Meanwhile, back in California, I was having fertilization work done. I was being tested for everything, and my body was going cuckoo. I would be in full-blown menopause one month, then producing eggs and estrogen the next—without fertility drugs. It felt like my body was a car, and when I hit the gas in neutral it would rev up but never slip into drive. I kept lamenting to my specialist, “I’m forty years old! Tons of women older than I am have kids every day! Twins even!” This was around 1991, and not as much was known about fertility. But my doctor laughed. I could have babies too if I visited the “egg man.” What?! Kookookachoo, I am the walrus—what egg man?
“Dr. Sawyer,” my doctor said. “He’s the egg donor specialist.”
I was barely able to utter the words “I can’t have children” and certainly not ready to throw in the uterus and admit “I’ve waited too long,” so “Definitely! I want to meet the egg man.”
“Kirstie,” my ob-gyn said, “Dr. Sawyer is the reason it appears that all these actresses older than you ‘easily’ get pregnant and, in particular, have twins. But the rate of birth defects, including Down syndrome, is seventy percent higher in women over thirty-seven.”
Well, shut my mouth! Why didn’t I know this? Why had I assumed I could easily conceive into my forties? And what about those women in the Star who live in Bolivia and have babies in their fifties, even sixties? Suddenly the tabloids were my reference materials. Jeez! I was confused more than ever. Get thee to the egg man.
I did go see the egg man, and I had lots more tests. I was indeed in full-blown menopause at the young age of 40. It’s fairly rare, but it does happen to the unlucky idiots who think they can conceive when they’re 48. I knew it was true! My mother had friends who had babies at 48, 49, and even 52. What about THOSE women??? They sure as hell weren’t out shopping at the local egg farm. And even my gyno admitted that some women do get pregnant naturally in their forties, occasionally in their early fifties, but never women who have gone into menopause.
I was ready to choke myself out. Had my drug use made me prone to early menopause? Wasn’t it odd that three months after I had surgery for my miscarriage I went into menopause, for Christ’s sake? Had they screwed up? Had they removed more than the dead baby? Perforated me, implanted me with an alien baby eater—jeez! I was going insane!
The egg man was cool. Without giving names of his celebrity clients, he made it clear that he’d had only two nonceleb clients over age 42 who conceived without egg donors. And they conceived with in vitro. I tried artificial insemination, the turkey baster technique. I shot my ass with hormones until the day of. But it didn’t work. This wasn’t shocking, since the odds of IUI success are like 10 percent. I was lost. I needed divine intervention. And then, BAM! I remembered something. I remembered all those babies I babysat for from age eight until I was 25. I recalled how I would pretend the babies were mine. The best thing I remembered was how much I loved them. How happy they made me and vice versa. None of them came out of my body, yet I loved them like they were mine.
I also thought about my own mother. We were never close, and yet I came out of her womb.
Of course bodies are genetically created, but I believe souls inhabit those bodies. Souls are not created. I feel they are connected to God but not created by God. I also don’t believe that one must love their family because they are blood. It’s important to do your best to honor your parents. I think that usually works out fairly well, but what about those parents who beat their children? Molest their children? Mind-fuck their children and so on. What about those parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins who are criminal, psychotic, dangerous, unloving, belittling, and heartless—why would anyone have to love them? Perhaps saints still love those idiots because they’re family, but I’m not in their category. I actually believe on some level of consciousness, that we can choose our parents, as they can choose us.
Thoughts began to make sense. Concepts began to gel. Love was more powerful than blood.
I could feel him out there. I could perceive him every mile of his plane ride as he was being delivered to us by Mary. When she arrived with him—I already knew him.
We named him William True Parker. William after my grandfather, Clifford William Alley, and True because I like the combination of different numbered syllables in a name. William (three), True (one), and Parker (two). Instead of names like mine, Kirstie (two), Louise (two), Alley (two). Mixed syllables skip the singsong effect. William has never been used. I love the name William and like the name Will. But Bill, Billy, and Willy sound common. True is the name that stuck. True suits True.
Before my daughter was born, True created the most exhilarating effect to date on my life. There was no break-in period, no adoptive-parent syndrome. It was natural and profound. We had located each other. It became obvious that the spiritual universe is where the real party was going on. He was worth the heartache and the wait.
True was physically perfect, and every inch of him was beautifully formed. He had no hair on his head, but his eyelashes draped down to the middle of his cheeks. When he was sleeping he looked like he was an old-fashioned baby doll. They always made those dolls with exaggerated lashes to make them cuter.
We welcomed him to earth, to Encino, and to his home. We lay for hours as he slept, just looking at him. For the first time in my life, I was still. Calmness is not my forte. The entire noise of living ceased. This was my purpose. This was my destiny. I’d known it since I was three years old. Through all those years of begging to hold everyone else’s babies, I knew my purpose was to be a mother.
You could tell True was funny from day one. You could feel his quirky sense of humor, but above all you could loudly perceive his artistry. It was so evident that he was a musician. That was eerie. Parker and I spent the first week alone with True, no visitors. Just us alone with our son. I had the week off from Cheers.
The day I went back to Cheers I was given a surprise baby shower by all the cast and crew. Even at the shower people must have had a foreshadowing of True’s abilities, a perception of who he was, his artistry. Tim Barry gave True his first guitar—he was eight days old and received a Fender Stratocaster! There hadn’t been talk, prior to True’s arrival, that he “should” be a musician, as I believe children should be whatever they decide to be. But I got amazing gifts at the shower, held upstairs above the Cheers stage on the Paramount lot.
But how could Tim have known? I certainly have no musical skills. I can sing a bit, but I play no musical instruments. Parker didn’t play instruments, so when I opened that Stratocaster I was pleasantly shocked.
I believe in cause and effect. I believe the physical universe is junior to the spiritual universe. I believe accidents are predisposed by suppressive people fucking with you. I believe the being, the spirit, the élan vital, whatever you wanna call it, is the entity driving life, like the driver in a car. The car can be an Aston Martin, but without a driver, it’s just a bad-ass piece of art. I believe we can know things that appear unknowable.
Tim knew True was a musician and by 18 months, so did everyone else.
True is one of those rare musicians who have no ambition to be famous or flashy. He’s all about the music. The words, the riffs, the way it makes him feel. Heehee—he’s such a sixties child. He’s such a “I’ve been here before people!” kind of guy. If True weren’t raised in Scientology, he would have become a Buddhist or Hindu.
True has always smelled like sugar and butter combined. My nickname for him is “Butter.” I’ve never smelled anyone who smells as good as True. Perfectly clean scent of sugar butter and a tiny hint of lemon, and that’s his natural scent!
True’s best and worst quality is that he will defend the ones he loves to the death. He’s courageous. He is a tiger defending someone’s honor or reputation. The problem arises when he defends the wrong people. I’ve had the pleasure of watching him grow into a man who can differentiate the bad guys from the good. This kid was born trusting everyone.
When he was young, he was the most gullible child ever born. When True and Lillie got to a certain age they asked me if I breast-fed them. True was around six, Lillie four. I told them no, and explained when children are adopted their mothers don’t have milk. They went on, “Well, then what did you feed us, Mama?” I wove a wild tale to make them feel special. To let them know they hadn’t missed out on breast milk. I told them that they needed lots of protein because they hadn’t gotten breast milk. Special protein.
“We had to feed you the highest-quality protein available. We fed you tiny baby snake heads and fried bat wings.”
They were delighted! “For real, Mama, for real?” True asked.
“Yes, for real,” I said.
“Well, how did you find them?” he asked as they both sat there clinging to my every word.
“I had to raise them,” I continued. “They were very exotic baby snakes. They were the kind you didn’t have to kill. They grew multiple heads and the little heads would just fall off like petals when the baby snake was done using them. Then they just grew more heads.”
“And the bat wings, Mama? What about the bats?” True inquired.
“Same thing. Remember when Mama went to Italy? Mama was collecting bat wings in a Franciscan monastery. They were blessed—by monks.”
“I’m glad we didn’t have breast milk, Mama,” True said. “I bet that’s why we’re so strong.”
“Yes, baby, that’s why you’re special.” Lillie and True were satisfied. They giggled and made me tell them more about the exotic creatures they’d been reared on. My children never wanted to hear fairy tales. They only wanted to hear stories of all the bad things I’d done in my life. They were especially interested in times I got in trouble, and the impersonations of my mother’s rants.
The years passed. True was 13 years old. He was talking to some of my friends in the backyard. One of them was nursing her new baby. “Ya know . . . we weren’t raised on breast milk ’cause we’re adopted,” True said.
“What were you raised on, soy milk, goat’s milk?” my friend asked.
“Nope, Mama fed us the finest protein in the world. Snake heads and bat wings.” My friend started laughing. “I’m serious, Kate, ask my mom,” True said.
Oh lord, what had I done?!
I took True and Lillie inside and told them it was just a tale I’d told them when they were little. They both started laughing hysterically. True asked, “For real, Mama, for real?” Then we all laughed.
True is also one of the sweetest, most patient children I’ve run across. One time, about a week before he went into the third grade, he needed a haircut. I volunteered. His hair was down to his shoulders and I didn’t want him to cut it but he was sick of people saying he looked like a girl. Of course the majority of those people were from Kansas and were rednecks. Any hair longer than a burr looks like girl hair to them. But IF he HAD to get it cut I insisted that I cut it so it didn’t get screwed up. He agreed. He’d seen me cut countless friends’ hair, so he trusted me. It was true, countless GIRLfriends received haircuts from me. I’d yet to do a short boy haircut. I asked him how short he wanted to go. “Really short, above my ears,” he said. I began by lopping off his golden locks. Then I started crying and had to excuse myself. When I came back I began chopping away. I was really getting into it. Snip snip, cut cut . . . it was looking very professional. “There!” I said. “It’s done! It looks awesome!” True went in the bathroom to take a look.
“OH MY GOD, I LOOK LIKE FREAKIN’ TINKER BELL!!!” he squealed.
I yelled back toward the bathroom, “TRUE!!! IT DOES NOT LOOK LIKE TINKER BELL, IT LOOKS AMAZING!! IT LOOKS GQ! GET OUT HERE SO I CAN LOOK AT IT AGAIN!!” When he rounded the corner I burst out laughing. So did he—my lord, he looked exactly like Tinker Bell! We were crying because he looked just like a little fairy. His hair was choppy and poufy with pixie sprigs sticking out around his ears. He looked like he should have been holding a wand. He was so sweet about it. He never got mad. He kept referring to himself as “Tink,” and every time he said it we would go into convulsions laughing. I took him to a pro to have the stylist “boy” him up. When we walked out of the salon he had transformed from Tinker Bell to rocker boy.
True’s first love was “Pokenhantist.”
The sweetest thing my son ever said to me was “Mama—you yook just like Snow White.” Apparently we had a Disney thing goin’ on all up in there.
I hate, absolutely hate, parents, especially mothers, who prattle on incessantly about their children. I get it. I get that every word they say is precious. I get that everything they learn is of milestone status. I get the loss of their first tooth, their first Christmas, and the first step they take. It is monumental—to them.
So I will refrain from telling you every cute thing my son has done, even though every cute thing he’s done is far cuter than any boy on earth.
True’s arrival marked the beginning of loving a male just because I loved him. Child love, son love, is so simple and pure. So easy, so natural. It is perfect. It is intimate and personal.
I saw True giving Ben Travolta his first guitar lesson a few months back. He was so sweet and patient. Ben loved it. True loved it. And it was a lovely sight to behold.
The only love advice I’ve given True, who’s now 20, is “Your name is True. Don’t give some girl cause to shout ‘You say your name is True but you’re a liar! Your name should be False!’ ”
You just know it’s gonna happen—heehee—you just know it.
This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, “Doc, my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken.” The doctor says, “Well, why don’t you turn him in?” And the guy says, “I would but I need the eggs.”
Well I guess that’s pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd but I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.
—WOODY ALLEN
The Art of
Not Being a Cunt
WOODY ALLEN is an eccentric, peculiar cat. He is also a genius and quite likable.
Since 1977 I envisioned being in a Woody Allen movie. It’s not clear if I wanted to be an actress in a Woody Allen movie or just to be Annie Hall. The uniqueness of Woody Allen or one of his movies is actually unique, not for lack of a better word. He’s like the Barbra Streisand of moviemaking: one doesn’t have to see the album cover to know who’s singing.
I know people got all wrapped up in the Soon Yi drama and shunned him for a while, but my first experience with both of them was that they were delightful, eccentrically delightful.
I’ve never met anyone like Woody Allen. No one comes close. I could never say, “Woody is exactly like so-and-so,” since there is no so-and-so that he’s even remotely like.
My agent called me around 1996-ish. I was dicking around in New York City on my way back from Italy.
“Woody wants to meet with you for his new fall movie.”
“Woody Harrelson?” I asked.
“No, fool, Woody Allen,” he said in curt agent-speak.
Me: “When?”
Agent: “Tomorrow.”
Me: “Where?”
Agent: “New York, fool.”
Me: “What’s the role?”
Agent: “He doesn’t let anyone see the script, we have no idea.”
Me: “Fool, then how am I supposed to know if I’m right for it?”
Agent: “Woody thinks you’re right enough for it to meet with you. The meeting’s tomorrow at two.” Click.
Wow! I’m going to be in a Woody Allen movie! I thought.
“Meeting” means meeting. It can result in being hired or just being beckoned into a room to see “if you’re still fat.” However, I was pretty sure we’d hit it off and he would hire me. I’m fairly eccentric myself, so it seemed like we would click!
I walked into a little outer office and was met by Juliet Taylor, Woody’s casting agent. She’s his ONLY casting agent. She’s the shit.
“I’ll take you in [to see Woody], let’s go.”
We walked into a very large, long room. The draperies were drawn and were sort of a dark asparagus–green. The room was so dimly lit that I could barely see Woody Allen sitting on a long, asparagus-green sofa next to Soon Yi. The room could have been puce for all I know because it was so dark, but it felt asparagus-green.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said back.
“I saw you on Cheers,” he said with his New York accent. “Cheeas.”
“Thank you.” I never know what to say when people say that, let alone Woody Allen.
“Thank you for coming in,” he said abruptly, and it was clear that the meeting was over.
“Thank you for having me,” I said as I got up to leave.
Oh brother, had I blown that meeting or what? And I wasn’t even fat!
I smoked 3,000 cigarettes in the limo on the way back to the hotel that was 10 minutes from Woody Allen’s asparagus office.
That was my BIG chance to be in a Woody Allen movie, and I blew it! I don’t know how or why I blew it, but it really doesn’t make any difference because I’ve clearly blown my only shot of being the next Annie Hall!
I was staying at the Pierre Hotel in room 642, the same room I’d stayed in many times and the only NYC hotel I’d slept in for almost 20 years. They were like family to me at the Pierre. I knew the staff better than I knew most of my relatives.
I pouted and sighed as I stomped past the hotel personnel. When I’m miserable, I appreciate everyone else suffering along with me.
“You okay?” was every hotel worker’s reaction.
“Grrr, blah, ger, grrrrr, bla, oooagh” was my response.
I opened my hotel room door and did a 1940s theatrical “slam, turn, throw my back against the door, and slide to the floor” number.
As I sat on the black-and-white parquet marble floor, staring at the ceiling like Joan Crawford, the phone rang.
The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 20