’t yet conquered, and if so, I can take that opportunity to enlighten others.
I can’t say what my X factor is yet, but like Justice Potter Stewart (relation to Martha? I should find out), I’ll know it when I see it.
So take note, 2012—this is how it’s going to play out. I’m planning to up my game in every way possible. I’ll have a clean house not only on the surface, but deep down, too. Items will no longer tumble down from the farthest recesses when I open my closets. I’ll work to make my home prettier and more functional, and I’ll revel in the praise when guests notice all the welcoming touches at my frequent gatherings. I’ll find better ways to be prepared for whatever life presents next, and I’ll cap the year off with a big, festive, handcrafted Christmas.
This is going to be great!
And maybe while I’m at this whole process, I’ll discover something entirely new. Perhaps I’ll figure out more about who I am, or possibly I’ll have some kind of epiphany about the Living philosophy. What if there’s some greater principle that guides the whole Martha Stewart enterprise and it’s waiting for me to uncover it?
Like, a Tao of Martha, if you will.
Regardless of how it happens, ready or not, hap
piness, here I come.
LET US NEVER SPEAK OF THIS AGAIN
Film.
There are rolls of film in here.
Yet I haven’t owned a camera that required film since 2002, which means I’ve been storing rolls of film in my desk for almost ten years. What the hell am I going to do with film? Does anyone even develop film anymore? I may as well try to have my Betamax repaired, or attempt to get the cathode ray tubes replaced in my console television.
Shameful.
And that’s only the beginning.
My inaugural Martha project is to clean out my desk drawers. I have a book due in two months, so I figure the best place to start is where I work. Maybe if I can establish a better sense of order, my writing will go more gooder.
See?
See what’s happening?
I’m mangling words because I’m currently sitting at a desk full of old film, among so many other patently ridiculous items, the highlights of which include:
one flea collar, slightly used
fourteen dead batteries, in various states of oxidation
a banana hair clip
nine Sharpies, five uncapped, all dry
pistachio shells from the nuts I received in my Christmas stocking in 2008
wineglass shards
three empty rolls of Scotch tape
one FURminator (for dog shedding)
eight unmatched Barbie shoes and two Barbie hats
the orange City of Chicago violation sticker placed on my fence when my terrible landlord didn’t pay the water bill back in 2009
7,226 scraps of paper, each containing either random sums or single words like “Sockets!” that have long since lost any semblance of meaning
an entire handful of petrified pieces of Bazooka gum that I should not ever attempt to put in my mouth again (note to self—call dentist re: loose filling)
a free-range piece of Silly Putty, studded with something grainy (pistachio salt?)
an ancient flip phone as well as a charger to the BlackBerry I haven’t seen since 2006