Go Ask Ali

by Ali Wentworth

  A week after that trip, Anne developed a high temperature and was taken to the infirmary. Nobody actually went to the infirmary. All of the counselors had calamine lotion and Band-Aids, so unless you needed open-heart surgery, the infirmary was just a strange wooden cabin at the edge of camp with a red cross painted on the door.

  A few days went by before I begged to visit Anne. At that age your best friend was your life. You shared secrets, handshakes, and even blood. Tell me you never pricked your finger until it bled and pressed it together with your friend’s? Well, you’re never too old.

  When I tiptoed into Anne’s room, she was rolling around and sweaty. She was delirious. And needed an exorcism. It turned out she had contracted typhoid fever from the stream water. A day later she was sent home. One of the most devastating moments in my life.

  The camp overlooked Craggy Cliff Lake, which, if you were nine years old, seemed like the Atlantic Ocean. Three times a week we had to swim a half mile. Now, I couldn’t swim a half mile today if you promised me a Tesla and Ryan Gosling covered in dark chocolate. But back then I had no choice. It could be hailing and we would still have to combat the choppy waves while a counselor covered in a tarp rowed alongside us. I was the only kid who shivered, turned a delicate shade of blue, and held on to the rowboat like I had just been rescued at sea. For me, those swims were the most physically challenging tasks to date. Which trumpets my physical weakness, I get that, but I would’ve rather run the Boston Marathon.

  Even the arts and crafts, which one would imagine consisted of a few beads and a string, was equivalent to a University of California, Berkeley, graduate arts program. I loomed blankets, place mats, and pot holders. I threw so much clay that I brought home enough plates and bowls for a small banquet. And the wood shop? I whittled two canoe paddles. I may not use them very often, but if I were ever the sole survivor in a plane crash and lost in the wilderness, I would be able to cut down a substantial pine tree and carve out a sailboat. Now, I would be in the forest so a boat would do me no good, but I would take comfort in knowing that I’m skilled! And I could also use my cell phone to get help.

  At camp they encouraged us to play a game that would be banned today. It was called Mumbly Peg. Each child was given a Swiss Army knife the first day of camp. They now have metal detectors at schools to prevent things like that, but at camp they were given out like sunscreen. And we were taught various knife games and tricks. Most of them involved flipping the knife and having it land centimeters from our fingers. We would sit out on the sprawling, freshly mown meadow and fling knives at one another. I imagine they don’t support this sport anymore. It was then the 1970s and I believe the Mumbly Peg counselor (three-finger Pete) is probably dead by now.

  As much as I complained, almost cut my arm off with a saw, and ate porridge that tasted like melted glue, I returned to the camp year after year until I aged out. It was a sad day for me in the backseat of our car cruising down the dusty road that led away from the camp knowing I would never be back again. I still dream about it. And Anne is still one of my best friends.

  I can compost anything, oil a horse hoof, and make you a macramé belt. Come on, who doesn’t love a macramé belt? That can also turn into a plant holder? But, more important, going to camp helped a little city girl with high abandonment and anxiety issues about leaving her comfort zone pull herself up by her hiking boots, straighten her overall straps, and throw herself into a world that would build confidence and form the woman she is today. (You know I’m talking about me, right?)

  So give your children flight. . . . It’s not easy. You can’t FaceTime. But you are giving them experiences they can only have without you. And I say this while my older daughter is calling me from camp hysterically crying and threatening to get herself kicked out.

  “Not unless you come down with typhoid!” I always say.

  Chapter 19

  Sex Tape

  I don’t care if you are blessed with a Victoria’s Secret body (or even if you are an actual Victoria’s Secret model) naturally or courtesy of renowned plastic surgeon Dr. Hidalgo. Wear the lingerie, wear the damn wings, jump around in the nude in the privacy of your own room, fine. Just don’t send images into the ether, where your grandchildren can inadvertently find them when googling info for your eulogy twenty years from now.

  I realize that I risk coming off like a prude here. Every teenager in America has probably sent a sexy selfie by now. And in the digital age of pornographic images selling everything from cheeseburgers to cat litter, why not? Even celebrities find it paramount to expose their asses as much as possible. There is some perverse pleasure in having their bodies graded like an episode of So You Think You Can Dance Naked? And I am not a prig by any stretch of the imagination; I’ve been nude before. When I was a toddler. I just worry about the overall effect—on women in particular.

  You may imagine that I’m only saying these things because I am not a twenty-year-old with a flat stomach and boobs that reside above my belly button. That I studiously avoid catching any glimpse of my naked self in mirrors. And that as I crawl into bed with my husband at night wearing a huge T-shirt and pajama pants, I always offer a downcast “I’m sorry.” But even if I had Gigi Hadid’s body, I would never be inclined to show the world everything one shares with her gynecologist. (A bikini shot is another thing. I mean, it’s Gigi Hadid’s body!)

  Maybe we’re reverting evolutionwise. The clothes are coming off and soon we will be walking on all fours? I wouldn’t mind that: no waxing and shaving! You’ll need that welcome mat of pubic hair to stay warm.

  And my prohibition extends to the dreaded “dick pics” as well. Now, I’ve been married for sixteen years, so perhaps I’m not the target audience, but if a man sent me a photo of his penis and we barely knew each other? I would immediately call the NYPD. Isn’t that indecent exposure? Just without the raincoat? And how the hell is that romantic? God help the boy who sends one of those to my daughters. I will cut that thing off.

  I just don’t understand the desire to be watched. For the sake of anthropological study, let me imagine how that experience—full exposure to the world, relayed with one click to Twitter—would unfold for me personally. Actually I’ll take it a step further—I’ll go all the way and imagine a sex tape. Merry Christmas, Mom!

  First, location, location, location. I don’t want to shoot in a hotel room mainly because I find room service too tempting. When you’re at home the idea of making something to eat is so laborious, but the idea of making one call and getting anything you want? I would never get off the phone or let go of the menu! Safer to shoot it at home: I mean, what if school calls and one of the kids is sick? And I have Amazon packages coming. Plus, I know there are no bedbugs in my room. And as long as the dogs aren’t sleeping on the comforter, it’s quiet.

  On to casting. My husband will say no to making a sex tape. Plus, I’m not sure I want him to get the audience’s view of what I’m like in bed. There’s a reason we have dimmer lights. And I can’t offer the role to another man (or woman) because that’s cheating. Even though I’ve always assured my husband it’s just two actors playing roles . . . Anyway, it’s just me. A one-woman show. Nobody else to steal the focus. By the way, I never understood in the Porn Academy awards what differentiates the categories between best actress and best supporting actress. Do you get relegated to supporting actress if you only cup the balls?

  First problem: Where do I set up the camera or phone? I can prop my iPhone against a vase, but the second I go out of frame (not that I move all that much), there’s no image. I could place it between my liquid melatonin and my antiaging, hydrating cream. But that’s on the same level as the mattress and I’ve always heard you want the phone up high, aiming down. So I could duct-tape it to the ceiling, but how will I reach it to push play? So then I’m hiring a crew person, which costs money (and he would have to be union because I’m a member of SAG/AFTRA). The bigger issue is that I’m not on board with an audience. And what if the
crew person is not attentive and plays Candy Crush the whole time? And forget a virtual audience—that would include relatives and old teachers.

  And lighting! Do I go with natural daylight, which will only accentuate my cellulite and folds? Wait, I have neighbors. My bedroom opens up to a large Manhattan building and this show ain’t free. (Plus, I’m pretty sure my dentist lives there.) I could rent some film lights from a production company. I’m sure the tattooed grip who’s holding the phone could also adjust lighting. Except he’s probably dismissive and judge-y. One thing that will help the lighting is body makeup. A bronze glittery lotion will even out skin tone and cover my chicken pox scars. But I can’t ask the grip to also apply the body makeup in areas I can’t reach. So now I have to hire a makeup artist and we are talking serious coin! I could ask the woman who tints eyelashes at the local nail salon, but then I could never go back there, and it’s just around the corner. And where will I go with an ingrown toenail?

  Next, I’ll need a protein shake. Or some kind of hydrating fruit-infused water. I don’t have that, so I’ll have ginger ale and a piece of cinnamon toast with extra butter. It’s important to have something in your stomach before any strenuous activity. Preferably bland. And some omega-3 fish oil pills.

  Shower time. I always forget to buy exfoliating scrub, but I do have kosher salt and some maple syrup and if I mix them together it should do the trick. Damn, all I have is some old homeopathic lice shampoo. So Ivory soap and a good conditioner will have to suffice. Of course, I need to shave my legs and armpits. It has been a while. Then I need to decide, what’s sexier—wet hair? a slight wave? or hair up in a scrunchie? I think off the face. Crew guy (let’s call him Dirk) agrees. He’s vaping and checking the batteries in the boom.

  What to wear, what to wear. You need a slow build. I don’t own sexy lingerie. There are a few items hidden in the back of my sock drawer from my bridal shower, but leather makes me itch. And I can never figure out how to get out of a teddy—too many strings. I’ll wear my beige fleece onesie with the hood. Yes, it makes me look like a fat bunny, but it’s cozy. And it has a zipper down the front! (Sexy, sexy.)

  As I brush my teeth, Dirk tells me all about his life in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and his pansexuality. He has huge holes in his earlobes that hold what look like large round black camera batteries. Yes, tattoos everywhere, head shaved, save for a high man bun. He looks nonplussed by the project and somewhat repelled by me and my onesie. I don’t want him to work hungry, so I make him a grilled cheese with heirloom tomatoes and a lemon soda. And give him a roll of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough to take home later.

  I explain to Dirk that there’s no plot. No pizza deliveryman. Just me. A monologue, kinda. Dirk excuses himself and uses my bathroom. Later it will take three hours, a plunger, and a can of Lysol spray to bring it back to its natural state. Plus, my retinol cream goes missing.

  Dirk sets up two clip-on lights. And a mini tripod that holds my cell phone and my daughter’s GoPro as a backup and for editing purposes. I ask Dirk if he can edit. “Yeah, I guess.” I get a text from the makeup woman, Theresa, who says she’s having bunion surgery and can’t make it.

  I’ve never seen Kim Kardashian’s or any other of the many other blockbuster celebrity sex tapes, so I don’t know if they used music or not. And if they did, it was probably their own? But since I’ve never “dropped a single,” I put on Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3. I find it sensual and provocative. Dirk puts in earbuds. He’s listening to a band called Skin the Cat. And we’re ready to shoot.

  At this point, I’m exhausted. I have spent most of the day in preparation, and as is the case with every kid’s birthday party I’ve produced, I am knackered. I need to take five, so I curl up on a pillow for a quick rest. I close my eyes.

  When I wake up three hours later, Dirk is gone. I can hear the dogs barking in the kitchen and the kids giggling (I know immediately that they’re eating frosting out of the can). I stretch and contemplate what kind of chicken to prepare for dinner. We had chicken the night before, but I hate to waste food and with enough sriracha and soy sauce they won’t notice.

  I keep the onesie on. Why not? I can just throw an apron over it and still be ready for bed later on!

  As I leave my bedroom, I notice an invoice for $200 from Dirk and a note saying that he emailed me the video.

  In it I’m napping with a tiny string of drool cascading down the right side of my mouth. It’s not a traditional sex tape, but human sexuality is a curious thing and what is not sexy to one person may be to another. I grab my laptop and lock myself in the bathroom. The video goes on for about twenty minutes. In it, I’m still sleeping. At one point I snort. I send it to my agent to arrange the drop before it goes viral. And take a deep breath. I’m certain that I feel just like Kim Kardashian did just before her career skyrocketed.

  So if you’re contemplating a little private tape just for your own personal viewing, always remember, it will get out. And everyone you know or don’t know will see it. Yes, including your mother-in-law. And honestly, you never look as good naked as you think you do.

  Chapter 20

  Cursed

  I think anyone who has children thinks they’re parenting all wrong ALL the time. If you only feel it sometimes means you’re doing something right. Or you’re starting that bottle of wine too early in the day.

  In all seriousness, I truly believe there is no right or wrong way to rear those little humans. Well, within the realm of acceptable and noncriminal behavior, and not in the stories you read in the New York Post. Anyway, when they grow up and write their own books about their scandalous childhoods, then you’ll finally learn what you did wrong. The incomparable Joan Rivers delivered one of my all-time favorite parenting jokes: “All I heard when I was growing up was why can’t you be like your cousin Sheila? Why can’t you be more like your cousin Sheila? . . . Sheila was stillborn.”

  Sometimes I think my husband and I are too lenient, compliant, and coddling. And sure, we are overcompensating for our own childhoods. But maybe our children could stand for us to be a little more callous. We’ve debated leaving them in Yosemite National Park with a Swiss Army knife and a can of tuna fish and allowing their survival instincts to kick in as they claw their way back to New York City. But I fear it’s too late. They have an Uber app and can live for days on Reese’s Pieces.

  Chris Rock advocates bullying. He says if he hadn’t been bullied as a child, he wouldn’t be the man he is today. A successful comedian. But I’m not going to bully my daughters in the hopes that one day they can sell out the Barclays Center—I’m not so sure about their comedic timing. Still, I get the theory. Winston Churchill said, “Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.” An astute observation, but before taking this as parenting advice, remember that his son Randolph was manic depressive, a womanizer, and a binge drinker.

  We also don’t believe in physical punishment. Belts are for keeping your pants up, brushes for detangling hair, and stun guns for waking up grandparents. But maybe we’re wrong? Shock collars work on rambunctious Labrador retrievers, after all. (But then again there seems to be no pain as agonizing as when my girls have their phones taken away.) So we will just keep forcing them to sit with us and express their feelings—that seems like torture enough.

  In superficial ways, I usually feel like a good mother. I make cupcakes that look like goblins on Halloween, bake banana bread for field hockey games, and decorate the Christmas tree every year (usually by myself). I leave love notes in duffels sent to sleepovers, camps, and school trips. I never say no to candy (mostly because I always want some, too). And I encourage my teenage girls to sleep with me when they feel stressed. It reminds me of the days when they were toddlers and had nightmares. Except they’re much bigger now and kick harder.

  I like to think they can discuss anything with me. As did my husband until t
he subject of vaginal discharge came up at dinner. I realized he has a limit.

  Do I embarrass my children? Jesus, I hope so! That’s my way of toughening them up. And if they rebel and make it their goal to become the opposite of me someday, then good on them, they will be dignified, elegant women. But until then . . . I will only wear pasties on late-night talk shows if there is a feminist statement behind it and refuse to believe it’s that mortifying when I chase them around bar mitzvahs trying to get them to acknowledge my exemplary disco dancing.

  I do use humor as a way to parent. I find it dissipates any tense situations. My younger daughter had sex ed this year. She’s my shy one. You know, she showers in a bathing suit. She was trying to assimilate all the words, ideas, and images that were discussed in the coed classroom that day. One being a poster of a penis that charted its progress in three stages: placid, semi-erect, and erect. I had to assure her that the penis did not have three rods sticking out of it. Men would be intolerable if that were true. (I mean, imagine teenage boys with three penises to deal with?) She told us that they had been discussing menstruation in another class and Eddy, the boy sitting next to her, started projectile vomiting and they had to stop class. Oh boy, Eddy . . . just you wait!

  Then the following week, as we swirled our forks into turkey bolognese, our little girl put down her utensil, looked at us, and inquired, “Have you guys ever had anal sex?” And before my husband could clear his throat, I whispered to her, “Only for jewelry, sweetie.”

  If you’re even thinking I am a terrible parent for falling back on humor to avoid a “teachable moment,” I ask you: What are the alternatives? And by the way, why does a sixth grader even need to know such a thing? For her, the morning-after pill is a gummy omega-3 in the shape of a fish.