by Mamrie Hart
So, what was supposed to be me breezing through the lobby and grabbing my bounty like a marathon runner taking a cup of water without stopping became a wedding party pileup with everyone waiting for their orders. And while Ash and her hubs would’ve normally headed straight to the penthouse suite for wedding night bliss, Ash was distracted by the smell. She was more concerned with consuming pizza than consummating her marriage, much to the dismay of her hubs. She plopped her beautiful white gown down in a seat and refused to go upstairs until she got some. For a second I thought a hot slice of cheese was going to get the marriage annulled.
This is the face of a bride who just dieted for a year and can now eat whatever the fuck she wants, and the legs of a patient man who realizes he just agreed to put up with this shit forever.
I still laugh every time I see that pic. But there, in that Sonoma restaurant, seeing Ashleigh with tears welling in her eyes, I was not laughing. Finally, she broke down. “I’m so exhausted. Jeff and I have been trying everything and we just can’t get pregnant. We’re losing hope,” she said, salty tears falling into salty chips. “I thought maybe if I planned a trip that was specifically for drinking, I would end up getting pregnant just out of irony.”
My heart sunk. Here she seemed to be effortlessly running the show, when secretly, she was stressed as all get-out. Lindsay and I rubbed her back and listened to her unload everything she had been feeling the past year, her stopping every few minutes to apologize to us for crying. The fertility methods, the close calls, the laborious adoption applications process. How she had been trying to keep it together while watching all her other friends get pregnant so easily, not bringing it up so as to not rain on their parades. No wonder she was stressed.
Something struck me while I sat there on that barstool. For the first half of our friendship, it would have been our worst nightmare to see two lines on a pregnancy strip. Now, for her, it was opposite. Gone were the days when the word “pregnancy” was always followed up by “scare.” Ashleigh was the kindest, most nurturing person I knew. Whether that was babies or taking care of a drunk Mamrie after a field party, motherhood suited her. And now the only scare was that it wasn’t going to happen naturally, like she’d imagined.
In that moment, I finally felt what it meant to be in a real adult friendship. Back when we were teenagers, our biggest problems being our high school boyfriends not calling us when we clearly sent “911” to their pagers, or figuring whose older brother was going to buy us a handle of Popov for the weekend. Most of the time, I still feel like a teenager pretending to be an adult. Like the movie Big, except instead of saying to Zoltar, “I wish I were big,” I say to him, “I wish I were a dress size smaller.”* But sitting in that restaurant, I was weighed down with the reality of growing up.
A few more margaritas and a lot of tears later, we trekked back to the hotel to pass out. I said good night to Ash, told her I loved her, and closed my eyes, agitated that I couldn’t fix anything. It’s not like when your friend gets dumped and you go, “They didn’t deserve you. You’re going to find someone better!” and then take them out on the town to get their mind off it and hopefully get them to make out with a stranger on a seedy dance floor. Nope. Can’t go “That unfertilized egg didn’t deserve you! Now, go put your tongue in someone’s mouth to the pulsing beats of Pitbull!” All you can do is listen.
When we all met in the lobby the next morning, it was the open-door crew that looked bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Meanwhile, the Boonville gals were wearing our floppy hats a little lower as to shade our bloodshot eyes.
“Well, there y’all are!” one of them called to us, to-go cups of coffee in hand. “Sorry we slept through dinner last night. We must’ve just went down for a nap and never recovered.”
“Y’all didn’t recover, and you weren’t covered at all,” I said, pouring myself the dregs of the remaining coffee, “Nice ass, by the way, Heather.”
“What did we miss?”
Ash and Lindsay and I all exchanged a quick look, but I spoke first. “Oh, nothing. We just went for a super chill dinner. Came back and were asleep before midnight.” I grabbed Ash’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Is anyone else starving, by the way?”
“Not us,” Heather spoke up again between drags of her morning Parliament Light. “We ended up eating Mexican food.” What the hell? Had they been at the restaurant and we were too busy crying and yammering that we hadn’t seen them?
“Yeah, we woke up at midnight starving and called an Uber to take us through a Taco Bell drive-through.” Look, you can take the girls out of the white trash, but they’re still gonna stink.*
We spent our last day together dragging but staying on the planned itinerary, feeling like tiny fairies beside the giant trees of Muir Woods, and getting a waterfront lunch in Sausalito. Before heading to the airport and flying our separate ways home, I took Ash aside to let her know to reach out if she needed to talk, not to bury it all inside. She agreed—plus, as an upside, I knew she was coming to LA two months later for work, so I’d have the chance to cheer her up then.
Two months later and Ash was in Hollyweird. At that point, I was deep into production of Dirty 30, which was perfect—she was going to get to see me in action! Acting in scenes, sitting with headphones on in the producer’s chair, demanding that craft service make more vegan Southwest eggrolls. Once we were wrapped for the night, Ash and I bolted to my friend Joselyn’s book release party. I was so happy she was getting this full experience of seeing me do my LA thing. Plus, I could introduce her to some of my friends before inevitably cornering her to pick up where we had left off on the baby convo, this time without the haze of all-day day drinking.
We got to the party, and it was packed. After hugging Joselyn and taking a few pics in the adorable DIY photo booth, Ash and I moseyed up to the bar. It had been a long day on set, and Mama needed a stiff one.
“I think it’s a vodka soda night for me. I need to wake up clearheaded. What are you having, Ash?” I looked back at my girl as a smile slowly spread on her face.
“I’ll take one, too, but hold the vodka.” At this point, the woman was beaming. “It’s too early to tell people, but Jeff and I found out a couple of weeks ago. I’m pregnant.” There it was! The happy reveal. I, of course, immediately started crying. We hugged for possibly too long in the middle of that party before breaking it up and socializing. I was so happy for her. It was possibly the first time I’ve ever been happy that a friend wasn’t drinking with me at a party. It was a full-circle perfect ending. . . .
Until the next day, when Ash got food poisoning and had to stay in her hotel so she could privately shit her brains out. In the words of a future mom of the year, Bless her heart.
Long-Lasting Friendsips
I REMEMBER WHEN I first was introduced to my dear friend Wine. I’ll be honest: she didn’t give me the best first impression. I was ten years old and attending communion at my grandma’s Episcopalian church in Panama City. Back in Boonville, where the county was still dry and people didn’t eat bland food if they didn’t have to, communion didn’t have real wine and stale wafers; it was Welch’s and Hawaiian potato bread. But not at Grand’s church. I took a sip from the chalice thinking I was about to have a cold, crisp grape juice crushed by Jesus himself’s feet and nearly spat it back in the minister’s face. It was warm! And in my kid brain, I thought it must have gone bad. A handful of years later, and I would be back to the bottle, drinking pink Boone’s Farm at a party. I thought I had gone bad . . . ass.
Luckily, as an adult, I realize that calling Boone’s Farm wine is like calling Olive Garden authentic Italian.* I’m into the real stuff now. The cabs and merlots and pinots and syrahs. Remember that song from the nineties, “Mambo No. 5,” where Lou Bega lists all the girls he loves? The Monicas. The Ericas. The Ritas. Just change all those ladies’ names to types of wine, and that is my anthem.
A lot of people get
intimidated by wine because there are so many different options. I get it. Sometimes when I’m supposed to pick out where to go for dinner, I’ll have thirty tabs opened on my phone comparing menus until I eventually say fuck it and eat a bag of baby carrots. But there’s no reason to be intimidated by wine. Wine is your friend! And just like how you would want to hang out with certain friends in certain circumstances, I am going to give you a crash course on what wines to drink when.
Let’s start with reds, because the phrase “let’s start with whites” just sounds inherently racist.
CABERNET: This is your ride-or-die bitch. Super dependable. Cabs are often full-bodied and can have fruity and peppery notes. She’s easy to get along with but can occasionally surprise you with a li’l kick, depending on the day. Go split a rack of ribs with this one, ’cause you’re going to need a belly base coat for a long night. Cabs are so easy to drink with, you’ll definitely be calling a cab home.
MERLOT: Merlot gets a lot of shit for being a basic bitch. But “basic” is just another word for “popular,” and speaking as my high school self, there ain’t nothing wrong with being popular! We are not living in the movie Cruel Intentions. Sometimes people are popular because they are just nice and get along with everyone. Same with merlot.
PINOT NOIR: This is your skinny bitch friend. Not a ton of depth with this one. It’s like when you’re going to hang with a friend you know isn’t going to have a convo with you about religion or politics. While hanging out with them still can be fun, this is more of a “let’s get lunch” friendship, not necessarily a dinner date. Especially ’cause you know she’s not going to want to share any fatty appetizers.
SHIRAZ: Have you seen the movie Rough Night? Shiraz is basically Kate McKinnon’s character. This is a spicy, earthy-as-hell wine that packs a punch. If it had a human job, it would be a doula. Like, super interesting to talk to for a while, but you don’t want to be cornered by her for too long at a party. It’s overwhelming.
CHIANTI/SANGIOVESE: These bitches are Italian and bold as fuck. I’m talking the type who won’t sit with her back facing the door in case there’s a hit on her. Best paired with Italian food, obvs, her flavors are loud and will usually wake me up with a solid headache the next morning.
—
AND NOW LET’S talk about some whites, shall we? These are the girls who are usually a touch lighter and sweeter. The types of gals you can cozy up to for a little daytime hair of the dog after a long night with your red friends.
CHARDONNAY: Ummm, who invited their aunt to this party? I kid! Chardonnay is delicious, but it often has an oaky, buttery vibe. It’s decadent. It’s eccentric. Just like grabbing drinks with an older family member, you’ve really got to be in the mood for it, and even when you are enjoying it, you probably want to limit it to a glass or two.
SAUVIGNON BLANC: With its tendency to be fruity and floral, consider this the flower crown of whites. A Coachella girl in a glass. While it’s sweet and fun and great to hang with on a hot day, there isn’t a lot of depth to sauv blancs. They kind of all blend in together and, personally, hanging out with them too much can give me a terrible headache.
PINOT GRIGIO: You honestly cannot go wrong with pinot grigio. She’s the friend you can bring to any party, any social circle, and she’s going to get along with everyone. Not because she’s particularly interesting but because she’s completely inoffensive. She’s the girl your high school boyfriend ends up marrying, and when you meet her for the first time, she’s fine, very pleasant, but nothing really sticks out . . . which makes sense because he was a dud, and him dumping you before college was the equivalent of Neo dodging those bullets in The Matrix. (A gif that I use every time my friend is being rejected by a dude, by the way.)
WHITE ZINFADEL: I’m not mad at white zin, but do I want to drink it? Hell no. The hue alone makes me immediately hungover. But I don’t think it should have the bad rap that it does. Not any more than . . .
ROSÉ: I’m gonna get real here, and a lot of you might not agree with me. Rosé is basically white zinfandel with a classier name and a lot more adorable T-shirts made in honor of it. There are so many “Rosé All Day” tote bags but no “Zin for the Win” when I can’t tell the damn difference between the two. Rosé is like that friend who has always been a little trashy and self-deprecating, but now she has a British boyfriend, so she’s somehow “cultured.” Like how Lindsay Lohan all of a sudden has a weird European accent now, when you know that bitch is from Long Island.
That said, hand me a glass of sparkling rosé, and I will immediately act like I’m on a yacht in Monte Carlo and forbid anyone to make eye contact with me.
—
AND JUST LIKE friendships, may I suggest trying all of these on for size? What you got along with in your twenties might not be your ideal pairing in your thirties. People evolve, and so do their tastes, and holy hell, if that is not a perfect segue into the next chapter—one that you might want to pour a glass of your favorite friend to have on standby—I don’t know what is. . . .
Singled Out
WHETHER YOU KNOW me from the Internet, or from my first book, or from my mother convincing you to buy this thing at your last choir rehearsal,* you know that I am pretty private when it comes to my love life. Will I tell you at the drop of a dime the inner details of my last colonic? Of course I will. But have I ever mentioned who I’m dating on a public forum? Nope! Never. But I figured this is my second book; I should dig a little deeper. Which is also what I told the person administering my last colonic. Hey-yo!
Can you tell that I get so uncomfortable opening up this side of me that I feel the need to ease you in with terrible garbage humor? I mean it! This is all new for me. But, fuck it, I want to share my experiences, and I already cashed my book advance, so let’s do this!
Ahem . . .
March of 2016 found me in a position that I had never been in before. . . . The flying reverse scorpion from page 87 of the Kama Sutra. Kidding! I wish. I was basically in the opposite position. I was single and couldn’t have been further from physical contact with a male specimen.
You might be thinking, But, Mamrie, we’ve all been through a breakup. Big whoop! Deal with it! Now, before you get up on your high horse, let’s get one thing out of the way: This was no ordinary breakup. This wasn’t one of those “we fell in love, it was amazing for a couple of years, then he shattered my heart, and now I need to buy stock in Ben & Jerry’s because I am solely keeping them in biz” type of situations. This was a major life event, because he and I had dated for more than ten years, and yet, there was no earth-shattering event that caused the breakup. We simply drifted apart, and it was devastating to finally realize that.
When I met my ex, I was about nine months out of college and living in New York. Having gone to a college where most of the women were blond, bouncy rich girls, I shockingly never had boyfriends. I was the girl you brought to your frat formal because I’d bring weed and have a shot-taking contest with the biggest bro, but I wasn’t the girl you’d introduce to your parents on alumni weekend. It wasn’t that I went on dates and they were bad. It was just after a few years of not being pursued, I kind of friend-zoned myself.
So when I met my ex, about a year into living in NYC, it was just the same. He had a girlfriend at the time, so a relationship was off the table, and we just became summer drinking buddies while our other friends had to keep responsible schedules. Perpetual friend-zone. A place I knew well. So when one night he told me he was breaking up with his girlfriend, I was thrown off. “I realized I have feelings for you,” he told me in Bull McCabe’s, a dark East Village bar where we would sit outside and drink beers all night as he smoked cigarettes and I blocked out the constant current of rats rolling by. I was in shock. Had I been suppressing a latent crush on my friend? Of course I had. But I didn’t think anything would happen. I sat there sipping my Corona as he continued, “So, I’m going to break up with he
r tomorrow. It’s not fair for me to have these feelings and be in it. Even if you don’t feel the same—”
“I feel the same way!” I said. And that was it. I had a boyfriend. And for the next ten years, it was the smoothest of sailing. We had become friends first before any of the romantic stuff. Friendship led our relationship. I was accepted. And loved. And content.
I was also grateful to be off the meat market. With my personal life on lock, I didn’t have that distraction. I dove headfirst into work with blinders on. I knew I could be completely selfish in the amount of effort it takes in this weird industry and still have someone being my cheerleader without being jaded about it.
Plus, dating seemed horrible! All the games. All the rules. My girlfriends would bitch to me over cocktails about their latest dating fiasco while I’d sit there nodding my head in solidarity before going home to my super stable partner. Thank GOD I don’t have to deal with that, I’d think as they’d tell me about another teenage idiot trapped in a grown man’s body. Isn’t it so great I got to hit fast-forward and skip all that bullshit. . . . Isn’t it?
The truth is, over time, I wasn’t so sure. Don’t get me wrong, our relationship was filled with the hardest of laughs and being our truest silly selves together, but after I turned thirty, the teeniest, tiniest little sliver in the back of my brain started to feel like I was somehow missing out on crucial life experiences by being in a committed relationship. I’d always heard people talking about how much they learned from every breakup, and I had never really had one as an adult. I started to become obsessed with that idea. Was not having experienced heartache in some way stunting my development as a full-fledged person?
