Melissa Explains It All: Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life

by Melissa Joan Hart

  It was a happy birthday for Mike, and our night unfolded just as I’d hoped. That’s all I will say, though. I rarely knock go-go boots and tell, unless I’m five gin-and-tonics deep.

  After consummating our relationship, Mike and I were even more enamored with each other and found every possible moment to be together. When I went back to work, we spent countless hours on the phone, talking about boring and useless topics, like young people with few real problems and responsibilities do. We also paged each other a lot. Before we had cell phones, rappers and clingy teen couples hung little black boxes off their belts that beeped with phone numbers, urging people to call them. We sent each other messages on these things, using a series of numbers that, when read upside down, looked like words. For instance, 07734 became “hello.” Or we typed “69” as a dirty way of saying, “Hey, I’m thinking of you, if you know what I mean.” It was a crude form of sexting, but effective nonetheless.

  Mike and I were together for fourteen months before he went to Fordham University in the Bronx. As a college man-child living in coed dorms, he partied a lot, ate too much White Castle, and hung out with his brilliant but bizarre roommate Kit (Mike and Kit—insert Knight Rider joke here). Shortly after he moved in, I visited his room and was sitting on his bed, taking in the sights and smells of a guy’s dorm (basically filth, beer, and sex), when a girl busted in wearing nothing but a towel and asking for Advil.

  Right away I knew something was up with this chick if an entire dorm of PMS-ing female students didn’t have a single pill to spare, and she came to my boyfriend’s room, half-naked, like a whorish damsel in distress. As soon as Mike awkwardly introduced her to me, she said “never mind” and left the room. Survival instincts kicked in, and I sensed a threatening female on my playground. (I’ve had a sixth sense for bitches since I was young.) However, I also get jealous easily, so it can be hard for me to tell who’s really menacing and who’s not. Was my first love really cheating on me?

  On the night of my eighteenth birthday, and the end of Mike’s freshman year, I began piecing together the clues that suggested Mike might not be the faithful prince I thought he was. He constantly broke plans, offered fewer invites to stay over on campus or hang out at college parties, and then finally on my eighteenth birthday, when I suggested we go back to his dorm, he wouldn’t let me and didn’t want to stay over at my place. On my birthday! Mike also refused to admit he was acting weird, so a few weeks later, when his friends went to the Jersey shore for the weekend without him (he said he was going home to his folks’), I invited myself to join them. I was a woman on a mission. I drove for four hours, in my busted-up Jeep with no top or doors, down the Jersey Turnpike on my way to the beach. It wasn’t the safest decision I’ve ever made. But I was trying to make Mike jealous by hanging out with his boys, and maybe do some recon on the side. When Mike didn’t seem to care, I blatantly asked Mike’s two buddies if he was cheating, and sure enough, they’d seen him canoodling with the tart upstairs.

  I was so livid, I couldn’t breathe. And since this was my first real relationship, I also didn’t understand what I was feeling. I didn’t know a heart could literally ache, while simultaneously making me want to throw up. I was also angry as hell. As the sun came up, I sped back to my dad’s house in record time and told Mike that I was coming to his house for a talk. Though I was only five minutes away, he left before I got there and his mom answered the door. She and I were as close as any girl and her boyfriend’s mother could be—a warm, loving Italian who’d whip us up homemade penne alla vodka at 11 P.M. after a concert or party. God, I loved her pasta. Anyway, I told her I thought Mike was cheating on me, and she promised to make him call me at my dad’s that night, since she could see how hurt I was. When Mike rang, I went back to his house and confronted him about what I’d heard. Of course, like most red-blooded American teens who like having their tarts and eating them, too, he lied and said he wasn’t dating the trashy coed.

  “Calm down,” he said. “I just kissed her.”

  As I drove my doorless death trap home that night, listening to The Smashing Pumpkins sing “Disarm” for the gazillionth time and with the summer air whipping my hair in front of my face, I knew I had to end the relationship. For a long time after, I cried in the shower, tore up our cutesy photos, and returned gifts to him by way of my father, whom he’d started working for. Dad refused to fire Mike, and I couldn’t get closure since my siblings stayed close to him and kept calling me with sightings and updates.

  As a birthday present from my parents, Dad bought me a bike and Mom got me a plane ticket to Paris, so right after Clarissa wrapped, I took off on a bike tour to lick my wounds and burn calories. It was a long, lonely, and physically demanding ride through the French countryside with a bunch of spoiled, immature teens from rich towns in Long Island for four weeks. Not the salve I needed. It was like Under the Tuscan Sun meets Amélie, but starring an angry, confused, and broken-down young woman. A cigarette, red lipstick, and possibly a mime could have turned this into a moody black-and-white film. Quel dommage.

  Chapter 8

  MOMS DO THE DARNDEST THINGS

  Mother/daughter relationships are notoriously complicated. There’s Joan and Melissa Rivers, Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher, and how about those Judds? My own mother, Paula, is no Mommie Dearest, but she’s certainly thrown me for enough loops to keep my girlfriends entertained by her stories. Even so, our relationship has gone through a lot, both good and bad, that’s helped turn me into the person I am today. For that, she gets her own chapter.

  When Mom had me, she was all about peace, love, and lactation. She was a ’70s hippie, which was proudly marked by her bell bottoms, feathered hair, and the fact that she advocated for the natural benefits of breast-feeding over factory-made formulas. She loved having and feeding babies so much that she went on to have and feed six more over the next twenty-one years—six of them, without drugs during delivery. She basically spent her entire twenties in and out of the hospital maternity ward, and yet when she wasn’t pregnant, her stomach was flat and she never weighed more than 110 pounds. I wonder if all that breast-feeding was her calorie-burning trick, because she’s never been on a diet or owned a gym membership. One of my favorite things is watching Mom’s face change when strangers ask her how many kids she has. No way, they say. You look amazing. And that’s all it takes for Mom’s expression to go from looking calm and controlled to unveiling a slow, knowing grin that spreads across her cheeks and reminds me of when the Grinch steals the Whos’ roast beast in that Dr. Seuss cartoon. Mom’s been fielding this comment for more than thirty years, yet every time she hears it, she gobbles it up like it’s her first time.

  We were a very affectionate family when I was young, though more into snuggling than doling out messy kisses. And Mom was the one who kept us in line, ruling with a tender heart and an iron hand. She had a great amount of patience, but once she hit her limit—look out. She’d spank us with a wooden spoon and put us in “the naughty chair,” which felt like an eternity in exile. My sisters Trish, Liz, and I got a taste of this when we stayed up late making sure our Cabbage Patch dolls and Care Bears were safely tucked into bed; we were always preparing them for a disaster, like if the house caught fire or one of those famous Long Island tornadoes touched down. If Mom heard us giggling after she turned off the light, she’d burst into the room and let ’er rip. But we were only honing our protective Mama Bear instincts, which we learned from watching her.

  Whenever I booked a job, she’d sneak on set and hang out in the back to keep a watchful eye on how I was treated. I was in a commercial with Doug Henning, a famous magician at the time, for the very first Chrysler minivan when I was seven years old. Mom overheard the director call me “the little girl in the red shoes” for three days in a row, so on the fourth, her claws came out.

  “My daughter has a name,” she said in her best make-my-day voice. “It’s Melissa.”

  Though Mom lost her patience on those who deser
ved it (she also went crazy on families who cut the line at Disney), she kept it together impressively well for someone who juggled as much as she did. Beyond managing our careers, she handled everything around the house, since my father worked never-ending hours in the shellfish business, then with his construction company, and then back to shellfish. Though Mom wasn’t a gourmet cook, we always had a decent breakfast on the table, lunch in a brown bag to bring to school, and a hot, balanced dinner with an occasional treat for dessert. She even experimented with making her own bread, which was always so warm and delicious next to the leg of lamb she’d cook for Dad but we kids detested. And while she was no Doris Day, Mom kept our house clean and comfortable, and expected everyone to do their part. We helped her dust, vacuum, take out the trash, wash the car, and weed the garden. Mom grew her own beautiful vegetables, and behind the corn, Dad planted rows of marijuana. They never smoked pot around me, but Mom and I did have open and honest discussions about her cannabis crop that made me uninterested in taking a toke of my own. Once I asked Mom what drugs she’d done and she told me, “Eh, I’ve tried them all, so you don’t have to. None were worth it.” She wasn’t bossy or “because I said so” about this; she was sharing her experience and hoping I’d learn from it. I took her at her word.

  Mom was also very honest when it came to taboo topics like sex. When I was in fourth grade, I was riding bikes around town with my friend Joanne when we came across a Playgirl magazine lying on the side of the street. We went back to Joanne’s house, looked at the pictures, and split our favorites between us. I remember cutting out the tiny pictures of men with their big ol’ shlongs bursting through their assless chaps—super hot. When I got home, I speed-walked through the kitchen and past my mom, who was all the while yelling, “Hey, how was your day?” I thought for sure she must have known the secret burning a hole in my pocket, because I looked and felt so guilty and ashamed scurrying past her to my room. But I’ve always had a strong gut reaction to right and wrong, and this time was no different. I couldn’t imagine living with myself if I didn’t tell Mom what I was hiding. I quickly crept back downstairs and spilled the beans.

  “I have to tell you something,” I said. “I have nudie pictures of men in my back pocket.”

  I expected Mom to scream or yell at me, but it took her an eternity to react. And then: “How about you just give them to me, and we can forget this ever happened,” she said.

  Seriously, that was it.

  Mom’s reaction made me realize how much she trusted me to make the right decisions and come to her if I made a wrong one; she probably wanted to giggle, the way I did when my son recently pooped in a toy bucket and guiltily handed it over. But she’s always been candid with me and expected me to be the same with her, which I 100 percent have. I so vividly remember the hot-faced shame I felt that day, even if my indiscretion didn’t faze Mom, that I never wanted to have a guilty secret on my conscience again. Because I didn’t ever want to upset or disappoint her, I also took a huge parenting burden off her hands. She didn’t have to be a strict disciplinarian or overbearing nudge. I’d play that role for myself.

  With Mom’s trust came freedom without much of a discussion, and I never abused that. Mom let me ride my bike to a friend’s house, stay at the park until the streetlights came on, or watch television at night once I finished my homework and chores. This kind of independence gave me and my siblings the confidence to know we’d make good choices on our own, and I rarely let her down. Mom counted on us to be reliable and independent, which worked out well, given everything that needed to get done.

  But even with so much on her plate, Mom showed up to every childhood event I can think of. Though she’d never hoot or holler at games or school plays, she was always in the audience or background with a very proud smile. She was also just as straight with me about my weaknesses, though she rarely gave direct negative feedback. I sometimes wonder if that kind of withholding is what kept me guessing enough to always want to please her. If so, I’m often glad she did it because it pushed me a little harder to make an impression on her, and I think that explains some of my professional drive and eagerness to excel in general. The thing with my mom, though, is that once you’ve done something great, and she tells you, it feels so amazing because you’ve really earned it. Beyond my parents and siblings, the only other person whose opinion matters to me is my husband, Mark. And you know what? Flattery doesn’t come easy from him either. But when I’ve earned it, I know I’ve really done something terrific. (Mark swears he compliments me all the time and I ignore him, and maybe that’s true too; I tend to blow off most kind words as inauthentic and insincere.) They say you marry your dad, but I think I married my mom.

  The only time I remember Mom being actively tough on me, as a kid or otherwise, is when she’d ask me how it went on an audition during our drive back to Long Island. If I said, “I don’t think I got it”—and if we were stuck in traffic or she’d had a rough day—she’d get pissed and tell me that’s it, we’re done with the business, because she was tired of me and my siblings wasting her time. She really believed in me, so it frustrated her when she thought I wasn’t trying hard enough to live up to the potential she saw. But usually after the outburst, I’d actually book the job and then we’d do it all over again. One of Mom’s biggest eruptions happened after I told her I thought I blew it with Mitchell on that third Clarissa audition. That’s when she said we were finished with acting for good. Thank God fate didn’t pay as much attention to Mom’s flare-ups as we did.

  Lots of books have been written about the fuzzy boundaries and strange oversteps of moms and their little girls, and for me and my mom, ours mostly happened during the divorce. I think this may have been a natural progression from Mom having me in her twenties, which always led her to say we “practically grew up together!” She also didn’t have a lot of girlfriends her own age, the way I do now, and she always leaned most on family when she needed support. I suspect that both of these factors led to her treating me, more often than not, as a close friend. I couldn’t get enough of it when I was eight or ten, as she was pumping out babies and I was playing with dolls. But I was thirteen years old when she and Dad got a divorce. I already had hormones, work, a commute, and boys to deal with—I didn’t want to add moving, new schools, and all of Mom’s issues to that list of stressors. Besides, I didn’t know any real, live divorced people. My aunt Zippy was split and remarried before I was old enough to understand what happened, and my uncle Mark had four ex-wives, but he was a horny free spirit, so neither of them seemed to count. Other than them, I’d never watched a marriage fall apart or known any friends whose parents went through it, either.

  Though Mom wanted me to be her confidante, or at least acted like she did, I was too young, angry, and selfish to be one. The only people I wanted to help were me and my siblings, because we were all on the receiving end of the chaos. We had that in common. I dealt by exploring the city, making new friends, decorating my room, and going shopping. And though Mom had always given me room to be independent, now I wished for her to be more hands-on. As Mom managed her new life as a single mother, she left me to make my own meals and pack my own lunches. It was to be expected at my age, but I still wanted her to take care of me in small ways.

  She’d always kept close tabs on me and visited often when I was in Florida, but her monthly trips took an uncomfortable turn during the divorce. I spent hours listening to her gripe about Dad’s faults and why the marriage got stale—and not even for some massive reason like drug use, abuse, or infidelity, but because he wasn’t around enough, which, among other travesties, meant the dining room molding never got painted. It made me mad at Dad for being MIA and resentful toward Mom for splitting up our family. On top of it all, I didn’t want to endure these incessant couch therapy sessions, when I had fifty pages of dialogue to learn for work the next day.

  Though I could occasionally step outside the situation to analyze my parents’ flaws, realize they were only
human, and try to find some bright side to the whole mess, my overwhelming reaction was that of a typical adolescent. I used Mom’s words against her, felt comfortable talking back and acting out, and yelled at her when I felt she was skirting her responsibilities as a mom to my siblings. It was suddenly clear that Mom didn’t have all the answers I thought she did, because as she worked through the divorce, her flaws were on the table for everyone to see. And while I thought she deserved to have some fun with her new life and knew in my head that it took a lot of strength to divorce my dad and go after the life she wanted, my heart was still critical of her decisions because I wasn’t her friend or therapist or drinking buddy. I was her child.

  * * *

  It’s weird to think about this time in Mom’s life without talking about Nanny. She was my mom’s mother, and her best friend. Mom wanted a sister so bad but got three tough brothers instead, so she made Nanny her confidante. Even as an adult, Mom didn’t make a move without consulting her, since she always considered Nanny to be wise and unconditionally loving. She was our family’s matriarch for the first twelve years of my life, and when she wasn’t ruling her roost, she spoiled us grandkids at every turn. Nanny traveled a lot and brought us handkerchiefs, dolls, and currency from exotic locations like Yugoslavia and Russia, where we still had family (I think I inherited her travel bug). She and Papa, my grandfather, built us hope chests for our valuable possessions and made us a giant Victorian-style dollhouse, which I still have and cherish. Nanny also sparked my fascination with Shirley Temple, since she bought me my first collectible pin at a Long Island flea market.