How to Be Perfect Like Me Read online

  I am able to say, “No, I refuse to quit on us” and “Yes, I am staying right here” while we travel through it all. I say things like “No, I don’t like it when you stay up too late and watch too many documentaries about World War II. Yes, your knowledge of artillery and tanks is impressive, but you are totally grumpy. Cut that crap out.” And then, a few minutes later, “Yes, I love you. Always.”

  In fact, my nos are more prevalent than the yeses. Who would have thought?

  “No, I don’t drink anymore.”

  “No, I listen to myself first now.”

  “No, I am going to stay right here, with me.”

  “No. I will not ever, ever give up.”

  Say Yes or Nah?

  Just Say Yes

  1.The neighbor kids’ lemonade stand.

  2.Bell ringers. Make eye contact, smile, and give them your money.

  3.Any old movie that casts one or more of the following: Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne.

  4.“Dancing Queen” by ABBA. In any situation.

  5.When your cat interrupts your writing to come sit on your lap. When this occurs, you are achieving peak human. You shut your computer and commence petting. Always add an extra five minutes if there is purring.

  6.Long, weirdly detailed conversations with your children that occur when you are tucking them in and you are really tired.

  7.Charlie Brown television specials. Stop and watch. Do not move. I repeat. Do not move until done.

  8.Naps.

  9.Spending the birthday money that your mom still sends you even though you are an adult on a face cream that costs crackamillion dollars and smells like grapefruit and angels.

  10.Doggie kisses. Dogs never have weird motives or power issues; their kisses are pure. Their breath, not so much.

  Nah, Don’t Do It

  1.Spending that birthday money on groceries like you think you should.

  2.Volunteering for something that makes you feel all droopy or tense. Despite what the PTA might tell you, assisting with events that make you feel droopy and tense are not good for schools or families.

  3.Those time-shares when you have to listen to the guy talk first. Unless something about this gives you a secret thrill, which means you are a special type of person and I’m not sure I understand how to write for you.

  4.News shows where people speak like they’re not yelling at each other, but really, they’re totally yelling at each other.

  5.Conversations with my husband that start with “Do you smell that? Come ’ere.”

  6.Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I might catch some grief for this one, but my God, people. That color of orange is not meant for our insides.

  7.Points. From places like Walgreens, CVS, or Target. I probably have about five hundred thousand points all over the place. PetSmart. Lowe’s. Bob’s Bait Shop. Endless points and emails, and now they’re actually texting me about all the money I would save if I would come to their store and spend more money.

  8.Couponing. It’s only for the few, the proud, and the medicated.

  9.Flavor of Love. Not seasons one and two, though. Just season three. Total train wreck.

  10.Alcohol. When offered, I politely decline: “Why, no thank you. Last time I drank I ended up in Vegas with a tattoo of Condoleezza Rice on my face, and it takes like a handful of concealer to cover that sucker up.” And then, I smile mysteriously and saunter off into the sunset.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HOW TO

  cry

  AT A

  coffee shop

  So, this is my life. It is messy, and it is mine.

  Right now, I am holding a tiny black-and-white kitten with stubby legs on my lap, and we are conversing about life. When I walk past him later he crouches and wiggles his bottom, ready to pounce. His pounce is light as a feather, but I react in the same way I do when my kids high-five me: I overreact, and the kitten looks proud of himself.

  It’s a lovely little moment.

  And now it’s about five minutes later, and I realize I’ve locked myself out of the house.

  I blame the stupid kitten.

  I am on a writer’s retreat at a friend’s house. It’s a parsonage, next to a tiny little country church. Flowers and fields surround me, and I have three days to write, sleep, eat, and repeat. But right now I am staring at a door, my hand pressed to my lips in frustration, and tears fill my eyes. My computer, my writing, and my life are inside that house. And I am out here.

  The kitten saunters by, and I swear I see him shrug.

  I call two friends. They are not home. I search the gravel. I pace. I curse. This was supposed to be this idyllic, perfect weekend in which I finish my perfect book, and here I am, crying and sitting on dusty lawn furniture. It’s really hot, and evil kitten has now decided to take a dump in the grass in front of me. Such is my life.

  I start to plan. I could go find a hotel and some paper and a pencil. I could go back home. I could just sit here and cry and pet cats. There are many of them, and they have slowly been approaching me like cute little farm zombies, slowly stalking and surrounding me.

  I locate my wallet and car keys in the car because I have just been to the store. One must have certain provisions when writing, such as Froot Loops, peach-pear La Croix, and the ever-present Blow Pops. It’s about ninety-nine degrees in the car, but I slump in the seat, trying to figure out my next move. Nothing comes to me. So, I go sit with the cats, and they want to press their bodies up against me and purr, but it doesn’t help. I had one precious weekend to finish this book, and I am totally screwing it up. I am a miserable pile of misery.

  And here comes the self-talk, stomping through my head like a boorish marching band.

  “How could you do this?”

  “Why are you such a flake?”

  “What’s the point of writing a book about screwing up if screwing up makes you not write the book?”

  That last one makes my head hurt, so I kick some gravel.

  Finally, I remember to pray. I drop my head to my chest and I pray. “Please, Lord. Please. I’ve got nothing here. Can you please, please, PLEASE show me the key?”

  And then, I stand up, walk back to the car, the one I have already searched from top to bottom four times, and open the back door. And there, on the floor, is the key.

  I grab it. This is a moment. God is so good! I am going to finish the book! Everything is going to be all right!

  And then, I lean up against the car door and promptly lock my keys and wallet inside.

  Perfectionism is my way of combating fear. I fear that I am not enough. I fear loss or pain or rejection. I fear having to sleep in my car overnight because I lost my keys.

  Most of my fears tend to hang on to other people. This is pretty common unless you only fear sharks or spiders, which are totally legit but sort of one-sided. My fears bounce back and forth between me and other people, and I watch it all like some sort of neurotic tennis match.

  But after I’ve figured out who I am in all of this, I put down the racquet. The fears come and sit down next to me. We drink some water and maybe talk a bit. They don’t always offer a high five and say, “Well, I think we’re all done here! Great match! Cheerio!” and walk off into the sunset. It’s not perfect, but it’s better.

  When Brian arrives with the keys—after almost a two-hour drive—we sit out on the back stoop and watch our boys and the kittens. I lean up against him. Brian has joined the hipster brigade and has grown a glorious red beard. He looks like a Brawny ad, and he smells like coffee and bacon. The beard is still new, so I get to play the lovely game called “Hey! It’s a New Husband!” every time I kiss his scruffy face. This weekend, as he walks toward me from the car, I have forgotten he has one. So that is a bit of an extra thrill.

  I have missed him.

  I sigh into his shoulder, which is solid and warm. “I messed up. I’m sorry,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I don’t mind. We got to drive the Flint Hills. Nothing’s better than that on a S
unday afternoon.”

  “I kind of thought the book was doomed.” I gesture back to the house, where the book waits.

  “Nah. It’s just another chapter.”

  My boys come toward us. Henry is already covered in dirt and holding Tipsy, the little black-and-white one. Tipsy is special. He was born with a deformity that has shortened his legs, and he is also not the smartest cat on the block. But Tipsy has no clue about any of this. He lies back in Henry’s arms, squeaking at him. Henry still has his morning breakfast all over his shirt and face, and he has lost his shoes somewhere in the grass by the back shed. This is normal for Henry. Shoes are his nemesis.

  Henry looks down at Tipsy with total adoration, and I do the same with Henry. They are perfect.

  They are perfect not because of what they do. They are perfect because they are loved.

  Perfection does not lie in what we accomplish or feel or do. It is seated with the love that we give ourselves and others. Perfect love casts out all fear. To me, Henry is perfect. Charlie is too. And if I can so vehemently believe that for someone else, then it only makes sense to believe the same for me.

  Full circle. Again. My writer’s weekend is in the same town where my alcoholism started to really ache and grow. I migrate back to the same coffee shop where I used to nurse a hangover. Here, this weekend, I write about my life with all its blessings and its work and its ephemeral happiness. I write about enough-ness, which makes happy tears come. The hipsters stare, but I cry anyway. Soon, I will wipe my face, locate my keys, and head home. Once more into the imperfect breach.

  It’s a perfect ending to the continued beginning that is me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Acknowledgments are lovely and terrifying at the same time. Lovely because it is only through the help and wisdom and just plain spoiling of others that I made it here.

  Terrifying because I know I’m going to leave someone out. If I do, please know I am old and tired and just wrote a bunch of pages and it made my brain hurt and what’s next for me might be a nice home somewhere and soft foods. And whenever I say “You know who you are” in this—that’s you.

  I want to start by saying a big thank you to Central Recovery Press, and especially to Patrick Hughes, who had to field so many emails that started out like this: “This might be a really stupid question, but . . .” Bless you. Thank you so much for allowing me into the CRP family.

  Also, to the lovely and so very talented Janet Ottenweller, who actually and willingly read this book multiple times and managed to keep cheering me on. She is responsible for 90 percent of this book. I just wrote it. She made it shine.

  And thank you, Eliza Tutellier, for introducing me to this whole world of book publishing and helping me not freak out about it. You are a peach. A very calm and supportive peach.

  Thanks to Marisa Jackson for the best cover design in the history of cover designs. You get me and my vision. Which is very hard, sometimes because I am so weird.

  I want to thank my tribes. I have a lot of them. Amy and Jenna and Alissa—thank you from the bottom of my heart for your encouragement and coffee and love. And coffee. Always coffee.

  Christy. You are, quite simply, the wind beneath my wings. Sing it, girl.

  Meredith, Katie, BK—my holy trinity of faraway friends—thank you for being who you are. You have shaped me and connected me to all the things good in this world.

  Thank you, Marlene, Tina, Dawn, and Cindy for my daily God-shot.

  Thank you to all the women who are REAL. And hilarious. All at the same time. You know who you are.

  Thank you, BFB, for allowing me to vent, whine, shout, sing, and dance a happy sober dance whenever I please. You are always there, and it’s such a comfort. And thanks to my daily BFB gratitude group—I lurk; therefore, I learn.

  Thanks to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. You started this whole thing. You really are a Big Deal.

  Thanks to my church. You know me, and you love me anyway. And to Pastor Darrel, Pastor Jeff, and Pastor Jeremy, my three amigos? You teach me about grace and surrender. I owe you, big time.

  Thank you for my little twelve-step group. I love you guys. ODAT!

  I want to thank my sisters. Nobody gets it like you do. Jenni, Sherry—you mean the world to me, and I love you!

  Brian, you were the first one I wanted to call when I got my first article placed in a magazine for real money! Thank you so much for your support and your grace—more today than yesterday.

  Thank you to my boys, Charlie and Henry. Your momma loves you. Please don’t read this book.

  And, of course, Mom and Dad. Thank you so much for all the love, wisdom, and support. I love you so.

  God is faithful.