Authors: Ali Wentworth
BE CURIOUS, NOT JUDGMENTAL.
—
WALT WHITMAN
I
t’s impossible to live in our society with an open heart and an open mind (and closed legs). I am bombarded by the Internet, on TV, at potlucks, by the brutal snap judgments people make about everyone else! I’m not proud to say that I fall prey to it. Just for an example: I hate Kendall Jenner. I don’t even know Kendall Jenner. I wouldn’t know Kendall Jenner if she knocked on my door and said,
“Hi! I’m Kendall Jenner!” But I hate Kendall Jenner. Why? I guess because I’m supposed to?
It’s easy to look down on all the haters on the Internet who harsh on (anonymously) the general population, but you don’t have to be a forty-seven-year-old recluse who lives over his parents’ garage and downloads porn all day to pass vicious judgment on a daily basis. Of course, trolls (and I’m talking the trash-talking kind, not the creepy ones who frequent chat rooms dedicated to dungeons) offer the most flagrant examples of ignorant vitriol; they don’t try to understand, accept, or even know the people they so swiftly condemn. And if I ever did bump into @DirtyPieHole on the street, I’m sure he would be very sweet and gracious, unlike his comments: “If Ali has cancer, then sorry, but she is one ugly bitch #WearMakeup.” I would forgive him only if he was actually missing a face.
But let’s be honest: we all judge others, usually without making the slightest attempt to address the fact that our judgment is born of ignorance. And as a guy I dated from Brown who dropped a lot of acid once said, “You have to have understanding to have acceptance and then love.” He also totaled my Saab.
N
ow that I am in my forties, I aim to be more accepting. Unless you’re a man wearing knee-length denim
shorts. Or have a goatee. Or use #grateful on your Twitter feed. Oh God, I’m doing it. Okay. Open heart.
I was recently at a fiftieth (she says forty-seventh) birthday party in Malibu, California. A place famous for being incredibly judgy, but in a non-judgy way. “It’s all good” is the cornerstone of the vernacular on Point Dume, yet it is only “all good” if you’re Pilates fit, surf, have a Frank Gehry beach shack, and are sleeping with your yoga instructor. Malibu is also one of the few places in the world where you pay hundreds of dollars for worn and tattered sweatshirts. Fine, I bought two. But in my defense, I was on Ambien because of jet lag. I also have no recollection of purchasing six pairs of the exact same jeans on that drug. (My friend Amelia took an Ambien and bought five princess canopy beds from a Pottery Barn kids’ catalog. She doesn’t have children.)
The birthday party was made up of a group of eight women, some of us who knew each other, others who were meeting for the first time. It’s was a real girls’ night with an ocean view and a delicious board of smelly French cheeses and bottles of Pouilly-Fuissé. We were all exuberant to be away from kids and husbands for a night of debauchery (which for women my age meant a night of delving into such topics as varicose veins, sex dreams about the contractor, and the latest pill everyone was taking for anxiety). All topped off with some form of dark chocolate.
As a surprise, one of the women had invited a psychic to perform, and I mean perform, after dinner. Well, how could I not roll my eyes? I’d seen enough
20/20
episodes on fraud to know how these spiritual translators work. “Are you kidding me? Isn’t there an Argentinean masseuse or someone who creates henna tattoos available?” (It was Malibu, after all.) I mean, really: a
psychic
?
I assumed my outburst would be met with a resounding, “Yeah, she’s right, this is stupid! Let’s watch the
Orange Is the New Black
marathon!” But instead I was reprimanded with a lecture on how amazing she was and how most of the women frequented psychics. Turns out, as often as Greeks do electrolysis. It was at this moment I had to breathe deep and recall the wise words of Walt Whitman. I was in Malibu; I would be receptive to new possibilities. I would shed my narrow-minded, dogmatic approach like the Patagonia jacket I arrived in.
A glass of wine and a hunk of Camembert later, the psychic arrived. Her name was Donna. Now, what psychic is named Donna? Clear my mind, breathe, and find ethereal attunement . . .
Donna wore a long, black, sexy Jersey beach dress with a plunging neckline. I guess she hadn’t read the e-mail about it being all women. But if she was psychic, wouldn’t she have
known
? We all sat in a circle on what felt like a Moroccan rug made of baby llamas. There was
a fire roaring and the scent of freesia/fig candles wafting through the room. All the cell phones were turned off as well as Coldplay strumming from the iPod; Donna had our full attention.
I’m not saying a psychic should have an undetectable exotic accent, but Donna was straight out of Staten Island. I banished the thought from my brain; psychics aren’t from one mystic island, Ali. Surely somewhere in Carson City, Nevada, or Rancho Cucamonga there were clairvoyants being born by the minute.
Steady on.
If Donna were a stand-up, she would have been heckled off in the first minute. “I’m sensing women . . . Americans . . .” My nine-year-old could have done better. And has. She once predicted that, based on the tampons and Aleve I was buying, Mommy would lose her temper at some point during that day. And she was correct. Donna looked at my friend Lizzy, who is svelte and stunningly beautiful in a Swedish kind of way. “You had a grandmother?” Donna asked. The fact that Lizzy exists is a pretty stellar indication that she had a grandmother. “I see your grandmother . . . she was a very beautiful woman . . . tall.” I took some deep breaths. What gave it away, the fact that Lizzy could rest her wineglass on Gisele Bündchen’s head?
After a series of common observations about dead people that none of us could dispute—who knows if
one’s great-grandfather regretted his life? Or if an eighteenth-century aunt missed her childhood home?—Donna moved on to Polly. “I see a dog?” Polly nodded. I mean, chances are at some point in our lives we have all come across, owned, or even petted a dog. “A white, fluffy dog.” Polly shook her head. “A medium-size dog? Black?” Polly shook her head again. After we exhausted the probability of whether the dog was a Jack Russell or a Great Dane, Polly, who was so deflated from having to tell Donna she was wrong, finally lied and confirmed that yes, it was a bulldog. Donna smiled with pride, one breast slipping out the side of her urban muumuu.
After an hour of watching Donna close her eyes, pace the floor, and wait for spiritual signs (all of which was as riveting as C-Span coverage of Congressional budget hearings), we all took an intermission to fetch wine, rifle through the fridge, and check e-mails. Donna circled like a shark, presumably on the hunt for psychic clues. And then disappeared into the ladies’ room (you don’t have to be psychic to know when to pee).
Finally, I was up at supersensory bat. Donna stared at me like she was discerning whether I was a real diamond or cubic zirconium. “I’m getting images of a book?” I nodded. “Funny . . . a funny manuscript?” I nodded again. “I’m feeling big things, big success . . .” Like a fly to poisonous sticky paper, my ego clung to every word. Yes, yes . . . more, more . . . Who was I to decide if there
are forces not recognized by natural laws out there? I had no evidence either way, and Patricia Arquette was so convincing in
Medium
. Maybe Donna did have second sight? I stared into her eyes with razor focus, like a samurai preparing for battle. I wanted more. Would a studio option my book? Would Reese Witherspoon play me?
Clearly exhausted, Donna moved on to Ashley. Damn, just when I was about to ask her if she could visualize me on Jay-Z’s yacht. While Ashley tried to recall whether she had golden retrievers growing up, I hatched a plan. I would fly to Los Angeles once a month for readings, and when I was prevented from coming because of stomach flu or parent-teacher conferences, perhaps I could Skype? I’m really not a fan of phone sessions. When I left Los Angeles years ago, the two things I missed most were inexpensive avocados and my shrink. I would erratically book phone sessions, but became increasingly distraught when I heard what sounded like frying or maybe a hair dryer in the background. No matter. I would find a way.
My reverie was interrupted as Tina, the birthday girl, leaped to her feet with an empty glass and bid Donna farewell. It suddenly occurred to us that the birthday girl had gotten little focus. A psychic should sense when the party is over; it’s called reading the room. Donna put on her rope sandals and started collecting her goods: a
fringy leather purse, a nylon wrap, and an empty Starbucks cup. “Donna,” I said as she counted her money like a payout at the track, “I wanted to discuss maybe having some future readings?” She smiled so hard I could see the pale creases under her copper foundation. “Oh yeah, come walk me to my car.” Donna had a faded sky blue Dodge Dart with an underlay of rust. She opened the trunk and tossed her bag and the empty cup into the mess of jumper cables, bags of kitty litter, and a box of head shots. Yes, head shots of Donna, circa Shields and Yarnell, sporting a razzle-dazzle smile and permed hair. “Oh, you’re an actress?”
“Oh yeah. Mostly commercial auditions now.” It didn’t compute. If she had this otherworldly superior power, wouldn’t it have been used to further her thespian career? Suddenly, my spiritual guru seemed as omnipotent as the guy who makes my egg and cheese sandwich at the deli on Sixth Avenue. But again, I was not going to judge her on her success or even the fact that she owned a cat.
And then there it was, in the side pocket of the fringe purse (imagine something Cher hit Sonny with). It had been unearthed by the collision with the kitty litter. An illuminated iPad. A Google page on Ali Wentworth. A flash of images of my last book cover, talk show appearances, and eye surgery. My cheated heart sank. I had been duped. Conned by the Lady Donna. She wasn’t
stealing muscle relaxants from Tina’s medicine cabinet; she was getting CliffsNotes on my life from social media.
M
y elder daughter recently celebrated her twelfth birthday. We have a tradition in our family that on your actual birthday you can have dinner at the restaurant of your choice. Nobody ever opts to stay home and have my halibut lasagna. For the past few years we have celebrated my younger girl’s birthday at Benihana’s (catching a flying shrimp in the paper chef’s hat never gets old). But this year my almost teenager wanted something swank and chichi. She chose Nobu, a super-hip haute sushi restaurant chain with outposts in pockets of expensive real estate from Aspen to Dubai. The menu of yellowtail with jalapeño, black cod miso, and monkfish pâte is not the usual or even appropriate request from a kid, but it beats the germ-infested Chuck E. Cheese. But she opted out of a class party with all its neighbor-disturbing mayhem and crushed Oreo ice-cream cake (which lives permanently in the jute living room rug from last year). But most important—I love sushi!
Since my husband gets up at 3
A.M.
every day, our typical 5:45
P.M.
reservation was easily attainable at even a trendy eatery co-owned by Robert De Niro. The four of us were sitting at a round table in the middle of the
floor nibbling edamame, like squirrels, when my daughters froze, mouths agape. “What? Hello? What are you looking at?” I was concerned that they were seeing a live tuna being sashimied.
“Why aren’t you breathing?” I barked. My little one just pointed. I whipped around and peered into the more prestigious and desirable booth behind us, and there they were, pop-culture royalty in the flesh: THE KARDASHIANS! Before you squeal, pee your pants, and drop this book, it was not all of them. There were Kris, Kylie, and Kendall (as identified for me by my awestruck nine-year-old).
It would have been easy for me to segue from mocking the inflated prices of raw abalone and bitter mango martinis into a routine on the “famous for being famous” family of endorsement deals, perfumes, and sex tapes, but I refrained. Who was I to judge anybody? They were just a mother and her two daughters, just like us. And they were laughing and joyous (and very beautiful and dressed way better than we were). My kids were unabashed stalker freaks, and finally, as the bevy of waiters arrived with candle-lit mochi ice cream, singing “Happy Birthday,” a sweet Kris Jenner and stunning Kendall Jenner approached our table. “Happy birthday! How old are you?” Kendall asked my awestruck daughter.
“Twelve!”
“Twelve,” repeated Kris. “That’s a great birthday!” They waved and bounced back to their table, where a small circus was swarming.
Although I will never give credence to palm readings, astrology, or tarot cards, there is one thing I know to be true: I love Kendall Jenner!
TO BE A CHRISTIAN MEANS TO FORGIVE THE
INEXCUSABLE BECAUSE GOD HAS FORGIVEN THE
INEXCUSABLE IN YOU.
—
C. S. LEWIS
I
’ve done some inexcusable things—my brother and I once ran out on our check at the Redondo Beach Chart House, but then realized we’d valet-parked and the waitress caught us waiting for our Toyota Corolla behind eight other people. But how do I know if God exonerated me? I never received a “like” on Instagram
from @TheHolySpirit. God is all about forgiveness; it’s part of his brand. And I suppose if God forgives then we should all have forgiveness in our hearts, but does it have to be for everyone?
I guess we have to define inexcusable. If you accidentally smear raspberry lip gloss on an expensive ivory blouse and then don’t buy it, is that inexcusable? Or just hijinks? When I was a little girl, the housekeeper was cleaning the birdcage and vacuumed up my canary. I think I forgave her; it all got overshadowed by the fact that she was dealing heroin out of our home. But I did hold a grudge. Can you forgive and still hold a grudge? According to Hebrews 10:17—when God is truly forgiving, “their sins and lawless acts I will remember no more” (direct quote from the Almighty himself). I think if someone shot me, I would struggle to forgive, even if God pulled me up by the shoulder and sat me directly across from the guilty culprit. Well, the culprit would have to be really sorry and cry really hard. And whittle a bracelet out of the pieces of shrapnel taken from my chest. And write a pop song about me. So, yes, maybe then I would forgive. Oh, wait, but if I was shot in the face like Mary Jo Buttafuoco, then forget it, I could not forgive. Did she ever forgive Amy Fisher? I can’t fathom God forgiving Amy Fisher because I believe she’s still doing porn.
Let’s not go to extremes or I will start listing every
Fascist dictator I refuse to forgive. The matter at hand is: how do I forgive on a pedestrian daily basis? And how do I forgive as a New Yorker? Yesterday, a Japanese tourist was pushing the turnstile at Bloomingdale’s with such Godzillian force it crushed my bag full of vitamin C eye cream. He never uttered an “I’m sorry” (he may not have spoken English), but not even a bow? And yet, I forgave. Quietly, to myself. As I did the meter maid who gave me a ticket for an expired inspection sticker. I placed the ticket on the Audi parked in front of me. Hopefully, they will forgive me and pay it.
T
here was a recent incident, however, that required Herculean levels of forgiveness. It still irks me.
I was shooting a video project in my apartment, which involved a skeleton film crew invading my home to shoot a few hours a day for about three weeks. It was not an optimal situation, but for budgetary reasons, the only way. There were a producer, an assistant, a sound guy, and a cameraman. I will call this cameraman Hugh. But don’t imagine Hugh Grant; picture, if you will, Dog the Bounty Hunter.
One morning after we shot for about an hour, I was wandering down the hallway to my bedroom to fetch my reading glasses when I was blasted by a stench so overwhelming and fetid, it fogged my lenses. I assumed
one of our dogs had eaten another rotting possum carcass and thrown it up. I sniffed around like the evil child snatcher in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
until I reached the powder room. A room with crisp linen towels and a vanilla-almond-scented candle, a room preserved only for my mother and British people.
I felt a rush of fury ascend through my body. What revolting degenerate evacuated their bowels in the only sanctuary of true elegance? I stormed into the kitchen and eyeballed the crew like they were hash-smuggling hippies in the film
Midnight Express
. I leered at Hugh, who had such a complacent smirk on his bovine face that I instantly surmised he was the criminal. It was a violation more abhorrent than rubbing up against me in the subway or calling me ma’am (I’m not eighty years old). When the crew left I fumigated the apartment with a turned bottle of Chanel No. 5, which made it smell like an old lady pickled in white vinegar. And farts. Basically, any Hallmark store.
The next day the crew showed up again, Hugh carrying a gigantic plastic Big Gulp of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and a tripod that scraped the side of the kitchen with the wallpaper. The very image of the eighty-four-ounce jug of coffee caused every toilet in the tristate area to scream.
I quickly came up with a cagey plan to block any further powder room explosions. I simply duct-taped
the toilet seat cover to the pedestal, a bold, neon pink
X
sealing the cover. We had a mundane morning of shooting. The crew finally exited and I contemplated the fixings of my BLT sandwich. I like to add smoked Gouda cheese and extra-thick dry-rubbed bacon. I had just cut a substantial piece of challah bread when, like the black death in Crimea in the fourteenth century, I was hit with a putrid stink. I sniffed the bacon and checked my armpits. I dropped the Gouda on the kitchen floor, much to the delight of my obese dachshunds, and ran to the powder room. The tape was still intact. Naturally, I checked the sink; I mean, who knew what that shithead (literally) was capable of? I then rushed to my own bathroom. An exclusive and restricted niche in which I sequestered all my personal hygiene implements and schlocky novellas. The room reeked like a hundred dead rats in a Dumpster in July. I had once again been violated. There would be severe consequences. And if he’d so much as stolen one of my Tuck’s medicated pads? I turned to the mirror and raised my index finger like the little boy in
The Shining,
“Redrum, redrum, redrum!”
M
ost people would plug in a Glade solid and move on to more pressing issues such as peace talks in Benghazi or if Sandra Bullock will ever remarry. But I allowed the incident to fester, leading to repeated insomnia. It
was the audacity, the disregard for my personal space, the invasion of privacy. But more important, it was just fucking disgusting!
After a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios at 3
A.M.
, I decided the best course of action was to talk to Hugh. I would implore him to “deal with his shit.”
Now, just imagine how awkward a conversation like this would be. He was not my husband or even a close friend. Not that I could even talk to a girlfriend about this; I can’t even sit on a toilet seat that’s still warm. I don’t even fart! I just hold it in until it comes out in the form of a sneeze. And there’s no easy way to just haphazardly bring it up—“Hey, by the way, can you maybe stop taking a dump in my house and defiling all my toilets?” But the anxiety surrounding the conversation was far outweighed by the possibility of yet another feculent incident.
Hugh and I sat on the sofa and I felt like a teenager about to launch into the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. But it wasn’t me and it sure as hell was him. I looked down at his Reef thong sandals and fungus-infested toenails. “Listen, I’m going to need you to use a bathroom before you come over to my house in the morning.” “Why?” he blurted out. I was so taken aback, I momentarily questioned his place on the spectrum. “Well,” I said, as if I was speaking to a child, “because when you use my bathroom my whole apartment smells like
the subway for the rest of the day, and that’s with all the windows open and candles ablaze like a Christmas Eve Catholic mass.” He paused. “Well, my routine is my routine, I can’t control when I free the turtles.” And with that, he stood up and started changing filters on the camera.
I was dumbfounded. Should I have called the union? It had officially become a workplace complaint. I wasn’t sure what category it fell under: harassment? discrimination? And then it hit me: victimization. I considered a letter to multiple corporations with potential lawsuits for health being compromised. I had read as a teenager that if you breathed in someone’s gas, you were inhaling thousands of particles of fecal matter into the brain. I was no scientist, I didn’t even pass middle school chemistry lab, but this must lead to harrowing brain diseases. It also gave new meaning to the phrase “shit for brains.”
I resolved ultimately to deal with the situation internally. (Although I had penned some impressive letters to United Airlines, Time Warner, and Google.)
The next step was to loop in my producer, James. He was a dapper, well-dressed gay man. I filled him in on “Shitgate.” And James shot me a look of such revulsion you’d think I flashed him my boobs. It was far beyond his comfort zone and he quite literally washed his hands of the whole thing. It was just Hugh and me. A fecal fight club.
F
inally, after another bowel blast, the epiphany came! I knew there was a toilet down in the basement of our building because I had passed it doing laundry and storing Christmas ornaments. Did it belong to someone? There was no sign on it. It was a tiny nook with a toilet, a minuscule sink, a roll of paper towels, and a grimy bar of soap. This would be Hugh’s new home, quite fittingly, in the bowels of the building. It was either that or I put down newspaper and dealt with his waste like I would a puppy’s.
I excitedly presented the new plan to Hugh like I had booked Springsteen for his birthday party. “No, that’s not going to work,” he said.
“Um, I can get you Cottonelle?” I pleaded.
He seemed nonplussed. “It’s not that, I just won’t be able to hold it going down the elevator. When nature calls, she screams.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Are you really married? I mean, someone really married you?”
I spent the rest of the shoot in my apartment dealing with one assquake after another. My dogs were so repelled they spent those days hidden under my bed next to a lemongrass and ginger diffuser.
After the last piece of equipment had been loaded onto the service elevator, I exhumed my home with cinnamon potpourri and fans. The shit storm had finally passed.
Today, there is no trace or scent of Hugh, just the lingering fury that wafts across my consciousness from time to time. And as much as I read the Scriptures, I still found it difficult to conjure up amnesty for this impure trespasser who blew mud in my safe haven.
Over time I have learned to forgive poor Hugh. After all, God did “deliver me from the snare of the fowler and from the deadly pestilence” (Psalm 91:30). I can only hope that Hugh never uses me as a reference. I can’t imagine that conversation, “Yes, he’s pretty good with a steadycam, but brace yourself because when he . . .”