* * *
Outside the house, we’re a hard Connecticut family to miss. If Mason’s soccer game falls on a Saturday, we pile out of our giant crimson car, dressed in crimson T-shirts, and push our crimson stroller across the grass to where we set up our crimson “A” chairs. Once during a game, a guy pulled over on the side of the road after seeing us, a large red blur from afar, and got Mark’s attention. He said he’d been looking for “the Alabama family,” ever since his daughter told him a boy at school wears Alabama T-shirts. He’s a Crimson Tide football fan, too.
And so we carry on the Wilkerson family tradition. During big games, Mark chats with almost every one of his family members via phone or FaceTime at least every quarter. When we head to Alabama for Thanksgiving every other year, we spend the weekend watching all the college games with the family, and when Alabama plays, even Gama (Mark’s ninety-one-year-old grandma) comes over to cheer in her crimson logoed gear. Cars and fridge magnets show off their favorite team colors. Mark’s sister Sally, who’s only fifteen months older than him, has made football a hobby and in a way I never thought a girl could. (For years, I suspected that chicks who went to sports bars in oversize jerseys, guzzling beer from the bottle and screaming “That ref is blind!” were just trying to put in their time so their guys would take them to the ballet.) Sally owns every piece of logo gear and encouraged the clothing label she works for to design cute college-colored women’s dresses and tops. Thanks to Sally, I’m all set with my crimson one-shoulder dress with houndstooth shoulder swag. I plan to wear it to the Iron Bowl game against Auburn this fall.
Even most of the Harts have gotten into football, now that Mark’s part of our family. My siblings sometimes hang out on weekends to watch Alabama games, and they own their share of team apparel too. My brother Brian’s girlfriend wears crimson colors on Saturdays, and Trisha won’t watch a big game against a skilled rival because she thinks it’s bad luck for the Tide. We are probably the only family in the northeast United States that refuses to wear orange in the fall because that’s one of Auburn’s colors. My mom’s had a harder time with Mark’s passion. She gets it, but has trouble when Mark calls Thanksgiving “a big football holiday” or watches the game on Christmas. Those days were always reserved for movie classics like It’s a Wonderful Life, Meet Me in St. Louis, and Elf. With Mark in our lives, we’ve had to add at least nine hours of football to the holiday must-watch list.
Though one would imagine I’d be used to Mark’s ways by now, I’m constantly surprised by the extent of his and his family’s loyalty. After my baby shower, my MIL suggested the ladies have a cup of tea before going back to my house, since she thought the guys there needed time to wind down after Alabama lost. Mark has insisted we leave a friend’s wedding early to catch a game—after cocktail hour and before dinner—and I felt compelled to lie to the bride about my son being sick when he wasn’t. He also teased me that he wouldn’t be at our first son’s birth if it coincided with the Rose Bowl, so I got him tickets for the game for his birthday, so I wouldn’t have to wonder whether he meant it (thankfully, Mason was born seven days after the game). And when I learned I was due to give birth to our third son, Tucker, in the month of September, Mark immediately planned a trip to the first Alabama game of the season in case he couldn’t make another game all fall. I went into labor on a Monday, and we listened to the Falcons take the Broncos as I was busy doing my HypnoBirthing relaxation techniques.
Mark’s habits aren’t lost on our three sons either. I like to joke that we’re making our own “Manning legacy.” (If you don’t know what that means, I’m jealous.) Mark has supported their interest from the age of four, even if being in the stands for live games included a ton of trips to get ice cream and toys from the gift shop. When we first taught Brady to spell his name, he’d spell it “B-A-M-A!” since he heard this cheered a few thousand times before. Then again, all the boys know the fastest way to Daddy’s heart and getting away with murder is to call out one of Alabama’s cheers, play its fight song on the iPhone, or turn up in a jersey and helmet. If they’re mad at Mark or throwing a tantrum, they scream Auburn’s battle cry, “War eagle!”
Though I like to complain that football’s been forced on my life like a bad case of lice, there are upshots to all this. For one, it’s easy to get Mark a gift. On RollTide.com, I have my pick of A-bearing items like barbecue covers, table lamps, and lawn gnomes. I can count on spooning after a big win. The crimson SUV is a pretty color, and I can always find it in a packed parking lot. I don’t have to wonder where to scatter Mark’s ashes, since he was impressed with my idea to sprinkle them on Alabama’s field when nobody was looking. And while we’re all still here, a common love of the sport creates a strong bond between my boys and their father. I know that football will become an even bigger part of their lives as they start to play on teams. I’ll be part of that, too.
Despite all my best attempts to be the finest football widow—er, wife—ever, nothing’s helped earn me street cred with my husband and his family the way Twitter has. By logging on a few thousand times a day, I keep up with Mark’s favorite players, which gives us stuff to talk about and helps me keep him in awe of how much I know about their personal lives. It’s even made the games more interesting for me. If I like a player’s tweets, I’ll root for him that weekend.
The ultimate Twitter touchdown happened around the National Championship game in New Orleans in January 2012. I was following a former Alabama player, Javier Arenas, who now plays in the NFL for the Kansas City Chiefs. I tweeted something about Bama football with my usual Saturday trend hashtag, #RollTideRoll. Later that day, Arenas then tweeted me, saying that he thought I was an incredible person and brought laughter to his life with Melissa & Joey. So I hit him back, asking if he was going to the championship game in Nawlins, and when he said yes, I asked if he’d want to meet up for dinner one night.
We booked a private room at a restaurant called Antoine’s in the French Quarter for me and Mark, Mark’s family, and some of Arenas’s friends—maybe twenty people total. Mark and his family were beyond excited and appreciative. It felt good to be able to introduce my husband to someone he admires, and okay, okay, I liked meeting someone so extremely talented and skilled at his job, too. The famous cornerback and I keep in touch and are setting up a play date for our kids.
Chapter 16
FOUR THINGS I NEVER LEARNED TO DO FOR MYSELF
Having a steady, successful entertainment career from a young age gave me tons of advantages. I was mature and responsible early on, had my pick of smart, talented role models, and I rarely worried about money when I was ready to live on my own. But being on two hit TV shows during my formative years also meant that I never learned some basic skills that seem to be second nature to other women. Putting on makeup in the school bathroom, spending hours on your hair, going to the mall to buy clothes, making ramen noodles on a hot plate in college … Apparently these are all tasks that turn girls into well-groomed and gastronomically talented adults, and I managed to miss out. I’m all thumbs when it comes to:
Putting On My Face
I spent so many hours on set in a makeup artist’s chair that it’s no wonder I’m still close to the women who made me look like a million bucks. As I’ve mentioned, my friend Eryn did my makeup on Sabrina, and we’re still as thick as five-year-old mascara. When I’d arrive on set at 6 A.M., we’d either commiserate about how early it was or I’d fall asleep in her chair. Eryn got very good at doing my eyes with my lids closed/mouth open. I can still list the order in which she applied my makeup, as if the final pie piece in a game of Trivial Pursuit depended on it. Foundation, concealer, powder, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick or gloss! I just don’t know how to use any of it. Why learn how to do myself up, when I’d always have Eryn?
If I had plans after work, Eryn touched me up with a quick new eye or lip color, and off I’d go, into the night. But on weekends, I was entirely on my own. I always liked the idea of
“a natural look”; it seemed like such a fresh and foolproof way to look pretty. As anyone who worships at Bobbi Brown’s altar knows, it takes good instincts and a lot of beige to make it look like you’re naturally beautiful and not wearing any makeup at all. When I did try to use blush or eye shadow, I’d always worry that it was too dark and then scrub it off. This actually left me with the look I was going for—a smudged black line around my eyes, flushed natural cheeks, and a dewy lip. But the effect didn’t last, so I’d go back to the drawing board. Since I couldn’t judge how much foundation, concealer, powder, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick or gloss was too much, I’d trick myself into wearing more by getting ready in the dark. I’d turn on one lonely lamp across the room, attack my face, and pray. I’d hoped I wouldn’t look like Tammy Faye Bakker, who it’s safe to assume put her makeup on in the dark for years.
The how-much-is-enough issue confused me most on and around the eyes. Then one day I had an idea. Maybe I could avoid shadows and liners if I learned to perfect my lashes. A lot of people think they’re the finishing touch to the face, but I have nice eyes—or, as Bill Murray’s brother Andy says, “eyes second only to Elizabeth Taylor.” Eryn experimented with highlighting my lashes more times than Lady Gaga changes wigs. We tried natural mascara, tinting, curling, hot curling (yes, they make tiny curling irons for lashes), and even used Rosebud Lip Salve without anything else. I have naturally dark, thick, and long lashes, so the salve was the best way to give me the shimmer and holding power we liked. My lashes became my face’s focal point.
This only worked because Mom gave me the good advice to avoid mascara for as long as possible to keep my lashes thick and luxurious. She didn’t let me wear it on Clarissa, and I didn’t use it until I started Sabrina and wanted to look more put together, although I only wore it when I was working. Even so, just a touch of the oil, wax, and water formula thinned my lashes. Ten years later, I’m compelled to wield a wand all the time. On camera, we even have to use fake ones since the Kardashians made it a thing to look like you have tarantulas glued to your lids. And when I take them off, they yank out at least three real lashes with them. I hope I’m not eye-bald by fifty-five.
It goes without saying that the natural look is at its best when you have great skin. In my twenties, this was simple. My skin was already tight, supple, and easy to maintain. The adults on Clarissa used to talk about how soft my hands were or how they wished they’d used eye cream at my age. They insisted I immediately start making every effort to preserve my youth. I began to take preventive measures that ensured I’d always look and feel like I was thirteen again.
I created a nightly beauty routine that took me an hour to finish, though I was barely old enough to shave my legs. Before bed, I put on a mask that I made from egg whites. I let the sticky mixture soak into my skin as I moisturized my whole body and then feet, with special lotions for each part. I cringed at the thought of dry, cracked heels—or even worse, wrinkly elbows. (I always loved when Patricia Heaton put moisturizer on her elbows before climbing into bed on Everybody Loves Raymond.) I used a toner and lotion on my face and was careful not to pull the skin around the eyes, causing it to crepe like amateur origami. I applied a slick layer of Vaseline to my feet and hands, and then slept in cotton gloves and socks. I also snoozed without a pillow to avoid back and neck issues and slept on my back to avoid wrinkling my chest and face.
This routine lasted fifteen years, until I had my first baby and finding time to brush my teeth became an epic quest. Now with three young boys in the house, putting eggs on my face or Vaseline on my bunions would be a monumental feat when trying to feed them, bathe them, and coax them to sleep. I’m usually passed out in their beds before they are anyway—with or without a pillow, face- and chest-down, rooms away from an anti-aging cream that’s never been opened.
Doing My Own Hair
Because I’ve worked with some of the industry’s best hair stylists, like José Eber and Laurent D, I never experimented or “played” with tools or hair products on my own. I rarely touched a can of hairspray, and when I did, I’d lacquer my head into a rat’s nest rather than mist it for a light hold. As with my face, my full and shiny mane turned dull and lifeless when I didn’t have pros to help.
This is clear when I look at paparazzi and red carpet photos of myself shortly after Sabrina ended and before Melissa & Joey began. I was on and off jobs, so I didn’t have regular guidance. In my glamorous days on Sabrina, I’d ask my stylist to give me a different look for every event, and I’d rarely repeat a style, even on the show. When we ran out of ideas, we dyed my hair red and tried different hair accessories. If I did my own hair, I wore it in a tight high ponytail or used a pair of sunglasses as a headband. The rest might be straight in some areas, slightly wavy in others, and always flat to my head. I let my stringy bangs flop to the side.
As I get older, my biggest hair issue is volume. Much like my relationship with makeup, I’m terrified to use too much product, so I never get the height or density the way I want it. And when I see stylists for a trim or blowout, they make me look like a Texas housewife with a poufy mane. I feel like they’ll go to any effort to curl, shape, and zhush my hair into something other than what God gave me. I still try to preserve the look as long as I can, but it usually doesn’t hold for more than a few days, so I’ve started ripping out magazine photos of hairstyles and copying those. My friends give me rave reviews when I do, which goes to show how sad my hair looks when bobby pins are an improvement. I’m glad I don’t have a daughter who’d go through a braid phase. She’d ask for a fishtail, and I’d give her a crooked banana-clip ponytail instead.
Because on-set stylists have used so much product and heat to manage my mane, I’ve gone on a deliberate hiatus from hair care to replenish its natural oils. When I was traveling in Italy in the mid-nineties, I spent three weeks adding oils to my hair and kept it wrapped in a bun. I used ylang-ylang and lavender oils mostly, which gave off a potent scent, especially mixed with the aromatic garlic and tomato sauces already in the air. During Sabrina’s second season, my costar Beth Broderick spooked me with a story about her hair falling out from being too dry and brittle, so I insisted my stylist Colleen use Evian spray instead of hairspray to tame flyaways for one whole season. You heard me right. I asked for bottled water instead of tap for my hair.
Getting Dressed By Myself
I was never down for wearing restrictive clothes and heels for sixteen hours on set, and then changing into something fab for the car ride home. After a long day, I dressed for comfort. One of the best days of my unfashionable life was when Juicy Couture launched its velour tracksuit. Suddenly, I could be “in” for work, flights, the gym, and lounging at home. Dress it up, dress it down—J. Lo did! When I needed an upgrade, I turned to our wardrobe closet at work. On Sabrina, my lawyer negotiated a nice-size clothing budget into my contract so I could take home clothes and go shopping for events and appearances. It took me nine years after the show ended to donate most of the looks. I didn’t want to admit that midriff tops and low-cut jeans weren’t flattering on a thirty-something mom of three. I also didn’t have the fashion IQ to realize they weren’t stylish anymore.
Without stylists at my beck and call after I left Sabrina, dressing to impress became less of a priority, and it showed. For the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Inaugural Celebrity Rock ’N Bowl, I wore a velour hoodie, T-shirt tucked into jeans, white belt, and Nikes. For an upscale Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation event, I wore gray cargos and a T-shirt. I was pregnant for a Power Women Hollywood luncheon, so I threw on the only thing that fit: a green-striped sweater poncho. The sweater wasn’t bad in person, but it made me photograph like a circus tent.
Luckily for me, my friends Michele and Kimi both worked in wardrobe with me and still care enough to save me from myself. Once a year these girls, or my trendy sister-in-law Sally, help me do a closet purge. Kimi especially despises my red cotton dress with a large eagle decal on t
he front. I found it in Melbourne, Australia, in 2000 and initially bought it for when Mom and I went to the Persian Gulf on a USO tour to meet and entertain our troops. On July Fourth, I signed autographs at the U.S. base for the families stationed there, three of which had cats named Salem. I also wore it on The Tonight Show not long after 9/11, to further underscore my patriotic spirit. But Kimi said that pairing it with white patent-leather heels, which is how I styled it, was a major fail for late-night TV. Thanks to her frequent and sarcastic jabs, I’ve retired the eagle dress to my Lake Tahoe closet, where I show it off on the beach every Fourth of July and send a pic to Kimi for sport. I even managed to squeeze into it when I was seven months pregnant with Tucker. I liked how the bird stretched and soared over my swollen belly. I can’t believe the seams didn’t burst.
One reason I hold on to things long past their expiration date is because I hate shopping. The way I see it, there’s no point in wasting an afternoon at Bloomingdale’s if repeating an outfit or handbag gets me on E!’s Fashion Police for the wrong reasons. What’s more, when I’m working, I spend hours in fittings and doing various wardrobe changes. By the time I get home, I don’t want to try on anything but a terrycloth robe after a long, hot bubble bath (this never happens, by the way). So I borrow clothes from work if I need them, or ask the ladies who shop in wardrobe to grab me an extra pair of cowboy boots or jeans in a size that we know fits. Even then, nothing’s too formal. Why wear Manolos to chase a toddler or a silk shirt when I’m leaking breast milk? Even V-necks seem wrong when they make your sons yell, “Mom, I can see your boobies!”
I was raised to think I could do anything I put my mind to, but dressing well for my husband doesn’t seem to be one of them. Mark’s known this from the start. When we were first married, I went shopping with his sisters and tried to run in to Abercrombie & Fitch for new cargo pants, but his sisters blocked me at the cash register. Mark gave them specific instructions to do this. Apparently, he was on a mission to replace my usual black, gray, and army green wardrobe with jewel tones like emerald greens, turquoise, blues, and of course, Alabama crimson.
Melissa Explains It All: Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life Page 21
