Go Ask Ali
Page 13
But all in all, I think I’m a decent parent. I walk them to the bus stop, go to all the holiday concerts, and never give them Benadryl just because we’re on a long flight. But I did have an epic fail the other day. And my daughter will hold it against me for the rest of my life. Or her life, as she will live much longer . . .
Teenage girls tend to get fixated on a few things—YouTube videos, Netflix, models, Glossier makeup, and their period. When is it coming? What will it feel like? And will I suddenly feel like an adult? My older daughter hounded our pediatrician about it for over a year. “Can’t you tell by my bones? Or pubic line? Or hand size?” She found it unbearably frustrating that it was not an exact science. If only she could know she was getting her period on November 4 at 5:30, she would be able to push her friend chat up to 6:30!
All through eighth grade, she would rush home to tell me who had gotten their period at school that day and who was still on the waitlist. This was a big deal.
Now, periods were never a discussion topic in my home when I was growing up. Because that all had to do with the business of vaginas and, God forbid, sex. I didn’t want it, anticipate it, or pine for it. But for my daughter, it was the equivalent of getting pulled up onstage by Ed Sheeran.
At the same time that my daughter was awaiting the crimson tide, I was dealing with the opposite extreme: the onslaught of perimenopause. Something you most definitely do not look forward to. My daughter was anticipating the beginning of womanhood, I the demise. She the onset of fertility, me the atrophied tail end.
In my experience, one of the most unsettling side effects of perimenopause is the insomnia. I haven’t experienced hot flashes or mood swings (aside from my usual chemical imbalances) or a deadened libido. Just abhorrent insomnia. Nights of tossing and turning. Sometimes nights of just getting up at three in the morning and having a bowl of cereal and catching up on old Will & Grace episodes. And there’s no clearly identifiable source of stress driving this; my brain just won’t shut down. And after two or three of these nights, I feel jet-lagged and nauseous. Any longer than that, I’m flat-out loopy.
It got so bad that I asked my internist what to do. I had tried the homeopathic road—herbs, primrose oil, sound machines, and crystals on my forehead. Nothing. So I figured it was time for some good old pharmaceutically backed Western medicine. The solution came in the form of a yellowish oval pill called Xanax. (These were mommy’s candy—dolls, ladders, planks, tooties, xanies, Z-bars.) I was told by a certified physician to take a tiny crumb of one when exhibiting signs of unrest. Finally, a solution from the benzodiazepine family! Of course I never finished reading the list of potential side effects (they had me at depression and suicidal thoughts), but one possibility struck me as unusual—risk-taking behavior, that didn’t sound so bad to me.
It was a fall evening. There was the usual homework panic, stacked dishes, and unruly dogs. I wore my most comfortable pajamas (from Target because they make the best, hands down) and had just finished reading a soothing section from The Alchemist. Our bedroom was lit with pink lightbulbs for a relaxing ambience. I spooned my husband and tried to will an eight-hour, level-four, deep sleep. Instead I boxed with my pillow and convinced myself I had a mosquito bite on my ankle. I kicked the covers off, then pulled them back up.
My husband’s job requires him to wake up at 3:00 a.m. and consequently he is always out cold by 10:00 p.m. Not going through perimenopause himself, he sleeps like he’s dead! I could have a teenage rave in our bedroom and he wouldn’t stir. I popped out of bed and made my way to the bathroom for my new prescription. It took about twenty minutes before I could feel my muscles twitch and my brain get soft. And then I was OUT. Like Sunny von Bülow out. From that moment (when I was on the brink of flatlining) on, I remember nothing.
What follows is as told to me by my husband and daughter:
At midnight that night my older daughter ran into our bedroom, turned on the lights, and dove onto our bed. “I got my period,” she shouted. Silence ensued. “MOM! Mommy! I just got my period!” My husband turned on his light.
“What did you get?” he asked. She gave him her usual eye roll and started tapping my shoulder.
“Mommmmmmm!!!!” I lay there like a fallen tree after a rainstorm. My husband checked my pulse. He quickly realized that he was literally the only parent there that night. And off he went with my new woman of a daughter to discuss all the wonderful ramifications of her discovery. I believe there were some awkward hugs and a few whispered congratulations. I mean no disrespect; what man in his fifties has the handbook on how to celebrate this milestone? But he did the best he could without having to pull up diagrams or PowerPoint boards or having the benefit of a torn paperback Judy Blume book.
The next morning I woke up like a newly born kitten. I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and licked my fur . . . or not that, but reached for my phone to check the time. What a wonderful, drug-induced night’s sleep. I was more relaxed than I had been in decades. Until I found out what had transpired the night before.
My daughter was upset, to say the least. In fact, I’m not sure there is a word—not even an SAT word—that captures the full intensity of her rage and indignation. And for my part, I felt like the unluckiest woman alive. The one time, THE ONE TIME, I was not available . . . What are the odds that the one time I decide to pill pop, this happens?
Needless to say, my daughter can hold a grudge. When she was four years old, we were on vacation and she begged my husband and me to take her with us to a New Year’s Eve party at the resort. We placated her by saying we would, then put her to bed at the usual bedtime. Again, she was four years old. When we got home at 1:00 a.m. she was sitting on her bed in a party dress, Mary Janes, and a sparkling headband. The hotel babysitter (who we suspected was stoned) was passed out in a chair. I’ve never heard my daughter cry so loudly. My husband had to carry her off the hotel property so as to avoid getting kicked out. And she brings this up at least forty times a year. The night her parents first disappointed her.
Now here was another. I had failed my daughter during a landmark event. Not on purpose! The pills made me do it. But I was so crestfallen. She marched into the kitchen in her striped blue uniform skirt and white sweatshirt. A new woman. A new, angry woman. And disappeared into the October day. October 12, 2017.
I was riddled with guilt. Not only because I hadn’t been there for a very critical moment in her life, but also because I realized I loved Xanax. I felt like the husband who forgot the anniversary; no way were flowers the day after going to cut it. But I had to try. When she returned home that afternoon, I had placed a huge menstruation gift basket on her bed—panty liners, a heating pad, chocolate bars, Motrin, more chocolate, a PMS stress ball, frozen cookie dough, and maxipads.
She smirked. I took it as a smirk of forgiveness. I perched next to her on the bed (still strewn with stuffed animals) and took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry I was asleep last night. I just hadn’t slept in days and I really needed a good night’s sleep.”
She unwrapped a Twix bar. “That’s okay.”
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you at such an important moment. You know I want to be part of all the milestones in your life. Will you forgive me?”
There was a long pause.
“I forgive you. Plus, I don’t think it was my period. . . .”
“I’m sorry, what do you mean you don’t think it was your period?”
“Well, there was no actual blood.”
“No blood at all?”
“Nope.” She continued to eat her Twix bar.
“So . . . why did you say you got your period?”
“I don’t know . . . it was just a feeling . . .”
“A feeling?”
“All right, God! I guess I was wrong!”
And that, folks, is the ride I call motherhood! Are you there God? It’s me, Ali.
Chapter 21
Twenty Things I Know for Sure
Always celebrate your birthda
y. Even when you’re in your eighties. In life, there are so few excuses to consume a Carvel ice cream cake.
Get the shingles vaccine. Or lie in bed for three weeks with a herpes rash across your face. Kills your sex life.
Invest in a good dermatologist. Let’s be honest, the face is what everyone sees. And I don’t know what a butt-enhancing doctor is called.
If you have the sense that someone is following you, someone probably is.
If someone ever asks, “If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you?” The answer is always YES!
If you drop your cell phone in a public toilet—LEAVE IT!
When they’re teenagers, get your kids a photo book of sexually transmitted diseases. Show it to their friends.
Always tip at least 20 percent. Or enjoy a toenail in your salad the next time.
Force yourself to read the news. Your eyes may glaze over deciphering fiscal responsibility, but the gossip column can be your treat after you’re done.
Don’t stalk anyone, lest you be stalked yourself.
Take 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar every morning. Natural diuretic. Plus I just want to see if you’ll do it.
Just say No. Loudly. And carry a whistle.
Wear sunscreen. Nobody told me to and I have the damage to show for it.
Don’t put cashmere in the dryer. You’ll see.
Do something charitable; get involved in community service. Even narcissists need a break from themselves. Selflessness is what separates us humans from the animals.
Don’t pet a snake. Even if she seems nice.
If you meet someone and they seem crazy—they are!
At least once in your life try ham and pineapple pizza.
No matter what anyone says, navy and black do go together.
Don’t dye your hair pink or blue if you’re over sixteen years old.
I hope that I have in some way enlightened you. Maybe even about checking your email before hitting send? I mean, I know you’re going to make a sex tape anyway. . . .
I am an entertainer, but if you pay me I can also be your guru or life coach. Well, it doesn’t have to be money, I do many arduous things for snacks! But for years people have asked me for my advice and while for the first forty years I was dry as a bone, I know I am pretty confident about pulling polished philosophical gems out of my ass.
My main point—and the reason you should buy this book for all your family and friends—is, sharing wisdom is everything. We can learn by one another’s trials and errors. Sure, maybe you’ve made more mistakes than me, but ultimately, these mishaps will enrich your life and the tales will be fruitful for others. And this book, full of my stories, can perhaps save you the time of experiencing the same painful, pie-in-your-face events that have made me who I am. My own failures and pitfalls. Oh, and rewards too!
We all have our stories. Even Gandhi did some dumbass things as a teenager.
And to conclude I leave you with one more crumb:
Dying’s not so bad. You’ll finally have an excuse not to answer all those texts.
—Ali Wentworth
Acknowledgments
My book is nothing without my editor, Jennifer Barth. In fact my book without her, is not a book. It’s some scribblings on a Post-it. Jennifer even scheduled a photo session for the cover before I formulated what the book was about. THAT’s a damn good editor.
I have to thank everyone at HarperCollins for believing in me, pushing me, and squeezing blood from a stone.
My book agent, Jennifer Joel, at ICM who’s much smarter than me, but don’t tell her. For Ted Chervin, Courtney Catzel, Kaitlyn Flynn, Ruthann Secunda, Steven Brown, Pete Stone, and the whole team at ICM that support me even though I’m in the lower earnings bracket. Is it my baked goods?
My lawyer, Adam Kaller—who has not had to post bail yet.
For all my girlfriends, who hold my hand, make me laugh, and offer the best advice.
My parents and siblings, who give me plenty of material and who I’m pleased to say I have a thriving, close, and loving relationship with.
To my husband, who is better than me, but doesn’t push my face in it and allows me to make mistakes without penalties. And allows me to be the clown.
And to my two beautiful daughters—I could write a book every single day about how amazing you each are. That would make HarperCollins very happy. . . .
About the Author
Ali Wentworth is the author of Ali in Wonderland and Happily Ali After. The star of the comedy series Nightcap, she made a name for herself on the sketch comedy show In Living Color, and her film credits include Jerry Maguire, The Real Blonde, Office Space, and It’s Complicated. A native of Washington, D.C., she lives in New York City with her husband, George Stephanopoulos, and their two daughters.
Also by Ali Wentworth
Happily Ali After
Ali in Wonderland
The Wasp Cookbook
Copyright
go ask ali. Copyright © 2018 by Trout the Dog Productions. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by Milan Bozic and Joanne O’Neill
Cover photographs by Heidi Gutman (main images); © Jeffrey Coolidge / Getty Images (chalkboard texture)
first edition
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-246603-7
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-246601-3
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