Happily Ali After: And Other Fairly True Tales

by Ali Wentworth

  I even took it a step further. I got her e-mail address from a mutual friend and wrote to her. A simple note about how funny and beautiful she was in the show I was watching. I unleashed it into the cyber universe. I didn’t need to get a response, the cathartic act was enough. However, after I sent the e-mail, I ate most of the raw dough and took a two-hour nap.

  Daphne responded later that day with an innocuous, but kind thank you. An Internet relationship had been sparked. We wrote back and forth for a couple of weeks and when my family scheduled a trip to Los Angeles, Daphne invited us over to her home. This is a huge move in the foreplay of friendship.

  The drive to her house was as winding emotionally as the coastal curves we hugged. My husband was profoundly confused, as he had been programmed to detest her and now he was being lectured on how to seem merry and blithe. I kept repeating to him, “Don’t say anything about anything,” which was as lucid as I could be in that moment.

  Keep in mind, this was not one-sided. Daphne told me later she considered me equally psychotic and repugnant. As we careened into her driveway, I had a fleeting sense of what the invasion of Normandy must have felt like, “where ignorant armies clash by night.”

  If you had been her Chihuahua mix, you’d have thought we were long-lost friends, perhaps even sisters. Later in the afternoon, she and I took a stroll and exchanged tidbits of gossip we had heard about each other (and chose to believe) and the seething malevolence we harbored. When in your life do you get to face the (former) enemy and say, “I loathed you with such intensity, you skanky whore”? Obviously this excludes anyone going through puberty.

  I inquired as to why she felt compelled to cruise over to my house—braless no less!—the second my car was out of the driveway! Daphne laughed hysterically. “I don’t own a Superman T-shirt and I never go braless; my boobs are uneven!” (A couple of months later Daphne sent me a Superman T-shirt in the mail that I still wear.) I changed tactics and peppered her with questions like, “How could you go to the Bahamas with him?” She answered coolly, “I was the one going, he followed me! He didn’t spend a dime on me.” Okay, okay . . . “Why leave your silver charm bracelet in the bedside table for me to find?” She looked confused, and said, “I don’t wear silver; it didn’t belong to me!” And, with the feeling of an EpiPen being jabbed in my thigh, I remembered that the bracelet was actually mine! It was given to me at my high school graduation and I put it away because the charms kept scratching my wrist. Oh my God! I melted my own jewelry!

  Daphne had invited her only other Greek friend to be padding for the afternoon in case things got out of hand. Did she envision a chicken fight? Each of us on the shoulders of a Greek, like in a chariot race? While the two of us walked on the beach and exhaled all of our festering resentments, my husband and the Greek friend talked about the Los Angeles Saint Sophia Greek Orthodox Cathedral renovation and what town their grandparents were born in (on the off chance they might be related, as all Greek people believe they are). And, like burning a bundle of sage, the demons evaporated.

  Daphne is now one of my closest friends. Our families spend summers together. I’ve taught her children to paint clamshells and they have taught us the art of boogie boarding and how to eat macro greens. I know all of Daphne’s secrets. I know what irritates her (and the list is long). I know when she’s ready to leave a party just by a raised eyebrow. I know her shoe size and the name of her dermatologist. I’ve seen her naked physically and emotionally. I know the names of every boy she’s ever kissed. Again the list is long. I know what her fears are. I know what her dreams are.

  I’m often nostalgic about the period of my life when I had a nemesis, but I would trade the knotted stomach and heinous thoughts for this enlightened friendship any day. I can’t say I see EVERYONE through the eyes of love now. Steady on. I mean, if you steal my parking space, I’m going to flip you the bird. But I won’t fantasize about lowering you into reactor coolant and watching you boil to death. Live and let live, that’s my new motto.

  CHAPTER 2

  Opportunity Knocks

  WHENEVER OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS,

  ANSWER THE DOOR.

  —ANONYMOUS

  I have heard this oldie but goodie put in a variety of ways—if opportunity rings, answer it, if opportunity Facebooks, friend it, if someone hands you their purse, take it . . . you get the drift.

  I wholeheartedly embrace this sentiment. We spend most of our lives beseeching the higher powers for fortuitous circumstances, and when they materialize, we should take advantage of them. Most of the time it’s fear, overly cautious parents, or jealous lovers that thwart us from embracing opportunity. And yet sometimes, just sometimes, we don’t think through what the opportunity entails. We jump at the idea of it, like a dolphin to a mackerel at SeaWorld, but don’t truly ponder the weight of the task.

  I get excited whenever I’m offered anything, whether it’s a sample of Pinkberry frozen yogurt, a goody bag, or a job. The best part of receiving any offer for which you’re getting paid (bonus!) is the offer itself, not the actual labor that it entails. And, my husband will attest, I have a tendency to lack comprehension when I’m offered a career opportunity. I’m not meticulous. I miss things like “shoots in Poland” or “nudity required.” Usually what transpires is the day before the job starts, I cry, have a panic attack (heavy breathing like there’s a serial killer calling me from inside the house), and try to invent a persuasive reason why I can’t fulfill the contract. Evidence has shown that any excuse that involves lady parts always earns you a free pass. The mere mention of the word “vagina” can silence any institution, studio, or corporation. And they will never press you for details.

  I was in my kitchen on a stormy afternoon making chocolate chip cookies with my daughters (the trick is sea salt and Ghirardelli semisweet chips). Well, making the dough. We like to eat it frozen. With forks. Late at night. After we’ve brushed our teeth. My agent called to tell me I had been offered a job doing a commencement speech, which was very lucrative, and they would fly me to the university and home on a private plane. Well, I almost choked on the gigantic glob of brown sugar I had just shoved in my mouth. The commencement was for a large university in the Midwest. We will call it Western Missouri University (unless there really is a Western Missouri University, in which case we’ll call it Midwest State). I didn’t catch the name, but did catch the amount. It was months away, so I put it in my calendar and went back to wrapping globs of dough in parchment paper and freezer bags. I was so blown away that anyone would ask me to address an honorable academic establishment, I figured I was ready to announce the silent auction at my daughter’s elementary school!

  Two weeks before the graduation date, I received a detailed e-mail about my travel and the itinerary. The first question was what snacks I required for the plane ride. That’s right, I was going on a private jet like Beyoncé and Donald Trump. And I could hand-pick the snacks? What would Katy Perry pick? If I asked for lobster tails and cotton candy, would that seem presumptuous? How about a smorgasbord of cold meats and French cheeses? No, I would be modest and demure and request just some chili-cheese fries, a couple of Cronuts, mint Milanos, and a six-pack of Canada Dry ginger ale. I took a moment to fantasize about reclining in the beige leather Gulf Stream La-Z-Boy chair and holding up my flute for more ginger bubbly. I’d be wearing a purple velour and diamond-bejeweled tracksuit, turban, and dark Jackie O sunglasses. A petite Ukrainian woman would paint my nails while I perused the pages of Italian Vogue. Yes, in my fantasy I’m a Real Housewife of Bulgaria. And then I read farther down the schedule . . .

  My speech was scheduled for 9 A.M., 1:30 P.M., and 5 P.M. This made no sense. It must have been a typo; how could I deliver one commencement speech three times? My husband, using the voice he had used when toilet training our daughters, informed me that large universities have to divide up their student body and, therefore, I was giving the speech three different times to three different factions of the school. And then he b
roke into a fit of laughter. (Well, the laugh was on him because I was the one who finished his beloved peanut butter that day after he went to work.) I couldn’t fathom a scenario in which I made a speech three times in one day. I mean, even Stalin didn’t make three speeches in one day. And he had a very strong mission statement!

  I don’t have a fear of flying except for when the cabin loses pressure, the plane spirals, and the stewardesses hit the floor screaming, “We’re all going to die!” And even then I can usually nap through it. I’ve never considered the possibility of my life ending in such a dramatic way; I assume my demise will come in the form of choking on a chicken wing splinter while lying sideways on the couch watching Veep. But on the afternoon I was meant to travel, there were horrible thunderstorms in the Midwest. My husband was concerned for my safety and thought I should fly commercial (with a layover), rent a car, and drive the rest of the four hours. Are you kidding me? The whole reason I accepted this gig was to fly on a private plane! And no lightning storm would stop me. If I was going to disappear without a trace, then I would do so on a Bombardier Challenger 300.

  The entire drive from my apartment to the airport in New Jersey was like being trapped in a never-ending car wash. The storm was worse than reported, so threatening and menacing that it was even given a name: Andrea. And whenever the weather channel refers to an impending climate calamity by name, you know it is monumental. (I hope they never have to resort to names like Boo, Wiggles, or Doodle Bug.) The taxi drove right onto the tarmac. There was no endless security line behind the woman who can’t fold the baby stroller or the absentminded guy who forgot to take off his belt and then adds coin after coin to the plastic bowl. But there was no magazine stand either, so no Big Red gum or Cosmo’s “Eight sexy things to do with your toes.” At least when you fly Jet Blue you can enjoy the food court. I find it stressful to fly without inhaling some Panda Express Beijing beef and an Auntie Anne’s bucket of cinnamon-sugar pretzel nuggets.

  I leaped out of the car and into a subterranean rain puddle. A nice airport employee wrapped in neon yellow rubber sheets escorted me up the rickety steps to the aircraft. It was the size of a toy plane that toddlers with glue and enamel paint assembled. My tiny ship on the Peter Pan ride in Disney World had more leg room. It also smelled like urine, which is not an unfamiliar scent because I do live with two incontinent dachshunds. I couldn’t stand up straight because of the low ceilings and I noticed my air vent was duct-taped shut. It was not the billionaires’ boys’ club vessel I had envisioned. I hoped, based on the two propellers, that we might slow down and do some crop dusting as we headed west across God’s country. I also prayed the plane registered more aerospace technology than the rope and brick used as the brakes. I thought about Amelia Earhart; I wondered what she had packed for snacks. And if her plane had two propellers.

  After what seemed like days (I was the tiny dot that arrows across the world map from India and up through Asia in an Indiana Jones movie), I heard the deafening screech of the wheels being lowered. Were we airdropping some cornmeal over Somalia? I could barely make out the chalky runway in the middle of a potato field. The plane skidded and wobbled and finally shuddered to a stop. One of the pocket pilots climbed down and fastened the brick and rope brake around the plane wheels. As I walked across the basketball court of an airfield, I noticed there wasn’t another human in sight. Not even any children of the corn. My Google map informed me that the town I was in could not be found. I was un-Googleable.

  My motel room overlooked a grim parking lot of four-wheelers and junkers. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by a couple of inebriated truckers screaming about how they “couldn’t find pussy”! I was too nervous about my commencement speech the next day to volunteer. And I sympathized with them; I was just as frustrated because I couldn’t find the TV remote. Finally, the chicken haulers were gone. They must have lucked out and found what they were looking for. But just as one fire is put out, another pops up. Whenever the family (of what sounded like seventeen) in the next room flushed the toilet, my whole room shook. It didn’t shake like someone walking in Timberlake work boots, it shook like the Amtrak Acela had derailed and was heading toward my queen-size bed with the stained headboard. I abandoned sleep and instead concocted a late-night snack of stale Lorna Doones and Lay’s potato chips from the hallway vending machine and watched the early, early local news, the early local news, and then the local news. I sure hope they finally caught that bear!

  I skipped the free all-you-can-eat waffle, eggs, sausage, and grits breakfast and headed to the university. I had bought a demure, yet flirty Tory Burch dress and pink pumps, forgetting I would be covered in a heavy robe and itchy cap all day. Even the uncomfortable hosiery that cut off all circulation in my thighs was wasted. When I arrived I was escorted to a room packed with faculty clutching their Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups and the president (of the university, don’t get excited) preparing for the event. They all wore comfortable khaki slacks and Merrill shoes (sensible walking shoes that people from Palo Alto wear). I felt like a hooker at a global environment initiative summit. We lined up in two straight lines and began a procession down many hallways and stairs. Stumbling in my heels, I had to be rescued by the ethics professor more than once. When the pomp and circumstance music began, we triumphantly marched into the stadium like we were ready to invade Lebanon!

  I sat up on the stage in a regal-looking chair feeling like a complete fraud. I was a B-minus student on a good day (not including art and free play) and here I was taking up space usually allotted for people who discovered cures to infectious diseases and the woman who invented Spanx. Let’s be clear, I was not getting a doctorate or an honorary degree, but I was wearing the same costume as the theoretical physicist, the recipient of a big bronze medallion, next to me. And being the headliner in a stadium where I was not going to fly down on a harness like Pink made me fidgety. It was all about my words. I had to inspire! I had to be a spiritual guide to those young adults who were mostly hungover and taking selfies. I was like John Kennedy, Winston Churchill, and Oprah, poised to bestow wisdom and values. And it would probably be recorded. I felt a rush of nausea. The masses and the royal court onstage stood, hands on our hearts, and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I was hoping nobody noticed when I mumbled through “twilight’s last gleaming.” Streaming? The president of the university orated about community and new beginnings, the smarty-pants next to me received his award, and then I was introduced. I wasn’t as panicked as I was the first time I did The Tonight Show. My knees weren’t buckling and I wasn’t seconds from blacking out on Keanu Reeves’s lap. But as I approached the podium and caught a glimpse of the throng of faces assembled in the sports arena, it struck me that at that precise moment I needed to be more Martin Luther King and less Andrew Dice Clay. I had to make an impact. People remember their commencements! I needed to quote Steve Jobs and rally them to do great things like creating self-healing mutating cells or eradicating lines at airport security. I think wearing the robe really threw me. I felt like Peter Dinklage in Game of Thrones.

  I’m not saying my speech will go down in history on a par with “I have a dream” or “Ask what you can do for your country,” but it was authentic and got some yucks. My message was to find laughter and humor in life. (If you send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and a money order for two dollars, I’ll send you the speech. No, not really.) Yes, there was rousing applause at the end.

  I sat back down confident and fatigued. Adrenaline is a curious neurotransmitter because it fuels you with energy—like the first inhale of the crack pipe, I assume—and then the withdrawal is utter exhaustion. It’s not dissimilar to childbirth, except you can’t be on drugs. But nothing prepared me for the debilitation of watching hundreds of students line up, cross the stage with frozen smiles, and receive their diplomas. Over and over and over again. I clapped for the first two hundred, but to avoid bleeding palms, nodded to the rest. I passed the remaining hour fixated on shoe
s. I never realized how much you could tell about a person’s character solely based on their footwear. And I never realized how disgusted I am by men who wear sandals and don’t wash. (My speech should have incorporated the sage advice that Birkenstocks plus toe fungus will never get you employed or laid.) There were more bejeweled stilettos than a Vegas stripper convention. I quietly hoped a girl would go tumbling down the stairs. Mean, I know, but I was so bored.

  Finally, the commencement was over. The procession careened through the crowd and back into the main building. Ordinarily this would be the part of the day when the commencement speaker shakes a lot of alumni hands, grabs a Diet Dr Pepper, and makes haste to a waiting car. But no! I had two more “shows.” Lord Jesus, I needed oratory Viagra.

  I decided that with the 1:30 speech I would shift some stories around, perhaps add a made-up prison tale to shake things up (scare them straight). I was getting more at ease with my platform, and the chafing robe had started to wear my scent. In the same way stand-ups work out new material at the Comic Strip, I would use Western Missouri University as my incubator.

  In between gigs, I secluded myself in a frigid football conference room. There was a dry-erase board with old plays written out in red pen and, flung under the table, a knee brace that looked like it had been mauled by pit bulls. And it stank like pickled feet. The room would have been a decent place to hide and purchase my kids’ school clothes on oldnavy.com but for the sensor-activated lighting. Midway through placing my order for “polka dot cozy socks,” the room abruptly went pitch-black. I scrimmaged like an insane person and jumped up and down until the halogens were once again ablaze.