Ali in Wonderland: And Other Tall Tales (16 page)

The next morning we were back in New York. I lay in my bed, it was sleeting outside, and I watched
The View
while surfing eBay on my iPad. My husband was at work, my kids were at school, and the dogs had finally peed directly on the wee-wee pad. Finally, vacation.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ali Sells Seashells

I
have an obsession with seashells. No, not like people who have a chunk of coral in their bookcase or an abalone ashtray they picked up in Tortola. I dream about them, I travel for them, I surf the Internet for them, I stalk them.

Twelve years ago I went to Anguilla. I was snorkeling—always no deeper than four feet, because a great white could at minimum take an arm. I spotted a small pink knuckle protruding from the white sand and dove down to explore it. I pulled and jimmied until I yanked to the surface a stunning bullmouth helmet shell. To many people this shell may look like a large pair of pink Botoxed lips, but to me it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. The fact that a gorgeous specimen like that was created by nature and nestled in the sea was mind-blowing. And, it was free! My heart was racing; it was like finding a briefcase of cash in an Amtrak station or a mismarked dress in the sale bin. From that day on, diving for shells became a metaphor for my life—the idea of putting myself out there in an undefined and unpredictable world, pursuing a goal fraught with danger (barracudas, sharks, producers) and achieving it. And the achievement comes with a tangible reward, a natural piece of art or an Emmy. So it became imperative to travel to some location with seashells at least once a year. Because I wasn’t winning any Emmys.

I tried to downplay the whole seashell insanity before George and I were hitched. When I was on my honeymoon, I casually pulled out my snorkel and “went for a quick dip” while he sat on the beach and read his fourth novel of the day. I was literally swept away. I thought I had been diving for twenty minutes; I was in the water for four hours. It must be what porn addicts experience—they think they’ve been cruising the Web for a few minutes, and yet they’ve grown a full beard and the dog is emaciated. It led to the only tiff on what was otherwise a sublime vacation. I returned home with two hotel duffels full of limpets, moon shells, turbans, whelks, and babylons. I should add that when I was living alone in Los Angeles, I bought an eight-foot French display case to house my treasures, along with two bookcases. The expense of moving across country was not the abundance of flea market furniture, but the thousands of shells that needed to be individually wrapped in bubble wrap like they were live kidneys.

When we had our second child, our house was ripping at the seams. The tiny guest room became the baby room, and the broom closet became the playroom, and our bed became the kitchen, and so on. We bought a spacious Georgian-style house in Georgetown, with enough of a terrace to house dog shit for the duration of winter. The only downside of the buy was that it put me back to a house similar to the one I was raised in. I couldn’t scrape the walls fast enough; I spent the next few months with night sweats trying to decide between buttercup or lemon custard paint swatches (why did we ever go off the simple primary colors)? It was enough that I was back in the city where I was raised, in a house similar to the one I escaped. I had to create an environment that said, “Yes, I am Muffie’s daughter and George’s wife, but I am different! I have spirit, yes I do, I have spirit—how ’bout you?” I wanted bold colors and animal prints, reflective of my chutzpah.

The trick was, what carpeting goes with that sensibility? When you walked in the front door of our house, the first thing you saw was an eye-popping pink silk sofa beneath a Lucian Freud sketch of a naked, depressed, reclining woman. That was a good start. The first time my mother entered, she paused. “THAT’S the first thing you want people to see when they walk in?” To which I casually answered, “Tits? Yup.” My husband labeled the living room the shell room. Painted a soothing lavender-greyhound gray, it was intended to be a reflective, serene oasis, but in reality it could have passed for the rec room in the Museum of Natural History.

George finally put a moratorium on my shell hoarding: I could bring back no more than four per trip. And no more shells in the bed. So began a new obsession: collecting shell tchotchkes—everything from porcelain bowls in the shape of shells, pewter shell bookends, shell mirrors, shell prints and a few giant clam shells for the fireplaces . . . Yes, the first step to a cure is admitting you have a problem.

P
eople get excited over many things. I’ve seen men reduced to their primal, simian selves over a Mets game, women stampeding gates at a Milly’s sample sale, and preteen girls screaming outside the Trump Hotel to get a peek at a Jonas brother. This is me at the annual Brimfield flea market. And to go with a purpose—storage facilities to fill. The summer I went after we bought the house, I had to rent the largest U-Haul the company allows an unlicensed trucker. You have not lived until you’re parking your vehicle in a meadow outside ten football fields of antique clutter and loot after a lunch of Friendly’s fried clams and French fries. Frost, Shaw, Emerson, Gibran—not one of them could articulate the euphoria; maybe the guy who saw the Virgin Mary’s face in his cereal. In my ecstatic frenzy of consumption I was able to fill the truck with a limestone kitchen island, a textile mill table, paintings of naked women, industrial lights, wicker chairs and . . . shells on Lucite stands.

What’s that? Shells in western Massachusetts? In the middle of an uncut field, hidden among the antique stands and lobster roll and lemonade tents, was a truck. At first I feared it was a mirage: shells right smack in the middle of a meadow? This truck was filled with shells, coral, coral lamps, shell stone garden decorations, iron shell gates, and even authentic lavender sea fans. I dropped to my knees. The cherry on top was the owner of the haul. He was a very tan man in his early thirties with bright white teeth and chin-length ebony hair. He looked like a Native American model in a Ralph Lauren ad, complete with tastefully tattered jeans. I don’t want to sound superficial—he was an attractive man in that
Dances with Wolves
, make-love-in-a-sweat-lodge-on-animal-skins-and-never-commit kind of way—but honestly, it was more about his booty. Not his backside booty, but his marine life booty.

Hundreds of dollars later, Daniel Day-Lewis completed the Herculean task of reconfiguring the contents of my overstuffed van—a task that necessitated yanking off his T-shirt (from the back to the front, hunk-style) and collecting his hair in a ponytail. I all but pulled out my Buddy Holly glasses, tapped a cigar, and told him I could make him a star! Instead, he gave me his business card; he owns a shop in Austin where he creates all his aquatic housewares. As I drove away, I watched him pull out a cigarette in my rearview mirror. If it didn’t cause cancer, it would be so sexy . . .

So the aforementioned living room that was made for brass carriage light fixtures and foxhunting prints was transformed into what looked like a whaling museum in Rhode Island. But for the rug. I had bought a twenty-foot white wool sisal carpet that covered the entire floor. It brought out the luminescence of the shells’ interior cavities. I know, something we all look for. But this was not the best choice for a family with children, a Norfolk puppy, and an ancient, incontinent dachshund. It was soon splattered with urine and smelled like a Porta-Potti at a truck stop in Death Valley. I begged my husband for a new rug, only to be continually rebuffed with, “Honey, it’s a recession! We are not buying a new living room rug for the dogs to pee on!” So I bought some purple RIT dye and a pair of rubber gloves from the local Safeway. And with a plastic cup, and the fortitude of De Kooning, I swirled the dye in frenetic strokes over every inch of the rug, which, inadvertently, created starfishlike designs. When George returned home that night, he fumed, “I told you we cannot get a rug right now!” To which (and this is very rare in marriage) I got to dance around explaining while simultaneously flicking him the finger.

T
he only room beside my shell sanctuary that mattered to me was my girls’ room. I thought it was essential they share a room and learn to cohabitate, be considerate of others, share their things . . . and I wanted an office. My children are extroverts, full of whimsy and slaves to Disney fashion. They requested peace-sign wallpaper and Hannah Montana quilts, which, I promised them, would come to pass when they were older (and I was dead). Instead, I painted their room a raspberry pink and installed wall-to-wall zebra carpeting. The mirrors and trim were a high-gloss white, and the curtains a subtle red and pink zigzag pattern. I hand-painted Regency chairs and reupholstered them in deep pink velvet. It was old Hollywood glamour with a sense of humor, girly without unicorns and fairies. When they walked in for the first time they threw their arms up and screamed like the women who get called on
The Price Is Right
.

I had finally created an ecosystem that pleased everyone. There were some rooms that were soothing variations of manly brown, with thousands of books and an uncomplicated TV system for my husband; a delightful and enviable room for my girls; and my shell shack. Interestingly enough, I found out years later that my grandmother had been an avid collector and had donated her collection to Harvard University. So addiction is clearly hereditary and not learned.

A
few months after settling in, Elliott (who was then five years old) was experiencing nightmares and took to crawling into our bed every night around midnight. It was classic behavior for children her age. They discover that the world is not as safe as they thought, and that evil exists; the nasty queen or mean stepmother in the fairy tales starts to press on their subconscious, and they begin to experience fear and understand that life encompasses danger. Elliott would cuddle next to me, and I would explain that it was only a dream and monsters don’t exist. (Which was difficult because she watched
World News
.)

I was attempting to hose the dog poop off our terrace one afternoon in early April. It was getting warm out, and we wanted to eat dinner outside. I was wistfully watching the excrement stream across the slate tiles down the back steps and settle next to our neighbors’ garage. The phone rang, so I left the hose to flood a few hibiscus plants. It was my mother. I told her I was composting.

We discussed, as we do most days, what all my siblings were up to, how the weather was in the town she was calling from, and how horribly the government was dealing with the economy and how I should hide my money under the bed. I filled her in on the headlines of our life. And then I decided to tell her about Elliott’s nightmares. “It’s normal for a child her age; they are realizing that the world is not safe, and . . .” I went on about the psychological ramifications of dreams and nightmares. I paused, waiting for her take—maybe I had had nightmares? How did she cope with her children and sleepless nights?

There was a long pause. “Well,” she began, “did you ever think it might have something to do with how you decorated her room?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I Was Born This Way

M
y grandmother constructed a raft out of seventy-six yak hides upon which she sailed down the Yellow River in Lanzhou, China. Yes. True story. My mother’s mother. There is a female gene in our family that is so dominant it devours, like a wild boar, any weak link that dares cross its path. And the result is a long line of women whose skin may be pallid and pasty, but it’s tough.

My grandmother trekked across the Mongolian desert for three years on camelback exploring subcultures and discovering lost kingdoms. She was born a quiet debutante from Boston with no real future plans, except maybe to one day needlepoint a hymn. She was forbidden to attend Bryn Mawr as the narrow-minded and strict patriarch of the family believed that “ladies do not go to college.” She could have spent her life setting her hair in pincurls for Junior League lunches or bleaching her white gloves, but instead chose to join the Red Cross and sail to France. She eventually married an anthropologist/scientist, a real loner. I’m not sure I could hunker down with a man who prefers entomology to . . . well, anything. His job took her to China, far from the comforts of Boston. The lace Victorian dresses were replaced by a leather coat, pilot sunglasses, and lace-up military boots. She was the original Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. My grandmother would march ten hours in rough winds in the Alashan desert and still photograph Mongols and aid birthing camels while deciding what herbivore concoction to prepare at the campsite.

My mother raised four children while reigning as one of the most successful and feared women in D.C. She, too, was a debutante from Boston and a self-described wallflower. But when that gene kicked in,
Kapow!
She founded corporations, sat on boards instrumental in changing the country’s arts and culture, and worked for a president. By the way, she just called me from a barge in a country whose name I can’t pronounce.

M
y mom, after planting thirty peony bushes, was weeding her vegetable garden in Virginia one summer afternoon. My mother can seed a lettuce patch as seamlessly as she can welcome Mao-Tse Tung in Mandarin. I had come down for the weekend to escape my first-floor Manhattan studio apartment with bars on the one window that faced the Dumpsters. I plopped down on the grass dangerously close to some dog poop and watched her toil. We sat in complete silence, save for the yelps of a foxhound that lived next door and always sounded like his paw was stuck in a meat grinder.

“I think I should move to L.A.,” I blurted out. She kept weeding. “I just think as an actress I should be where the work is?” The gene was kicking in. Okay, I wasn’t contemplating fighting Ukrainian civil disobedience or saving the rain forest, but Los Angeles is rough (especially if you don’t have a gym membership).

My mother put down her soft-grip pruner and trowel. “I’m not going to tell you what you should or should not do,” she said. How is that ever a good answer? But, she continued, “You have to follow your gut. If you truly believe that is what you need to do, then you should listen and do it.”

This left me with two conflicting scenarios. I could stand up abruptly, kicking dirt and yell, “Screw you, you just want me to go to L.A. for your own selfishness! Well, I’m not! I’m staying right here and working at the Olive Garden. Nice try, MOTHER!” Aside from this being nonsensical and psychotic, it didn’t seem like the right moment for rebellion. Instead, I opted for her support and wisdom. I left for Los Angeles a month later, a city where I had never been and where I didn’t know a soul.

My grandmother schlepped to China carrying eleven pieces of luggage and guns, in anticipation of Shanghai’s civil unrest. Starvation had plagued the countryside to the point that peasants flung themselves upon the train tracks my grandmother rode on. My mother moved to Washington, D.C., in the nineteen sixties, during the country’s fight for civil rights. She was with Bobby Kennedy, for whom she campaigned, when he was shot. Months after moving to Hollywood, I experienced the Los Angeles riots. I sat on my friend’s apartment roof eating dry cereal and watched the smoke and chaos exploding in front of me. A weaker person would have called United Airlines and gotten the hell out of there! Well, I did call United, but the riots were smack in the middle between the airport and me, so I couldn’t move. The point is, I fearlessly pursued my passion anyway.

My older sister, Sissy, gave birth three times without any drugs and my younger sister, Fiona, can psychologically disrobe anyone—whether they be Jungian or Freudian. And me? I’ve jumped out of a plane, been on live TV without any self-editing mechanisms, and can bake a mean cupcake. My own daughters can bloody a nurse’s nose at the mere mention of a flu shot and aren’t deterred by the word “no.” Ever. My eldest can scream so shockingly loud that in these moments she should be on the back of a Siberian tiger waving an axe and shield, leading her tribe into battle, not being told she can’t stay up and watch
Modern Family
. Someday, however, that inner fire will serve her well. Preferably after she’s left home.

And so I know that my own daughters, with this mighty gene, if channeled correctly have the capacity to conquer the world. I’m not pressuring them to do that; inventing an anti-wrinkle cream that actually works would make me just as proud.