The Tao of Martha (33 page)

I park and enter the store. My stomach, or possibly an intestine or two, registers its displeasure. I feel something cramp low in my belly. Okay, I’ve got to make this quick.

I’m committed to using Martha’s specific brand of glitter (girlfriend don’t put her name behind no dogs), but her stuff isn’t located with the rest of the tubes of shimmer. Why? Why wouldn’t all the glitter be in one place? That’s nonsensical. (Not as nonsensical as disliking Abe Lincoln’s face, but still.) As a matter of fact, very little about this store makes logical sense. Similar items are spread across as many as three different aisles.

While I prowl the store in search of sparkles, a thin sheen of sweat begins to bead on my upper lip. That’s when I notice that the channel’s been changed on the in-store radio station. I’d been listening to the dulcet tones of Taylor Swift a moment ago (love her; shut up), but now they’re playing an absolutely horrific doo-wop station.

Ugh.

Mind you, I’m neutral on most types of music. My issues arise not because of genre, but because of personal-space invasion. For example, I actually kind of love old-school rap like Eazy-E, unless you’re idling in front of my house with “Gimme That Nut” thumping so hard my walls vibrate. Then? Not so much. So I don’t mind most music, save for Norwegian death metal…and anything doo-wop. There’s something about greasers and four-part harmony that makes me want to slap babies.

Doo-wop is audible waterboarding for me.

Play me one verse of “Duke of Earl” and I’ll happily provide the Taliban with the code for the nuclear football.

I pick up the pace on my Hunt for Red (Glitter) October while the singer on the sound system muses on who may have put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong. What could this possibly even mean? Was some A and R guy all, “Yes, I love this track, as long as you also sing about putting the bom in the bom-bo-bomp-bom-bomp, too.” How was this song ever a hit? I thought no one in America started doing drugs until the late 1960s.

The torturous music has definitely lit a fire under me to finish my errand posthaste. While I unsuccessfully navigate around be-sweatshirted cat ladies, my digestive tract begins to protest in earnest. You! Beatles-bangs! Move!

I’m desperate to shout at the slow-moving crafters about finding a damn sense of urgency already, but truly, there’s nothing inherently urgent about the home candle-making process. Plus, these women aren’t doing anything wrong by taking time to browse, unless not getting out of my way is considered a crime. (Someday, though, amirite?)

I finally find the glitter display and I double over with another cramp. While I’m bent down, I begin to toss in every vaguely harvest-related color I can find, along with glue and brushes, because basic principles of gastroenterology dictate that I need to get out of here sooner rather than later.

I clutch my stomach with one hand and my shopping basket with the other and I race to the checkout counter.

Bad things are happening down there.

Very bad things.

(Is this my karmic payback for disliking Abe while living in the Land of Lincoln?)

As I approach the cash register, a cache of cat ladies swoops in right
in front of me. Normally I’d not let this kind of aggression stand, but I feel like my body is a live grenade right now and someone’s already pulled the pin. One false move (or one bit of officious voice raising) and I’m going to have to dispose of these pants.

My whole lower half twists and I feel like I’m having a contraction, about to deliver the Worst. Baby. Ever.

To distract myself, I flip open my iPad. Tracey’s sent a group e-mail to all the girls to see how their weekend is going. She tells us she’s snuggled up with Maxie watching football, while Stacey and Bill are having a wonderful time at their family retreat. Gina’s still recovering from a fancy event the night before. I reply, “In line at Michaels buying sparkles. Kill me now.”

I’m almost to the front when a woman with glasses the size of salad plates begins to quibble about a coupon for yarn. No! Nooooo! Stop! Please! I’m not sure how much longer I can clench. It’s only fifty cents! I beg of you, let me cover the difference!

About. To. Blow. Five, four, three, two…

That’s when I think to myself, “This is how pride comes to an end. This is how dignity dies. My hubris is about to shart itself at the craft store to the tune of ‘Yakety Yak’ while I am buying glitter paint.”

Fortunately, that’s when the Silhouettes’ “Get a Job” begins to play and my entire body seizes up from all the hate. The only force more powerful than what’s about to befoul the checkout line is my passionate abhorrence for the lyric “Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip / Mum mum mum mum mum mum / Get a job,” so I manage to hold everything together. I throw a wad of bills at the cashier and then sprint like Jackie Joyner-Kersee to the car. I drive the four miles home like I’m piloting the Batmobile, while praying hard to the Patron Saint of Green Lights.

Exiting the car without incident is touch and go for a second, but by Kegeling everything from the bra down, I’m able to narrowly avoid ignominy. Thus, I’m able to keep my favorite pants.

I can offer no Tao of Martha principle related to practicing moderation when it comes to fresh doughnuts and hot cider.

Because that’s plain common sense.

B
y the time I sit down with all my crafting materials, my attitude has devolved. Glittering is the path of least resistance, yet I’m grumpy and my stomach still hurts.

My plan is to cover the six smallish pie pumpkins with three colors of glitter as quickly as possible. In the
Martha Stewart Handmade Holiday Crafts
book, she uses gold, bronze, and champagne-colored sparkles. Her display is perfect on the page, but come on, when isn’t it? I imagine my reality will pale in comparison, but I’m committed to at least trying.

Now I’m supposed to brush glue on one side of the orb, and then let it dry for an hour before attempting the other side. So I diligently get out my glue and start working. I’m not thrilled with wasting my night on this, but it’s far less labor-intensive than carving, so here I go.

On the pumpkin-sparkling segment of Martha’s show, she holds her pumpkin by the stem at the exact moment she reads the cue card and tells the audience that’s the wrong way to hold it when applying glue. She laughs and shrugs and it’s all adorably self-aware. But my takeaway is, if she can grasp the stem without incident, then so will I.

Works like a charm.

Then I grab the champagne-colored offering and begin to sprinkle. A little bit goes a long way and coats the glue completely. I sit back to cast a critical eye on the results.

Um, is it just me…or is this thing
freaking gorgeous
?

Wondering if this result may be a fluke, I continue to paint the first half of all the pumpkins, arranging them on the drying surface shimmery side out.

I stand back and appraise again.

This is not a fluke; these are incredible!

What were a bunch of boring old pie pumpkins ten minutes ago have been transformed Cinderella-style into something dazzling and elegant. How can a few shiny bits of powder so change the look of something? I’ve never in my life been interested in glitter before, but suddenly all the sparkly things in the universe make sense, like drag queens and participating in
Toddlers and Tiaras
.

I planned to address these six items and be done, but the plan has changed. As I transform each gourd, I feel borderline euphoric. I must have Sparkle Stockholm Syndrome, because now I have the overwhelming desire to glitter-spackle
everything in my kitchen
.

I collect the apple-size pumpkins I’ve scattered on shelves throughout the first floor and I coat them all in glue before dousing them in white glitter. The effect is that of sugared fruit, and I love it so much I want to hug something.

I grab Hambone, who’s sitting next to me begging for gourds. (FYI? Three weeks after the fact, she’ll still be shimmery.)

I’m awed by how such a tiny amount of effort and a few cents’ worth of materials have so altered the gourds’ appearance for the better. So now I’m on a mission.

Last week, I’d topped my mantels with decorative gourds, but now I round them all up for their shine coat. In addition to the sparkle powder, I also bought a clear glitter paint that leaves everything with a glossy sheen of iridescence. I line up my dozens of minigourds and get busy.

Three hours later, my work is done.

Yet I’m finished only because I ran out of items to which to add sparkle. (Fletch gave me implicit instructions not to glitter any of his
stuff. I know; I asked.) The aftermath of the project has left the whole kitchen shimmering like fresh snow on a bright winter morning. Libby and Hambone are twinkling like a Cullen in the sunlight. The floor between the table and counter gleams like the Yellow Brick Road. Personally, I’m shinier than Ke$ha right now, and I have so much glitter in my lungs that my breath is phosphorescent.

But I don’t care, because I positively adore the end product.

Okay, Halloween.

Game on.

T
RICK OR
T
REAT!

A
t the last minute, I decide that the mantels full of gourds and hay bale–and-cachepot-strewn steps aren’t quite festive enough.

If I’m channeling Martha—and I believe that the glitter opened that gateway—then I’m committed to doing things up right for the trick-or-treaters. So I decide to decorate the front hallway, too.

I find creepy old black draping online and I spread this spooky, holey fabric across the tops of the hall bookcases. Then I adorn them with realistic crow and rat figurines and I
cover the wall on the way into the dining room with big black paper spiders. Even though they’re only two-dimensional, they stop my heart every time I come down the stairs. The paper arachnids made Fletch yelp the first time he saw them, so I can verify they’re totally bank.

(Yes, I’m still trying to make “bank” happen.)

I also spread some of that awful spiderweb stuff you always see on people’s bushes, but it’s so sticky that I quickly abandon its use. Later, when I catch Hambone not only taking a dump in the laundry room, but also tangled in a cloud of webs from the banister, I’m glad of this decision.