Since I've been biking, I've discovered all kinds of pretty paths by my house, and I'm awed by the lovely things I've witnessed. One day, I got thisclose to a herd of deer hanging out next to the trail and later I had to brake for a family of ducks waddling across my path. I do take my phone with me when I ride, but not to monitor Facebook responses. Instead, I use it to track my mileage.

I'm really delighted to legitimately be able to cross off learn to ride a bike because it speaks to an accomplishment, minor though it may be. But, it's mine and I earned it and that is enough.

I'm still not buying bike shorts, though.

LIVING LA VIDA MARTHA.

The year 2011 blew goats.

Yes, I just made a Wayne's World reference because I'm all about the cla.s.sics.

To keep 2012 from following suit, I came up with a yearlong project in which I decided to live my life via Martha Stewart's dictates, spanning the domestic spectrum from cooking to crafting to cleaning. From apple cider vinegar to zucchini fritters, I quickly discovered that there's nothing Martha hasn't mastered, at least under the roof of one's house. My theory was that if I could whip my home life into shape, I would be a happier person.

Spoiler alert: Despite an almost pathological need to derail myself, my plan worked, but that's a whole different memoir.

In April of 2012, I'd barely scratched the surface of the Martha Universe, having tackled only some minor closet organization and one disastrous Easter party at that point, which had culminated in a couple of visits to the emergency room.

(Sidebar: Sometimes my learning curve looks more like a learning roller coaster.) One of the reasons I was so d.a.m.n crabby in 2011 was my frustration over not having had any traction in Hollywood. (What's my favorite wine? "But aaaaaaaall my friends have moooooovie deals.") In the very beginning of my writing career, I spent an entire day at my temp job fielding calls from film studios.

That was surreal.

There I was in a corporate real estate office, making twelve dollars an hour, sitting at a desk that wasn't even officially mine. I was just a.s.signed there until the real a.s.sistant who was out having knee surgery could come back. I spent my days looking at framed pictures of her family, using her stapler, and trying not to eat all the M&M'S in her jar. (Failed, FYI.) Yet for a very brief period, I also was using that full-time employee's phone (having been too broke for my own cell phone) to talk with producers who asked me questions such as whether I preferred to work with Reese or Jennifer.

Um, wait, which Jennifer? Aniston or Garner?

Guess what?

NOT PICKY.

Another spoiler alert? Nothing ever happened.

In terms of bucket list items, selling a book to Hollywood would have been at the very top of mine for many years, because I a.s.sumed that was my segue into wealth and power, or at least out of taking the bus to work. Yes, I liked the idea of cashing a Tinseltown check and finally bringing all my past-dues current, plus who wouldn't want to sit in a dark theater and see their name on the screen.

(Sidebar: If so doing happened to get back to everyone who went to my high school and called me a drama nerd? In your face, A-list. In your face.) Every morning back then, I'd wake up with the lines to The The's song "This Is The Day" in my head while I showered. I would hope against hope that this really would be the day that my life would truly change, and that this would be the last time I'd have to answer phones and schedule meetings for anyone other than myself.

I quickly learned that Hollywood operates on the basis of whatever is new is best, so I was the flavor not of the month but of the minute. I spent two more years fetching coffee and making copies as I built my writing career to the point I could quit taking temp gigs and write full-time.

I kept writing while waiting for Hollywood to call.

They never did.

So, when my film agent Tiffany called me out of the blue in April 2012, shortly into my Tao of Martha experiment, I never expected to hear her ask, "How do you feel about doing a show with Martha Stewart? Is that something you'd want?"

What kind of question is that?

She may as well have asked, "Would you like to have your high school waistline back?" or "Is it okay if Channing Tatum gives you a foot ma.s.sage?"

Yes, yes, and h.e.l.l, yes.

Tiffany had me write up a summary of the whole project, which began with what Fletch dubbed The Drawer of Shame, given that it was filled to capacity with free-range antacids, old dental floss, and broken hair bands. I also catalogued each and every Easter disaster, from the science behind what happens to a Reese's Cup left to incubate for three hours in a plastic egg in eighty-degree sunshine to my best tips for cleaning exploded yolks off the ceiling.

Over the next few months, Tiffany tried to entice Martha's team to come on board, and meanwhile she hooked me up with a talented screenwriter named Austin. Austin took the concept of the Tao of Martha and turned it into a sitcom, using portions of my life for inspiration.

He showed his first draft to his production team and they loved the idea of someone trying to improve her life by living via Martha's rules. Unfortunately, they hated everything about the condescending, egomaniacal, self-centered, smart-a.s.s protagonist, so he had to change the "Jen" character into a single mother who was younger, thinner, and nicer than me, with bonus bigger b.o.o.bs, and who was not named Jen.

Again, in theory this was fantastic, but I had other things on my mind.

In September, two significant events occurred. First, we lost Maisy, and such was my love for this dog, I thought my heart would never mend. I'll always look to Martha as being a sort of salvation at that time. Not only did throwing myself into Martha-type projects help me manage my grief, but in the second stunning turn of events, Martha herself agreed to costar in the sitcom.

(Sidebar: We also adopted Hambone in September. This is significant in that her arrival marks the last day of my ever having clean carpeting.) What happened next was so surreal that to this day it feels like a dream. Within a couple of days of Martha agreeing to be part of the show, meetings were scheduled with the heads of all the networks. And on the day Tiffany, Austin, Brian Grazer of Imagine Entertainment, and Martha herself were going from ABC to NBC to CBS to FOX to pitch the Tao, I was . . . picking up Hambone's p.o.o.p in the dining room.

That night, I learned both NBC and FOX wanted to buy the show.

If there was a better word for surreal, I'd use it here.

I celebrated by having dinner with my lunch girls, and then going home to pick up the fresh deposits that puppy Hammy had left in the living room.

For all the years I'd fantasized about how a Hollywood deal would revolutionize my life, I was surprised at how nothing had actually changed, particularly the part where my dogs shat with abandon.

Ultimately, the show didn't even get a pilot. The networks buy dozens of scripts each year and film only a handful of them. Even fewer of those ever make it to the air. So, though I was disappointed to not see my name on the screen, what really b.u.mmed me out was that America would never hear Martha Stewart say the line, "Glitter is the STD of the crafting world."

A moment of silence for this loss, if you will.

Ironically, the Hollywood option process doesn't pay off unless the product is made, so in the end, I came out with less than one mortgage payment. This would neatly explain why all my contemporaries who do have "moooooovie deals" are still doing their own grocery shopping.

But hey, I was now on Martha Stewart's radar, and that was a very good thing. Right before Christmas, my publicist Craig told me that the Today show wanted to feature Martha and me on the day the book came out!

"What do you mean?" I asked, clearly confused. "Like, she'd be there?"

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Isn't that great news?"

"And I'd be there?"

"Yes."

"In person, right there, with me next to her on the couch? Spitting distance."

"Please don't spit on Martha Stewart."

"I would never!!" I cried. "Well, not intentionally. I think I might get spitty when I'm really excited. Anyway, she'd be close enough to me that I could reach over and touch her. Like, if I were wearing terrible perfume, it would offend her. Or if I forgot my deodorant, she'd know. Real live-in-person BO," I clarified.

"Correct," he replied.

"If I showed up in a chambray shirt and khakis and cut my bangs so they'd be side-swept, she'd see all of that because we'd be on the couch together?"

"That's generally how Today show interviews work."

"Oh, my freaking G.o.d!" I exclaimed, the magnitude of his news finally sinking in. "I'm gonna tell EVERYONE."

Craig said, "Except that you can't tell anyone because the producers don't like information to get out before the fact. You'll have to keep this quiet until it happens."

"I have to sit on the secret of the greatest thing to ever happen to me for six months?"

"Yes. You up for it?"

"I guess we'll find out," I replied, truthfully.

Here's the thing about me and secrets: We are matter and antimatter. There's virtually no secret that I've ever been told that I didn't inadvertently blab within twenty-four hours of having heard it. I don't know what's wrong with my brain when I hear, "You can't tell anyone," because I interpret that as, "You must tell EVERYONE." I'm a plastic liter bottle and secrets are sixteen ounces of fresh soda having been given a vigorous shaking.

I can't stress this enough: I am not to be trusted.

Not only are confidences bound to come out, but they'll actually burst out of me with great velocity, spraying everything within fifteen feet. I never mean to be a gossip and I want to be honorable, but I'm profoundly terrible at keeping my yap shut. When people ask me, "Can you keep a secret?" my answer is always an overwhelming NO. I beg others not to share their clandestine news because I am truly the worst.

With the kind of willpower I never thought possible, I manage to keep my fat mouth closed until May when Today comes to my house to film a Cinco de Mayo party. The five months I stayed quiet were the longest of my life and I've never been happier than the day I'm able to spill each and every bean via Evite.

The one wrinkle in prepping for the party is the discussion about moving the sectional in the living room.

"We should vacuum under it," Fletch says.

"Are you high? Have you started taking The Drugs?" I ask. "We have ten thousand more items on the To-Do list and you want to dismantle heavy-a.s.s furniture?"

"What if the producer wants us to move the couch to set up a shot?"

"Then we'll explain that it weighs eight tons and if they want it moved, then they should send some guys."

In the end, Fletch wins the debate, pulling out an "I insist." Having been together almost twenty years, some of them during very stressful times, we've learned a few tricks to keep problems at bay. One of them is the measured use of the "I insist." In the midst of an argument on whether or not to do something, a partner can end the discussion by saying "I insist" and the other has to comply. The theory behind the "I insist" is that the invoker is saying it because he/she believes it's for the greater good, which means no one can argue once this card has been played. We each get a couple of them a year, so we're quite judicious in doling them out.

The other great trick is to ask the question, "Do you want me to problem-solve or do you want me to sympathize?" when the other is upset about something. This question is the equivalent of a marital air bag; it cushions any impact. Master this step and I promise it will prevent a large portion of the misunderstandings that cause fights. For example, you might be mad that your coworker Judy is always trying to take credit for your ideas. And you know it, and you're handling it, but you're still p.i.s.sed about it. What your spouse/s.o. won't realize is that in offering you a solution, he's made you feel like he doesn't value your ability to deal with the sitch on your own, even though he's actually trying to be helpful. Because that's how guys operate. They see a problem; they come up with a fix. Really, all you want from him is to say, "Boy, that Judy sure is a thunderc.u.n.t. And she looked h.e.l.la old at the Christmas party." Train each other to clarify what you each need and you can get back to the important business of being a happy couple.

In regard to the "I insist"-Fletch is indeed right, because when we dismantle the couch for the first time since moving in, we find three years' worth of pet fur, an entire constellation of peanut M&M'S, six tennis b.a.l.l.s, twelve half-chewed rawhides, ninety-four cents in nickels and pennies, and one Chinese food container, with the sweet and sour cup fused to the bottom of it.

How do we not have ants?

A couple of hours later when the film crew shows up, the first thing they do is pull apart the couch. If we were keeping score, it would read Fletch: 1, Jen: 0. (But don't keep score, because you can be happy together, or you can win. Pick one.) I head to New York in June to kick off the tour for the Tao of Martha. Joanna comes with me to have fun for a few days in the city and hold my jangly bracelets during interviews.

(Sidebar: Mindy Kaling describes "best friend" as being a friendship tier and not a singular person. Mindy Kaling is wise beyond her years.) When we arrive at the hotel, I discover that the air-conditioning doesn't work in my room, so there's a big scramble to repack and move rooms before I have a phone interview with USA Today. I'm winded and frazzled as I chat with the reporter, and I'm so off my game that I begin each sentence with, "Oh, G.o.d, um . . ." as I catch my breath and collect my thoughts. (Later, my answers show up word for "Oh, G.o.d, um" word in print. Shameful.) None of my stammering matters when I get to tell the reporter that I'm going to be on Today tomorrow with Martha herself! I figure I can officially blab because when I set my TiVo this morning, I clearly saw both our names on the show's listing. I gush on and on about how much I love Martha and how I'm probably going to make a d.a.m.n fool out of myself tomorrow, sobbing happy tears the moment I spot that familiar chambray shirt.

I can't believe my "meet an icon" is about to happen! I could not be more excited. In my career, I've gotten to say h.e.l.lo to a couple of famous people, but that's not the same as meeting Martha freaking Stewart. What I've always wanted has been an actual conversation where we look each other in the eye and exchange ideas.

Knowing I'm so close to the finish line, I can't help but obsess. I wonder what Martha thinks of me? I hear she has a wicked sense of humor. I wonder how she feels about the finished product? We sent her some copies about a month ago and I'm on pins and needles about her response. I wonder if she'll even read the book. I heard through the grapevine that she liked the concept and that she was amused that she was kind of acting as a G.o.d for me. But because I didn't witness this directly, I have no way of discerning her opinion.

But I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

Joanna and I are primping for an early dinner when the phone rings.

"Hey, Jen, it's Craig." Craig's always so positive and upbeat that I'm immediately concerned when I hear the hesitation in his voice.

"What's up?" I ask, my stomach clenching.

"There's been a scheduling change. Martha can't make it tomorrow, so they're moving your segment."

"To when?"

"Wednesday or Thursday. They're doing some rearranging right now."

"Oh," I say, blood returning to my cheeks. "That's no big deal. I'll just see Martha then." I've had a lot of time to think about our meeting and what I could say. I'm planning to speak with her about her pets. She's as much of a fanatic as I am when it comes to cats and dogs, so I'm curious if she has any idea how to better housebreak Hammy.

He sighs. "I'm actually not sure. The producers weren't able to confirm or deny."

"But we have to be on together. I've told, like, everyone now. I just went on and on to USA Today on how I was going to meet her. I thought because it was on the TiVo guide that I was able to finally tell people."

"Maybe you should stop mentioning it. You'll definitely be on, but her portion may not yet be nailed down."

Oh.

OH.

Hold the d.a.m.n phone-I see what's going on here! They're pulling the ol' takeaway. All of the footage they've filmed is essentially me geeking out over the idea of finally getting to shake her hand and tell her I luff her, so to not have us meet would be cruel and unusual punishment and they wouldn't do that to me.

This is a cla.s.sic Ellen show ruse. You know how she'll have a segment about a really lovable kid in a wheelchair who wrote to her saying how much he wants to visit Disneyland but he couldn't go because his church's minibus isn't handicapped-equipped, so he did his second favorite thing that day, which was to watch her show? And Ellen is so touched by the story that she brings the kid on to give him a set of mouse ears personally? And the kid's so ecstatic that he has tears in his eyes? And Ellen's like, oh, wait, forgot something, and then she enlists Luke Perry's help to pull back the curtains to reveal a handicapped-equipped bus that she's gifting to his church and says that he'd better hurry up and hug Luke Perry because he and his church friends are about to take their new bus to the happiest place on Earth? And then everybody has tears in their eyes?

They're doing this for me. I'm sure of it. Granted, I've done nothing to merit an awesome Ellen-like surprise, but maybe the fact that I will freak the h.e.l.l out over having Martha show up when she's not supposed to will make for excellent television, so that's their plan.

(Minus the Luke Perry, even though I'd have definitely chosen him over Jason Priestley back in the day.) Except Today didn't realize that I'm clever and that I'd be on to them. They're going to expect the big, ugly, baby-with-an-oatmeal-bowl-on-his-head cry, but I'm not about to end up on The Soup with my over-the-top reaction. I mean, yes, I want to demonstrate my excitement, but in a way that's cute and not horrific, especially for those watching in HD.

What I'll do is practice. I have a day or so to nail this, so over the course of dinner with Joanna, I demonstrate my surprised-but-attractive expressions for her. We determine that I have limited range of motion around the eye area due to the Botox, so I have to supplement with opening my mouth in shock. Ha! I told Fletch that replacing all my metal fillings with porcelain was an investment that would eventually pay off!

We decide the open mouth isn't enough and add a move where I clutch my hands to my heart. I feel like the jangly bracelets will make the chest-clasp more dramatic, so I plan to wear them instead of having Joanna hold them. Joanna raises the question of what if Martha's actually not coming, but surely that can't happen, so I don't even entertain the notion.

I'm ready as can be on Wednesday morning. I verify with the TV listings that I'll be on with Martha and I'm ready to go. This isn't my first trip to Today, so it's not officially on my bucket list. A few years ago, I did a segment where I drank wine with Hoda and Kathie Lee and it was everything I ever imagined it could be. (One would have been tempted to not bother starting a list after that, because what could be better?) I'm not even nervous because I'm too full of joy. I continue to play it off that I don't know what's about to happen next, while I'm downstairs in the green room having my makeup done. Regular-people guests like me wait it out in the upstairs green room, whereas the celebrities get their own little mini-dressing-rooms behind the makeup area. I see that all the doors are closed and I'm convinced that Martha and Co. are behind one of them.

Although I don't run into her downstairs having my makeup touched up, I do b.u.mp into Paula Deen on my way up to the Loser Lounge and we have a lovely conversation with lots of quality eye contact. I make her laugh, so automatically I find her taste to be impeccable.

This is approximately three weeks before everything goes sideways for Paula. When the story breaks, I don't know how to react-I have trouble reconciling her terrible, hurtful words with the lovely woman in the green room who calls me a "hoot," so, looking back, I can't consider counting her as having met an icon.

Plus, that's about to happen in fifteen minutes.

I'm on set with Savannah Guthrie, who weighs as much as a lacrosse stick and I try not to envision our looking like the number 10 while we talk. The pretaped portion rolls before our live interview and I can barely pay attention. I'm sitting to Savannah's left, so the whole time, I'm keeping my right eye on her with my left eye toward the back of the studio. Halfway through our conversation, I see a statuesque, seasoned blonde enter the back of the room. I can't make out her face, but her general outline is very, very familiar.

YES!.

THIS IS IT!.

THIS IS HAPPENING!.

We continue our interview, and I keep waiting for Savannah's flash of recognition or sly nod to the camera, indicating that now is the time, but it never actually comes.

The segment ends, she thanks me, and that's it.