Buckle your seatbelts. Comedic actress and writer Ali Wentworth has a new book that embraces the intimate moments of her life and lets us into her crazy world. Her new book, "Ali in Wonderland: And Other Tall Tales," is a funny, honest and personal romantic comedy.
Having grown up in a family of political journalists, gone to a New England prep school and performed sketch comedy with Will Ferrell and Lisa Kudrow, Wenworth has life experiences that will have you rolling on the floor laughing.
Read an excerpt from "Ali in Wonderland" below, then check out other books in the "GMA" library.
There is a moment in every woman's life in which she becomes completely unzipped, demented, whacked, non compos mentis—for some it lasts minutes; for others, their entire lives. I have exemplary friends; many are CEOs of corporations or volunteers for nonprofits, almost all are meritorious mothers and ethical women. But if you gave them each a glass of pinot noir and a cushy ottoman, they would regale you with stories of the time they went bonkers.
I cracked like a Baccarat tumbler on a slate floor in Santa Monica, California, fourteen years ago. I was living at the time with a towering Jewish comedy writer named Ari. I was in awe of his deranged outlook on life and shock-jock sense of humor. He was brilliant, cynical, and wildly funny; I never tired of his monologues on everything from Britney Spears to Nazi Germany. I met him in Los Angeles, but like me, he was from the East Coast and knew what real snow looked like, as opposed to the tons of soap flakes Aaron Spelling had trucked in for his holiday party.
There was a familiarity about Ari; it was as if we'd known each other since Hebrew school (as a Protestant I've never been, but you get the gist). There's a scene in the movie Broadcast News when Albert Brooks says to Holly Hunter, "I'll meet you at the place, near the thing, where we went that time"—that was our constant dialogue.
We were ultimately better suited as naughty siblings than mates and preferred ridiculing celebrity sex tapes to making our own. We bought a house in L.A. that became a fortress against all the hardships of the Hollywood grind.
Ari spent most of his time writing and decorating the house with Moroccan antiques and twelve-foot Persian rugs. We swam in our black-bottomed granite pool and threw infamous Christmas parties. (Not at the same time.) There was always an abundance of liquor, glazed hams, spinach dip, hummus, gingerbread cookies, and a giant Christmas tree, which Ari, being Jewish, always protested against.
The party would be sprinkled with just enough celebrity to be titillating: Michael Keaton, Sandra Bernhardt, and once, the gorgeous Robin Wright. All brought by other people. For us, getting the guy who did our taxes to come was a triumph.