Free The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) by Kirstie Alley

staircase and snuggle up against Jake. I was half freaking out for real and half feigning a starlet-movie freak-out. If I had spoken, which I didn’t, I would have said, “Rhett, don’t let me die in a cyclone . . . Rhett, I need you, I love you, this is a sign from God. Oh, Rhett, protect me from the dreadful storm!” And Rhett would have said, “Frankly Scarlett, I DO give a damn!! There is never tomorrow, only today . . . and there’s no place like home.” The frenzy was so vast that even Rhett had gotten his movie lines mashed together, but I didn’t care, I just didn’t care!!!!
    No dialogue was needed in this scene. This performance began my acting career and would have won me an Oscar if cameras had been rolling. I was clutching Jake, who was wrapped around me like a tortilla on a burrito. There were raccoons flipping out, dogs barking, cats hissing, five brothers laughing, Carmen telling them to shut up, Don and Maxine wondering why they had so many kids, the wind droning like a train . . . and then, as quickly as it had come, it went. Dead calm.
    It was nothing new to any of us Kansans—just another night in ITA (Wichita), the Air Capital of the World.
    Noah’s ark, family, and friends danced up the basement steps to the kitchen. When a tornado doesn’t actually kill you, you suddenly feel like the Berlin Wall just came down: exhilarated. Fleetwood Mac was blasting from the living room—“you can go your own waaaaaay”—and that’s exactly what Jake and I did.
    “Storm’s over, let’s go out by the pool to smoke a cigarette,” he said. There were those tan hands. There was that crisp white cotton shirt. There were those stick matches that Jake was striking on the zipper of his Levi’s jeans. He was holding the flame up to my smoke, and lordy lordy, it was all too much. I delayed a beat to let him light my cigarette, and the match went out. He leaned forward and kissed me hard on the mouth, and it was probably the most perfect, memorable kiss of my life. The “forbidden” kiss—and then it hit me: I’ve kissed someone. I’m a married woman and I’ve kissed someone.
    The next day I did more. As Jake lay on top of me for most of that Sunday afternoon, making out like teenagers after the prom, I thought, Oh well, at least we didn’t have sex. We just parked our bodies face-to-face—and smooshed. Okay, okay, that’s not horribly horribly bad  . . .
    But as I got on the plane to leave Wichita the next day, I thought . . . I am a whore . . . My mother was right. She raised a whore. It left me but one choice—I had to get a divorce—which I did.
    I took nothing; I was the bad one after all. To this day I cannot believe what a cold, callous, heartless ass I was to my husband. I didn’t just break his heart, I thrust my hand into his aorta and ripped it from his chest, something I’ve punished myself for a thousand times over, and something I’ve regretted my entire life.
    All of my justifications came floating to the top: Well, he cheated on ME and didn’t admit it until the day after we were married. Well, well, well, well, well  . . .
    It never really works to cause immense pain to another and then justify your actions. However, I didn’t learn that till much later in life . . . much later.

I became insane with long intervals of sanity.
    —EDGAR ALLAN POE
    The Art of
Wallpapering
    I F EVER there was a man who deserved the title of saint, it was Dean White. Not to imply he’s dead now; he’s very much alive and very much a part of my life.
    When I moved in with Jake, before I was officially divorced, he suggested I decorate our duplex. Jake had money and I had talent. We made an appointment with Dean’s Designs, a fashionable interior design firm in Wichita. Jake and I were new in our relationship and were on the wavelength of newlyweds, although we were just shacking up.
    Dean—“Deano” as his children call him—was the top man (owner). We made the