Go Ask Ali

by Ali Wentworth

  Disclaimer

  Some of these stories are fact and some peppered with fiction. If you buy me a Magnolia Bakery icebox cake—I will tell you which is which.

  Dedication

  To my daughters, Elliott and Harper

  Who were born wiser than me . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  Introduction: It’s Never Too Late for a Happy Childhood

  Part I: This Much I Know Chapter 1: Gutting to the Chapel

  Chapter 2: Insta-slam

  Chapter 3: Kindness

  Chapter 4: Maine

  Chapter 5: Mona

  Chapter 6: Shh, I Love My Husband

  Chapter 7: Hold on to Your Summer

  Chapter 8: Pretty Funny

  Part II: Cautionary Tales Chapter 9: Lessons from a Movie Star

  Chapter 10: Peka Gone

  Chapter 11: Hot Babysitter

  Chapter 12: There Once Was a Man Who Flew to Nantucket

  Chapter 13: Ah Yes, Family Vacation

  Chapter 14: Gossip Girl

  Part III: Half-Baked Advice Chapter 15: So Long, Joe

  Chapter 16: Tiny Life

  Chapter 17: And They Called It Puppy Love

  Chapter 18: Let Them Go

  Chapter 19: Sex Tape

  Chapter 20: Cursed

  Chapter 21: Twenty Things I Know for Sure

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ali Wentworth

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction:

  It’s Never Too Late for a Happy Childhood

  I am not a truthsayer, therapist, or advice columnist. I’m not even particularly sage. But I do know a thing or two about a thing or two. And I have lived those things or two (or three) and consequently fallen on my face, been hurt, been humiliated, and occasionally been enlightened.

  And for whatever reason, people tend to come to me for advice. (Probably because I act like I know more than I do or am married to a Rhodes Scholar.) Sometimes it’s helpful; often it falls on deaf ears. The most frequent response is “Stop, you’re so annoying.” (Even my kids sometimes say this.) But because I’m cheaper than a shrink and make the best chocolate chip cookie dough in the Western Hemisphere, they tend to come back for more. Sure, everybody has their own official guide to living an ethical life. You can abide by the Ten Commandments, the Torah, the Koran, Deepak Chopra, whatever works for you. But nowhere in those aforementioned doctrines will they advise you on whether or not to teach your teenage daughter how to put in a tampon. Believe me, I’ve checked them all.

  I have always found shared personal experience to be a valuable learning tool. And a very effective way to navigate life. I learn more about parenting and marriage from my girlfriends than from Google, my gynecologist, or Pope Francis. I know that Jesus suffered and there are tales to tell about that, but I like a more firsthand approach. And how to deal with extramarital affairs—well, the Dalai Lama won’t return my texts. But I have women friends with real experience who can share some pretty daunting cautionary tales. And I have a few doozies based on my own exposure to life that I like to pass along.

  Now, don’t get me wrong here, I’m not trying to start a cult or replace Megyn Kelly on daytime TV, I just think that there is a much bigger impact when someone you know shares his or her experience. No doubt that’s why the mom circles are so strong—it’s the shared information. We do become a village raising our kids. It also humanizes us to be able to express our own fears, anxieties, and ignorance.

  Think about the volcanic reaction to recent allegations of sexual predators. Of which, clearly, there are many and in every industry and faction of the workforce. A person speaks out and reveals a personal story and then, in a domino effect, more people speak out and it brings to light an epidemic.

  Let me put the brakes on here for a second so that your expectations aren’t too high about what you’re about to read. Or listen to. Or just put on the shelf because the jacket is pretty and you need something to put under the photo of your cat. This is basically a humor book and sexual predators are only in the introduction to make a point. There is nothing religious, political, or ideological in the following pages. There might be one Republican joke, I can’t remember.

  Instead, I’m offering you the sum total of what I’ve figured out over the years. Things I know for sure, things I’ve learned the hard way, and the answers to questions others have posed to me over the years (yes, that’s the half-baked advice part, but as I mentioned before, I am known for my baking skills . . . ). Call it my sense and sensibility . . . or the mixed-up life of Ali Wentworth. But if you don’t find at least one revelatory nugget, then I promise, I will come to your house and do your laundry. Within the tristate radius. Schedule permitting. And not including Jewish holidays. If I can’t make it, I’ll send my husband.

  And if I can give you one piece of advice? You should buy this book for everyone you know. Or have ever met.

  Part I

  This Much I Know

  Personally, I think that if a woman hasn’t met the right man by the time she’s twenty-four, she may be lucky!

  —Deborah Kerr

  Chapter 1

  Gutting to the Chapel

  When I arrived at Liz’s apartment, her fiancé, Danny, told me she had been locked in the bathroom for more than two hours. I assumed she had a blemish she was gouging with tweezers and a bottle of witch hazel or was shaving her entire body. She is Armenian and hair is her nemesis.

  “She’s been crying and totally freaking out,” he said, sounding somewhat concerned.

  “I’m sure it’s just nerves or a hygiene issue.” I gently knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Hey, Liz! I’m here! Herpes flare-up? Listen, the limo is downstairs. Do you want me to take anything down? Do you have your veil on?”

  The only noise from the bathroom was a running faucet and a few thumps. I believe the first thump was a white satin Jimmy Choo pump being thrown against the shower wall. The second might have been her head.

  I waited downstairs in the black Cadillac limousine for what seemed like hours. Just me, the driver with no personality who smelled like pepperoni, and a blasting air conditioner that had my legs looking like something you’d find at a morgue. At last the car door opened and a large, disgruntled lace pastry shoved herself in. The driver started the ignition and we began our journey up Third Avenue.

  “What the hell am I doing!” Liz wailed.

  “You’re getting married. You’re just nervous.”

  Well, I knew it wasn’t nerves. This was the state of a woman en route to a hanging, not her wedding. Not dead man walking, but rather dead woman being driven in a fancy car.

  “I don’t want to do this, I don’t . . . I don’t . . . I don’t want to do this!”

  “Liz, listen, do you want me to get you a pill? Do you have your Lexapro with you? Or Xanax? What about those pills you take when you fly?”

  “I’m making a big mistake,” she shrieked as she grabbed the handle of the car door.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . don’t try to open that. That’s a really expensive dress and you’re going to get blood all over it. Now take a deep breath.”

  Liz took a deep breath and stared out the car window, anxious and distraught, the way I assumed O. J. Simpson felt in the white Bronco.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.

  “Yes, I do,” she whimpered back. “There are three hundred people coming.”

  “That’s not a reason to get married.”

  “It’s costing my dad sixty dollars a plate!”

  “Well, that is definitely the best reason to g
et married.”

  We drove the rest of the way up Madison Avenue in silence. Occasionally Liz would blow her nose or reapply lip gloss. After hours of weeping her face was a piece of modern art, a Franz Kline with mascara smeared across one side of her cheek, eyeliner dripping down toward her ears. I thought to myself, If I ever feel even one percent of the agony she’s feeling, I have to promise myself not to go through with the marriage. And I will open the car door and roll onto the highway going sixty miles an hour if need be. But then I won’t get any wedding cake. So I’d grab the cake, eat the top two tiers and perhaps a bread basket, then hurl myself out of the moving limo.

  Years later, the expedition to my own wedding could not have been more different. I was not just serene, I was determined. I was chomping at the bit to marry this man I had instantaneously fallen in love with. And as the car made its way through the streets of Manhattan to the Greek Orthodox cathedral where I was to be legally and spiritually bound, I remembered my journey all those years before with Liz. It had been so torturous. A few years earlier when I had recognized similar feelings of trepidation during an engagement, I had had the wherewithal to end it. Thanks to a gutsy gut. Not an easy feat, but in the end, everyone benefited. We are all married with children and enviable Instagrams now.

  In the meantime, Liz got divorced. Not a shock to anyone. Except to Danny. But a stable of Russian hookers and a steady supply of Ecstasy no doubt got him through it.

  I recently reconnected with an old acting-school friend. She and I had participated in the same thespian summer program, an institution that pirated my parents’ money and taught me nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true—I learned all the words to Jesus Christ Superstar. I spent sweltering afternoons pacing around a crappy “loft” space in midtown Manhattan pretending to be a tiger or a brush. And squeaking through the lyrics of Les Miserables. Not one of the Stanislaski tools that was hammered into my head have I used. Ever. My years of drama school could have been condensed into one word: pretend. Oh, okay, I get it! I’ll just pretend. Done.

  I ran into Kirby in the gift shop of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I could lie and say I was there to peruse the sixteenth-century armor of Emperor Ferdinand the first, but I just wanted to use the bathroom. She was mulling over a postcard of lilacs in a window by Mary Cassatt—turning it over and over again, studying it from every possible angle. You would have thought she was considering buying the actual painting. Kirby was still shockingly thin and meticulously put together—a chic blend of navy and black with a hint of bohemia in the form of a Mexican straw handbag. We sat in the Met café and over the next hour caught up on twenty years. She sipped black coffee with some diet sweetener that was made from bugs or worms or something and I drank my Earl Grey tea with heaps of sugar and cream.

  I feigned interest in her mind-blowing year in Rome (yes, we all learn so much about ourselves when sleeping with the married literature professor mostly because he owned a Vespa) and her parents’ health problems. And I struggled through the endless description of her rigorous physical regimen and Mediterranean diet that explains why people still ask her to model. But it was the story about her month-long marriage that jolted me awake. She had dated a freakishly tall man for a couple of years. (I say freakishly tall because she showed me a photo and his body was about nine feet long, topped by a tiny mango of a head.) “When he first took off his pants, did you think you’d see stilts?” They liked each other; he proposed. I couldn’t get past the fact that she liked, sorry, “loved” him. I’m not superficial in that way, but it would be impossible to see past (or up, above, and around) it.

  Prepping for the wedding, she told me, she’d been a zombie. She felt nothing—not joy, not excitement, just dread. It wasn’t until she was walking down the aisle that she felt something: she burst into tears. Not tears of joy (something I’ve never actually witnessed), but pure terror. Kirby confessed that she knew she was embarking on a monumental mistake, but “the dress was bought, my parents flew across the country . . .” All the stellar reasons to bind oneself in wedlock for eternity.

  Kirby had always been beautiful and I think that sometimes when you rely only on what’s on the outside, the internal feeling of self-worth is anemic. She wore what was chic, she drank Northern Californian wine, she read the books everyone was reading and voted the way her liberal friends did even if she had no clue what Prop 8 entailed. So when a striking man (in the form of a professional basketball player or Beetlejuice) arrived on the scene during the appropriate age of marriage (Martha Stewart has put it somewhere between ages twenty-two and twenty-nine), she said, “I guess I do.”

  Sometimes the pangs are not so subtle. I had befriended a textile designer years ago during my “always a bridesmaid, never a bride” phase of life. Or as some would call it, my twenties. Lucy was very acerbic and brittle, with the palest skin I’d ever seen. There was almost a lavender sheen to it. When Lucy lay in the sun, nothing happened. She didn’t tan, burn, or freckle, she just stayed the same alabaster color. Like a vampire or Ichabod Crane. Lucy was one of those brassy girls you’re relieved to be friends with because she eviscerated her enemies. You know, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer until they just blend and you can’t remember which was which?

  Lucy decided to marry Willy. Willy was also slightly terrified of her. I think Willy had a complicated relationship with his mother. Lucy and Willy were constantly spatting, but I chalked it up to them being a “lively” couple. Although the scenario wasn’t vicious fights followed by peel-the-paint-off-with-your-fingernails makeup sex. It was just vicious fights. Full stop. And they were eye rolling way too soon. You’re not supposed to roll your eyes when your partner leaves the room until a good ten years in. They weren’t even living together, let alone married, and they were like Archie and Edith Bunker. I was too young then to even consider that this was a doomed coupling. What did I know? My best functioning relationship with a man up to that point was with my older brother. A brother I lived with, sharing one pan, a toilet, and very thin walls. So, barely functioning.

  The afternoon of their nuptials, I came early to help her with the finishing touches. And by finishing touches I mean I set up the whole wedding. The ceremony and dance party were being held in Lucy’s postage-stamp-size backyard. There were paper lanterns, homemade guacamole, Mexican Jesus candles—you know, everything you’d see on a budget DYI wedding on Pinterest.

  I was arranging the place cards (white stones with names messily painted on them) when Lucy yanked me into her bathroom.

  “Oh God!”

  “What? You saw the cake?”

  “No, no, no . . . Why? What’s wrong with the cake?”

  “Nothing. It’s great. It’s bright orange?”

  “WHAT?!?”

  “It’s fine, it’s just not exactly the pale pink you ordered. . . . What’s the matter?”

  “I couldn’t sleep all night. I don’t know what I’m doing. . . .”

  “Lucy, this is normal. It’s just wedding jitters.”

  “It’s not. It’s not jitters. I don’t want to marry Willy.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “I made out with a woman last night. . . .”

  My brain started to scramble. I had been prepping my answers for “I’m too young,” “What if he falls out of love with me?,” or “Are fajitas festive enough?” For this, I had nothing.

  “Well, you . . .”

  “I think I like women.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Lucy smiled widely. “Oh yes, I’m sure!”

  “Well, then you have to tell Willy!”

  “But people are coming in three hours!”

  Again, why does the fact that guests are coming seem to trump the moral dilemma of ’til death do us part?

  I stood in the itsy-bitsy garden holding a bunch of daisies and my mouth shut. The sense of doom spoiled my appetite for the cheese taquitos. So I took them to go. Along with some cake. And the Mexican candles.<
br />
  Spoiler alert: Three months later, Lucy and Willy divorced.

  What, you may ask, is my point?

  Don’t underestimate the power of the gut. The visceral voice that perhaps doesn’t speak your language but interprets your feelings on their most basic level. Fear, sadness, unhappiness, discontent . . . If these women had listened to their gut, they would have saved themselves some pain, some money, and twenty pounds of salmon mousse. It has taken me years to sort through the layers of mishegas (Mom, this is Yiddish for craziness) to be able to interpret the emotions that I rely on as warning signs. They were nonexistent when I was a teenager (see: that time I hitchhiked to Provincetown at midnight and shoplifted five cashmere sweaters at once). Blame it on the undeveloped frontal lobe.

  So today if you invite me to your wedding and in a panicked state confide that you don’t want to go through with it? I’m telling you now, I will throw you in the trunk of my rental car, drive you through El Paso, Texas, and across the border, and dump you in the Chihuahuan desert. You will thank me.

  Assuming you make it back.

  Chapter 2

  Insta-slam

  People always joke about the effects of social media—“Oh my God, I’m addicted to Instagram”—well, guess what, you are. Every time you swipe, you’re getting the same adrenaline rush as when you play the slot machines. Or stumble across Oreos dipped in dark chocolate at the grocery store. Listen, I hate Instagram. I have yet to find one redeeming thing about it. I thought maybe it would offer a simple way for my parents to keep up with the triumphs of their flourishing grandchildren. You know, give them bragging rights and screen savers. But it only opened the door to endless scrutiny: “That ocean is freezing, are you sure they should be swimming this time of year?” “The girls look very thin, are they eating?”