{"product_id":"the-tao-of-martha-isbn-9780451417640","title":"The Tao of Martha","description":"\u003cb\u003eOne would think that with her impressive list of bestselling self-improvement memoirs Jen Lancaster would have it all together by now. One would be wrong. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter all, she’s no Martha Stewart. And that’s why Jen is going to Martha up and live her life according to the advice of America’s overachieving older sister—the woman who turns lemons into lavender-infused lemonade. By immersing herself in Martha’s media empire, Jen embarks on a yearlong quest to take herself, her house, her husband (and maybe even her pets) to the next level—from closet organization to party planning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe Jen can avoid food poisoning if she follows Martha’s dictates on proper storage. Maybe she can rid her workout clothes of meatball stains by using Martha’s laundry tips. Maybe she can create a more meaningful anniversary celebration than getting drunk in the pool with her husband. Again. And maybe she’ll discover that the key to happiness does, in fact, lie in Martha’s perfectly arranged cupboards and charcuterie platters.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Jen Lancaster\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A modern-day, bawdy Erma Bombeck.”—Lisa Lampanelli, \u003ci\u003eNew York Post \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A laugh riot.”—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She’s like that friend who always says what you’re thinking—just 1,000 times funnier.”—\u003ci\u003ePeople \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Readers will find it easy to root for the frank and funny heroine of this winsome, whimsical tale. Lancaster’s downright fun novel is chick lit at its best.\" --\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jen Lancaster has a sense of humor as sharp as the teeth of those little alligators on her beloved Lacoste shirts.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Charlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Scathingly witty and lots of fun.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A perfect summer read.”—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rapier-sharp wit.”—Joshilyn Jackson, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Details] what it’s like to be large, in charge, and totally hilarious.”—\u003ci\u003eMetro \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A bittersweet treat for anyone who’s ever survived the big city.”—Jennifer Weiner, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The woman is nothing if not spunky.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The funniest new author from the blogosphere.”—Jessica Cutler, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Washingtonienne \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJen Lancaster\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of eight books inluding \u003ci\u003eHere I Go Again\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eJeneration X\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eIf You Were Here\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMy Fair Lazy\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePretty in Plaid\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBright Lights Big Ass, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSuch a Pretty Fat. \u003c\/i\u003eShe has appeared on \u003ci\u003eToday\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Behar Show\u003c\/i\u003e, and NPR’s \u003ci\u003eAll Things Considered\u003c\/i\u003e. She resides in the suburbs of Chicago with her husband and their ever-expanding menagerie of ill-behaved pets.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eONE \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eResolved\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWelcome to Holiday Central! The candles are lit, the Christmas carols cranked, and the buffet is laden with each of my best dishes—pasta with Bolognese sauce, of course, short-rib ragout, Italian brisket with rosemary horseradish, both Caprese and kale salads, the kind of antipasto platter that would bring Mr. Frank Sinatra himself to his knees, a traditional three-meat lasagna, and a roasted-red-pepper version, because my friend Julia “doesn’t like cow.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe desserts I’m serving require their own separate table, stacked high with apple pies from the elegant Farmer and Blue owl (an Oprah’s “favorite thing”), Kahlúa cake, and ten varieties of homemade Christmas cookies.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe wine’s flowing, the guests are mingling, and all the dogs are dancing around in their festive jingle-bell collars wearing perma-grins because ain’t no table scrap like a party table scrap ’cause a party table scrap don’t stop.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(Ten points for you if you caught \u003ci\u003eThe Office\u003c\/i\u003e reference.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe house itself couldn’t be more festive. Each mantel is decked with piles of greenery and lights, and the tree is so big and lush, it takes up a quarter of the living room. Outside is a veritable winter wonderland, with enough LED strings to almost, but not quite, cross the border into \u003ci\u003eChristmas Vacation\u003c\/i\u003e territory. I’m overcome by the miasma of Fraser fir, San Marzano tomatoes, and the spicy cinnamon tang of the rose hips in all the potpourri bowls.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the dining room, a couple of guests are laughing so hard that the walls practically shake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is the perfect holiday dinner party.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd yet all I can think is, \u003ci\u003eGET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLet’s take a step back—we have wonderful friends and we love entertaining. We bought this house (gun cabinet notwithstanding) because we knew it would be the ideal place for gatherings both great and small. When we left the city, we moved away from ninety-five percent of our social circle, so every time our peeps actually RSVP yes, we’re thrilled to have the opportunity to host them. Plus, tonight’s extraspecial, because our buddies Beef-free Julia and Finch are up from Atlanta.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe problem definitely isn’t the guest list.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe problem is that my ambitions are greater than my abilities, so in order to get this shindig together, I put in three eighteen-hour days in a row and now I’m freaking exhausted. As I watch dirty plates stack up and wineglasses multiply, I just feel weary. I don’t have the energy for this, and that’s so not like me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou see, this has been a rough year. Not in a huge, job-loss, death-in-the-family kind of way. More like in a poor-little-you, \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e fashion, except with a solid marriage and no road trips.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStarting in January, things systematically began to go wrong in a plethora of small, exasperating instances. Death by a thousand cuts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI experienced professional setbacks and the consequences of business missteps, then a series of minor yet incredibly stupid and slightly debilitating health-related issues. (Did you know your ears are full of tiny crystals and when they slide out of place, they will \u003ci\u003emess you up\u003c\/i\u003e? Believe it.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eover the course of this frustrating year, checks didn’t arrive when they were supposed to, deals fell through, and this summer we lost power practically every other week, which was an added stressor when I was attempting to meet a book deadline. Seemed like anytime something had the potential to go wrong, Mr. Murphy showed up. He and his damn law can kiss the fattest part of my ass right about now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn February and March, we had to put down our two oldest cats, and then we lost Gus, Chuck Norris, and Odin to an escape attempt. We eventually rounded up all our stray felines, thank goodness, but it was a rough few days. Gus has especially been a jerk ever since we finally captured him again and brought him back inside, registering his displeasure on the curtains in the family room. He’s all, “How ya gonna keep me down on the farm after I’ve seen Paree?” (Sorry, pal. Ranking mammal making the decisions here.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know, \u003ci\u003eI know\u003c\/i\u003e . . . why don’t I run around Italy eating all the pizzas and gelato and then the world can feel extrasorry for me when I give myself a tummyache before I go live on the beach? (Perspective . . . perhaps I should get me some.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMake no mistake: This is first-world bullshit right here. We’ve been through far worse, and I weathered those events with more grace and dignity. Possibly some swearing, but with much more aplomb.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBack when times were darkest, after we’d both lost our jobs and Fletch was racked with depression, I managed to find little ways to be happy. I had to, for my own sanity. Maybe we’d go for a walk, as much for fresh air as for a respite from the constant call of bill collectors. Yet while we’d stroll our slumtastic neighborhood and fret about our future, I’d still stop to smell all the just-bloomed lilacs and be instantly cheered. Now I live securely in a lovely community, but instead of rejoicing in my own lilac bushes, I’ll grouse about the encroaching buckthorn. That’s all wrong.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo many people, including friends, are currently dealing with \u003ci\u003ereal\u003c\/i\u003e issues—illness and job loss and problems with their children. I watch the news and my heart aches for those who are truly suffering. I haven’t earned the right to throw myself a pity party, and I need to buck the hell up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat really aggravates me is that Fletch and I have worked so hard over the past ten years and made so many sacrifices to get to this point in our lives. I’m furious with myself for allowing ridiculous little things to have an impact on my happiness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIs it really a big deal that the customer service agent was rude to me?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIs the world going to end over a minor disappointment?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd why on earth do I give a shit about what some stranger says about me on Facebook?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDidn’t I used to have a thicker skin?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYears ago, when some guy called me a fat bitch on the bus, I laughed in his face and then turned the experience into the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling memoir \u003ci\u003eSuch a Pretty Fat\u003c\/i\u003e. What happened to me? When did I become such a delicate flower? I should, in the words of Clark W. Griswold, be whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” out of my bunghole every day, but I’m not, because I’ve allowed little things to throw me offtrack.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIs it because I’m just so stressed over my beautiful pit bull Maisy? After meeting Fletch, this little girl is the best thing that ever happened to me. We adopted her back when I’d lost my corporate job in 2001, and her presence in my life changed everything. I fell so deeply in love with her that I became a writer in order to have the excuse to stay home with her every day. Maisy’s in no way perfect herself—she’s bossy, she’s officious, she’s spoiled, she’s lazy, she defies authority, and she pouts when she doesn’t get exactly what she wants when she wants it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePretty much she’s \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA couple years ago, she was diagnosed with mast cell tumors, and the oncologist gave her six months to live. Of course, Maisy’s ridiculously stubborn, and you can’t tell her a damn thing she doesn’t want to hear (again, \u003ci\u003ehello\u003c\/i\u003e); ergo she’s defied every odd thus far. Her doctor uses her as the best-case scenario to comfort other families with sick dogs. Yet I can’t ignore that she’s not strong like she was before she got sick. She had her second surgery earlier this month—this time for melanoma— and was so weak afterward that her doctor said we should hold off on new rounds of chemotherapy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYet the good news is, the mast cell tumors haven’t returned. And since we adopted our other pit bull Libby last year, Maisy’s spirits have never been higher.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMaisy adores having a mini-me and lives for an audience. She leaps out of bed every morning to roll around and scratch her back, thrilled at the prospect of a new day. And the fact that the biggest downside is that she can’t yank so hard on the leash isn’t the worst thing in the world. Back in the day, she could pull me over in three seconds flat. My unskinned knees don’t miss that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYet despite all her positive progress, every time she coughs or sneezes or lingers in bed, I envision the worst-case scenario. I run to the emergency vet like people run to the store.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause of all of the above, I just want this year to be behind us, and I figured the easiest way to do that would be to ignore the holidays. Back when we were broke, we routinely skipped Christmas, so it’s not like we’d be blazing new territory here.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFletch was on board with me...until a couple of weeks ago, when he realized he wasn’t. He decided instead of skipping Christmas, we were going to flip all of 2011 the bird by ending the year in style. And that’s what we’ve done.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow the lights are up, the presents have been exchanged, and the house is full of food, friends, and fun. It’s a hundred percent festive up in here. I should be on my knees, thanking god for all His blessings. Yet all I can focus on is how I’m going to be stuck doing dishes until three thirty a.m. For everyone’s sake, I need to improve my attitude in 2012.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I miss them.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Me, too.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFletch and I are sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts, and bemoaning the departure of Julia and Finch. They had to take off at the crack of dawn to get down to Julia’s parents’ house in St. Louis.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen they arrived earlier this week, my mood was so foul that I almost ruined my own party. But it’s patently impossible to not be happy in their presence. our fine moods last well into the evening, and we’re both extrachipper while watching New Year’s eve programming.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo, we didn’t go out.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA word about New Year’s eve?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI would rather receive a Pap smear from Captain Hook than venture out on New Year’s eve.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’d rather time-travel back to junior high and give a speech clad in nothing but a fez in front of the mean girls who used to hassle me on the bus.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(Quick aside? My chief tormentor now gives pedicures in a salon next to the county jail in my old hometown. Sometimes karma looks a lot like OPI’s Lincoln Park after Dark.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s something that feels so incredibly lonely and self-defeating about all the forced gaiety of New Year’s eve, like if I’m not out there having the very best time, swilling the most champagne, tooting the loudest noisemaker, wearing the most-spangle-laden dress, then I’m somehow failing. It’s not that I hate parties and frivolity—eleven years of college is proof positive of that—but I’m enough of a contrarian to balk at the notion of Mandatory Fun. I don’t begrudge anyone else their merrymaking, but it’s not my bag, baby, at least not on December 31. let’s see: all the amateurs who throw down only once a year, those same amateurs hitting the roads later, and hyperinflated prices for shitty service and watery drinks? or couch time and Carson Daly?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI choose Carson. All the way.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe watch as Carson interviews people in Times Square about their resolutions. “What do you resolve for 2012?” Fletch asks. He’s smirking, because he knows the only thing I loathe as much as NYe is being questioned about my resolutions, particularly by people I don’t know. What do I resolve? To find a Starbucks where the baristas are less chatty.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI yell at the screen, “How about this for a resolution, Carson? I resolve to not disclose personal information about my hopes, dreams, and inadequacies on national television.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elook at them all—they’re cold and it’s loud and they have to pee in Porta Pottis and weirdos are using this as an opportunity to furtively press their junk against the unsuspecting. I simply don’t get it. You, right there in the giant plastic 2012 sunglasses? Some pervert just tea-bagged you and you don’t even know it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd you in the sparkly dress? You’re going to wake up with a stranger tomorrow morning, having received the gift that keeps on giving. (Herpes.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow about you there, dressed as Baby New Year? A) You’re going to get frostbite, and B) there’s no way your wallet’s not falling out of your diaper. When you’re shivering your way back to the Bronx tonight with nothing but your banner to keep you warm, you’ll regret the decisions that led you there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe square is so crowded that all these dummies can barely lift their arms every time they squeal, “Woo!” at the camera.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs I mock and judge, it occurs to me that I can’t recall the last time I spontaneously lifted my arms and shouted, “Woo!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wonder if I’ve done it once in 2011.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlthough, as much as I have to say that I hate 2011, this year wasn’t entirely worthless. In so many ways, I got my shit together. After living in a state of arrested development for most of my life, I finally buckled down, making a concerted effort to behave like an adult.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike, I have insurance now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo much insurance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeveryone has auto insurance (except for anyone driving around tonight, of course), but I also invested in life insurance, homeowners insurance, a supplemental umbrella policy for what homeowners insurance doesn’t cover, flood insurance, mortgage insurance, long-term disability insurance, pet insurance. . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI should be the happiest son of a bitch on the planet with all these levels of protection.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd yet here I am.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWelcome to Crankytown, population: me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wonder if, in trying so hard to be grown-up, I didn’t somehow overshoot my mark. By working diligently to be my most responsible me, did I quash some of my own natural propensity for joy? Is it possible that I’ve lived through years that were far worse than my current season of Sorority-girl Problems, and that I never noticed because I was a perpetually grinning adolescent?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis bears further examination.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s too bad no one sells happiness insurance,” I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hmm?” Fletch glances over at me with a puzzled expression.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Think about it: We have every protection known to man, yet I’ve still had a miserable year. If someone sold happiness insurance, I could fill out a claim and, much like Stella, get my groove back. otherwise, why would I have paid all those premiums to Big Insurance?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wasn’t aware your groove was missing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYes. This makes perfect sense.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI continue. “Here’s the thing about this year: I’ve failed at having an attitude of gratitude. I’ve not come at my life from a place of yes. I’ve not chosen \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe gives me the whale eye. “You been watching Oprah again?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wave him off. “No, no, she went off the air in May. I did like her, though, but I always had some trouble really connecting with her advice. She was all, ‘live your best life!’ and ‘Chart your vision board!’ but there’s nothing actionable, you know?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFletch pauses Carson and his Conclave of Bad Decisions. “What is this ‘vision board’ of which you speak?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI explain. “You’re supposed to imagine something you want—like when I wanted to be a writer. To help me visualize my dream, I was supposed to clip out images of what inspired me. Maybe I’d have pasted pictures of Jennifer Weiner and David Sedaris and swimming pools and bookstores in between pom-poms and sparkles.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’s dubious at best. “So it’s a craft project.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No. Well, okay, yes, a little bit, if you factor in the glitter and rubber cement. But I know tons of people who said doing vision boards helped them.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yet even without a vision board, you became an author.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI nod. “True dat.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Never say that again.” even Maisy manages to look disgusted with me. “let me ask you something: How does sitting around clipping pictures from a magazine advance your goals?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI scratch Maisy’s ears while I consider my answer. Apparently I have pleased her, because she curls her toes and burrows in closer to me, forcing most of my right butt cheek off the couch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWorth it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI reply, “Can’t say for sure, because I never tried to make one.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe snorts. “Yeah, you know why? Because you were busy actually \u003ci\u003etrying\u003c\/i\u003e to be a writer. You were writing. You were reading. You built a blog audience. You learned your way around nascent social media. You were putting in the effort and not just sticking pictures on oak tag.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“True da— \u003ci\u003eAhem\u003c\/i\u003e. True enough.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFletch slips into Professor Fletcher mode, and I suspect he’s two seconds away from pulling out a whiteboard. “Okay, you want to be happy. You want 2012 to be a better year. What’s your plan? What’s going to change? What tangible thing can you do to alter your circumstances?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Whoa, slow down! I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Maybe you should.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh, yeah? Your year sucked, too. Maybe \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e should think about it,” I retort.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have and I’ve made a plan. Happiness guaranteed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “Really? What are \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e going to do? How are you going to manifest a better year?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf he’s got the inside track on an improved way going forward, then I’m all ears.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m going to grow a beard.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s it? That’s your home-run swing?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes. Besides, it’s easier than growing a jawline. I decree 2012 to be the Year of the Beard.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI roll my eyes and click play on the DVR, getting back to Carson and the teeming, grinning masses. “Whatever.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStill, a beard’s more tangible than a vision board.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo there’s that.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305288650981,"sku":"NP9780451417640","price":31.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451417640.jpg?v=1767741785","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-tao-of-martha-isbn-9780451417640","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}