So I've been a subscriber to Martha's mag for several years—I think it all started shortly after I bought my house back in late 2002. I guess I figured I could turn to her for guidance on how to transform my dilapidated little mill cottage and half acre of refuse-strewn yard into a serene and productive retreat of fine living and good taste—a quaint and cozy dream home adorned with lovingly restored, reimagined, and hand-crafted furnishings and accessories and a sprawling garden of mossy stone walkways, bountiful veggie beds, and rainbow-hued swales of fragrant blooms above which butterflies and birds engage in a year 'round airborne ballet!
But it's not all wine & roses. My domestic bliss is more akin to a domestic Blitz—after a year and a half of marriage and more than seven years of ongoing household renovations, I've found myself utterly overwhelmed as I suffocate under piles of undone laundry while fur-covered dust-bunnies burrow a dark and tangled warren through my entire existence and dozens of unfinished projects stare me down day in and day out like so many mini Mount Rushmores carved into uncaulked crown molding, naked couch cushions, unhung art, unpainted doors, unfinished floors, and knobless drawers around every corner.
So how did I get here? My humble little house had undergone generations of redneck-rigged renovations & repairs that demanded undoing. I ripped up ancient & filthy shag carpeting, knocked down dust-encrusted ceiling tiles, tore out & rebuilt a kitchen & a bathroom, converted a closet to a powder room, peeled up vinyl flooring, pried off pressboard paneling, replaced the roof, hauled off dozens of truckloads of worthless rusty crap, built a patio and a retaining wall, established a somewhat productive kitchen garden, and got started on those blooming swales. Somewhere along the line I acquired and left a handful of different jobs; met & married the man of my dreams (who can claim much credit for the above-mentioned progress); became the proud parent of an adorable pooch; helped start a neighborhood gardening club; earned a Master Gardener's certification; and settled into a routine of quintessential domesticity.
Sometimes I look back to where I was a decade or so ago and wonder what happened to that girl? That freewheelin' twentysomething rock chick up all night to the tune of cheap rent and communal living. Making ends meet on concert promos and art reviews while subsisting on a diet of PBR and two-dollar burritos. I can't go back to those Salad Daze, and frankly, I don't want to—the Betty Page bangs have given way to gray roots and the disco glitter long-buried in my make-up bag would only crust over in my crow's feet. But I've found myself at an impasse as I hack my way through the disheveled jungle of my daily drudgery.
I guess you can say I've always been a Martha fan. My once-and-former roommates even referred to me as "The Indie-Rock Martha Stewart" in deference to my penchant for cooking, entertaining, and crafting. But it's not like I'm obsessed or anything. In fact, I don't think I even knew who the hell she was 'til I caught Ana Gasteyer's dead-on impersonation on Saturday Night Live some time in the mid '90s. I think it was the "Topless Christmas Special" that hooked me (I was going through an extended nudist phase back in those days and was all for anything that involved shedding clothes and flashing tits!). I don't own any of her books, I never really watched her shows (we don't get Fine Living Network on basic cable). But I am a writer by trade, which also makes me an incurable magazine junkie. Martha's subtly made-up mug would call to me from the racks in the check-out aisle and I paid cover price for many an issue before entering the ranks of landed gentry and having a legitimate excuse to splurge on a subscription. Martha's rag now rubs spines with The New Yorker, Country Living, Saveur, and my husband's Entertainment Weekly in our mailbox each month.
But Living has failed to inspire as of late. I've started to feel like Martha has become more about pimping her new line of glitter and jerking off over the ancestral estates of her aristocratic New England compatriots than guiding real people like me on a path toward the good life. My subscription runs out next month, and I'd pretty much resigned myself to severing our ties.
Breaking up is hard to do, and the mere thought of a life without Martha led me to some serious soul-searching. Maybe she hasn't failed me—maybe I'm the one who has failed her! So I revisited a couple recent issues and reconsidered every page with heartfelt interest only to realize that Martha has plenty to say to me—I've just been too lazy and complacent to listen! Hell, she even offers a monthly calendar so I can put myself in her shoes each and every day of the year—so I've vowed to do just that! I turn to Martha as my Beatrice, my guiding light of daily resolve as I stumble through this dark wood of dusty domestic chaos. I'm sure to cross through countless circles of housework Hell (I may even hafta sell my soul and acquire an ironing board!), but I hope to emerge with some level of calm-voiced enlightenment and a highly organized household to boot!
Thus begins my year of living Martha-ly.... I resolve to follow her calendar and adapt her recipes, craft projects, and practical advice to my everyday life for the next year. Of course there will be challenges and I have no illusions of perfection (I am not Martha, afterall). I don't have millions of dollars and herds of minions tending to me and my two New England estates—hell, I barely even have an income! What I do have is a half-time, work-from-home copyediting job; an overworked and underpaid husband; a quaint little home in need of lots of TLC; and plenty of unbroken ground in my back yard. This venture will be undertaken as practically and as frugally as possible without compromising my own lefty ecocentric politics, funky junk shop aesthetics, and in-the-toilet sense of humor.
More proletariat than patrician, I part ways with Martha somewhere halfway up the class ladder—she may have done time in The Big House for stock market scheming, but I was once arrested for skinny dipping. While she is of a distinctively New England pedigree, I wallow contentedly in a grit-tinged Nouveau Southern culture. And while Martha rubs elbows with the rich & famous on a daily basis, many of my fucked-up friends are way more interesting.
So stay tuned for a report on Day 1 of Living the Life of Martha....
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