How to Be Perfect Like Me Page 2

  For those of you who don’t have children yet and believe you are immune, there are two problems with this thinking: (1) Adults often act like toddlers—and they are at your workplace right now—so you are still screwed. (2) There is a direct correlation between any sort of superior, parental attitude and how totally inept your kid will be once he or she comes barreling out of you. If you dare think, “Well, my kid will clean up, blah, blah, blah,” you’ll get socked with a kid who won’t with such skill you’ll think you’ve given birth to a baby sloth. You’ll even catch yourself checking under his arms for moss.

  Initially, after my kids came along, trying for order and control seemed so hard that I gave up. I shrugged and decided to wade into imperfection with an “I’m just gonna let it all hang out” attitude on overdrive. It was a really slow-moving, hazards-flashing, mediocre overdrive, but still. This apathy lasted long enough for me to kind of go crazy. I think it happened the day I found half a mini-Snickers in my couch, under some cushions, and I looked at it long and hard before I decided to throw it out. There was gray fluff all over it, and I was turning it around in my hands like some sort of chocolate-covered artifact that might be edible. I wasn’t even hungry. Oh, no. Slow-moving, lumpy mothers don’t get hungry. We’re too busy eating our kids’ gnawed-on leftover cheese sticks for that. And, at that very moment, I considered eating the fluffy Snickers because that was the best method of cleaning it up.

  It was a wake-up call. I shook myself and decided that I had to speed up, fly right, get in gear—insert any other transport industry metaphor you can think of. This I did like an infantry tank, mowing over anything in my path and hunting down any sense of control possible. Even the cats weren’t safe from my frenetic pace. I was vacuuming out the couch and poor, hapless Steve happened to amble by. Steve does not fear the vacuum, or much else for that matter, but on this occasion it became his flaw. He ended up lying on his side, looking at me as if to say, “Really? It’s come to this?” as I vacuumed his large, fluffy, white tummy.

  By the way, this kind of back-and-forth behavior is called the Nutball Pendulum of Despair. It means you either will end up being hospitalized or should run for office. Take your pick. And raising your children puts all that oscillation on high speed.

  Recently, after a long, rather forgettable Saturday of endless nothing and laundry, I made a mediocre pasta dinner and three huge bowls of buttery popcorn, and we all sat down to watch Stuart Little. And as I sat there with my boys on either side, eating popcorn for dinner and ignoring the pasta, I realized this was awesome. It had been an awesome day. Also, it had been a totally uneventful day. Somehow, those two things were linked. There had been no major mishaps, no crying, and at the same time, no big plans. There had been food and water. There had been twenty-seven games of Crazy Eights. It hadn’t gone down as the most memorable day ever, but that’s good. That’s what made it good.

  That’s what made it perfect.

  I like to think that perfection is elusive because we are looking in the wrong place. We must shift our focus. Instead of looking for perfection in ourselves and others, all we really need to do is look someplace more realistic—like the movies.

  How to Be Perfect in Five Easy Steps

  1.Start by rolling enormous rocks up steep hills.

  2.Run a lot. Run to the store for organic things. Run forgotten lunchboxes back to school. Run, smile, and wave.

  3.Silently watch your six-year-old attempt to tie his shoes with only two minutes to get to class. Make no sudden moves. You’ve got this.

  4.Watch a lot of HGTV, especially the shows about transforming a split-level ranch into Downton Abbey. Wander around your house a lot afterward.

  5.Peer at yourself in the mirror, preferably one of those magnify-the-heck-out-of-your-pores kinds. Repeat as necessary.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HOW TO

  stop buying

  ALL THE

  self-help books

  I’ve seen Showgirls. In fact, I’ve seen it twice. And one time, I was even sober.

  For those of you who don’t know, Showgirls is a magical little movie in which Elizabeth Berkley shows us all of her skin while simultaneously tanking her career. You remember Elizabeth Berkley, don’t you? The spandexed teen star from the television show Saved by the Bell? She also plays the superachiever in Showgirls, but this time she is a feisty dancer with a dream. This dream involves becoming a showgirl—thus the title—in Las Vegas and snarling at anyone who gets in her way. Also, a whole lot of body glitter is employed. And yes, I really can’t explain how I ended up sitting through this movie twice.

  However, I have to hand it to Elizabeth. I get her. I also would have liked to hand her a cardigan because she had to be chilly; she wore string and glitter for 80 percent of the movie. And the thing is, the movie . . . it’s awful. The whole thing is simply terrible. But all through it, Elizabeth overacts her tiny, glittered butt off. In one scene, she yells at her boss after he calls her, quite accurately, a stripper. “Hey!” she barks. “I am a DANCER.” There is enough fiery indignation in her words to almost set her teeny-tiny feathered costume alight. She is committed.

  This is how I want to live my life: when everything around you is falling apart, and the script is laughable, pretend you’re a showgirl. Own it. Put on some gold eyelashes and wrap a feather boa around you and start shimmying.

  I am a lousy mom at times, but I still hear Elizabeth and her insistence and I echo it. “Hey! I am a MOTHER,” I exclaim as I get the kids to school five minutes late, and one of them has his pants on backward. “Don’t you know who I AM?” I snarl as I offer something brown and sticky for dinner. “I am a MOM, and this is MY rodeo. Now, eat. Later, I will let you watch too much television, and one of you will overhear me using questionable language. And that’s just fine. Know why? BECAUSE I AM SLAYING IT HERE.” Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy.

  I admit this kind of attitude takes a lot of energy. There are times when the recitation of my lines does not quite have Elizabeth’s verve. She wears short-shorts with cowboy boots, for Pete’s sake, a look no one over thirty-five can pull off unless it’s Halloween. Even then, it’s debatable. Elizabeth is young, and she has really good abdominal muscles. I am not so young, so at times I lose my conviction. But I press on. “I am a mother,” I mutter as the boys behave like feral cats at the grocery store. “I am slaying it here,” I sigh as I toss sugar-coated Sucrose O’s into the cart.

  The Showgirls system works. It really does. Case in point: I embraced my inner Elizabeth Berkley when I was newly sober. Early sobriety was pretty much an opportunity for me to fail on a minute-by-minute basis, but for some reason, Showgirls pulled me through. “Hey! I am SOBER,” I proclaimed as I passed by twenty thousand liquor stores on my way home from errands. “I am IN RECOVERY,” I said as I strutted past the gleaming bar in front of our local restaurant, trailing glitter behind me. I would often pair all these dramatic exhortations with jazz hands and a few hip thrusts, just to keep it interesting. No one will mess with you when you turn down a glass of wine and then drop to the floor, do a twisty spin move, and stare seductively.

  Okay, granted, most of this was in my imagination, but whatever. I now dial up the Showgirls system whenever I am lacking in confidence. If someone asks me what I do for a living, I don’t pause and stammer and say, “Well, I write, but just sort of as a hobby, you know? And I have cats.” Now, I prance forward in five-inch Lucite heels and growl, “Me? I am an AUTHOR. Remember this face, sweetie, because I am gonna ROCK your nighttime reading routine, you got that?”

  Intensity, paired with a strong denial of reality, really will carry you through.

  When I was in my early twenties, I worked at a bookstore. And since the universe likes a good laugh, I was awarded the self-help section. I think the people who come looking for self-help books are way too rooted in reality.

  Shelving the self-help section helped me understand that there are a whole lot of problems out there—more than I ever
thought possible. It’s sort of like when I turned forty and needed to up my moisturizing routine. One trip down the beauty aisle at Target, and I found out my face has a lot more problems than I ever knew.

  I spent the first few weeks in self-help reading my way through every possible bad thing we feel, think, or do. At the end of that month, I decided there should be self-help books for those who read too many self-help books. And yes, I realize, my book will probably be shelved in the same area of any bookstore, but remember, THIS book is the best and only self-help you will ever need. Or so the cats tell me.

  One day a guy came in and just stood there, staring at all the books, while I carefully shelved the problems-with-food section. I learned to shelve quietly and stay out of the customers’ way in self-help. I had the kind, whispery demeanor of a funeral director. I would lead my patrons to a certain section and silently pat them on the back and then fade away. But this guy did not want alone time. He wanted to talk.

  “I need a book about anger,” he told me, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes scanning.

  I grabbed The Dance of Anger (a great book, by the way), and we talked a bit about its message. He held it for a moment and then started scanning the shelves again.

  “You got anything on, uh, worry?” He looked around, cagily. “Or . . . about relationships? I need something about relationships.”

  The guy was jonesing for self-help.

  In my opinion, everyone should work the travel section of a bookstore for at least six months in his or her life—and never, ever work the self-help section. I made plans to hike in Costa Rica with a roommate when I worked the travel section. I discovered European backpacking books that made Europe a reality for me in the travel section, too.

  And it was on those shelves that I found a book about small towns and their great diners, and I dreamed of road trips with endless cups of coffee and pie. I bought the book The Best Small Towns in America and randomly circled the name of a tiny Midwestern city because it sounded so adorable. Now, I live there. I had forgotten about that twenty-year-old notation until I found the book again this year. Serendipity. All from working the travel section.

  If you can’t work the travel section, then head over to entertainment and movies and dip into fantasy for a bit. Or go over to children’s fiction and read Stuart Little. Don’t be just a mouse in this life; be a mouse with a travel itinerary and a teeny-tiny red sports car. In sum, walk quickly past the self-help section. It’s only going to beckon you with titles like Feel Better RIGHT NOW! or its sequel, Not Feeling Better? What’s Your Problem This Time? Look away and head over to the children’s section, which is remarkably less stressful. And there are beanbag chairs.

  I realize what I am implying here is totally debatable. I guess I just remember too many customers in the self-help section seeming utterly miserable, and I think part of it was that they felt whatever was plaguing them had to go away, or get fixed, after ten chapters. We can’t just be in the thing. We have to fix the thing.

  Sometimes I am a lousy mom. And always, I am an alcoholic. I am in it. And yes, I totally think everyone should try for better and adjust their thinking and use all the tools they can to help make their lives the best they can be. That’s a given. But what to do first? I think we need to sit with it: sit in the mess, embrace the fact that sometimes we are the star of a really crappy scene in life, smile, and say, “Hey. I am still here. And I am a DANCER. And I will dance my way through it, okay?” It’s radical self-acceptance.

  It’s also a little bit nutty, but that’s how I roll.

  When I was a kid, my dad lectured me (a lot) about never doing anything “half-assed.” Such a lovely term. And yes, I know this comes from the same guy who suggested that I have no expectations in my marriage, but I think he shifted gears on me when I reached a certain age.

  Growing up, my dad ran a tight ship. He didn’t earn the nickname General Patton for his lawn-mowing skills, folks. He liked order. And he abhorred anything half-assed. I remember one time being sent out to “go pick up sticks in the backyard,” which was sort of like hearing “Bataan death march, backyard.” After about ten minutes, my dad, who of course had been watching from the upstairs living room, was not pleased with my listless stick-picking-up technique. He marched over and showed me the minimum size of stick for picking, and then he demonstrated proper pickup procedure. I think he would have made me gather toothpicks out there if there had been any. To this day, I see a twig and I shudder.

  But his point was that we need to do things right the first time. And I agree. I agree that we should do our best, work hard, break a sweat, give it our all, go for the gusto, and anything else that sounds like the Marines. This applies to things such as potty training our kids—when bodily fluids are involved, we really don’t want to go halfway.

  But then there’s the scary stuff, including my big dreams, the inability to do Jedi mind control on my kids, and my first attempts at doing a crow pose in yoga. With those things, I embrace my inner half-assedness. I realize that sounds kind of like an awkward Kegel exercise, but I just do what I can. And whatever that is, I pair it with some flair, maybe some body paint, and a whole lot of enthusiasm. In my case, my half-assed attempt is covered up, but it’s still the Showgirls system.

  When my first book came out, I found myself plunked down in the strange and wonderful world of publicity. I loved my book; it was my third child. One small problem with marketing it, however, was my overwhelming shyness and introversion. I look at a group of people at, say, a Sunday-morning church service, and instead of seeing nice humans with Bibles and cute sweaters, I see a throng of talkative Middle-Earth marauders with torches and swords. It’s an unfortunate thing to see people like this, especially when you hold up your precious book, hoping it will protect you—plus marauders don’t tend to read much.

  About two weeks after my book was published, I was late to a signing and was hustling down the sidewalk to the local coffee shop . . . when I fell. By “fell,” I mean I did the splits. I suppose I could blame my shoes. They were strappy and red, and I wore them, along with red lipstick, to help me feel confident and sassy. That sass carried me right through a teensy patch of water, and then I watched as one foot slid forward and the other foot just stood there and did nothing to help. Cue the splits.

  I guess it was time for me to add some razzle-dazzle to my book-signing game.

  Post-splits, I tried to find my dignity, but it was all stretched out on the pavement. I didn’t know who saw me, but I was on Main Street. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. A woman was doing splits on the sidewalk. It was kind of hard to unsee.

  I got up, stood still for a minute, and slowly smoothed down my hair. Then, I responded the only way I knew how. I took a deep breath and said, “TA DAAAAA!” And then, I did jazz hands and pranced into my first book signing.

  Embrace your half-ass.

  To Half-Ass or No?

  Things to Half-Ass

  1.Yoga. Yoga classes are all about slow movement. I don’t care how tiny and trim the women are in that sweaty, lavender-scented room; they are not watching you. They are trying to find their downward dog without falling over and killing it. Breathe; move slowly. Feel the half-ass.

  2.Casseroles. As one who cooks for small children who hate anything not in nugget form, casseroles are the great mom shrug of the culinary arts. Take a protein, some frozen peas, something sticky, mix it up, and bake the crud out of it for thirty minutes. Voilà: half-ass cass!

  3.Dogs. They need water, kibble, and a walk. And they think every breath you take is a magical vapor of holy goodness. Right now, a dog that has not left my side since 2015 is leaning me on. He worships me. It’s easy love, and, of course, I don’t deserve it. All I do is pat his head, and he quivers with joy. Codependent canine half-ass!

  Things Not to Half-Ass

  1.Brain surgery.

  2.Driving a car.

  3.Sobriety. But more on that in the next chapter.

  CHA
PTER THREE

  HOW TO

  be an alcoholic

  Sometime after three years of recovery, Brian came home after work to find me slicing tomatoes with such drama that I could have shouted, “Viva la revolución!” with each knife flourish. He walked toward me and touched my shoulder. I tensed. Brian then kissed my cheek, and my cheek tensed. He complimented me on dinner. I narrowed my eyes. And then, Brian smiled at me and said, “Hi, honey. How was your day?”

  That was the final straw. I declared war with Brian.

  Most mornings before Brian leaves for work, I hand him his little lunchbox, kiss him goodbye, and sigh at how grown-up we are. Brian wears Dockers pants and has coffee and a black Thermos lunch bag that is sort of depressing, and before he opens the door he stares outside, takes a deep breath, and says, “Once more. Into the breach.”

  Brian heads off to a job that is sometimes not the happy land of wonderfulness and fulfillment that I would so love for it to be. I want Brian to be fulfilled in his work, like, all the time. This goes along with my general expectation that everyone in my family should be “living the dream” at all times. This type of thinking is sort of wired into my mom brain. I shoulder the hopes and dreams of all members of our household, including pets, because, well, somebody has to.