That's it? How is that it?

And how come the statuesque, seasoned blonde is . . . not Martha? Martha, where are you??

Okay, I'm devastated that I didn't get to meet her. But she's still indirectly responsible for helping me turn one of the worst years of my life into one of the best. She was my guiding force, even if it was the idea of her and not her herself. That has more value than any brief interaction we might ever have.

If I've learned anything in my forty-six years, it's to keep pressing past a disappointment, because there's always something better on the horizon.

I decide to keep the goal to meet an icon, as this can still totally happen. I don't know who it will be, but I'll try to look surprised when it does. (That practice was not for nothing!) I consider adding fully housebreak Hambone to the list, but I don't.

Because n.o.body can perform that kind of miracle.

NOT THE BULLs.h.i.t, JUST THE GOOD s.h.i.t.

The fact that I'm b.u.t.t-hurt over Martha doesn't stop me from listening to her show on Sirius radio. In fact, I suspect the one who's truly b.u.t.t-hurt is Martha herself, as she's recently lost her dedicated station and instead now has only a couple of hours on the Starz channel.

Cough *karma* cough.

I have no specific proof of Martha's said b.u.t.t-hurtedness here, yet the fact that she eats her lunch while on the air is a heavy clue. I'm not kidding; she doesn't even try to hide the fact that she's chewing. I'm sure there's a legitimate explanation, like she's broadcasting from her test kitchen and is so busy that she must sample items between commercial breaks. Still, it's disconcerting to hear her through a mouthful of what sounds like a pecan chicken salad croissant.

I'm listening to Martha while I'm out picking up supplies for our annual Fourth of July party. Hopefully this will be an improvement over last year's redneck, white-trash, hee-haw showdown, considering it's not a hundred and five degrees, I'm not allowing Fletch to serve Dew Drivers (Mountain Dew and vodka), and most important, I'm not completely panicked over having a dog in the specialty clinic's intensive care unit.

Between jaunts to the grocery store and Costco, I get a real piroshki vibe from the sound of her chewing. I think I hear chives.

A person by the name of Thomas calls in to the show, but when Martha takes the call, the voice belongs to that of a woman. Across the satellite waves, I can actually feel the thousand-yard stare she's inevitably pointing at her call screener.

So fired.

However, the screener got it right-the feminine-sounding Thomas is indeed a young man, and he's calling in to ask Martha about fun Fourth of July games he might play with his family. Giggling, he explains that he has a high voice and that people often confuse him for a girl.

I certainly can't discern someone's s.e.xuality over the radio, and even if I could, it's not only none of my business, but also no big deal, so I won't speculate on Thomas's preferences. Say what you will about all the sharks that the program Glee has since jumped, but that show has done so much to demonstrate the beauty of different and I'm glad. For all that annoys me about kids today, I love that they're growing up in a world that won't tolerate intolerance.

As for Martha?

Well, she's not letting this voice-thing go. She spends what feels like half the time on the phone arguing with this sweet kid over whether or not he's actually a girl. In my head, I imagine her suggesting he play "pin the tail on the f.a.ggot" because I doubt she's read the time-to-stop-using-hate-speech memo.

Maybe that's how I'm dealing with my disappointment-imagining the worst of her.

Regardless, I decide I need to run more errands because when Martha's on a roll, I don't get out of the car.

Her next call is even more astounding. A college girl's moving into her first off-campus apartment and she wants to make it cute, so she asks Martha about inexpensive ways to decorate because she doesn't want it to be all futons and bookcases made of stolen milk crates. Now that's a ma.s.sive climate shift since I went to college. If you and your roommate had coordinating comforters, you two were basically Tom Ford for Gucci. My contribution to being fancy back then was to keep my posters in their original plastic wrap.

I suspect this new emphasis on design for everyone is due to HGTV. Mind you, I adore HGTV and had it on twenty-four hours a day before we bought our house, which is why we didn't run into too many snafus along the way. We knew to look past some highly unfortunate wallpaper to see our home's fine bones and true potential.

Fletch and I recently started watching Love It or List It during dinner because O'Reilly makes me too shout-y. Except this may not have been the best idea because now we both end up yelling at the television. Personally, I always thought of Canada as a fine place, all toques and Timbits, really a kinder, smarter, more polite version of America, but now? Now I'm not so sure. How is every single home owner surprised that their c.r.a.ppy hundred-year-old row house has foundation damage? How did they not have that place inspected before they closed escrow? And designer Hilary is trying to help you, you ingrates, so maybe you shouldn't holler at her when she discovers the kind of wiring that will incinerate everything you ever loved while you sleep, even if that means you can't have a second-floor laundry room. You're still close to transit, so you'll live.

Literally.

Not long ago, there was one episode where the house had essentially given the home owner cancer because of long-term exposure to asbestos, but after they updated their kitchen, they were all, "It's okay now, eh?" and decided to love it.

What?

YOUR HOUSE TRIED TO KILL YOU! MOVE, YOU STUPID CANUCK.

(In all fairness, I imagine the home owners on Love It or List It are to Canada what Honey Boo Boo is to America, but still.) Anyway, the college girl pings Martha to see what she might suggest in terms of furniture and Martha comes back with one of the most myopic, out-of-touch, let-them-eat-cake answers I've ever heard.

Martha says, and I swear I'm not making this up, "Why don't you shop at Pottery Barn?"

Pottery Barn.

b.i.t.c.h, I'm not only a grown-a.s.s adult, but I've written eight New York Times bestselling books and that's still where my very nicest stuff comes from.

I'm in my car, flabbergasted, when Martha remembers her sponsors. Almost by default, she throws in, "You could also buy your furniture at Macy's."

I'm sorry; has Martha never heard of IKEA? Or Craigslist? Or Etsy? Or outlet stores? Or consignment shops and yard sales? What kind of terrible advice is this? Is she suggesting that this girl fork over her parents' hard-earned USD so she can buy a couch that will be splattered in Jell-O shots and frat boy emesis the very first week? How is this a good idea?

Does Martha honestly expect the kid to use her student loan money, so that she ends up paying monthly for her Charleston Roll-Arm for the next fifteen years? And if she were to somehow miracle a Pottery Barn sofa into her apartment now, what's left for her to strive for? Desiring better seating was my driving force for years after college. All I wanted was the Fight Club epiphany that I'd finally taken care of that whole seating issue. I understand the student may not want to live with a Dumpster couch, but surely there's a happy medium between the sublime and the ridiculous.

I spent all of the Tao of Martha trying to find a way to out-Martha Martha and I came up completely empty-handed. Granted, I definitely improved my quality of life, but I never came close to achieving the Pinterest-perfect lifestyle to which Martha subscribes.

Yet I sense an opening here, a flaw in The Martha's grand plan, if you will. Is there a way to maybe show Martha up? To prove her advice wrong? How hard could it be to decorate a college apartment on a shoestring while still providing visual appeal?

A while back, my friend Angie told me about this chalk paint that allows the user to transform furniture without benefit of sanding or priming. I guess it has grout in it? After we'd discussed the product, I looked to see if I could find it on Amazon, but they didn't carry it. As I trend lazy when it comes to nonessentials, I gave up the notion of repainting a couple of my ugly end tables before I even began. But now there's a potential quest involved, so I put a pin in this idea, deciding to circle back as soon as I finish preparing for an extraordinarily cla.s.sy Fourth of July party.

Or not.

And P.S., I hope Thomas and his loved ones have the best holiday ever.

This stupid chalk paint is harder to procure than I thought and it seems really expensive-thirty-five dollars for what looks to be about a pint! Strike one. However, according to the Annie Sloan Web site, this is enough paint to cover one hundred and fifty square feet, which, according to my stellar math abilities, I estimate will coat my entire house. What's annoying is I'd have to go down to the city to buy it, since products are sold exclusively in interior design shops. Strike two.

The only reason I'm even considering heading to Chicago is that I'm trying something new. Instead of ordering whatever I need on Amazon Prime and having UPS bring it to me like so many monkey butlers, I've decided that it's better for me to actually leave the house to procure items. I've been trying to make small changes to my lifestyle in terms of diet and fitness, so I figure anything that forces me to park and walk is a good move.

Earlier this week, I went to the Habitat for Humanity ReStore after reading about it on a design blog. I heard that they stocked a variety of items that people chuck when remodeling their homes, so I wanted to see for myself. My goal was to find an inexpensive piece of furniture I wouldn't mind ruining before I slopped paint on what I already own. I found a hideously stained coffee table, but it had decent lines and was made of solid wood. And at twenty-five bucks, the price was right. I was willing to take the loss, but I figured on the off chance that this worked, I could use this table instead of waiting for Pottery Barn to finally, finally restock the Carolina Blue one I'd been saving for/l.u.s.ting after.

With Martha on the radio, I travel to buy the paint, double-checking that the lid is on tightly before I drive home. As a.n.a.l as Fletch is about not eating in the car, I can't imagine his reaction if I accidentally dumped a hundred and fifty square feet of paint all over it.

I bring my supplies down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, which, to this point, has been entirely Fletch's domain. He's nice enough to set me up with my own workbench, yet not so benevolent that he doesn't immediately begin to second-guess the process.

"Why aren't you sanding?" he asks, hovering behind me like he's my boss and I'm a ditzy teenager on my first day behind the register at Dairy Queen.

"Because I don't have to, according to the label."

"That doesn't sound right. You're not priming, either? The paint's never going to stick."

"No, I'm pretty sure it will. The paint's supposed to be miraculous. Look, it says right here, 'It's paint for girls but boys can use it, too.' I realize that sounds s.e.xist, but I don't care if it means I can avoid the boring, labor-intensive parts." After a vigorous shaking, I pry open the lid. The color is that perfect bluish-purple of the sky on a cloudless July day. I brush on a section and step back, already delighted with the results.

"You should really try to paint with the grain," he says.

"The instructions say it's fine to go in all directions," I reply. "If you had your way, you'd spend six incredibly exacting weeks to do what Annie Sloan promises will take an afternoon."

"I prefer to do a job right."

"Uh-huh." Ignoring him, I continue to cover the awful table with quick dabs while Fletch continues to supervise.

"You realize this violates every single rule I ever learned in high school shop."

I finally set down my brush and face him. "Hey, Hank Hill, are you going to let me do this myself or not?"

He makes a low, flat humming sound, which I a.s.sume is an affirmation. As he walks away, I opt to play some music to m.u.f.fle his almost palpable wariness. I'm about to pull up my usual eighties pop/new wave gym mix, but reconsider, deciding I want to try something different. After all, I've been meaning to cultivate a new playlist, so I begin to thumb through the stations on Sirius. I see that Kool Moe Dee's "Wild Wild West" is playing on BackSpin, an old-school hip-hop station. I've never been much of a rap fan, save for Fletch's NWA and Public Enemy downloads that somehow got mixed into my playlist. However, this particular tune comes with so many fun memories attached. The second I hear the opening notes, I'm immediately taken back to when I waitressed in a college bar and didn't even have to report for my shift until eleven thirty p.m. When I close my eyes, I can practically smell the intoxicating combination of Aqua Net, Budweiser, and Polo. I can't remember how I felt about the song back then, but it's definitely hitting the spot right now.

I paint in time with the music, pleased at how energized I feel.

Next up is Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock with "It Takes Two." Again, not something I'd have normally picked, but I'd forgotten how this was a Breakfast Club anthem, which was when the Purdue bars would open at six a.m. on home football game days.

Worst Idea Ever or Best Idea Ever?

As I recall, it was both.

Memories of swilling fuzzy navels out of a giant pitcher while dancing on a table in my bathrobe rush back as the song hits the chorus. I wonder what College Jen would think of me now, opting to paint in the bas.e.m.e.nt in lieu of chugging margaritas poolside?

LL Cool J goes back to Cali next, and he's followed by a Run-DMC song called "Down with the King," which I've never heard but I instantly love.

At this point, Fletch wanders over. "Since when do you have decent taste in music?"

I bob my head in time. "This is good, right?"

"Yes," he confirms. "Turn it up."

We spend the rest of the afternoon working on our projects and listening to BackSpin, which is only made a thousand times better at four p.m. when I discover the Ed Lover Show on this channel! Party music makes the time fly by and before I know it, I've not only painted the whole table, but also aged and distressed it with wax and sandpaper.

I can't get over the results.

I call Fletch over to inspect my handiwork.

"Am I biased, or does this look professional?"

He walks around my whole workbench, turning the table this way and that way, running a fingertip over the glossy finish. He finally says, "This shouldn't have worked. This is all wrong. This goes against every principle of woodcraft."

I'll take that as a yes.

At some point over the next month, inexpensively rehabbing furniture becomes less about proving Martha wrong and more about hanging out in my bas.e.m.e.nt, spinning the kind of old-school tunes that are entirely new to me. How did I exist in the decade this music helped define and never pay attention to any of it?

Every time I find myself inadvertently tuning in to my usual playlist, I realize I can't "Melt with You" or "Take on Me" one more time and switch back to BackSpin. Much as I adore the whole channel, Ed Lover's Show is my favorite. I adore him. I do. I thought he was great on MTV, but I have so much more respect for him now. He hit hard times after he peaked with Yo! MTV Raps Today and he's honest about them. Now he's working as a DJ again and he's both happy and humble, so listening to his show is a true pleasure.

When we were in Savannah, Trenna complained about my choice of the eighties channel in the car. She said, "I did the eighties once. I have no desire to do 'em again." At the time, Joanna, Kathleen, and I were all, "Blasphemy!" but now I finally grasp what she was saying. Loving something during my formative years doesn't obligate me to keep carrying that same torch my whole life. I'm not disavowing my own past by moving on.

The day I realize I recognize a very young Lil Wayne's voice performing with Hot Boys is the day I cross the discover new music entry off my list.

Because I'm not currently on deadline, I have a break in my schedule for the first time in a couple of years. I write a television pilot called This Is Why We Don't Have Kids. In retrospect, I should have called it This Is Why You Won't Sell a Screenplay. But I believe you're not a "real writer" until you have a failure stuffed in your desk drawer, so . . . congratulations to me?

However, my reward for meeting my day's page count has been to spend the evening in the bas.e.m.e.nt, working on new pieces. Or should I say old pieces, because I'm bringing home some real junk. I'm talking water stains, chips, scratches, and flat-out breakage.

Here's the thing, though-even trashed, a lot of what I run across in thrift stores is a thousand times better made than what's brand-new and ma.s.s-produced at places like Pottery Barn. With some digging, I can find solid cherry or mahogany furnishing with dovetail joints, fine lines, and brilliant details like antique toe caps. Plus, I hate the idea of these pieces ending up in a landfill. So, with time, elbow grease, and creativity, I've been able to create the kind of furniture I bet that college kid would kill to have in her apartment.

As no one loves a makeover more than I do, I'm having the time of my life with the hunt for inexpensive items. Wisconsin is my new favorite place on Earth because they practically give you a rickety dresser for free the moment you cross the state line. Not kidding.

Painting furniture definitely counts as my new hobby. Although I'm pleased to check this off my list, what's so much fun is breathing new life into what had been garbage. As it turns out, my author friend Beth Harbison is equally enamored with chalk painting. Her theory is that as creative people with a very long production schedule, writers naturally love being able to take a project from start to finish in a matter of days.

Fletch is so pleased about my new hobby that he's ceded half the bas.e.m.e.nt to me and built me a tiered set of shelves for my cans of paint. Of course, both our work areas are getting squished due to all my finished pieces because I don't actually have anywhere to put them upstairs. But I'll figure out something to do with them.

For now, I've completed two items on my list, I own more end tables than I'll ever need, I have music that keeps me stimulated and a hobby that keeps me moving, plus I've discovered the smug sense of satisfaction of having finally, finally gotten one up on Martha.

And that's a great thing.

ITALIAN FOR DOUCHE BAGS.

"How goes the list?" Stacey asks.

Fletch and I are out to dinner with Stacey and her doting husband, Bill. Bill's a real Southern gentleman, always opening doors and pulling out chairs for her. He's exactly the kind of man you hope your friend will marry, even if you're more of an "I can open the d.a.m.n door myself, thanks" kind of gal. Stacey quickly got used to being spoiled and once in a while when we ride somewhere together, I have to poke my head back in the car to say, "Let yourself out, princess."

Stacey and Bill spend most weekends at her family's home up north, which isn't that far from us, so we've met up at a nice restaurant in Libertyville, a town that's halfway between the two places.

I reply, "Considering we're always talking about having dinner here, but this is the first time in almost three years that we've actually done so, I'd say pretty good."

I recently added say yes to friend face-to-face time to my bucket list when it dawned on me that I was allowing social media to take the place of a social life. All of the tweets/Facebook/Instagram/Tumblr/etc. can make it feel like I'm among pals, and the give-and-take can be amusing and engaging, but I've come to realize this isn't "real" and there's no subst.i.tute for actual interaction. The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can't subsist on it.

Back in Chicago, Stacey and I lived within walking distance for four years. Our long-standing joke was that we never actually walked to each other's house, but we appreciated having the option. I used to see her all the time, like if one of us was running to the grocery store, we'd call the other to tag along. Plus, we had weekly luncheons with the girls and our usual Wednesday night Bravo date, where we'd get together to watch housewives or hairdressers or chefs yell at one another, depending on which show was on. The best part was, she was always up for an adventure. Sometimes our adventures entailed going to the cobbler to have a pair of boots reheeled or dropping off dry cleaning, but still.

Stacey and I grew so close because we were in each other's house almost every day, whether she was bringing over an extra piece of banana cake or I was stopping by to return her meat thermometer. Couple proximity with zero children and a million shared interests and, bam!

Best friends forever.

It's not that I don't equally adore all my friends who have kids, but it's a challenge to book time with them because they're so busy. Spontaneity flies out the window the minute one buys their first car seat.

Now my home is twenty-five miles north of Stacey, which means sometimes I can be at her house in half an hour, unless there's traffic, in which case it takes an hour and a half. I've gone from seeing her almost every day to once a month if I'm lucky.

I miss Stacey, and sitting here across from her, I can't imagine why I'd ever have taken a pa.s.s on getting together.

"Well, then, cheers to your yesses!" She raises her gla.s.s of wine and we all toast.

"Cheers to this not being Irish dancing," I say.

A few weeks ago, right when I began to Say Yes, Joanna mentioned that she was heading up to Milwaukee for her daughter's Irish dancing compet.i.tion. She was sure I'd decline, but figured since she had to drive past my house anyway, she'd extend the invite.

When I told her I wasn't allowed to say no, she was delighted. Did I want to spend my Sat.u.r.day surrounded by little girls with oddly curled wigs and way too much red lipstick? No, but neither did Joanna. The most important part of friendship is being there during the times that are boring, annoying, or hard.