The Tao of Martha (6 page)

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.

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.

T
HE
T
AO OF
S
TEAK
K
NIVES

“Y
ou’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.”