Comedy’s Lovable Queen of Denial
Since I started doing comedy around 1990, I have taken very few vacations. I am a workaholic who finally found her passion, so what need did I have for time away? I loved what I did, I did what I loved, and that was enough for me. Only in the past few years, I had found that it wasn’t enough. The work was taking care of itself, with more fame and fortune coming my way on what seemed like a monthly basis, but I was finding myself growing dissatisfied with my dead-end relationships and my weight fluctuation. But until I bottomed out in 2007 in the most toxic relationship of my adult life, I let it all slide. I was on autopilot—work, eat, date, work, diet, date—until it all came to a crashing halt and I was forced to take the vacation nobody wants to take. No, not the in-laws’ house, Darfur, or gay pride weekend at Disney World. I was going to spend my vacation in rehab.
For more than a year, I had driven myself insane with my relationship with Tommy, and I had no idea how to get out. I had found out in therapy that I was a caregiver, a rescuer, and every time Tommy said he couldn’t live without me, I simply couldn’t let go. Just so you understand, caregivers are people who have such low self-esteem that they grab on to people beneath them—in my case, addicts, ex-cons, middle acts—and try to make them better people to prove their own self-worth. Of course, now I know better. I know if I feel the need to rescue something, I should adopt a dog or volunteer for the Special Olympics. This makes sense. Unfortunately, back in June of 2007, when I was still enmeshed with Tommy, I was more unstable than that bridge in Minnesota, and I didn’t know how to break the vicious cycle.
Oprah is always talking about angels, and even though I’d begun to drift away from her in the past few years, I agreed with something she said. My angel came to me one night in L.A. in the form of a skinny singer/songwriter with jet-black dyed hair and nine years of sobriety. My angel was Joie.
I was in L.A. about to do The Tonight Show for the fourth time, and I should have been on top of the world. Jay Leno liked me—something I never thought would happen in this lifetime, due to my edgy, blue material—and my weight was finally under control. Unfortunately, I could not say the same for my codependent relationship with Tommy.
Sitting having dinner at the Hollywood Improv, I felt special. Since I hadn’t been to the Melrose club in several years, I was given the celebrity treatment—a corner table in the dining room, an incredibly attentive waiter, free dessert, and an offer to do a spot, which I turned down since it was my night off. But inside, I still felt ill at ease. I was wrestling with the idea of maintaining contact with Tommy, even though the toxicity of the relationship rivaled that of a New Jersey landfill—or a New Jersey playground, for that matter.
Of course, when you’re obsessed with someone, that’s all you can think and talk about, and even though I had just met Joie (pronounced Joey) that night, I was already spilling my guts to him about this horror show of a relationship.
“…so I really think we can be friends. I mean, I know he sent pictures of his dick to other women, but we weren’t even going out at the time. He was just trying to get me to go back out when that happened, so it’s okay that he sent the pictures, right? And I think even though we can’t date, we can still be friends,” I said to the man with the kind eyes I’d just met.
Writing this now, I know how ridiculous it sounds. I want to puke just thinking about it.
But Joie didn’t puke—he didn’t even judge.
All he said was, “Uh-oh, you’ve got it bad.”
Then, instead of going off on me and telling me how stupid I was, he told me in a very even tone and calm voice a story of his own, about a girl he had been in a similar Tommy-like position with, a girl he knew he could never speak to again. I’d been told stories like this before, most recently by my poor beleaguered friend Laura, who tried hard day after day not to preach to me or scold me. But something about Joie’s empathy and compassion rolled up in a story so similar to my own made me think. And it helped me make a decision.
Joie was right—I could never talk to Tommy again.
But how? I asked. Sure, I could start by changing his name in my cell phone to “Prick” so that every time he called, I would remember two things—what a prick he was and the fact that he sent pictures of his prick to other women. And I could block him from my e-mail and MySpace pages. But these were all too easy—temporary fixes. I had to figure out why I was attracted to Tommy in the first place and never, ever let it happen again.
And so began my first of three stints in rehab.
Now, when people think of rehab, they think of one of two things: drugs or alcohol. Unfortunately, what I was going to rehab for was neither hip nor cool, nor did it have the edgy, dark qualities of heroin or liquor. The first rehab I checked into was to treat me for codependency. In fact, the minute Joie told me about the famous Caron Foundation’s codependency program, I knew I would go. Rushing home from the Improv, I fired up my computer and left the intake counselor three urgent messages, and when she called me back, I plunked down three thousand bucks on the spot. It wasn’t until I hung up the phone that I realized I was scared shitless.
Of course, like everyone else in the world, I thought rehab would look like a cross between One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted, minus the star power of patients like Jack and Angelina, and without the sexual tension and Academy Awards. I imagined enormous white metal doors that would shut behind me with a loud thud, followed by the sharp click of a lock, behind which I would be trapped and eventually either tortured, electroshocked, or both. I summoned up images of patients in white hospital gowns rocking back and forth in an effort to soothe themselves, and images of me, frightened, sitting in a corner, crying silently, begging to go home.
As I drove to the place where I was to spend the next five days, these snapshots swam through my head. But as I headed into the town of Wernersville, Pennsylvania, I had a pleasant surprise. Instead of a razor-wired asylum, there stood a charming, if not perfectly kept up, old farmhouse, surrounded by a huge front porch, complete with rocking chairs and a smoking pit in the back. Still, as I parked my car, my heart was racing, and even though I knew I was doing what was best for me, this would be anything but easy.
“You promise to pick up if I call?” I begged my friend Laura for reassurance over the phone as I lingered in the car, stealing a few more minutes of freedom before I entered the farmhouse’s back door. Promising me once more that she most certainly would—as she had the dozen or so times I had asked her the same question during the anxiety-ridden week before—I felt her warmth across the miles. “This place is going to be good for you or Joie wouldn’t have told you about it,” she reminded me. Laura, no stranger to psychiatric hospitals in her youth, told me it would in no way be like a bad movie about mental illness, and looking around in the driveway, I knew she was right.
It turns out there was really nothing creepy about rehab. The only remotely uncomfortable thing was that roommates were mandatory. I hadn’t shared a room with anyone except a boyfriend since my college days, and I wasn’t thrilled about going back to it now. My roommate was Shelley, an eating-disordered codependent who kept piles of affirmation books on her bedside table. I knew immediately she wasn’t one of the “cool kids” there, and I set out to find the A list, the people I could bond with, smoke with (I didn’t smoke cigarettes, but the occasional Black and Mild would make me feel like I fit in), and form lifelong post-rehab friendships with.
Within a few hours, I met Heather, Jill, John, and Brett, who eventually put two and two together and figured out who I was. As with all rehabs, the place is anonymous—hence our referring to ourselves by first names only. But I made sure to slip in a coupla Chink jokes and enough details about my life and use my onstage voice when speaking so that it started to dawn on them that I was Comedy’s Lovable Queen of Mean. Thank God! That way, I could feel a little more special than the rest of the group. I mean, I may be codependent, but I’d be damned if I
wasn’t gonna be the most famous codependent at Caron that week and receive all the perks being the celebrity brings—like extra Jell-O.
And bond we did. Despite being cautioned not to hang out exclusively with one group and threatened with dismissal if any physical or sexual boundaries were crossed, the five of us broke those rules. But how could we help it? I mean, I was semifamous, Jill and Heather were smokin’ hot, Brett was employed as a sommelier in one of New York City’s finest restaurants, and John was a good-looking baby-faced sweetheart with several years of sobriety under his belt. We were, in short, Caron’s version of St. Elmo’s Fire without that chubby dud Mare Winningham.
The five of us did everything together. We ate together, we played games together, and after ten-hour days of therapy, we stayed up until all hours of the night, discussing our own codependency and our failed relationships and calling each other on our shit. Sure, the group therapy, the lectures, and the psychodramas (physically and emotionally draining role-playing sessions where we acted out and purged our childhood traumas) were helpful. But the connection of our little group seemed to do much more. By day three, I felt like I’d known these people for years. I knew more about them than I did my family. I knew I was in the right place.
The only person outside our little group who intrigued me was Peter. Peter was an older guy—probably around fifty or so—who had rugged good looks; a tan that I imagined came from boating on Long Island, where he lived; and eyes that said he was really listening to you. Many years sober, Peter, with his steamy, quiet ways, was irresistible to me, and I just had to know what his story was.
Now, in rehab, the members of group therapy are forbidden from disclosing what happens in their individual group to members of other groups, to discourage loss of confidentiality. But Jill was in Peter’s group, and I set about finding out if he could be the next Mr. Lampanelli. Unfortunately, what I found out wasn’t good. Not only was Peter married, Peter had forty-seven wives—that is, he was married to a woman with forty-seven different personalities, and he had come to Caron to get up the strength to leave her. Now, let that sink in, bitches! Forty-seven personalities! His wife had more flavors than Baskin-Robbins. Of course, at the time they got married, Peter’s wife had had only one personality—I assume a pretty good one or he wouldn’t have married her—but she had suffered a trauma in which her personality split into almost four dozen people, some of them children and babies! In fact, her multiple personalities were so involved and confusing that Peter carried a chart around with him just so he could keep track, a chart I refer to as the Periodic Table of the Elements of Crazy.
Now, a few months earlier, Peter would have seemed perfect for me. He was an ideal candidate for me to rescue! But, as they say in twelve-step programs, you can’t unlearn what you know, and after all I’d learned about my codependence and after bottoming out with Tommy, I ran for my life. Besides, I wasn’t about to piss off a woman with forty-seven personalities—that’s a hell of a lot of heckling if she ever decided to come out to one of my shows! She would have been harder to kill than the Terminator.
Speaking of Tommy, by the time I’d arrived at rehab in late June, it had been a week since I’d returned any of his calls or texts. I had blocked him from my e-mail as I knew I should, but I’d be damned if I was gonna change my phone number and give him that power. So, like clockwork, three days into my stay, just as I was beginning to get something out of the program, there were two of his trademark manipulative messages on my voice mail. Even though the therapists were on lunch break, I frantically stormed into my shrink Rick’s office and asked to speak with him.
“Well, if you’re going to return those calls, you might as well leave right now,” Rick said, hard-lining me. I wasn’t going to return them, I assured Rick. I was never speaking to him again! “Well, I seriously advise you to hand in your phone so any more messages or texts don’t disturb your progress here.” Hand in my phone? But don’t you know who I am, Rick? I’m Lisa Lampanelli, Comedy’s Lovable Queen of Mean! I’m almost famous! I have a career, goddamn it! Rick shrugged, unfazed. “Well, if you listen to any more messages he leaves, you’re just dialing for pain.”
I’m happy to say I didn’t dial for pain at Caron, and I haven’t done so for more than sixteen months as I sit here writing this book. In fact, after leaving Caron, I was advised not to date for a year since my addiction to men was what had gotten me in there to begin with. So, even though I’d gone dateless for a year before I decided to sample the chocolate love a few years back, I knew I needed to give it a rest once again. I agreed with the powers that be at Caron; I definitely wouldn’t date. I would take an entire twelve-month period to work on myself, I’d buy a crate of batteries at Costco for my vibrator, and I’d do something about my “picker”—as in “When it comes to picking men, my picker is out of whack.” I knew that year would give me a lot of time to do stuff I’d wanted to do for a while. I mean, with my mind on men all the time, I hadn’t had time to revisit the piano—one of my favorite pastimes in my teens. I hadn’t had the energy to join a tennis league or get a singing coach. In fact, now that I wasn’t dating, maybe I’d have time to write my highly anticipated Broadway show Best Little Whorehouse in Connecticut, or, even better, Codependency: The Musical, with the big closing number “Boy, Is My Cunt Tired.” I mean, I’d hardly had any breaks from dating since I was twelve—that’s almost thirty-four years of holding in farts while trying to pretend I’m a “lady.” And when it comes to sex, what can I tell you? My vag had been more backed up than midtown at rush hour. And where, oh where, had all this dating gotten me? The guy got good sex, but what did I get? A yeast infection and a pinched nerve in my neck. No more dating for me! Time to wash those men right outta my snatch!
Sounds like a good plan, huh? Sure it does—on paper! See, what I didn’t count on was loneliness. I didn’t see it coming and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This was especially true on Friday and Saturday nights—“date night” for the rest of the population. It was on those nights, when I saw couples in the audience, that I was most tempted to rustle up some male companionship.
And then something occurred to me: Just because I’m not allowed to date doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to fuck. Caron never said anything about just fucking. Why didn’t I think of this before?
So, during the summer after Caron, I spent my days at Canyon Ranch health spa, crying when I needed to, reading self-help books, eating healthy food, and when the loneliness became too painful to face, I read my fan mail and lined up some dates—er, I mean, fucks.
Around August, I couldn’t take the aloneness anymore. I’d had enough. Enough attempts at yoga class and meditation at Canyon Ranch. Enough of sporadically attended twelve-step meetings. And enough of staring at hot guys, unable to take any action whatsoever. So instead of picking up my recently ordered copy of Healing Your Aloneness and The Healing Your Aloneness Workbook, I printed out an e-mail from a hot little Mexican/Italian mix—not terribly unlike Tommy in appearance, now that I think about it—who coincidentally enough lived in Vegas, where I was going to tape Larry the Cable Guy’s Christmas Spectacular. You know what they say: “What happens in Vegas…” Wow! This was great. Not only did I get to fly to Vegas to bang hot little guinea/spic Johnny, VH1 was financing the whole thing. I mean, what could possibly go wrong in Vegas for a person fighting addictions?
In case you ever need it, here is the exact recipe for loneliness:
1. Spend two sexless, dateless months at a health spa frequented by women who at every turn are happier, skinnier, prettier, more satisfied, and in general, just plain better than you;
2. Add one first-class flight and a gorgeous suite at the Palms Resort Casino in Las Vegas;
3. Pepper with the artificial ego rush of being in Sin City to shoot a nationally aired TV special for a good friend;
4. Garnish with being surrounded by showgirls, high rollers, and other Vegas accoutrements that send all recently learned recovery skills out the wi
ndow.
That, my friends, can add up to nothing but loneliness, and that’s where Johnny came in.
Johnny actually wasn’t anything like Tommy. He was half-Mexican and half-white—which I guess means he still gets harassed at the border, but eventually gets let in—and he and I had dinner and he paid. Having not had a guy pay for dinner since the time Tommy asked me to cash his paycheck so it could be his treat at the diner, I was excited. So excited that I gave Johnny a little outside-the-pants action—hey, you gotta check under the hood before you take it for a test drive—and he went home. Since the dress rehearsal had gone well, I couldn’t wait for opening night.
Unlike Tommy too, he called the next day and asked what I was doing. Even though I was exhausted, my need for human contact outweighed my need for sleep. I told him I had a break from taping around two that afternoon, so he agreed to drive me to Caesars’ Forum Shops so I could go to Jimmy Choo. Little did I know, Johnny thought Jimmy Choo was a Chinese restaurant and appeared disappointed when I told him he was to accompany me while I went shoe shopping. He was looking forward to the #11 Hunan Beef, and I was looking for a pair of size 10s.
After a full morning of rehearsals for the special, I hurried up to my room and made sure I was fresh as a daisy—well, at least as fresh as a daisy that wants to get laid. I was in the mood to shop a bit and impress Johnny with how I bought $500 pairs of shoes without looking at the price tag. I know—most women put out so men will buy them expensive gifts. I get turned on if there’s a straight guy in the room when I buy my own. Then, I planned, I would bring him up to my hotel for a little up-close-and-personal inside-the-pants action. I mean, it was our second meeting. It was time.
Ends up I wasn’t the only one who had an agenda in mind. As I climbed into Johnny’s SUV, he suggested a quick detour to pick up someone else. At first I thought, “Man, this spic is so lazy he’s picking up a day worker to do his foreplay!” Hold on, though! A threesome? I’ve never had one of those. But no, Johnny’s plan didn’t include a threesome or sex of any kind.
Chocolate, Please Page 12
