Chapitre 1
Letters to My Daughters: Uncensored Wisdom from a Comedy Icon
Ali Wong's "Dear Girls" has become the secret handbook for a generation of women navigating the messy realities of modern life. Framed as letters to her daughters (not to be read until they're 21), this raw, hilarious memoir has found fans in everyone from Reese Witherspoon to Michelle Obama. When Wong performed her Netflix special "Baby Cobra" while seven months pregnant, she shattered comedy norms and became a cultural phenomenon. But behind the raunchy jokes lies something deeper - a blueprint for authenticity in a world that often demands women be anything but themselves. As Wong confesses in her opening lines, "I'm a fucking idiot" - setting the tone for perhaps the most refreshingly honest celebrity memoir of our time.
Chapitre 2
Trapping a Husband: The Art of Cold Hands and Persistence
Finding love wasn't easy for me. In 2009, I'd been living in New York for a year with disastrous dating experiences - five consecutive men lost their erections mid-hookup. I partly blamed my Raynaud's disease, inherited from my father, which causes extremely poor circulation. My ice-cold "White Walker fingers" could kill any man's arousal instantly. I grew so self-conscious that I developed a technique of furiously warming my hands before intimacy, like a boxer preparing for a fight.
Everything changed at my friend Abby's lavish Napa vineyard wedding. I immediately noticed your father - the only other Asian person there. As a fellow private school Asian American, he checked all my boxes. I've always preferred dating Asian American men because there's cultural shorthand and aligned hygiene standards like taking shoes off at the door.
Our first date was at a terrible pan-Asian restaurant where he forgot his wallet, borrowed money from me, and made an obscure Nicolas Cage reference. I wore a dress and shaved my legs while he showed up in Lululemon yoga clothes with a mat slung over his shoulder "like a Santa Monica trophy wife." I believe men should pay for first dates - not because I'm traditional, but because it compensates for women's preparation efforts and shows initiative.
Weeks later, I ran into him on the street in the same yoga outfit and was reminded how handsome he was with his chiseled face and sexy deep voice. Our second date at a Japanese teahouse went much better - he paid (reparations!) and we discovered we both would choose "speaking every language" as our superpower. For our third date, we did yoga together, and I sealed the deal by making him vegan peanut noodles with spicy tofu. On our fifth date, he kissed me on my apartment stoop while wearing a corduroy moose sweatshirt. Years later, he proposed on that same stoop, with a homeless man arguing with a pigeon nearby - a perfect New York moment. I knew I would never have to be alone again.
Chapitre 3
The Raw Reality of Bringing Life Into the World
Even before marriage, I wanted children. Friends who struggled with fertility warned me not to wait too late. Coming from a family of four kids, I wanted a big family too. Having siblings was essential when my father died - I couldn't imagine facing that grief alone. Having kids is like a 401(k) for companionship, especially important for Asian women who "live forever."
I romanticized pregnancy from childhood, stuffing dolls under my shirt and noticing how my pregnant teachers got special treatment. I wanted children young because my parents were older when they had me - my mom was forty-two and dad forty-seven. They never went down slides with me or rode roller coasters. When my father was dying of cancer, he told me I was an accident from forgotten birth control. Sometimes I wonder if my drive comes from proving they should be gladder they had me.
Unlike me, my daughters were meticulously planned - so planned that the scheduling of ovulation sex ruined intimacy instantly. I wanted children close in age because the gap between me and my siblings was painful. They were all ten to fifteen years older, with family photos of them skiing together before I existed.
At thirty-one, after one month of scheduled sex using cheap ovulation strips from China, I got pregnant and told everyone immediately. Then at eleven weeks, I miscarried. That's why people wait until after the first trimester to announce pregnancies.
The responses were often insensitive, implying I was somehow at fault: "WHY?", "Did you take folic acid?", "It was probably from all the performing." I felt people were asking how I "managed to fuck up" my pregnancy. The best response when someone miscarries is simply: "I'm so sorry to hear that." Miscarriages don't discriminate - I found comfort knowing Beyonce also miscarried. If the "goddess queen" had one, it was okay that I did too.
Three months later, I got pregnant with Mari but didn't tell anyone until I was four months along. At thirty weeks, we discovered she wasn't growing enough due to intrauterine growth restriction. The doctor explained she'd need to be delivered by 37 weeks. My paranoia intensified - once I didn't feel her kick for three hours and ended up chugging grape soda before lying under my desk at work until I felt her move.
At thirty-seven weeks, they tried inducing me. After twenty-four hours of contractions, my cervix was only dilated half a centimeter. When the doctor offered a medical balloon to open my cervix more, I opted for a C-section - the first lesson in having kids: you cannot control anything. The anesthesiologist discovered my scoliosis and missed with the needle repeatedly, causing me to sob as bloody tissues piled up. When your dad arrived, I was shaking uncontrollably with chattering teeth and told him, "We are never doing this again." But ten minutes later, when I saw Mari's face above the curtain, I immediately said, "Let's do it again."
Chapitre 4
Hospital Survival Guide for New Mothers
If you're ever giving birth, here's what I wish someone had told me about surviving the hospital stay:
Bring Depends for yourself instead of dealing with slipping hospital pads in mesh underwear. They're dignified and practical when you're leaking all manner of fluids. Pack a breastfeeding pillow rather than stacking hospital pillows under your forearms like some kind of nursing MacGyver.
Don't waste money on the bigger birthing suite - a small room with the bed close to the bathroom is better when you're waddling back and forth dealing with post-birth constipation medications. Hospital bedding has a thread count of approximately three with plastic lining underneath, so bring your own soft blanket.
Pack DVDs or an HDMI cable for entertainment during downtime. Hospital food is deliberately bland, so bring your favorite snacks. Bring a cute onesie for the baby's first photos, and steal everything not nailed down - especially those gel nipple Soothies that feel like heaven on chapped nipples.
Take advantage of the lactation consultant while you're there - they're miracle workers. Use the nursery for up to three hours so you can actually sleep. Require visitors to bring food from places that don't deliver, and get a blowout before birth because those photos will haunt you forever.
Make your partner learn to change diapers immediately - no excuses. And bring zip-up swaddles instead of trying to learn origami-style swaddling with a screaming newborn at 3 AM. Trust me on this.
Chapitre 5
The Mrs. Jiro Effect: Why I Returned to Work
I had fantasized my whole life about being a stay-at-home mom with a dreamy schedule of meditation, smoothies, SoulCycle, brunches with diverse friends, charity work, and peaceful evenings with my husband. But reality hit hard when I discovered that actual stay-at-home moms don't get to do any of those things because they're too busy being moms to their kids.
I tried being a stay-at-home mom for eight weeks with Mari. Despite her being an easy baby, I was completely exhausted by the endless cycle of diaper changes, poop disasters, and breastfeeding challenges. I'd cut the sleeves off my t-shirts for easier nursing access and walked around topless due to chapped nipples. When my husband came home from work, I'd immediately hand him Mari and escape to the shower for twenty minutes of peace.
After watching "Jiro Dreams of Sushi," I couldn't stop wondering about Mrs. Jiro, completely absent from the documentary. While everyone admired Jiro's singular commitment to sushi, somebody had to raise those two sons while he became a sushi hero. What did Mrs. Jiro dream of? Freedom? Recognition? Divorce? I decided I wasn't going to disappear into the background of someone else's story.
Financially, I had to work. Unlike Europe's generous maternity leave, America expects new mothers to return immediately. The prenup I signed with my husband's family meant if I left the workforce and we divorced, I'd be completely screwed. I pictured becoming unemployable after years of domestic duties, only to be left for a younger woman who "never had afterbirth pass through her vagina." At fifty-five, I'd be back in a studio apartment with an old Russian roommate, drinking Kirkland Signature baby formula while my ex enjoyed sashimi off his twenty-two-year-old wife.
That prenup scared me into maintaining my career, becoming one of the best things that happened to me professionally. As a working mom, I constantly feel like I'm failing at both work and motherhood - never enough time to write or be with my girls. When Mari told me "No, you didn't" after I said I missed her during a tour, it felt like a knife to the heart. I feel guilty all the time, except about being a great wife - "that was kind of the point of trapping your dad with you two kids."
Chapitre 6
The Unglamorous Reality of Comedy Hustle
Stand-up comedy is my life's work, and while the actual performance isn't hard, everything surrounding it is difficult - from traveling to dangerous venues to dealing with creepy men. Most women avoid stand-up because of safety concerns; getting into cars with strangers four times a day means "four opportunities to get raped and/or killed."
San Francisco was the perfect place to start comedy - a progressive metropolis where you could hide from industry pressure while developing your voice. When I started, it was still weird and affordable, filled with homeless people, hippies, punks, and eccentric characters. The city's ultra-liberal environment was ripe for mockery - people protested Rainbow Grocery for selling Israeli cheese. This sensitive progressive environment forced me to develop more sophisticated material than "basic-ass trans jokes."
My first performance was at Brainwash Cafe on Folsom Street, a half-laundromat, half-cafe, "full homeless shelter" run by Tony Sparks, the "Godfather of Open Mics." The worst venues included Our Little Theater in the Tenderloin District (jumping over human feces and syringes to reach it) and the Marsh's Mock Cafe with no mic stand, stool, or actual microphone.
I produced my own shows with titles like "Hustle and Pho," "The Cameltoe Show," and "Jungle Beaver" - the only way I could headline and do an hour of material when limited to five minutes at open mics. My material was incredibly dirty back then, talking about wadding to the toilet with cupped hands to catch cum drippings and miming splashing water on my vagina to remove "dried pussy flakes."
Moving to New York after four years in San Francisco was liberating but difficult. I lived in a SoHo loft with eight people, including a 67-year-old Russian lady, while working as a receptionist at a cleft palate surgery non-profit. Money was tight - I survived on lentils from bulk bins, steamed Chinatown vegetables, and $3.50 half chickens.
Dating non-comedians was frustrating because their attempts at humor made me cringe. Male friends of my husband get uncomfortable that I'm professionally funny and tell unfunny jokes about their wives. The worst part of being a female comic is babysitting male comics' girlfriends - from diamond-flaunting Barbies who don't understand sarcasm to pretentious "humorists" who think David Sedaris is "too mainstream."
The "what should I wear" question is tougher for female comics. While men wear comfortable zip-up hoodies in specials, I find it odd when female comics perform in uncomfortable sexy dresses and heels. For my first Tonight Show appearance, I wore a bright pink dress with three-inch heels and delivered a mediocre, rushed set because I was so focused on my discomfort. Stand-up isn't about looking pretty - it's about being yourself and being funny.
Chapitre 7
Finding My Vietnamese Roots and Eating Duck Embryos
I strongly believe in studying abroad - it makes you a better person through open-mindedness and empathy, plus you get to eat delicious food and potentially hook up with hot foreigners. The summer before Vietnam, I did a program at the University of Hawai'i studying Native Hawaiian Sovereignty. Instead of the beach paradise with hot surfers I expected, it became a female bonding experience with 98% women. Being around women with no men to impress was empowering - we were boisterous and fun without worrying about being "too much."
In Vietnam, I gained ten pounds because the food was incredible and practically free - a bowl of pho cost fifteen cents! I loved eating street food on tiny red plastic stools, flagging down vendors selling sticky rice or soft tofu with ginger syrup. Beyond familiar pho, I discovered thirty superior noodle soups like mien luon with fried eels. Every morning I ate trung vit lon (fertilized duck embryo), which was delicious despite its appearance.
I couldn't exercise in Vietnam because of the heat - I'd wake up with my upper lip dripping sweat. There were no gyms, just old people doing "small movements" in parks. When I tried volleyball with Cambodian students, they mocked me as "big head" and "fat glasses girl." All the Viet Kieu (Vietnamese American) girls got called fat constantly.
My roommate Asiroh Cham and I chose a homestay to improve our Vietnamese. Our host family had a nephew named Canh who was essentially their servant - cooking every meal with MSG and using pork fat for everything, even when cooking for Asiroh who didn't eat pork. This gave her constant diarrhea, which I envied as I kept gaining weight. We both eventually got explosive diarrhea after eating at a restaurant called "Hell," forging our bond as "shit sisters" that continues today as we raise our children together.
I went to Vietnam because I grew up disproportionately Chinese American - my dad dominated our home's culture, believing Chinese contributions were superior and Vietnamese culture merely derivative. When my mom visited during my semester abroad, I witnessed her transform into a confident, funny extrovert in her native tongue - a stark contrast to the thick shell she built to survive in America where she faced racism in the Midwest and snobbery from my dad's Chinese-American friends.
In Vietnam, I experienced multi-generational living with my mom's cousin in Hue. There's no concept of "old folks homes" - seniors live with family, providing built-in childcare and passing down oral history. I realized how fortunate I was to be raised questioning things rather than just memorizing facts that Google can now provide.
Chapitre 8
The Definitive Guide to Selecting Authentic Asian Restaurants
This might be the most important lesson I can pass down - knowing how to select great Asian restaurants. Our family spends weekends eating together, and life's too short for bad food. I'd feel deeper shame catching you at P.F. Chang's than trafficking cocaine into Thailand. The general rule: 99% of clientele should be Asian, especially old Asian women.
For Vietnamese restaurants, look for places that open at 7AM and close at 8PM, have menu advertisements for local businesses, employees in open-toed shoes, Buddha by the register, red fake candles with incense, waiters with long fingernails, cash-only policies, and numbers in the name. Avoid places where customers eat pho with forks, waiters are white, they take American Express, don't serve tripe or tendon, serve chicken breast, or have punny names like "Pho Gettaboutit."
Good Chinese restaurants have tanks of live fish, waiters in maroon bow ties and vests, pearly pink bathroom soap, loud atmospheres, and serve mainly Hennessy and imitation apple cider. Bad signs include truffle oil in dim sum, dim sum on trays instead of carts, and overly polite waitstaff.
For Japanese places, look for jazz or Japanese covers of American songs playing, Toto Washlet bidets, strict rules on soy sauce usage, and real mochi for dessert. Avoid hip-hop music, fake crab, Malibu locations, Drake sightings, over-complicated sashimi, and Chinese or Korean owners.
Korean restaurants should have waitresses cutting food with scissors without permission, walls with Korean celebrity photos, metal chopsticks and bowls, waitresses who feel entitled to pick up your baby, and newspaper-covered windows. For Filipino food, the only good place is an auntie's or lola's house - never an actual business.
When traveling, always ask local cab drivers where they eat. They know the best spots that are affordable and authentic. And remember - the more uncomfortable the chairs, the better the food will be. Comfort is inversely proportional to deliciousness in Asian dining.
Chapitre 9
From Koala Mom to Tennis Ball Launcher: The Reality of Parenting
Before my daughters were born, I pressured myself to be the perfect mom, determined not to repeat my mother's parenting style. While most Asian mothers were Tiger Moms, mine was a Koala Mom - uninvolved in my schoolwork, parking me in front of soap operas at age four, and dismissing complaints of boredom as privileged. When my brother admitted being depressed, she clapped her hands in his face yelling "SNAP OUT OF IT!" I promised myself I'd keep my children stimulated and respond compassionately to their emotions.
Then I became a mom and realized that Bringing Up Bebe was indeed a bunch of lies. When Mari saw other kids eating goldfish crackers and gummies, my attempts to convince her baby carrots were exciting failed miserably. As my friend Aileen predicted, I gave in to mac and cheese before Mari turned one.
Parenting is relentless - a tennis-ball-launcher machine of tasks and mind puzzles with unlimited balls loaded. It's always something: low tire pressure, rodents in the attic, no toilet paper, fevers, expired cottage cheese, broken toilets, missing pacifiers, unpaid bills, and stolen packages.
I had planned to read constantly to Mari after someone forwarded an article threatening that children who don't hear five thousand words by age one would become illiterate prostitutes. But those "first words" baby books were mind-numbingly dull. By the time Mari was five months old, if I held my finger under her nose and felt breath at day's end, I considered myself a great mommy.
Motherhood is utterly disgusting. During our first outing as a family of four to the Huntington Botanical Gardens, I was leaking afterbirth, my breast milk soaked through my dress, and Nikki had an explosive poop while Mari rolled in fertilizer. When a man with a Bernie Sanders sticker rudely demanded we hurry leaving our parking spot, I went black with rage, screaming obscenities while my husband chased his car yelling death wishes. We've never felt more connected.
Once I had Mari, I let go of my resentment toward my mother. She came whenever I asked and was incredibly helpful - changing diapers, scrubbing poo from clothes, cooking, washing dishes, and soothing Mari. When Nikki was born and we got food poisoning, my mom cleaned my vomit and pee, and took care of Nikki at night. She was like a Vietnamese Mary Poppins (though she'd hate that comparison).
My mom wasn't the type to write long letters or get mani-pedis with me. She wouldn't tell me I looked beautiful or help me shop for prom. But she was there. She kept me safe, made me tough, fed me delicious meals, and sent me to private school. That's a great mom. I hope to be half as good a mommy to my daughters as she was to me.
Chapitre 10
Beyond Race and Gender: Finding Your Authentic Voice
I hate being asked "What is it like being an Asian American woman in Hollywood?" almost as much as "What's it like to be a female in comedy?" Nobody wants their identity reduced to race and gender, and white men never get asked equivalent questions. What's disappointing is these questions usually come from Asian Americans themselves, seemingly hoping for horror stories about racist Hollywood executives.
I've had to check people who define me by race and gender. When Las Vegas promoters replaced curse words in my comedy clips with gong sounds for radio ads, I demanded regular beeps like any other comedian would get. During press, I endured a white reporter with an Asian wife who kept making generalizations about Asian culture while I just wanted to discuss my work.
Growing up in San Francisco and attending UCLA exposed me to Asian Americans pursuing diverse paths - from medicine to punk rock to beautiful stop-motion art. My father proudly followed Asian American achievements, collecting newspaper clippings about figures like Margaret Cho and Michael Chang.
Despite their progressive views, my parents weren't supportive when I pursued comedy. They saw successful Asian American artists as "extraordinary exceptions" with slim chances of success. Asians typically value predictability and safety, fearing downward mobility. Yet our immigrant ancestors took the biggest risks of all - my mother came to America alone at twenty without knowing English, and my grandfather arrived as an eight-year-old boy who later became a live-in cook and cleaner.
Being raised with Asian values like frugality and bluntness prepared me well for comedy. My mother's cheapness (refusing to heat our home, feeding us spoiled food despite my dad being an anesthesiologist) taught me to survive in expensive NYC. Her bluntness ("You look so prosperous" meaning "You got fat") toughened me for criticism.
My advice to young Asian Americans: expand beyond your community, experience different cultures, and find universal connections. But also build relationships with other Asian Americans in entertainment who can become like family - like my friend Sheng Wang who's my daughters' godfather and Bobby Lee who mentored me. Success isn't about representing your entire race; it's about being so undeniably good at what you do that your specific voice becomes universal.
Chapitre 11
The Wild Child Who Became a Mother
I have a confession: I was an awful teenager with a tense relationship with my mother. If karma is real (it is), my bad behavior will come back to haunt me when my daughters are teenagers.
In high school, I met a senior from a cooler school at a pajama party where we danced to Tupac while sharing Mickey's malt liquor. Later that night, we ended up on my parents' couch "doing everything but the nasty." Months later, he unexpectedly called to invite me to his prom, and I invited him to mine as well. My prom was boring for him, and I ended up drinking too much, throwing up in someone's bed, and getting punched by a drunk friend.
My teenage rebellion included smoking cigarettes at eleven, shoplifting makeup and clothes, wearing revealing outfits, buying a marijuana pipe at fourteen, dating older men, crashing my mom's car, taking laxatives for weight loss, dropping bottles from buildings, and making out with thirteen boys and three girls in one night.
My wild behavior stemmed from wanting to seem edgy, feeling out of place among mostly white classmates, and desperately wanting to grow up faster like my older siblings. I romanticized adulthood, even wearing my sister's maxi pads recreationally under my leggings.
My mom and I fought constantly, with cultural differences widening the gap. She grew up in Vietnam with school days interrupted by bombings, while I ditched class to drink. She couldn't understand my platonic male friendships or coach me through heartbreak since my dad was her first and only kiss.
In college, the debauchery continued - public urination, wild parties, and once winning a costume contest by having my body painted with symbols from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" while essentially naked. Looking back, I'm grateful for these experiences - they gave me stories to tell and helped me find my voice. But I'm terrified of the day my daughters might follow a similar path. Perhaps the best I can hope for is that they'll be smarter about it than I was, and that when they inevitably rebel, they'll at least come home safe at the end of the night.
