Live wire, p.26
Live Wire, page 26
“Wait, Joaquin! One more . . .” I said, thinking he would laugh and come back for one more, but he didn’t. He walked away and kept going.
Our ride to the airport was silent, and our flight home lonely. When we walked into the empty house, we found Lola, bringing home our dogs that she cared for in our absence. “How was it?” she asked as the dogs ran around us like we had been gone for six years. Instead of answering her, we pulled out a bag of Michigan merchandise that we had picked up for her as a thank-you. Lola immediately went to try on the cutoff hoodie and cutoff T-shirt that went with the cutoff shorts and cutoff sweats. She looked super cute in everything and said she couldn’t wait to go visit Joaquin. Then, she whipped out her cell phone and showed us a bunch of photos of her brother at various parties.
“Where did you get these?” Mark asked.
“Sibs sent them to me. How funny is that? Notice how boring Joaquin is holding a water bottle?” Lola declared. Sibs is one of Lola’s best friends since her first day of pre-K, who also attends Michigan.
“He should be holding water, he’s eighteen,” Mark responded to Lola, who looked at him like he was speaking another language.
“Hey, do you want to have dinner with us?” I asked, thinking it would be nice to catch up with our most elusive child.
“Oh, I wish I could, but sadly no. I’ve got a party tonight, so I’ve got to bounce, but try to have fun without me, you two lovebirds.” Then she made a gag face and kissed us goodbye because her Lyft was pulling up.
We stood in the foyer, kind of immobile, for quite some time. Then Mark said he was going to walk the dogs, so I decided I’d put the laundry in and get dinner started. It was way later than our usual dinnertime, but the sudden loss of the last kid in the house, keeping us on a semi-regular eating schedule, was already starting to take effect. I set the table. I cooked dinner for approximately fifteen people, because that is what I was used to doing. Mark and I sat and ate, occasionally asking each other what we thought the kids were doing. I could feel a disturbance in the force but chalked it up to the unprecedented silence. Mark suggested we turn in early, since we had been running on no sleep for the past couple of days. But I knew what “turning in early” really meant. Maybe we could get into this empty nest thing.
So, I headed upstairs to start my “routine,” which consists of the following steps: shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and apply thirty-five different antiaging creams that do absolutely nothing. Mark joined me in the bathroom to start his “routine,” which is much less involved. He brushed his teeth and left the room. Usually, when I come to bed the lights are still on, and if they’re not, Mark’s cell phone light softly calls me home, like a lighthouse and a whaling vessel. But on this night, our first night alone in the empty nest, the lights were off, and the cell phone was dark. I attempted to reach the bed in the thick blackness but stepped on Chewie, who yelped. I hit the light switch and the soft glow of the light woke Mark, who apparently didn’t want to “turn in early,” but actually just wanted to go to bed.
“Turn that off!” he yelled, yes yelled, with aggression.
“I can’t see the bed in the dark!” I yelled right back.
“Please. How many years have we lived here? If you don’t know where the bed is by now, then you’ve got problems,” he said, still yelling. This man who snores as loud as a jet airplane. This man who talks in his sleep but never says anything helpful. This man who has never gotten out of bed without turning on every light as bright as possible, no matter what the time. This man is taking issue with me turning on a light to find the bed, without killing my elderly dog?
“You’re my fucking problem!” I screamed.
It suddenly dawned on me that we were in prime position to be THAT couple, the one that gets divorced as soon as the kids were out of the house. I grabbed my pillow with the satin pillowcase for antiaging with as much fanfare as I could muster and stormed out of the room. I slept in Lola’s bedroom, which was much less comfortable, but at least I’d get a good night’s sleep, instead of listening to the dulcet tones of jackhammer Consuelos. Plus, in an act of sheer genius, I left the dogs in our room, and let me tell you, that little Lena was still waking up to go potty at 5:00 a.m., so I think we know who won that round. The next two days were like a Mexican standoff of sorts, or at least half of one. Both of us being aggressively passive-aggressive in our ignoring one another. Both of us committed to NOT being the one to apologize, even though it was crystal clear that HE should be the one to beg for my forgiveness and shower me with flowers . . . or at least empty the dishwasher for a change!
There are two kinds of dead in this world. There is the actual death of a person or thing that has passed away, and then there is dead-to-me-dead, which is way worse. Seldom has a body ever resurrected from the dead-to-me-dead. I feared Mark was headed toward the catacomb of no return. Even when he sauntered into the bedroom, wet and glistening from his workout, did I barely even bat an eyelash. Dead-to-me-dead men don’t glisten, they sweat. Nor did I notice when he casually peeled off his soaking wet gym clothes and placed them in the laundry basket, then wrapped a towel around his waist, but around his lower waist, you know what I mean? I felt like saying, “You’re wasting your time, Casper, I’m not even looking at your washboard abs and silky brown skin.” And when he dropped that towel, glancing back at the mirror, to catch me looking at him, I waltzed out of the room because ghosts don’t shower!
Imagine my surprise when the poltergeist suddenly appeared in the kitchen, freshly showered, smelling like soap and contrition. I continued my attempt to ignore the specter, but he somehow caught my eye with his electric smile. “Hey, let’s not fight. We love each other. Let’s be patient with each other. Okay?” murmured the presence.
Somehow, he must have possessed me because I heard myself saying, “Would you like to go to the beach tonight for sunset? Maybe take a baguette and some cheese? We haven’t been to the beach all summer.” As soon as I said it, I knew that Mark had risen from the dead.
I packed a small picnic basket with a tray table and some sort of fancy soft French cheese. Then I heated up a baguette and wrapped it in foil to keep it warm. Meanwhile, Mark put two beach chairs in the back of the Jeep and placed the dogs in their carriers, and off we went. We arrived at the beach just as the late summer sun was starting to set. It was a perfect night. The dogs curled up on the blanket I laid in front of us and fell asleep. We sat, soaking in the sultry summer air, while tearing off pieces of warm baguette, and spreading gobs of soft cheese on top. We relaxed into each other and discussed our future as parents who now had more freedom than we were used to. Where might we live? Where might we retire? Maybe we’ll take long weekend trips Upstate? We wondered where Upstate was.
We gazed at the candy-colored sky, pondering our possibilities while listening to the sound of other people running after their small children. We smiled knowingly at each other. As the sun disappeared completely, we stayed and watched the stars light up the night sky. Witnessing the dazzling moon rise, as the ocean water gently lapped the coast, I realized that in the past, I had never taken the time to notice how serene it all was. How could I have missed all this beauty?
Then I was distracted by the sound of a father yelling to his young daughter, who was running away from him and getting too close to the beach bonfire. I watched that same father turn on his cell phone flashlight in a futile search for his daughter’s tiny flip-flops. I watched his wife pack up the six buckets and twelve shovels and three beach chairs and two floats, and bags and bags and bags of snacks, and then strap a sleeping baby into a sling on her body. I realized that they had about eighteen more years before they would notice the beauty all around them, instead of the danger. I wanted to yell out to them and say, “I know the days are long, but the years are short, and they grow up, and are out of the nest in the blink of an eye, so don’t blink.”
But I didn’t. Instead, I turned to Mark, who was grinning at me, and I already knew he was reading my mind. “How did we do that for so many years?” I asked, more in awe of that couple, than the memory of us.
“We just did,” Mark answered.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
Mark pulled me in close and said, “Are you kidding? Those guys are suckers! They’re going to be dusting sand off their kids for the next three months.” We both started laughing at all the collective memories we didn’t make because we were too busy searching for flip-flops in the dark, and running after several kids at once, trying to prevent a potential beach tragedy.
“How about this beautiful night?” I said, still marveling at the peace and quiet.
Mark’s eyes were focused on the night sky when he reminded me, “We’ve earned it, baby. This is just the beginning.”
“Is that all there is?”
—PEGGY LEE
What Epilogue Is This?
Something you’ve probably surmised by now, dear reader, is that I have a hard time ending things. Or rather, I have difficulty knowing how to begin the ending of things. You should have seen the lengths of these “short stories” before they were edited.
Are there succinct words to wrap up a collection of essays, or some lesson to be learned? Maybe James Patterson, at the very beginning of this book, was right.
A memoir would have been easier.
Okay, so maybe this is more of a personal addendum, or an afterword, rather than anything else.
Or maybe I’m just stalling.
I suppose I am hoping you’ll eventually come to your senses and just put this book down.
I would, after all, feel more comfortable if you left first. Or if I left without you noticing. Actually, if I could make the book disappear after you’ve read it, that would be a great relief. This would spare my very fragile ego any hurt feelings your judgment might bring. Not yours specifically, as I know you’re not judgmental, but someone’s.
Anyone’s.
Everyone’s.
Not to mention the utter shock I experience every time I realize I still have feelings . . . and that they still have the ability to be hurt.
And even though I have built a fortress of self-deprecation, thicker than elephant skin around said feelings, somehow the dull buzz of my own internal doubt always finds a breech.
I tend to be an open book, turning my own pages for public consumption as a career choice. A studio extrovert, there to put on the razzle dazzle irreverently. I understand my assignment.
But the private me, the introverted, socially awkward me, would rather evaporate than tell the entire story, or go on a book tour.
Oh gosh, a book tour?
I hadn’t even thought about the tour, which I know I will enjoy once I do it. But because I tend to ratchet up negative chatter in my head, it’s the gearing up to do it that I find most arduous.
My proclivity to escape a gathering without the slightest detection is probably a self-defense mechanism. Born from years of crooked thinking or watching The Invisible Man one time too many. The old movie of course, not the really scary updated version.
I’m only telling you this in advance, in case we do meet in person, and you wonder why I’m perspiring like a beast of burden.
It’s me. It’s not you.
You have, after all, very kindly welcomed me into your home for decades. We’ve had coffee together, or whatever it is you drink in the morning, and perhaps even shared the morning headlines. You’ve witnessed my family expand, and then watched us grow up. Occasionally, you’ve introduced me to your families when we’ve bumped into each other, either in the studio audience or at a restaurant someplace. I’ve met adult women, with children of their own, named Hayley Vaughan after my character on All My Children. We’ve been together a long time! We’ve celebrated triumphs and mourned losses. And even though we mostly remained strangers, we actually have known each other.
Maybe these stories combined with what you already know, or thought you knew, will lend some small perspective or insight into what it took to get here and stay here. Because there have been times behind the scenes that were so unbearably severe and destabilizing that the thought of getting out of bed was insurmountable.
But not as insurmountable as the idea of not showing up.
And frankly, I owe a lot of that to you, because YOU, dear reader and viewer, have gotten me through the hard times whether you know it or not.
So maybe you have been reading my open book all along, or maybe you’ve read into it.
Perhaps you feel that a few chapters are missing, or a few loose ends need tying up, and that would be an astute observation. Sometimes certain things are better left unsaid.
Here, in this book, I’ve given you what I’m prepared to give. And what I think you are prepared to handle. After all, you wouldn’t want to see a nightclub with the lights on, would you?
“They can’t miss you if you don’t leave” was sage advice I wasn’t offered but overheard once.
But you know me, I’ll still be here long after the store closes and the lights go on in the club. Somebody has to clean up.
So . . .
Hopefully you’ll do me the favor this time. You’ll leave first, okay?
Otherwise, we may be looking at a seven-volume collection of rambling personal essays, and NOBODY wants that. Especially not my now long-suffering editor, Carrie Thornton.
Acknowledgments
Advanced apologies to anyone I forgot to thank, but know that it will haunt me for the rest of my life.
First and foremost, my endless gratitude to my mom and dad, Essie and Joe Ripa, who lead by example. Every good thing I am I owe to you. Your love, generosity, compassion, and work ethic are only matched by your fierce and unrelenting sense of humor. It’s not lost on me all the sacrifices you made for your daughters and everyone else. And even though you probably kidnapped me from my birth mother, Cher, I forgive you. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for EVERYTHING!
To my in-laws, Camilla and Saul (Tony) Consuelos, thank you for your courage in leaving your homelands with three young kids for life in America. For raising Mark to be the embodiment of your profound, loving, familial spirit, and your boundless support and guidance. You welcomed me into your lives like I was your very own. Thanks, Mom and Dad! PS: Your secret about being in the CIA is safe with me.
To my hearts:
Michael, Lola, and Joaquin—my unending love, appreciation, and gratitude. You three have filled me with immeasurable pride and joy. You’ve impressively balanced being in the public eye, whether you liked it or not, while still maintaining your privacy, dignity, and normalcy. As individually talented, hardworking, and brilliant as you are, it is your kindness and altruism that fill my heart the most. Thanks guys, I hope this book doesn’t cause you too much embarrassment. I think I showed great restraint.
To Linda, Adriana, Mike, and Kelly, thank you for raising the greatest nieces and nephews this aunt could wish for.
And to Alec, Sergio, Maddie, Isa, Gabi, Gianna, Luci, and Gigli, you’re all so uniquely gifted and lovely. I simply adore spending time with you. It remains my privilege to be your number one favorite aunt. ;)
To my non–blood related siblings:
Gretchen and Willie Randolph, and Tenisha, Chantre, Andre, and Ciara. Thank you for all the laughs, meals, ball games, parties, and fights over who is going to pay the check.
Albert Bianchini and Kyle Barisich, whether at work or play, you two show up. Every special person day at school, and every single important life event. I can’t wait to repay the favor someday. Hint hint.
To Jason Sellards, you read my earliest words and gave me the best feedback. Watching you write your memoir was my guide.
To the women responsible for my professional life:
Profound gratitude to Felicia Minei Behr, the EP of All My Children. Thank you for gambling on a newcomer. Angela Shapiro-Mathes, aka my BOSS, you have given me too many opportunities to list, not to mention your guidance, insight, and laughter, even when nothing was funny. Joanna Johnson, you created Hope and Faith and provided me with my favorite job to date. To my literary agent (I HAVE A LITERARY AGENT!), Cait Hoyt—WOW! And Andy, thank you for keeping me on deadline-ish.
To my editor, Carrie Thornton, I’m eternally grateful for the two years of our lives we’ll never get back, but if I ever try to do this again, please kill me.
And finally, every once in a while a person comes along who sets the bar so high, both professionally and personally, they raise everyone in their radius and beyond. Debra O’Connell, YOU ARE THE HARDEST WORKING MAN IN SHOW BUSINESS! You’re a fearless leader, a tireless mentor, and if rumors are true, a clone. But beyond all of that, you’re an extraordinary wife and mother, and I believe the only executive at Disney to survive a drive-by shooting. I love you more than words.
To my team who are also like family:
Jason Weinberg and Bryan Lourd, thank you for the never-ending love, support, and guidance. We reverse-engineered the entire friend/client blueprint. (If there is one.) Jason, you FaceTiming me while standing next to your famous clientele got me through the grind of thesaurus-ing synonyms for words like “insanity” and “horseshit.” Bryan, you Jedi mind-tricked me into thinking I could write to begin with. Thank you for spell-checking my copy edits. We have walked through many fires together, and speaking of fires . . . Thank you, Matthew Hiltzik, for always having your hatchet and hose at the ready.
The inner sanctum:
To Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper, the stalwarts. Andy, you encouraged me to start journaling again in case I ever wanted to write a book. Anderson, I will never be able to properly repay you and Benjamin Maisani for a lifetime of favors, late-night dances, and endless giggles.
To Faith Ford, Ted McGinley, and RJ Wagner, I’m so grateful to have had the opportunity to share the soundstage with you three. What a gift.
To Jerry O’Connell, you are in a class by yourself in the friend department.
