PART ELEVEN
1
BURSTING WITH PRIDE, I had tears in my eyes as I watched Sami march into the school office for an interview. Until I applied to get her into private school for kindergarten, I thought the stories I heard from other parents were exaggerated. I couldn’t picture myself coaching my daughter on how to speak to an admissions administrator or fretting about what those people would think of me as they looked over her applications. My mom would’ve laughed at me. I was wrong.
As her interview neared, I practiced writing, reading, and spelling with her and worked both of us into a state where she didn’t want to go and I thought, well, if she doesn’t go, she might as well kiss her future good-bye.
Then I came to my senses. I realized nearly all the anxiety I had about her getting into this school stemmed from my fears about being judged. I was worried about what the administrators were going to think of me and her dad and how that was going to affect her. I’d worked extremely hard to protect my children from the craziness in the media surrounding Charlie and me. But watching Sami go off to be interviewed, I realized I couldn’t shield them forever. Kids talked at school. They echoed their parents’ conversations at home. The day would come soon enough when they’d learn how to google us. I wasn’t ready for that yet. And when that day does arrive, I’m going to have to be their pillar of strength, just as they’ve been mine. It won’t be easy for them.
Anyway, Sami got in, as did Lola later, and both times I wished I’d been able to call my mom and tell her the good news. I was able to share it with Charlie. That was also good news. Against all odds, we’d rebuilt a friendship. It seemed both improbable and impossible following the bitterness of our custody fight. But it was nice. I’ll let you in on a secret. Nearly six years after we’d split, I still had moments where I was sad that we weren’t a family unit. It wasn’t because I still loved Charlie and wanted to be with him. No, it was about being a parent and belonging to that particular statistic. It made a part of me feel like a failure.
The part of me that wanted a sane, calm, healthy, loving, two-parent home for my children had failed. I’m simply being honest here. I had two children with Charlie, and I felt sad for them that their mom and dad didn’t live together.
If that wasn’t bad enough, I hated our inability to have any relationship for the sake of the girls. I sound like a broken record, but it’s true. I believe it’s acceptable for exes to agree to disagree and still have a relationship, and though things were hostile, something in Charlie changed and the ice began to thaw with us.
I know I’m not perfect and made mistakes during the worst of our times, and I accepted responsibility. It was so much more peaceful when he got to that place where we were able to once again have a civil conversation, and then dinner, and then be at birthday parties together.
The change happened right before Brooke gave birth to his sons. I don’t know what changed in him. I can’t speak for him. Whatever happened, I was relieved we could talk cordially again and spend time together. I felt as if a giant weight had been lifted.
After Charlie’s boys were born, my dad and I went to see them in the hospital. I arrived straight from Dancing with the Stars. Although I’d changed into sweats, I was still in full hair and makeup, with lots of glitter and long lashes. I was also still filming my reality show and told the crew traveling with me that I had to make a quick stop at the hospital and they needed to turn the cameras off. Charlie took my dad and me up to the nursery, where we visited with Brooke and looked at the babies while a couple nurses stared at us with the perplexed looks of committed tabloid readers who couldn’t believe the four of us were together.
“You’re Denise?” one of them finally asked. I nodded. “And you have the other two children?”
I said yes.
“There are actually three moms,” Charlie said.
When he walked us out, I said, “I can’t even imagine what those nurses are going to say on their break.” Whatever they said would be an improvement from the past few years.
Pleased, I left with lots of cute photos to show the girls, who were excited to see their new brothers. Charlie and I worked back into a nice friendship. We still had ups and downs, disagreements and periods of silence, but we worked through them on our own, and for the next two years were able to have dinners at my house with the girls, Sunday barbecues at his house with all the kids, plus birthdays and school functions. The negativity disappeared like dark clouds blown across the sky by a warm breeze that makes you want to open the windows and play outside. It was great for us and even better for the kids.
2
CUT TO CHRISTMAS 2009. I was at home when the phone rang. It was a collect call from Charlie, which I thought was odd. But he explained that he was calling from jail—and I looked across the room at Sami and Lola, reminding myself to be careful of what I said.
Charlie asked to speak with the girls; he wanted to wish them merry Christmas. Occupied with their new American Girl dolls, Sami and Lola asked if they could talk to him later. “No, you need to talk now,” I said. “Daddy is in Colorado and will be skiing later. He won’t have his phone on the big mountain.”
Now this was probably a stupid thing to say, mostly because Charlie hates to ski, but the girls believed me and got on the phone. They had a nice conversation with their father. That’s all that mattered in that moment. When I got back on, I asked if he needed any help getting out of jail. I was relieved when he said he’d made arrangements. I was already wondering how the hell I was going to get to Colorado on Christmas Day. If he’d needed help, though, I would’ve figured it out.
The rest of the day was surreal. I couldn’t stop thinking about Charlie spending the holiday in jail. The phone rang nonstop. Later, Charlie called to let me know he was out. I heard from him again when he got home. I appreciated his checking in. I think he felt similarly about being able to count on me. By this time, I’d given up trying to make sense of our relationship. I was simply glad we were in an even better place, and it stayed that way through New Year’s and into the fall.
At the end of October, I had to go to New York to do press for Blue Mountain State, a Spike TV series that had written me into a significant story arc. The girls, who’d grown up hearing me talk about my trips to New York, had never been there. I decided to take them and turn it into a special trip. I had been in the city for Fashion Week the month before, and designer Betsey Johnson had told me I should take the girls to the Eloise Suite at the Plaza Hotel. She’d actually decorated it herself. No more needed to be said. I splurged and booked the suite for us. Sami and Lola flipped out when I showed them the pictures online.
When I told Charlie we were going, he asked if he could come. He had a break from Two and a Half Men. Since we were in a stable place and I thought he was healthy at the time, I thought that I could make a nice trip even nicer for the girls. He arranged for a private jet while I canceled our commercial flight. When I told the girls their dad was also coming on the trip, they were excited. It was the first time the four of us had gone on a vacation together, ever. My publicist, Jill, nearly had a heart attack when I told her. She foresaw all the calls asking whether we were getting back together. “Don’t worry about the rumors,” I said. “We aren’t getting back together. This is all for the girls. I think it will be a nice time.”
It started out that way. After arriving in New York, we checked into the Plaza. I stayed in the parents’ suite connected to my girls’ room, and Charlie stayed across the hall. That first night, the four of us were tired and hung out in the pink Eloise room, had room service, and went to bed. The girls said goodnight to Charlie and walked him to his room. The next day we took the girls on a shopping spree to FAO Schwarz and the American Girl store. We also had a delicious pizza dinner at my favorite pizza restaurant, Serafina.
There, we realized this wasn’t just our first trip together; it was also the first time the four of us had gone out to dinner together. Until then, we’d always eaten at one of our homes. We had a lovely time, though, then hurried across town to see Mary Poppins on Broadway.
The next day we went to the Museum of Natural History, which was another hit with the girls, and then back to the hotel. Charlie had dinner plans with some friends. He invited me to join them. Although my first instinct was to say no, we’d brought our nanny to watch the girls while I did my press, which meant I didn’t have to worry about a babysitter. I accepted. I thought it was cool that we could go out together as friends. It showed the progress we’d made.
Charlie went to the restaurant ahead of me while I settled the girls in their room, ordered up dinner, and got myself dressed up. Once I got to the restaurant, I was ushered into a private room in the back. Charlie was at the table with three other guys, including his friend who’d traveled with us, and four attractive women who’d put themselves together for a fancy Saturday night. “By walking in here, you just confused everyone at this table, including me,” Charlie joked as I sat next to him.
Soon the woman on the other side of Charlie introduced herself as Christina and asked if she could take a picture with me. “My boyfriend likes you,” she said. “I’m also a fan.” I thought nothing of her request as we posed together. Afterward, though, I sensed a slight awkwardness among the women at the table. I started making conversation with everyone. The man next to me said he was married with children. I assumed the woman next to him was his wife, but he corrected me, quickly adding that he wasn’t going to stay long. He didn’t, either.
I wondered what the hell was going on at this dinner. Then it dawned on me. I asked one of the ladies when they met the other men at the table. “Tonight,” she said. Without having to ask any more questions, I knew the women were prostitutes. I looked around the table, assessing each person, as well as my place there. Okay, I thought, it’s a little odd—maybe more than a little—that my ex-husband would invite me to a dinner like this. But it was, I told myself, one dinner and it was not worth making an issue out of it.
When Charlie got up from the table to go to the bathroom, Christina took his seat. Before he left, he told her, “Don’t blind-side Denise with what you do for a living.” She replied, “I’m pretty sure she knows what we do.” To be honest, though I’m a fairly nonjudgmental person, I would’ve preferred a dinner where I wasn’t the only nonhooker among the women at the table. I also think when you’re the father of five it might be wise to shut down that sort of behavior. But since neither of those were the case, I will say dinner got interesting at that point.
I was genuinely curious how these women came to be at this dinner when Charlie and I were supposed to be on a trip with our daughters. Charlie had shared certain stories with me during our marriage, but I had no idea how the details worked. Before I could even ask a question, Christina said she’d learned about the job just a few hours before dinner. She’d been shopping in Bergdorf’s when her cell phone rang. It was her “pimp” from L.A. He asked if she could go to dinner with a client who was in New York. “Once he mentioned it was Charlie Sheen, I said sure, I can make it,” she explained.
She told me she also had a madam in New York, had done porn, but wanted to get out of the business, and prostitution paid the bills. I was worried about having taken a photo with her, since who knew where that might end up, but I relaxed when she said her father didn’t know what she did for a living. Neither did her boyfriend, though I wondered if she even had one. If so, I’m pretty sure he knows what she does for a living by now and, um, same with her dad. I actually found myself in the very peculiar situation of giving this girl advice on her boyfriend and what she did for a living. And for a moment I thought, how in the hell did I end up here tonight? Well, I did, so I was making the best of it. It was one damn dinner. Even after Charlie returned from the bathroom, the evening began to have a colorful vibe, and like the guy who’d been next to me, I wanted to make an early exit.
They were just starting to have an eventful evening and I didn’t want to be a buzzkill. I told Charlie that I needed to go back to the hotel. I had hair and makeup at 4:30 a.m., Howard Stern, and then an entire day of interviews. So I was going to head back while I could still get some sleep.
On the way back to the hotel, I was irked with my ex for including me in a dinner like that, never mind that we were on a trip with our daughters. I was also a little pissed at myself for having said yes and gotten myself into that situation. I had to take some responsibility. I should’ve asked more questions.
For the record, the picture that Christina, aka “Capri,” took of us ended up on TMZ. Perhaps next time I should ask to see a résumé.
Once in the suite, I found the girls were wide-awake and watching TV. They were still on L.A. time. After I quieted them down, I climbed into bed myself; I had to get up early for my press. About an hour later, though, I was awakened by various sounds outside my door, including walkie-talkies, which is never a good sign. I opened the door and saw hotel security men knocking on Charlie’s door. We had a brief conversation, the gist of which was the cops were on their way.
As soon as I heard that, I called my nanny in her room down the hall and asked her to come over to the Eloise Suite. I had a feeling I was going to need her to watch the girls. A few minutes later, the cops showed up. Several officers went into Charlie’s room, and a sergeant came into mine and asked me questions about the evening. He had trouble understanding the situation, and my nonchalance confused him further.
“Now let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re here with your kids and your ex-husband?”
“Yes.”
“Your ex-husband is staying in the room across the hall while you’re in this room?”
“Yes.”
“With the kids?” “Yes.” “And you went to dinner with him and there were hookers there at the table?”
“Yes.”
“And now one of the hookers is in the room across the hall with your ex-husband?”
“Yes,” I said
“Where are the other hookers?”
“That I don’t know.”
He scratched his head. “Is there anyone in New York we can call on your ex-husband’s behalf?”
“You’re looking at her.”
“There’s no agent, manager, or lawyer?”
“Nope. They’re in L.A.”
After he explained what was going to happen, I quickly changed from my pajamas into jeans and a sweatshirt. Charlie was put into an ambulance, and I rode with the sergeant to the hospital, though I insisted I had to be back at 4:30 a.m. He didn’t seem used to people imposing their schedules on him, but I explained I had work. Indeed, after making sure Charlie was stable and settled, the nice policeman gave me a ride back to the hotel. My nanny was awake. The girls were sound asleep, but she hadn’t slept. Our eyes met and I shook my head. “I’m going to jump in the shower,” I said. “Order up the biggest pot of coffee they have and a huge breakfast for both of us.”
3
AT 5:00 A.M., my hair and makeup artist arrived. I told him about my night and asked if he thought any of it would make the news. He raised his eyebrows as if I was asking a question whose answer was so obvious. It wasn’t really the brightest thing to ask, but, hey. I explained that I hadn’t seen any paparazzi outside the hotel. He made the same face. “I know,” I said. “I guess it’s a question of when, not if.”
That changed everything. The plan had been for the girls to join me after I did Howard’s show. They wanted to watch me on the talk shows. I’d told them all about the studios, the sets, and the treats in the dressing rooms. But now I couldn’t risk them hearing about their dad in the interviews. Once news got out about Charlie landing in the hospital after a night with hookers, and me being present, too, it was, to put it mildly, going to turn into a media shit storm. Photographers would camp outside the hotel. They’d follow me. They’d yell questions. I’d been through the drill before.
Except this time it was complicated in that we were away from home. I couldn’t plant the girls in front of the TV until I got back later that night. I had to keep them occupied. If they knew what had happened, I would’ve pulled out of my interviews, but since they slept through the fracas I made a plan with the nanny to keep them occupied in the city while I did my job. I was proud of the show, grateful for the work, and eager to promote it. I couldn’t predict what I’d face, but I’d learned a few things over the years, including how to grit my teeth, face challenges, and get through uncomfortable situations.
My interview with Howard was easy except I literally did not go to bed and actually apologized to Howard for giving a crappy interview. I have no idea what I even said, I was so distracted and, with lack of sleep, running on fumes. It was early, and news from the night before hadn’t yet broken. But it was streaming across the Internet by the time I did all the other interviews. I couldn’t believe the irony. Here I’d arrived in New York with no strife in my life and looking forward to doing press when I didn’t have anything in my life that was off-limits. I was actually looking forward to talking about the great place I’d gotten myself to just a few months before my fortieth birthday, as well as the special trip I was on with my daughters.
But then Charlie threw that infamous dinner party. As a result, I spent nearly twelve hours telling interviewers it wasn’t my place to discuss my ex and then redirecting the conversation back to my show. Later, when I met up with the girls at the hotel, I told Sami and Lola that their dad had been called back to work earlier than expected. I know I lied to them, and how I was able to keep a lid on everything I have no idea. But given their ages, I felt it was the best strategy. After more interviews the next day, we headed back home. I stayed in the car while my nanny brought the girls outside. I felt terrible for not being able to say good-bye to the Eloise Suite with them, but photographers and media vans were camped outside the hotel and it would’ve been a mess if we’d walked out together.
Despite the way that trip ended, I didn’t let it affect my relationship with Charlie. In Charlie’s eyes at the time, I could do no wrong. He treated me like a champ. For all the assistance I’d provided that drama-filled night in New York, he referred to me as his MVP. From such a big sports fan as him, I knew that was a serious compliment. He also said that I was finally getting the respect I deserved. After everything we’d been through, that compliment meant a lot.
For the next few months, I was involved with my busy home life. My days were packed with school activities and playdates for the girls, going on auditions, building my Web presence, and starting a remodel on my house. Not everything worked. I even let a friend talk me into going on a blind date with a chiropractor. He sent me a text offering to come over and give me an “adjustment” in exchange for a glass of wine. When I didn’t respond, he sent me a picture of himself shirtless, holding a beer. That was supposed to impress me? Sorry. The blind date never happened—and neither will any other blind dates!
Shortly after the holidays, Charlie called to invite the girls and me to go with him to Las Vegas. I politely declined, which earned me a call from his friend. “I’ll leave my phone on at night in case something happens,” I said with a knowing laugh. He said, “Okay, D.R.”
Nothing happened that needed my attention. But everything else happened, according to reports. Charlie met a girl who was later introduced to the world as one of his “goddesses,” and his weekend ended up on the news. As the star of TV’s top-rated sitcom, Charlie’s behavior was irresistible to the media. They raised the same red flags that I worried about in private. I did my best to make sure the girls remained unaware of the reports. While I could turn off the TVs at certain hours, making sure they didn’t hear Access Hollywood or Entertainment Tonight, I couldn’t control what kids said to them at school, and with so much attention on Charlie, kids heard their parents talking at home and brought that back to the playground.
Unfortunately, between the lies I was telling the girls, their dad’s erratic behavior, and bits and pieces they heard on the news or at school, I needed to have a difficult conversation with them. I’d always planned to speak to them about addiction, but I’d hoped to put it off till they were older. I also had to figure out what the hell to say.
Well, I wasn’t going to shut the door on Charlie or wait till the girls were teenagers to tell them the truth. I couldn’t. They were destined to find out sooner rather than later.
I followed my gut, and in mid-January 2011, my heart told me it was time to start explaining things. After researching the subject, I bought a book written to help children understand their parents’ addiction. I picked what I thought was a good time and sat Sami and Lola down on the sofa in our family room and began to read the book. Halfway through, I started to tear up. Lola closed the book and said, “Mom, you don’t have to read this.”
I apologized for being upset and dried my eyes. “Yes, I do,” I said. “This is hard for Mommy to explain, but I want to read it to you.” I started again, made it through the entire story, and looked at the girls sitting quietly next to me. Sami was leaning against me on one side and Lola had her hand on my left on the other. Any doubts I had about whether they understood the book were eased when Lola looked up at me and said, “Now how do we help Daddy?”
Good question. “I don’t know,” I said. “But when Daddy gets help, we will support him.”
She thought for a minute. “How will Daddy get help?”
Plenty of people were asking the same thing. “Me and some of Daddy’s friends are trying to figure that out,” I said.
4
A FEW DAYS later I visited Charlie. I was concerned about his behavior, as were others in his life. I explained that I’d read a book to the girls to help them understand him better. I also said that I hoped he realized all of his children needed him to be healthy. “I’m not judging you, this is your life,” I said. “I’m just being honest. And right now I’m worried about you.”
Thanking me, and reassuring me he was okay, he told me of his plan to move four women into his home. They’d be his girlfriends—his “porn family,” as he called it. I could see how a young guy in his twenties might fantasize about having several girlfriends living with him, but at forty-five years old and with five children? I had trouble comprehending this. My heart sank as he explained that it had taken him a while to find the right group of women, but he finally had the four picked out. He also wanted me to move into the neighborhood with him and his new family, saying he’d buy me a new place down the street. Although as quickly as he made that offer on the house, he took it away. Which was fine; I had no intention of moving there.
I shook my head, trying to hide my sadness, not to mention my fear the girls might be losing him. “I can’t even begin to explain that to our daughters,” I said quietly. He said, “Tell them their dad marches to his own beat.”
The next morning I was walking into the theater at Sami’s school to watch her sing in a class performance. My phone rang. Charlie was in the hospital. I barely made it through Sami’s performance without bawling. Between the pride I had for my daughter and the concern I had for her father, I was a mess. Things were starting to come to a head for me. I’d proven I can be strong and put on a brave face in almost any situation, but I was mad and upset that I had to do it over and over. Constantly lying to our kids, covering things up, making excuses, pretending things were okay when they were not. I started asking myself why I felt the need to navigate everything on my own. I kept asking myself, “Why does their dad have to live such an outrageous life?”
Then I reminded myself, I can’t change Charlie. He is merely being himself. He never professed to be anyone else. I tried to be philosophical, as is the only option in such circumstances. You don’t have to ignore the roiling emotions that come with upsets and disappointments, but as I learned time and time again, you can’t crumble, either. For whatever reason, Charlie and I are on a journey together. We created two magnificent lives, and therefore we are going to be in each other’s lives forever. Instead of flying off the handle and making judgments on him, I keep moving forward. Quite frankly, I’ve learned my opinion doesn’t matter a lot of the time, so why make our relationship more volatile and chaotic?
I don’t see any sense in stressing about things I can’t change or control. Charlie is on his own path, and this is the lifestyle he has chosen. That doesn’t mean I condone it, but I’ve learned to accept it. And despite the roller coaster of being up and down, one thing I know for sure: I’ll always be there for Charlie. From the time we split, I’ve been determined to have a relationship with him, and I’m not giving up. It’s about our kids and it’s important for them that I soldier on.
We have had one of the worst divorces in Hollywood; that’s not something I’m proud of. If we can get to a place that’s peaceful, then anyone can. It’s not easy, and again, I think it’s okay to agree to disagree a lot. But when you do disagree, put aside your argument and let the kids know that they come first, and they are loved. Show up at birthday parties, school functions, lessons, recitals, games, and holiday dinners together. I’ve learned to suck it up. It ain’t about you anymore, it’s about the kids. That’s the mantra I live by.
It’s not easy. Believe me. Charlie has a sharp tongue, and when we disagree, I’m on the receiving end of some pretty colorful speeches. Sometimes it’s hard to let his insults roll off my back. But I do. In his defense, he often accuses me of being unreasonable when I turn into protective mother hen. He says I shelter the girls too much. Maybe I do. I don’t care. At times his lifestyle veers in colorful directions, and I don’t want the girls around it. I’m stubborn and not afraid to stand up to him no matter how angry he gets. As I’ve said, even when we aren’t on the best of terms, I have faith we’ll get back to a good place. We’ve done it before, and we’ll continue to find our way back again when necessary.
At the end of February, I was at a table in the Beverly Hills Four Seasons Hotel, working on the above paragraph, when my phone was flooded with news that CBS and Warner Bros. had just suspended production of Two and a Half Men for the rest of the season. I wasn’t surprised. After several weeks of Charlie’s sharing his negative opinions on the show’s executive producer and the network on TV, in print, on the radio, and over the Internet, the network and the studio had had enough. Two weeks later, they fired him altogether.
Nothing he said subsequently on talk shows, the radio, and even in an interview streamed live on the Internet from his backyard surprised me. I’ve been asked how I am handling this all lately, but the reality is I’ve been handling this on and off for seven years. The truth is: This is not the man that I married; this is the man that I divorced. What did surprise me was how very public Charlie wanted his thoughts to be. It breaks my heart. He’s an amazing actor, with the capacity to be an amazing person and father. It hurts to see him like this.
I believed, and continue to believe, he’ll get through this. If he doesn’t, then, sadly, perhaps tragically, he doesn’t. It’s up to him. Either way, I’m resigned to many long talks with my girls. Whatever Charlie’s differences and conflicts, though, I will always be here for him.
He’s bashed me on his Torpedo of Truth World Tour. I know what you’re thinking. I know. What can I say that I haven’t already said? That’s life with Charlie. It’s up and down. Being around someone with an addiction as deep as Charlie’s is painful to see and hurtful to experience in person. I guess I have thick skin and a big, understanding heart. I also know at the end of the day he is the father of my daughters and I need to maintain a relationship, only in the healthiest sense, for them.
As I look back, Charlie’s past should probably have been a giant red flag when we met. Maybe I was naïve or so in love I looked at him, and us, through rose-colored glasses. Whatever it was, I made a choice and it took me on this wild and crazy journey of ours. Not only did Charlie give me the best gifts anyone could ever give, my daughters, he’s also proven to be the best teacher I’ve ever had, and for that, I thank him. I’ve learned a lifetime of lessons from him, and I’m still learning. That doesn’t mean I’m always clear on what I’ve learned. I’m not. It takes time to see the good come to light out of the bad. But eventually things make sense.
I wish I could tie everything up in a neat little bow. I can’t. At the moment I’m writing this sentence, we aren’t in the best place. But I’m counting on that to change. While he’s splattering the world with tiger blood, I will ride out this tumultuous wave, hoping for the calm to be restored. When it’s peaceful, well, I will cherish those moments without knowing or worrying how long the peace will last. I navigate this as best as I can. I make mistakes. I learn. I try my best.
As always, I’m rooting for him. It means the best for us.
5
AT THE NADIR of Charlie’s implosion, I turned forty. I celebrated with an amazing dinner party with my closest friends in Los Angeles, but I spent my actual birthday in New York following a taping of The View. I’d guest-hosted on the show’s “Third Annual Mutt Show.” Not only did I survive Barbara’s queries about Charlie, I left the studio with Chocolate Chip, a two-year-old terrier mix we later named Coco. What a whirlwind she experienced, going from a year in a shelter to a night at the Ritz-Carlton, where she celebrated my birthday with me. What a story she heard me tell her that night.
It’s funny. You think about milestones like a fortieth birthday, read about them in magazines, discuss them with friends, worry about their significance, plan elaborate celebrations to distract yourself from fears about aging, and then, as in my case, you find yourself on the big day after having dinner with friends in New York alone in a hotel room with a strange terrier, realizing these events we build into mountains are only as important as we make them. I don’t want to diminish the significance of the day itself. Turning forty was a big deal. But how I felt about turning forty was much more important than the actual day itself, and I’ll tell you what. I felt pretty good.
I don’t look at forty and say, “Oh my God, I’m getting old.” No, I think of it more in terms of someone whose mother died at fifty-three. And my mom’s dad died at fifty-three. I struggled with those kinds of fears, not whether my face is going to sag or my boobs will hit my knees. My job is to make sure I’m around to see my kids grow up.
On the major plus side—and I hate that this sounds cliché—but I feel as if, at forty, I’ve arrived at a new beginning. Emotionally and physically, I feel better now than I did in my twenties. I’m more optimistic, too—and I was a positive-looking person then. The reason? I know who I am, and I’m comfortable with that. I’m in a good place. The stuff I worried about in my twenties and thirties rolls off my back. If someone had asked me ten or fifteen years ago where I saw myself at this age, I would’ve said happily married, with four children, and making a movie every year. My mom wouldn’t have been gone, either. But I’m not disappointed or defeated by where I am at; in fact, I’m philosophical about it. I have a good sense of what matters, what really matters. I feel capable, smarter, and wiser, and pleasantly eager to find out what’s next.
I’d love to get remarried. But I could have a serious someone with me for a long, long time without walking down the aisle again. He just needs to be the right person. He also has to know something: I won’t ever get divorced again. Ever. If we were to split, he’d have to get a house next door or on the same block. I’d also like to have more children. Definitely. But who the hell can say if that will happen? All I know for sure is that I’m not putting my life on hold.
I can feel my mom’s approval. She was clearly taken too soon, but the part of me that thinks in a spiritual sense believes that we all arrive with a purpose, and I think she fulfilled hers. I sense it in me every day. Maybe that’s part of a purpose all of us share. We’re supposed to pass on the best part of us. According to my mom, I was always a nurturer, as was she, whether it was with people or animals. We’re similar that way. Just walk into my house and you’ll know. You’ll see the kids, all their stuff, and you’ll be overrun by dogs. If you could only hear the yapping right now, predinner, and Lola and Sami running up to me to show me pictures they drew.
I’ve been involved in animal rescue for quite some years. When my mom’s dog, Sheena, passed away, I called a friend who worked at the Best Friends Animal Society and said I wanted to adopt a dog nobody wanted. They showed me two, and I ended up with a Chihuahua mix that was blind in one eye. He lost the sight in his other eye soon after I brought him home. His name is Preston. And he’s a sweetie. There was another dog there—a black one who looked like a sausage with four squat legs. After I brought Preston home, I couldn’t stop thinking of that black dog, so I decided I’d foster him. Although he was full of energy at my house, they said he was depressed in the cage at adoption events when they took him back. As soon as I heard that, I made room for him in the household, too. Soon I heard about a dog with two legs that were deformed from abuse. He was about to be put down. We found a bed for him and named him Scooter. His operations cost four grand per leg, but I’ll tell you what, he’s the sweetest dog of the bunch. He was worth it. I think rescue dogs are the most grateful animals I’ve been around. They show you that gratefulness day in and day out.
I’m often asked why I’m into rescuing pets. I don’t have a simple answer, but periodically at night as we’re all going to sleep, most of the dogs in their own bed, except my French bulldog, Hank, who often curls up on my bed, and a couple that bunk with the girls, I’ve come to understand, even if I can’t put it concisely into words, that I get as much, if not more, out of it than they do. Caring for them is about constantly reminding us about the responsibility we have to nurture and care for creatures other than ourselves. At the end of the day, we all just want to feel loved.
It’s a good message, a good lesson.
I have a group of close-knit girlfriends, and we meet once a month at someone’s home for dinner. We call ourselves the supper club. All of us are moms, and all of us are in the business. We spend the night talking about everything, and I mean everything, knowing that nothing we say leaves that room. It’s liberating to share private thoughts and discover you aren’t the only one who’s ever had them. We support one another, whether it’s tweeting about someone’s TV series or movie, or just getting up from the table and giving someone a hug. The cornerstone of faith is knowing that if you fall, you can count on someone to pick you up, and I have that with family and friends.
If anyone reading this book is going through a tough time, I hope I’ve given you reason to believe that there is light at the end of the dark tunnel. There is. Whether you’ve gotten divorced, lost a loved one, or are struggling to find a job and make ends meet, whatever the challenge is, know that you can fight the fight and get to a better place if you follow what’s really important. I won’t tell you what’s important. We all know. It’s already inside us. And as for how you go about it, remember that you can’t change other people. We can only change how we respond to situations and people and ultimately who we want to be.
•
At the end of March 2011, my beloved dog Lucy died from liver cancer. She was the first dog I cared for as an adult. She was at my side through everything and everyone for eleven years: through every relationship, every crisis, every birth of a child, every tragedy, and every triumph. She was a huge part of my life, and it was tough letting her go. But you know what? Life goes on—at least in my house.
The other night Lola asked me how babies got into the stomach. Before I could answer, Sami, who overheard her sister’s question, jumped onto the sofa and said, “I don’t even want to know. I have a feeling it’s gross!”
I laughed.
I made a note to tell my dad and Charlie.
It’s easy to get lost in the meaningless distractions we’re made to believe are important when, as I’ve learned, the keys to the life we want are in our hands. We make the decisions that affect our future. As I sit here contemplating everything I’ve been through, I’m wondering what advice I would give myself if I could go back in time, pre-Charlie. One thing I wouldn’t tell myself is to do anything differently. I don’t have regrets—not when I look at my daughters. They have been my strength, inspiring me to be strong, optimistic, and better. In general, I don’t believe in regrets. People make mistakes. Life is what it is at the moment. Make the best of it. That’s the advice I’d give myself if I could go back in time. Be patient. My mom liked to say, “This, too, shall pass.” She was right. When I was younger, I used to worry about what was going to happen the next month, the next year, or what I was going to do in two years. Now, I live in the moment, and try to enjoy it more. Life is too short to do otherwise. You never know what’s going to happen next. It doesn’t help to worry about all the crap in the past. Nor can you comprehend all the what-ifs in the future. If the risks you want to take feel right, take them. Be selfless. Be loving. Keep your heart open.
In life, you need thick skin. You can’t give a shit about what other people are going to say. As I learned, all you can do is be your authentic self. If you want to make changes in your life, start with baby steps. Give yourself achievable goals. Go for a walk if you want exercise. If you need company, get girlfriends together. If you need friends, organize drinks with coworkers. If you don’t like the way you look, start with a new hairdo. Most important, don’t procrastinate. Don’t invent excuses. And don’t give up if things don’t work out the way you want the first time. Life is all about trial and error. Be fearless. It’s worked for me.
As I said much earlier, when I turned thirty, a friend of mine promised the best was still ahead of me. It was hard to believe, but I’m beginning to think she was right. Indeed, Oprah Winfrey is another who is always saying life gets better with age. Judging from the way I feel and the turns in my life, I’ve chosen to believe her. I am forty. I feel great. I feel fortunate. I feel hopeful. With all I’ve been through, I feel empowered. I also feel smarter than I was twenty years ago, and even sexier. In a way, life is just beginning, though maybe you can feel that at any age.
I’ve never been someone who has to have a boyfriend or to be in a relationship, but I still want one. I would like to meet Mr. Right and get remarried (for life, of course!), make plans, and end up in a rocking chair on a porch looking out at a passel of grandchildren. I’m ready for my next journey and I think that’s a great way to feel.
I hope from reading this you’ve discovered I’m a lot like you. I think most of us share the same thoughts and aspirations. At heart, I’m a simple Midwestern girl who got swept up in a life I never dreamed possible. I’ve had amazing experiences, friendships, and loves, but with them came periods of grief and trials. For all the highs and lows, life evens out. I make my children my top priority, I try to help my dad, and I put family at the center of my life. I get involved in causes. That’s about all anyone can do in life. You face each day. You try your best. The crises I’ve navigated are not unique, which is partly why I wrote this book. If you’re going through similar challenges, I hope you’re able to find strength and comfort from my story, if only from learning that you aren’t alone. All of us are part of a community where we can support each other. If you don’t believe me, find me through my website or Twitter. I’m there for you, just as so many of you have been there for me. I would’ve loved for my girls to grow up beyond the spotlight of famous parents and a father who’s made explaining divorce even more complicated. But what better skill to teach than resiliency? The message I want to leave you with?
Keep looking forward.
And stay real.