The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) (2 page)

I have tried to live up to his example, as I think my dad’s philosophy is sane and helps a marriage survive. Let’s face it, much of the crazy shit throughout history has been due to the complications between men and women. Relationships can create unfathomable joy or insurmountable pain, confusion, and suffering. Wars have been waged because of love. My father was my role model in regard to marriage; he made it look effortless. I attempted to follow in his footsteps, but in hindsight, it seems I didn’t get the entire memo.

While I was married to Parker, I was filming the miniseries
North and South
. I’d fallen madly in love with a fellow costar. I was married. He was married. I’d thoroughly justified this love affair, asserting, “We haven’t had sex—we haven’t done
anything
sexual. I just LOVE him; he’s my soul mate.” And it WAS true. We never did have sex . . . of any kind.

Girls
always
tell their friends about their love affairs. Perhaps men keep it on the down low; women never do. I had complete agreement from my friends that this love affair was correct. It was romantic. It was destiny. We were soul mates. “Soul mates”: the term I’ve come to discover means
I need a reason to cheat on someone or get out of my current relationship, so I’m gonna go find a “soul mate” to keep this from seeming so sleazy.
At least six soul mates have drifted into my path over my lifetime, so that sort of shoots holes in the “ONE soul mate” theory.

So my girlfriends, the other actresses on
North and South
, had it all worked out that I should ditch my husband, my soul mate should ditch his wife, and we should run off into the wild blue yonder and set up house. Our conspiring was endless. Basically, my soul mate and I agreed this was an excellent plan that we would execute the moment shooting came to an end. It was sorta like running off to join the circus, only dumber.

My father came to visit me toward the end of filming. We were standing on a baseball field when I made the decision to pour my heart out to him regarding my soul mate. No doubt he would understand; no question that he would give us his blessing. I was Daddy’s Little Girl, and he would never deny me the love of my life! I put on my best lovesick-actress face and began my Academy Award–caliber spiel . . .

“Daddy, although it isn’t right,” I began with uncanny eloquence, “I’ve fallen deeply in love with someone, and we all know that people can’t help who they fall in love with or where and when it happens. You just have to grab on to it, embrace it, and run with it, and although people will be hurt, it’s really in the best interest of all of us that we end up with who we should be with because that’s the way the stars align and that’s how destiny is supposed to work, Daddy. In fact, Daddy, you’re NEVER gonna believe who it is, I mean you met him at dinner last night, and I know it’s just crazy and you must think I’ve gone mad or something, hahahaha, and are wondering if I need to be hauled off to the nuthouse, but I can assure you this is all well thought out, and my decision is already made and in fact, SEE, there he is right out there on third base.” I pointed to my devastatingly handsome love-god, who gave us a big wave while flashing his gorgeous knock-me-dead smile. “Destiny has taken an unpredictable turn, Daddy, and although we ‘haven’t done
anything
’ ”—I wanted to make sure he remembered that even if I was married, I was still his little girl and pure as the driven snow—“although we haven’t done
anything
,” I continued, “I love him madly and I just can’t imagine my life without him. He’s my soul mate, Daddy, he’s my future.”

Daddy looked at me with those pale blue eyes that are reminiscent of old movie stars like Rory Calhoun and Robert Mitchum. He smiled and leaned in close, took a long pause, and said, “You’re married. Knock it off.”

This is the man who shaped my life, who told me things like “Telling the truth will make your life easier,” and “Killing someone is more acceptable than adultery because killing someone can be a crime of passion, a knee-jerk reaction to something shocking. Adultery is premeditated, Kirstie. It is planned. It is the thing that will kill relationships and leave one or both forever devastated.”

My father is not a lecturer, a pontificator, or a man of many words. But DAMN, when he does open his mouth, he lays out the purest, most simplistic truths ever uttered.

“Knock it off” pierced my love-stricken heart like an X-Acto knife ripping through a cardboard box. Predictably, he dropped those three words: KNOCK IT OFF, and then said, “You know what’s right.” God, I’ve hated those words my whole life! “You know what’s right.” It makes me feel like I have to be responsible for stuff!! It makes me feel like there’s no room for FATE or SERENDIPITY.

YES!!!! I KNOW what’s right . . . I’m not into RIGHT today, Daddio . . . I’m into LOVE . . . Oh lord, why did I tell you in the first place?? You’re all, “I’m monogamous. I’m one life, one wife.” UGH!!! WHY did I confide in someone who is so, so, so HONEST?!!

Now, of course I didn’t “knock it off” upon demand. I strung the soul-mate adventure out, as usual, to the final millisecond so that I could make damn sure parting would be the kind of sorrow found only in
Casablanca
. I had to ride that sharp edge of destroying my marriage and his. And when my soul mate and I were in our final dramatic throes, we vowed that we would always be soul mates, and although we were “good people” and doing the “right thing here” by parting ways, we would eternally love each other . . .
the most.

It makes me laugh now; stupidity is like that. Profound lovers’ words always seem to echo of idiocy after the tryst is over.

But my father’s words did not fall on deaf ears, just stupid, rebellious, unethical ears.

Unfortunately for my poor husband, this was not the last man I would fall madly in love with while I was married; I just had to give one more of them a whirl. That next man went on to become the husband of my now–best friend, Kelly Preston.

If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you. I am here to live out loud.

—ÉMILE ZOLA

The Art of
Monkeys

M
Y GRANDFATHER admired and encouraged my wild ideas. He embraced them and validated their existence. He allowed me to be an artist. He also contributed to my art by joining in and helping me achieve my wacky dreams. He went along with my eccentric idea of owning many monkeys by volunteering to buy my first one when I turned eight.

He helped me put salt on sparrows’ tails until I actually caught one. He never smashed my dreams.

He applauded the little beautiful things I created. The bouquets of flowers I picked for him. The May baskets I cut from construction paper and filled with posies and candy. The way I combed his hair for hours sitting on his lap—all forward, swooped to the side, slicked back, swirled around his head, or waxed standing straight up into the air. He complimented each hairstyle.

Out of 26 grandchildren, I was his favorite.

He bought me the most beautiful dolls. My dad had to tell my grandfather, “Dad, she is not your only grandchild. I have two more of ’em at home. You can’t buy her all these things and not buy them for the other kids. It makes them jealous.”

My grandfather responded by saying, “By God! It’s my money, and by God, I’ll buy her whatever the hell I want to.” Perhaps you see where I got my attitude. That was that, and, of course, the following Christmas I got a doll that was three feet tall and wore a bright red dress. The other grandchildren got tops.

Although I only knew him for seven years, he gave me enough inspiration to last a lifetime.

He taught me to turn darkness into light, and later in my life I turned drug money into flowers, to remind me of bad being changed to good and to remind me of him.

I now spend the same money that I used to spend weekly on drugs, approximately $400, to buy flowers for my home or to send to people I love. To this day, every time I see a sparrow I think of my grandfather and me, out in his yard, armed with tiny Morton saltshakers, attempting to put salt on the tails of sparrows, just for the opportunity of holding one in our hands.

When my grandfather left this world, I spoke to him every night. I felt his strong presence in my room for almost a year. When I could no longer perceive him, I tried writing him letters and burning them in the bathroom sink. Somehow I thought the smoke would carry my messages to him wherever he was.

I will never forget my grandfather and the magical way he reinforced who I really am. He helped me realize that dreams
are
reality, not the other way around.

He never had the opportunity to buy me a monkey, as he died when I was seven. I have a fleet of lemurs now, and not a day goes by that they don’t remind me of my grandfather, Clifford William Alley. I named my son after him, William True Parker.

People always ask me how I maintain such a beautiful life, and I always answer, “Through my grandfather.”

I shudder at the thought of men . . . I’m due to fall in love again.

—DOROTHY PARKER

The Art of
Sticks

I
TOOK MY first lover when I was five. We had moved from a tiny house on Estelle Street in Wichita, Kansas, to a modest trilevel house on Bellaire Street. Although the “upstairs” of the cedar-and-brick house was only seven steps up, I would gaze for hours out the window as if I were positioned high above the magnolias at Tara. It was from this crow’s nest that I spotted lover number one: Henry, a handsome chap who shared the date of my birth. He wasn’t younger or older; he was of “neutral” age to me. Henry and I began our affair by leaping off the roof of Tara. We held tea towels above our heads, holding the four corners together to fashion parachutes. Although they did little to break our falls, they somehow ensured we broke nothing important.

Henry had green eyes like mine, and had a green tent in his backyard. It was the tent that beckoned us to take shelter during a rainstorm and gave us the refuge we needed to “get busy.” Since we were both inexperienced lovers, we had to get creative with our sex tools . . . I chose a stick.

It was riveting to poke his wiener with my stick, and although I was only five, I was bright enough to know that flesh touching flesh was taboo. But stick-to-flesh? That was acceptable. Repeated stick touching proved effective for his arousal as I noticed he grew from tiny to sorta tiny. In fact, the gesture worked like clockwork: tiny . . . stick touch . . . sorta tiny . . . tiny . . . stick touch . . . sorta tiny.

In and out his wiener would go, and it was then it dawned on me: I was in full control of Henry’s wiener! An enormous sense of well-being surged through my veins like some strange fever. The power of sexual domination flooded over me. Henry was under my stick’s control. I had to refrain from throwing back my tiny head and laughing maniacally. Then he attempted to put a stick in my bottom, but I made it clear from the get-go that I would maintain a stickless bottom . . . I didn’t like it then, and don’t like it now. Sort of a standing policy of mine all these years: no objects allowed in my ass.

When my mother rang the dinner bell, it ended that day’s work. It’s amazing how even children know getting jiggy in a sexual fashion will be frowned upon by adults, but no one ever told me not to stick sticks on dudes’ penises. As I grabbed my shorts and headed out of the tent, I told Henry that I would return the next day. I felt confident knowing I could holler at Henry any day at any time and he would come panting like a lovesick puppy.

Ahhh, this was the moment I realized I could manipulate men . . . with sticks.

Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.

—MARCUS AURELIUS

The Art of
Wielding a Hammer

T
HERE ARE these men in Kansas. They are quiet, unsung, heroic men. They had a profound influence on me when I was a child and I’ve carried their influence with me into adulthood. These men are called Mennonites.

I have no idea or profess to know any details of what Mennonites believe in, and I could frankly care less. They dress similar to the Amish people, and travel sometimes in horse-and-buggies. The men seem to have beards and the women wear ankle-length dresses and they sort of stay to themselves. What I can say about them is that they are the most uniquely helpful and generous people I have observed.

Growing up in Kansas meant witnessing the aftermath of devastating damage and loss of life caused by tornadoes. When I was around eight, there was a catastrophic tornado in Udall, Kansas. My parents took us kids to see the damage the day after. The town was basically leveled, and people were staggering around in a daze like haunted zombies. The confusion is massive after a tornado hits, as people have lost everything. I saw the body of a dead woman wrapped around a claw-foot bathtub in the rubble. There was an eerie silence that prevailed, except for the sound of hammers hitting wood. A little in the distance were the Mennonites, about eight men total. They had begun rebuilding a barn. Not for themselves, but for a family who had lost theirs in the tornado. The family hadn’t called them or hired them or invited them. They just showed up, which is their MO.

The Mennonite men were quietly, professionally raising a barn, right before our eyes. Their Mennonite wives were serving food to people, homemade, delicious food consisting of shepherd’s pie and cherry pie. They were quiet people. They just went about their job of resurrecting a town one barn by one house by one meal. I asked my dad, “Who are those people?”