Bad Habits Read online

  I also had no idea vaginas could open up like that. Too bad penises couldn’t expand.

  My pregnancy was nothing short of happy hell. Happy because I was pregnant, and hell because I seemed to experience every symptom I had ever read about, plus a plethora of bizarre ones that are never mentioned in the typical pregnancy books.

  My hormones were so out of control that a day didn’t go by where I didn’t want to destroy my husband. I cried, threw remote controls at him, made him change the TV station if a Victoria’s Secret commercial was on, ordered him to run out for food that looked good on TV, and then made him live through the worst pregnancy farts known to mankind.

  I have no doubt a lot of my stress stemmed not only from my body morphing into a house, but also the fact that I was the only breadwinner in the family. My ex hates when I talk about this, but it’s reality. Most people get to tell everyone they know they are pregnant. I had to hide it like I was giving birth to the Messiah because I feared I would be considered disabled in show business.

  Plus, at this point, my career was like a plane delayed on a runway. I was twenty-nine years old and for four years I had been in holding deals. What that means is a network puts a hold on actors it likes, but by doing so, the actors are not allowed to do anything else. I was stuck in this cycle of being paid a little bit to sit and do nothing until a network figured out what to do with me. This might sound amazing to some people, but I knew that sitting around unable to work was only sending my career into no-man’s-land. People were coming up to me on the street asking, “Did you quit show business?” This was hard to hear, and it was impossible to explain that I was stuck in a vicious cycle of holding deals.

  Then it finally happened. A network figured out how to utilize me.

  There was a pilot that I was elated to do, except it required me to wear sexy, tiny clothes. Normally I would be fine with that, but there was a little problem. I was five months pregnant. I knew if the network knew I was pregnant, I wouldn’t be able to do the TV show and the network would most likely cut me loose from the holding deal. There was no way I could survive financially without doing the pilot.

  Two weeks before filming, word got out that I was pregnant and my biggest fear came true. I was let go from my holding deal and not allowed to do the pilot because I was pregnant. They actually told my lawyer I was disabled. My lawyer then explained to me that I could sue the shit out of them—but my chances of ever working again would be slim to none if I went through with it. The moment I got that phone call, I burst into tears and went into premature labor. I was rushed to the hospital and told that I was indeed in labor (in my fifth month). The doctors gave me crappy drugs to stop the contractions and I left the hospital three days later.

  I was so scared as I rubbed my growing belly, wondering how the hell I was going to pay for everything on top of all the medical concerns for myself and the baby. I kept praying to God to let something happen that would ease my stress.

  As the months went on, my body was changing so drastically that I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. Looking at my naked ass could have been one of the most scarring visuals in my life. No, I take that back—1970s ape pussy still beats it. But my ass got so big it didn’t even have a crack anymore. It was just a giant tub of cottage cheese.

  I not only felt horrific and looked horrific, but my low self-esteem from not being able to provide for my baby was killing me. It was during one good belly cry in the shower that I remembered to try to get myself back to satellite radio. I knew epiphanies happened on satellite radio, and I was determined to get there.

  I waddled my alien body back to the Psychic Eye Book Shop and tried to energetically connect to the one that would help me. As I looked around, I was so grateful to be surrounded by such inspirational books. It was the first time I experienced gratitude for the gift that these authors bring to the world. Life gives us so many crazy personal experiences to go through, and by reading their experiences, I realized it could possibly save me from future bad ones if I applied their words of wisdom to my own life.

  As I stood there holding on to four books, I giggled at a thought I had: “Wouldn’t it be crazy if I wrote a book someday?”

  When these questions pop into our conscious thoughts, wouldn’t it be awesome to follow them with a question like “Why not?” Instead, my ego immediately shut it down. “Idiot, you type with one finger and failed English. Shut up, fool.”

  When I got home, I dove into the books, absorbing the words like the chocolate brownies I gorged on every night during pregnancy. I was finally back. I was awake. I was a happy, fat pregnant girl on satellite radio. There was no stress anymore. I realized everything that happened was for the best reason possible and the universe always figures out a way to help you get by. I knew the key was to surrender my worries and carry on with my pregnancy with the excitement a pregnant woman should have.

  By the time I checked in to the hospital to deliver, I weighed 211 pounds. I was hoping to deliver a forty-pound baby, but no such luck. Evan was only six pounds.

  The only way to describe the moment Evan was put in my arms is absolute heaven. I felt my heart physically grow another chamber. Evan was born on May 18, 2002. I also claim it as my birthday because my life began that day as well. I knew I was entering a phase in my life where my mission was to be the best mother I could possibly be to this little boy. I wasn’t going to let him down.

  About a month after delivery, I was sitting on the couch cuddling my baby when I started to reflect on all the crazy things that my body went through during pregnancy. I couldn’t believe that even though I had read every pregnancy book on the market, not one was brutally honest. I mean really honest. I opened up my computer to make a list of shit no one warned me about in pregnancy. Then I would show it to my doctor so he could better inform women of what was about to happen to them.

  As I clicked away with one finger on my keyboard, I flashed to the thought I had in the bookstore: “What if I wrote a book someday?” This time the voice was louder than my ego, but it wasn’t quite loud enough for me to really believe I could. Instead I told myself, “Why don’t you just pretend you’re writing an email to Laura [my BFF] and share with her the funny, crazy moments in pregnancy?”

  With Evan at my side, I spent ten hours a day clicking away with one finger on the keyboard and my other hand feeding Evan. I felt a rush of excitement that I was sharing information, just like all those authors I have read over the years.

  When I finally finished, I printed it out and stared at it. I had never written anything in my life. I even paid people in college to write my papers for me. This accomplishment felt really good.

  I sent the book to my acting agent, who sent it to my agency’s literary department, and waited anxiously for a response. I knew that if they liked it, I wasn’t a complete asshole for thinking I could do it.

  A week later my agent called and said they turned it down. It was too crude.

  Normally, this kind of news would force me to bed and I would curl up and cry for twenty-four hours. Instead, I listened to my inner voice. It said, “There are a lot more agents in the world than this one.”

  With that, I mailed my book to every book agent and publisher on the East Coast, just like every other person trying to catch a break. I was still unsure about where money would be coming from, but I knew that any effort put forth would send a signal to the universe that I wasn’t fucking around.

  I wanted to work.

  Within a couple of months I was turned down by every literary agency in New York City. It reminded me of the time back in Chicago when I sent my photos to every modeling agency and they all turned me down. That flashback gave me the strength to keep hoping that something from somewhere would guide me toward my next move.

  The next month I received a call from my lawyer telling me that a small boutique publishing company out of Boston was interested in my book. I couldn’t believe that somebody other than my own mom believed in me.
We quickly made a deal and they told me we would launch in a year. That seemed so far away. I needed the money now, not a year from now.

  “Will I get an upfront fee?” I asked with a squeak of desperation.

  “Not much, because you need to prove yourself as an author.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. It seemed logical. With that, I decided to get my ass in shape and continue to act and host in La La Land doing odd jobs.

  When it was time to finally promote the book, I had actually forgotten about it. I didn’t really have high expectations. I just hoped that people who bought it would giggle and find entertainment in what I went through. Live with Regis and Kelly was the only big national show that agreed to have me come on to promote it, and I was beyond grateful. I flew to New York and giggled that I was there as an author!

  I did the show, flew back home, and enjoyed reliving the hilarious symptoms of pregnancy now that they were way behind me. As I sat on the ground playing with Evan, I felt proud for the first time in my life. I gave birth to the most beautiful thing on Earth, and I wrote a book.

  My thoughts then drifted and I giggled as I heard yet another question pop up in my head: “Wouldn’t it be great if Belly Laughs became a best seller and you wrote more books?” This time my ego was louder and said, “Idiot, you’re lucky the first one was published.”

  The next day the phone rang. It was my agent.

  “Congratulations. You’re a New York Times bestselling author. Belly Laughs is number seven on the list.”

  I screamed so loud that I think I broke my agent’s eardrums and caused Evan to cry. I couldn’t believe it. I was excited that this meant I could take yet another new direction in my career and morph into a mother who speaks her mind and tells the truth. I had no idea how, seven books later, putting that intention out there would have led to exactly that.

  I followed Belly Laughs with Baby Laughs; Life Laughs; Louder Than Words; Mother Warriors; Healing and Preventing Autism; Love, Lust & Faking It; and now this here masterpiece, Bad Habits.

  Not bad for a girl who failed English and types with one finger. Whoop, whoop!

  26

  Aho Mitakuye Oyasin

  As my journey of enlightenment continued, I came across a group of friends who told me about an Indian sweat lodge they went to every Monday.

  Not a pretend sweat lodge but a real, almost-die-in-it sweat lodge.

  They told me how you go into the teepee to suffer so you don’t have to suffer in the real world. Considering the amount of suffering I had been through as a Catholic, I didn’t think that this experience would be nearly as bad, so I said, “Can you take me with you next time?”

  I was told I was not allowed to go to the ceremony if I was having my period. (This was different from my boyfriend’s tact at the time, which demanded that I throw down a black towel because he liked to battle with a red sword.) The explanation for the lodge’s rule came later. Apparently, women have many very powerful spirit guides with them when they have their period. They help us get our bodily shit done, and they usually make us feel overly powerful, so that we finally can tell people how we really feel during PMS.

  The modern term is called “being a bitch” but the Indians call it “being in your power.” I liked the sound of their beliefs immediately.

  When I arrived, I pulled up to the lodge and walked up to the Indian chief, named Chief. I offered him tobacco and asked if I could join the sweat lodge ceremony. He welcomed me and explained the rules that must be followed. I must obey the “moon time” rule, which was the no-period rule. He also stated that we must bless ourselves with sage smoke before we enter and say, “Aho Mitakuye Oyasin.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means ‘to all my relations!’” he said.

  “Sorry, I still don’t understand,” I said, being the curious asshole who has to question everything that I am.

  “It means honoring all who are related, which is all of us. We are all connected.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I said while still trying to wrap my head around interconnectedness, which all of my spiritual books talked about.

  Chief then said, “It is very important that you do not lift the bottom of the teepee and let air inside. We are in there for three hours and it will be very hot. You must pray through it.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Because opening the bottom of the teepee will let evil spirits in,” he said with strong authority.

  That’s all he needed to say. I was sure Ben or dead man holding his baby were still following me, and those bastards were not coming into my teepee.

  I crawled inside the teepee, which probably should have held around thirty people comfortably. I counted fifty-five people going inside.

  Once inside, I was told to crawl and tuck myself into a ball as close as possible to the person sitting next to me. Then another person sandwiched me in on the other side.

  Once the teepee was filled with bodies, I realized I couldn’t move. It was like being buried alive.

  Chief entered last.

  He pulled hot stones out of the fire and proceeded to pour water on them. Hot steam filled the teepee. Chief began to sing Indian chant songs and beat a drum.

  I couldn’t see anything and I couldn’t move.

  All I could think was, Holy shitballs, I have to stay in here for three hours!

  Time moved at an excruciatingly slow pace. I compared it to a bad experience at hot yoga to get myself through it. I wasn’t tolerating the heat very well and I needed a distraction. I wanted to talk to anyone around me who was willing to listen and get me through the ceremony. The guy I was next to seemed so relaxed and at peace. I had to ask him what his secret was.

  He then told me that he gets inspired by his feces. He peers into the toilet and reads his stool like tea leaves.

  Yes, I met a real-life shape-shitter.

  I shook my head and tried to bring myself back to the present. Out of the yoga class. Back into the teepee. Another dimension of Hell.

  My heart started to beat with the rhythm of the drum, which started to go faster and faster.

  Then Chief poured more water on the stones, causing the temperature to get to at least 175 degrees. My face felt like it was melting off and I didn’t know what to do with the huge amount of pain I was in.

  I tried singing along with Chief.

  “Hiyayayayayaya,” I sang, but it wasn’t working.

  I dug my fist into the dirt I was sitting on and brought it up to my face so I could smear the dirt on it. I thought the mud might cool my skin. Instead, I just had a muddy face that was melting off.

  Then Chief poured more water on the hot rocks. More steam filled the teepee. You could hear moans as if people were burning in Hell. I started to have a panic attack. I was freaking the hell out. “Excuse me, Chief.”

  Chief stopped mid-song.

  “You can interrupt only if it’s an extreme emergency. You must work through the panic attack. If you work through it, you will have moved past a part of you that needed to go and will never come back. Be strong. You can do it.”

  How the hell did he know I was having a panic attack?

  I had no idea how to calm myself down. My body was screaming at me to cool it off.

  So I was left with no other choice but to come up with a sneaky plan.

  I dug my index finger through the mud and poked it out the teepee. I only got one inch of my finger out, but the breeze on the tip of my finger was enough to calm me down.

  About two minutes later, people started moaning strangely and then I heard the sound of vomiting. Oh my God, I thought, that better not be the person next to me.

  Chief stopped his singing and spoke.

  “Someone is letting evil spirits into the tent. People are getting sick. Who is doing this?”

  Damn it, I thought. What the hell do I do?

  I sat there waiting for someone else to admit to the demon entry, but no one did. So I did
what any other wise person would do and stayed silent.

  Chief then spoke again.

  “Please understand that this is a very important part of the ceremony and you must not lift any part of the tent. We are all counting on each other to respect this.”

  Then Chief started singing again.

  I felt bad about my finger poke, but it was like taking a sip of water after being in Death Valley for a week. I had to do it in order to survive.

  As the third hour rolled around, I started to hallucinate. I think I was detoxing all the drugs I’d ever done in the past. I started seeing pink doughnuts singing songs to me in front of my face. Then I saw a leprechaun, with whom I had a full, audible conversation.

  I finally realized that I had to poke my finger outside the teepee one more time in order to push through.

  Ahhhhhhh, relief.

  My index finger felt like it had won the lotto. I don’t think any of my other nine fingers have forgiven me to this day.

  Then, just when I thought I had gotten away with murder, I felt my finger getting crushed outside the teepee by a three-hundred-pound man in steel boots. I knew the fire keeper patrolling the teepee had just busted me. I couldn’t scream because then everyone would know that I was the opener of the evil spirits.

  Now my body was burning alive inside the teepee and my finger was being crushed to pieces outside the teepee.

  If Hell on Earth exists, I had put myself in it here.

  I finally managed to squirm my finger away from his boot and close the teepee back up.

  As I sat there in the home stretch, I was amazed to realize that I had overcome my fear of evil spirits. To me, that was growth. Sure, I jeopardized the ceremony and possibly fucked some people up, but not caring about evil spirits was a huge accomplishment.