When I was here yesterday, I bought a bunch of mums along with the pumpkins. In previous years, I’d set a pot or two out on the porch and call it done. But yesterday it occurred to me that by arranging mums around the dried grasses in all my planters, I’ve discovered an entirely new planting season.
This is huge for me.
I live for the spring, when I can finally chase away the dull grays of winter by filling my planters with pansies and hardy ivy. Sometimes the only thing keeping me from going all The Shining during the long, dark Chicago winter is imagining finally working in the garden again. Then summer’s even better when I’m not limited to designing with the most frost-resistant varietals.
But having the opportunity to redo my planters again in the fall?
I feel like I’m through the looking glass here.
After I planted my containers yesterday, I had a couple of extra mums. So I plan to take the stupid hollowed-out pumpkins from last night and, following Martha’s lead, use them as cachepots. I’ll toss in a couple of ornamental cabbages, prop them up on hay bales, and then scatter the whole display with a variety of gourds, and boom! #WINNING!
I’d hoped to circle the porch columns with big stalks of corn, but once I grab a couple of bundles, I realize the folly of this idea. I thought cornstalks would be light and airy, but they are not only ridiculously heavy, but also terribly cumbersome. After hamstringing a couple of unsuspecting Home Depot shoppers with my bunch (not entirely my fault; they were busy texting), I put the bundles back. Even though I parked close, there’s still too much potential for this project to go all Three Stooges.
I pay for my pumpkins and gourds and I’m loading everything into the car when I feel the first twinge in my abdomen. In retrospect, I probably should have stopped after the first ear of corn. Or doughnut. Also? The whiskey sours I made to appease Fletch last night aren’t exactly helping either. Guess I forgot to read the memo on moderation.
Michaels is just around the corner from Home Depot, so I’m sure I can get in and out and home before any unpleasantness.
Of course, that’s what I think every time I go to Michaels.
To preface what comes next, I readily admit that I’m on the wrong side of forty and I’ve never met a carb I didn’t like. I desperately need a cut and a color, and there are only so many ravages of time I can hold back with injectable cosmeceuticals. Also? I dress like a page from an L.L.Bean catalog, circa 1983. The sexiest shoe I own is a tasseled loafer. I’m aware that I do not inspire anyone to say, “I’d like a piece of that,” when I pass, unless they’re referring to the cake I’m carrying. Yet every time I step into a craft store with its subgenre of cat-sweatshirted, bowl-cut, non-hipster-yet-still-gigantic-plastic-glasses-framed patrons, I feel like Gisele-freaking-Bündchen.
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 d
oughnuts and hot cider.
Because that’s plain common sense.
By 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.
TRICK OR TREAT!
At 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.
As for me, the time has come to face my most personal of demons…the purchasing and wearing of a costume. I thought that a banana suit would be a hilarious choice, à la Arrested Development’s Gob Bluth, but the shipper couldn’t guarantee delivery until mid-November. Um, no.
Ironically, I pick an outfit inspired by my great dislike of doo-wop music. I find a complete fifties-girl ensemble that comes with everything from a chiffon scarf to a crinoline to puff out the poodle skirt. I make this choice because it’s about the only thing I can find that doesn’t have “sexy” in its description. Also, being plus-size severely limits my options, so it was this, sexy opera singer, or sexy pirate wench.
With the costume business under my belt, I can concentrate on the main event: the treats. Because candy was so important to me when I was young, I want to do something extraspecial for the kids who trick-or-treat at my house. Martha had wonderful plans for spooky sugar cookies and popcorn balls, but I’m not sure how homemade treats would be received, so I’m going the more traditional route of packaged candy.
The first few groups of customers will receive the most adorable custom treat bags, in their choice of witch or witch’s broom. I spend two hours putting them together, and they’re each filled with more than ten fun-size bars apiece.
Seriously, come on!
TEN fun-size pieces?
I’d have to go to ten houses for ten fun-size pieces as a kid! That’s an entire city block! And I still remember when I’d go to the cheap people’s houses and they’d give me a freaking peppermint or a single Life Saver. I put on Ace Frehley makeup for this? Or what about the guys who’d give out pennies, and not even a handful, just a single coppery (hateful) Lincoln? Are you kidding me? Why bother answering the door? Why not cover your windows in garbage bags, Mr. and Mrs. Whatever-the-Halloween-Equivalent-of-the-Grinch-Is? You and your crappy apple can kiss my moon boots.
Point? I kick ass. I’m going to own Halloween. And this makes me very happy.
My friend Joanna’s a dietitian, and she tells me when she first started getting trick-or-treaters years ago, she’d pass out Halloween-themed pencils and stickers, because she figured the kids were already getting enough sugar. As soon as she married Michael, he insisted on doling out proper chocolate, rationalizing that he didn’t want to spend the day after Halloween scraping jack-o’-lanterns and black cats off his car. He wasn’t wrong.
Because I feel a real karmic debt for shuttering my home for the past decade, I’m going all out and giving away full-size candy bars after the badass treat bags are gone. Heck, I still remember who gave me big bars almost forty years ago, so I love the idea of being the house that kids recollect fondly when they’re adults.
And…if full-size candy bars keep local kids from playing mailbox baseball at my house when they become teenagers?
Then all the better.
Such is my Halloween spirit that even Fletch participates. He dons his army-surplus gear and straps on his ridiculously realistic Airsoft BB guns with bonus ammo vest. He settles in at the dining room table with me to wait for the h
ordes of local youths hankering for ten ccs of Twix bar, stat!
I’m ready. Let’s rock this.
At four-oh-one, one minute into the official Lake Forest trick-or-treating hours, our bell rings. Showtime! Fletch answers the door while I dash to retrieve the tray full of booty. With my back turned, I hear the mailman gasp when Fletch’s body armor/arsenal pretty much scares the pants off him. Judging from the mailman’s reaction, I guess he doesn’t usually deliver certified letters to the fully armed.
Clearly he’s never carried mail in the city of Chicago.
Fletch then compliments the postman on his realistic costume and the guy doesn’t even laugh a little bit.
Pfft. No candy for you, pal.
While we wait for business, I anxiously rearrange my enormous silver candy platter. Why the hell do I feel nervous? I used to get tense when I was trying to dodge the trick-or-treaters, so afraid they’d catch me unprepared.
But today?
I couldn’t be more ready for them today.
The house is superfestive, the favors are bangin’, and we’re both in costume, with bonus positive attitudes! Fletch is particularly compliant because he’s secretly proud that his ensemble scared our feckless mailman.
He had me take a bunch of pictures of him in his costume and then posted them on Facebook, adding a caption on how he was dressed as an Army Special Forces guy, and not a Navy SEAL. He wrote that you could tell he was a Green Beret because his hands were in his pockets. I said that would make no sense to ninety-nine percent of the world, particularly since he wasn’t wearing a beret, but he promised me that his enlightened followers on Facebook would find that absolutely hysterical.
Um, yeah.
I’ll have to take his word on that.
(A week later, we see Stacey for my birthday and she compliments Fletch on his authenticity with the whole esoteric hands-pockets thing. He positively beams, completely unaware that she’s messing with him.)
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING Page 21