my wedding video as well as the VHS recording of my Supervision 101 class presentation in 1991 (I’m keeping these)
two screwdrivers, both Phillips-head, one covered in unknown goo
three sets of cat nail clippers
my business cards from the company that laid me off in 2001
an ATM card from when I had a bank account with X.com in the dot-com days
fifteen Kleenex, in various stages of disrepair
a note card I passed to my friend Stacey at our friend Sarah Pekkanen’s book signing that reads: Remind me to tell you about the dream I had where I was pregnant and didn’t know it until the baby fell out. I was so happy because I realized that was why I was fat! Wait, I guess that’s the whole story.
Under all the junk, I unearth three boxes of my favorite kinds of pens, two bags of the mechanical pencils I really like, a pair of Gucci sunglasses, and $17.31 in loose change.
I also find rock-bottom, because clearly this is what I’ve hit.
In Good Things for Organizing, Martha suggests I create and stick to a simple filing system, reasoning that this will make my boss proud. Well, I’m the boss of me, and proud is not what I’m feeling right now. But maybe I could be.
I take a kitchen trash bag and start filling it with all the crap I’ve been lugging around from house to house. In the last two places we’ve lived, we’ve hired movers, so there’s an extra level of shame in knowing I paid people to pack up all this garbage. Were they all, “Maybe they’re sentimental broken wineglass shards”?
When airplanes crash, the NTSB arranges all the wreck’s detritus on the floor of a hangar so investigators can piece together what led to this great tragedy. I do the same with my desk contents, so I can understand not only where I’ve been, but where I need to go.
After pondering the wreckage, I begin to sort everything into piles. Martha suggests grouping like items together, so that’s what I do. My pens are in one stack, my pencils in another, as are my fifteen unopened packs of Post-its. Whoa, where did they come from? I can use those! Hey, look at this—I’m already saving money by having unearthed a lifetime supply of sticky notes.
My desk contents begin to make more sense as I sort through and categorize it all. Some of what I initially thought should be trashed will actually be useful if it’s stored in the right place. Like, I can move all the pet supplies downstairs to the drawer Fletch has designated and now I won’t be all, “I can’t find what we use to clip the cats’ nails, so I’ll have to pick up yet another one.”
Net savings: ten dollars.
Add that to the $17.31 I found in the drawer and I’ve already covered the cost of the box of color-coded file folders I bought.
What’s funny is that the act of cleaning out my desk takes an hour, yet I’ve been dreading it for so damn many years. How much time have I wasted in fretting about organizing this instead of actually organizing? I kind of don’t want to know.
I set up my desk so I can access everything I might need in the course of a workday. I place my pens, pencils, letter opener, and ruler in pretty mugs to the left of my monitor, and I keep a little box with scratch paper, a nicely scented candle, and a paperweight on the other side. My desk is small, so I take some of my book covers and photos with friends and put them under the Plexiglas protector on top of my desk, so it’s still decorative, but not cluttered with actual frames.
In my left-hand drawer, I store extra pens, cords, note cards, and cough drops, and I use the top right to house my ample supply of Post-its, binder clips, lip balm, a stapler, and measuring tape, because I’m dyslexic when it comes to guesstimating dimensions and ordering online. (Hell, I’m still crab-walking past certain sofas because four feet is wider than I imagined it would be.) The second drawer houses infrequently used items, like extra staples and lightbulbs. And the lowest drawer holds papers, which now live in alphabetically sorted folders, and not just one teeming stack.
At no point am I euphoric while I work on this task, but the idea of opening a drawer and finding what I need is not without merit. Having my desk in order won’t change the world, but it will allow me to focus more on the task of writing, especially when I have a deadline in two months.
Hey, it’s a start.
I tackle my closet next, organizing footwear and maximizing the space by using those clear shoe boxes that Martha’s so hot for. In fact, Martha says that in terms of storage, you need only three things: sturdy shelves, clear plastic bins, and a label maker.
Yet I did struggle with the notion of tossing out all my pretty shoe boxes with their fancy designer labels, largely because I’m shallow. How will the strangers who walk into my closet learn that I own Tory Burch sandals if I don’t display her box?
I know, I know. Crazytown.
What finally convinced me to change is that shoe boxes aren’t consistently sized and I don’t have X-ray vision. Now I can actually see my shoes and they’re in tidy stacks. Right before I hit the closet, I made a note that I needed a casual black shoe with a kitten heel, yet as I dumped out all the old boxes, I found exactly what I needed and end up saving four times the amount I paid for storage boxes. Perhaps I could get used to this.
During the closet reorg, I uncover tons of items I no longer wear (read: are too tight), and I’m able to make a nice donation to AMVETS.
Did this cleanup change the world? No.
Did it make it quicker for me to dress in the morning? Yes.
Will what I’ve given away benefit others? It will.
So not only does this progress make my life a tiny bit easier, but it spurs me on to tackle other projects.
For some reason, whoever built this house hated medicine cabinets, as evidenced by our having none. I find this deeply, profoundly annoying. For the first two months we lived here, I’d walk into the bathroom all, “Where did they keep their aspirin?”
I finally figure out that they must have stored all their toiletries in the weird little enclosure off the master bedroom. Although this closet is as tall as the door in front of it, it’s only about nine inches deep, so it’s filled with shelves. Frankly, I don’t understand why anyone would bother with such a stupid space, but it’s on the other side of the shower, so maybe it’s for easier access to the pipes? (I’d have asked the old owners, but their attorney handled the closing, which was kind of a bummer. I’d have liked to know more about the gun cabinet, too.)
Anyway, I discover that this little closet is the perfect place to store all my hair-care products, of which there are many.
Many, many.
I’m perpetually buying whatever my stylist pushes on me, yet I’m also perpetually dissatisfied by whoever’s cutting my hair, so I’m always switching salons. In turn, this cycle has produced quite the cache of antifrizz items.
Actually, the minicloset is a great place to shove all assorted bits of personal detritus, and now a whole Sephora spills out every time I open the door.
Because there’s no rhyme or reason to how I’ve been stashing items, I’m always making duplicate purchases.
That ends today.
I decide to pick up cute cloth-covered bins at Target in lieu of the clear plastic boxes, because I don’t need lids for this stuff, and I don’t necessarily want to see every single item in here. Actually, I believe the closet will look neater if some of the bottles are obscured, and there’s no reason to ignore aesthetics. I’m confident that Martha would approve of this logic.
The closet’s crammed with a million different things, so I lay them all out plane-wreck style to assess. Maisy decides to join me in my endeavor, plowing like Godzilla through all the bottles before settling on top of the mountain of pillows on the bed. I give her a quick snuggle and then get back to work. Once I right everything, Libby comes trotting in, upsetting it all again. Realizing that Loki and Gus, Chuck Norris, and Odin (aka the Thundercats) could come through at any minute keeps me from any further tidying efforts. I can right or I can sort; I choose to sort.
&nb
sp; I decide to narrate the experience for the dogs.
“Welcome to the Jen Lancaster Show! Today I’m going to demonstrate how to tackle a messy nonmedicine medicine cabinet. As you’ll see, I’ve removed all the items from the closet and laid them out on the floor. This looks like a plane wreck, but really, most of these items can be sorted into one of five categories: hair product, body lotion, perfume, travel size, and makeup.”
Libby thumps her tail in appreciation, while Maisy gives me the stink eye. She cares not for my mad emcee skills.
“You’ll notice that I have a bottle of Living Proof hair spray, so I should place it in the hair-care bin, right? Wrong! If you look closely at the label, you’ll see that it meets the airlines’ requirement for carry-on liquid sizes, so we’ll sort this into the travel bin.”
Even though this is a Martha-based happiness project, I can’t resist giving Gretchen Rubin her props by taking a task I hate and have actively avoided and trying to make it more fun; hence the narration.
“And what’s this? A sample-size bottle of Jo Malone Wild Bluebell. My favorite! Maisy, where do you think this should be sorted?”
She cocks one skeptical eyebrow at me. I’m disturbing her nap, so I’m pretty sure exactly where she’d like to me to place this bottle.
“That’s right, sweetie. Even though this is perfume, it also goes in the travel bin! Why? Because I’m never going to be the asshat in the security line arguing policy with the TSA. Mummy doesn’t want to get strip-searched!”
I continue sorting and hosting my show. Libby and Maisy eventually fall asleep, lulled by how soothing my voice is as I give them the blow-by-blow on why Smashbox makes the best eye shadow. Of course, I curse myself when I find six nearly identical pots of said shadow, yet I’m beyond pleased with the end result.
I can’t believe I spent so long dreading and avoiding what ended up being kind of—dare I say it?—enjoyable. I’m going to save time by quickly locating what I need in this cabinet, and cash when I’m not always shelling out for duplicates.
I feel a sense of pride in having gotten over this small, yet incredibly frustrating hurdle, like I wrestled a tiny bit of control away from the chaos that seems to follow me.
As I’m going to be pretty busy with my book for the next two months, I won’t be tackling any huge organizing projects, but I am happy knowing that I can chip away at various drawers and closets when I’m taking a break from my manuscript. So, unlike with every other book deadline, when I become so hyperfocused that the house falls apart, this time I’ll be actively taking steps to keep it together.
Organization is going to lower my own stress level, which will impact all of us—me, the pets, Fletch…and the beard.
It’s a good thing.
THE TAO OF STEAK KNIVES
“You’re trying to be Martha Stewart?” Wendy asks, with more than a little skepticism in her voice. “You realize she doesn’t hem her curtains with a steak knife, right?”
“Hey! I only did that once in college,” I reply, doing my best not to sound defensive.
Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have shared that particular story while Wendy was unveiling her seamstress-grade sewing room in her newly remodeled basement. But when I gazed upon the majesty of all those identically labeled jars of sorted buttons and rows of color-coordinated ribbons and crisp patterns hanging neatly on their individual clips, I felt the gravity of my transgressions against sewing, and my words squirted out of me. Wendy’s workshop felt like the kind of holy place where I needed to confess my tailor-related sins.
(At least I didn’t mention all the times I used a stapler to fix errant pant cuffs. So there’s that.)
Also, Wendy’s known me since my idea of entertaining revolved around opening jars of Ragú and shoveling piles of laundry, magazines, hair clips, shoes, Diet Coke bottles, and cat toys into a closet, so her misgivings have some basis in reality.
Even when I started to improve on all things home-related, I’d make the occasional misstep, like when I threw my first dinner party for the girls a few years ago and I didn’t quite master the food-to-cocktails ratio. But come on! I’m sure other husbands have also stepped in to take over at the grill when his wife was “so soaked in alcohol that you’ve turned yourself into a human wick.”
Plus, I totally threw away every piece of shrimp and chicken the cats licked that night. It was fine.
Wendy’s silent on the other end of the phone, so I press on. “Besides, you have it all wrong. I’m not trying to be Martha Stewart, and not just because I don’t look good in chambray shirts. See, my goal is to start employing her techniques so I can be a better me. I feel like there’s a correlation between living a Martha Stewart lifestyle and happiness, so that’s the thesis I’m pursuing. When I started this project a couple of months ago, I just figured I’d live like her and see what happened. But now that I’ve gotten into it, I realize there’s more to it—I’m not just trying to live like Martha; I’m trying to discover the Tao of Martha.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that as I slowly begin to emulate her lifestyle, I’m coming to realize that Martha’s way of living is more than just the sum of all her advice. She’s more than plastic storage bins and tasty cupcakes and hand-hewn chicken coops. The Tao of Martha is a way of being. Like, it’s a bunch of different concepts and ways of doing things—Living, if you will—that coalesce into a path. And I believe that path will lead me to being happier. Anyway, Saturday, are you guys in or are you out?”
“I see. So, yeah, we’re in, and thanks for asking. The girls will be so excited. But…will you need me to bring anything? Possibly my fabric scissors?” Wendy asks.
She’s seriously never going to let me live that down.
“See you Saturday, smart-ass.”
I make three more hash marks on the pad next to the phone. I have to steady myself when I realize all the hash marks add up to sixteen. Whoa. I really didn’t think everyone would say yes, especially to such a last-minute invite.
Looks like I’m hosting a pre-Easter brunch and egg hunt for sixteen in two days.
Normally, this is when I’d bitch-panic, but I’ve got Saint Martha of Bedford on my side, and I’m filled with a beatific calm. Between Martha’s Web site, a stack of back issues of her magazines, and her book Handmade Holiday Crafts: 225 Inspired Projects for Year-Round Celebrations (fancy talk for crafting), I feel like I’ve already got a handle on this. At least in theory.
After reading up on Amy and Adam Forbes’s Easter in the April 2011 issue of Living, I decide that the kids will decorate Easter baskets while parents sip mimosas sprigged with fresh mint from my garden, during which time I’ll stock the buffet table. I’m serving protein-heavy dishes, because I don’t want my poor friends to have to drive home with nine children in the throes of Sugar Terrors.
After we eat, everyone will retire to the front lawn, whereupon the children will frolic in the grass, leisurely hunting for the eggs that I will so lovingly have stuffed myself.
Yes.
This is going to be perfect.
At least, it had better be if I’m ever going to live down that whole steak-knife thing.
“I’ll need to see your ID, ma’am.”
I’m here at Target, scanning the conveyor belt, trying to figure out what purchase might require identification. I already stocked up on champagne at the grocery store, so I’m at a bit of a loss. I’ve picked out a mountain of candy as well as tons of those little plastic eggs, but unless I use all of this to lure unsuspecting children into my panel van, I’ve committed no discernible crime.
I locate my license and hand it over. “Here you go.”
(Anytime I show someone my ID and they aren’t all, “You? Why, you can’t be in your forties!” I die a little inside.)
(So pretty much every time. Stupid thirty years of avoiding sunscreen.)
“Thank you,” the cashier says, handing back my license.
“What am I getting that makes you need thi
s?” I’m not picking fights with strangers, Fletcher. I’m just really curious. Is there a limit on how many fun-size Snickers I can buy? Because I don’t want to live in that world.
The cashier gestures toward the two-pack of compressed air she’s just scanned. “For those.”
Huh?
“What do people do illegally with compressed air?”
The cashier gives me a weary sigh. “They inhale it.”
“Really? But it’s twenty bucks! For twenty bucks, people could buy a couple of liters of cheap vodka, cranberry juice, and a bag of chips and throw a party for their whole pledge class! Compressed air is a terrible return on investment. Also, I feel like there’s no better high than blowing all the crumbs and cat hair out of a keyboard. And why wouldn’t they just pick up ten cans of aerosol whipped cream instead? I noticed they were on sale. Plus, you could serve shortcake before you tweaked.”
(Apologies to druggies if I’ve used the wrong word here.)
The cashier shrugs and continues to ring. Her salary likely doesn’t cover having to explain away my existential angst.
For the record, I’m buying compressed air only because I couldn’t find an ear syringe. I plan on hollowing out Easter eggs for decoration purposes. Per page eighty-one of the crafting book, the best way to blow out the yolk is with an ear aspirator, which I can’t find. I figure if Target doesn’t carry them, they no longer exist, because maybe ear aspirating has gone the way of medical leeching.
(Side note? All these years later, Target is still in my holy trinity of places to shop, only I’ve since replaced Trader Joe’s and IKEA with Whole Foods and Williams-Sonoma. Of course, the height of my Target obsession occurred when they briefly carried Origins, Kiehl’s, and Clarins products. That was, like, the best six-month period of my life. Except then all the boxes were eventually trussed up in antitheft devices, because people kept stealing them. I bet that’s why those lotions and potions aren’t there anymore. Too much trouble with all the locks and keys. Store management was probably all, “Yeah, we’ll secure cameras, computers, and iPads, but Creme de Corps? No.” So disappointing.)