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Doing belly shots—kids kiss the baby not knowing if it’s a boy or a girl (soon-to-be Hattie).
(Courtesy of Dean McDermott)
Stella hugging her cousin Simone at the baby shower for baby Hattie.
(Courtesy of Bill Horn)
My gusband, Mehran, and I have a much-needed girlfriend day! Here we are watching our last movie before Hattie was born the next day.
(Courtesy of Tori Spelling)
Me in my DIY hospital gown with my three babes, currently unaware that one month from this photo I’d be preggers again!
(Courtesy of Dean McDermott)
To my complete family—
Dean, Jack, Liam, Stella, Hattie, and Finn
And . . .
Coco
Mitzi
Minnie
Ferris
Chiquita
Missy Snuggles
Phyllis
Maxine
Rosie
Princess
Sully
Benny
Cinnamon
Oreo
Trix
Hank
Totes
Juliet
Large Marge
Jackson
Phyllis Diller
Sugarplum
Ginger
Blueberry Fish
Raspberry Fish
Contents
Introduction: Living a Lie
The Test Is Conclusive
Reality Tweaks
On the Bright Side, Julia Roberts Knows I Exist
I’m the Stalker You Let in Your Front Door
The Pig Made Me Do It
It’s a Boy Girl
Fish Out of Water
Is There a Mall in This Seaside Resort?
Song and Dance
Martha Moments
To the Manor Born
Complications
The Glamorous Life
Reality Check
A True Renewal
Breaking News! Bigfoot Found!
Milestones
The Fourth Hole
VIP Fail
Baby Steps
I Am Tori Spelling
One Last Bad Thing
Tori’s Post-Baby Bikini Bod
Somewhere That’s Green
Conclusion: Biting the Bullet
Photographs
Acknowledgments
About Tori Spelling
INTRODUCTION:
Living a Lie
The cover of Star magazine said, “Tori’s Lies Exposed.” Ooh. What could it be this time? Was I cheating on my husband with someone who looked exactly like him? Had I been switched at birth with the true non-heir to the Spelling fortune?
But no. When I opened the magazine all I found was just a rehash of Star’s favorite story: Dean and I were breaking up. He was about to walk out on me. Blah, blah, blah. Heard it all before. It’s a story they’ve written so many times that I’m pretty sure their article list is on an annual cycle. If it’s March, Dean and I must be on the rocks.
Not to judge, but I can’t help feeling like the decent, moral, cream-of-the-crop journalists at Star magazine aren’t earning their keep. If you’re going to lie, lay it on us! Go big. Make up something good and juicy. Disclose that our chicken Coco is actually Paris Hilton’s stolen poodle in disguise. Or that Chelsea Handler has been right all these years: I am actually a man. (These are examples of creative lying, Star, and you can have them for free. Be my guest.)
There was no substance to the article. An insider was quoted as saying, “She always goes on and on about how strong their marriage is, but the truth is that it’s all totally fake—her marriage is a sham.” The article said that I’d kicked Dean out. He’d packed his bags. The accompanying photo on the front cover was of Dean carrying two shopping bags. One of them was from a children’s clothing store. If you looked closely, you could see where I’d been cropped out of the picture. A bit of my leg was next to his. I recognized our outfits and where we were. That was me and my husband, Christmas shopping for our children. Way to go, Star, you got us.
It’s funny (and annoying) to read that my love for Dean is a lie. My love for Dean is very real. Like everyone else we have our strengths and weaknesses, our ups and downs. That’s what real love is. I’m thick skinned, though. Must be all the scar tissue from the plastic surgeries Star thinks I’ve had. The stories don’t really get under my skin. But the story Star missed (surprise, surprise) is that I’ve lived my life in public on a reality show for six years, and with any public life come manipulations, exaggerations, and, well, realities behind the edited version of that life. I hate to give Star any attention for their feeble attempt at capturing my life. But my reality show, Tori & Dean, is over after six seasons on Oxygen. It’s a perfect time to go behind the scenes the way poor Star never could and fill in some of the missing pieces.
IT’S BEEN AN especially challenging couple of years. On Tori & Dean we moved houses constantly. At first, to me and Dean, my recurring need to move seemed driven by changes in our family. We needed more space because our stepson was moving back from Canada. Then we were having another baby. Then our house felt too big for us, and we wanted more land for our animals. And I wondered if I was subconsciously looking for another design project. Those were our reasons for moving, and that’s what we said on the show. But as my real estate obsession persists, it’s starting to look more compulsive. Moving is expensive, and I’ve put us in a precarious financial situation. I’m no stranger to that, but usually I drum up some work and correct our course. This time, when I should have been working, I was flat on my back in a hospital bed, and we dug ourselves deeper into the hole.
Tori & Dean showed us fighting and then renewing our vows, but it didn’t tell the full story of Dean’s and my ups and downs. There’s a reality behind that reality. I want to share our hardest period, and the real moment I fell in love with my husband all over again.
People know that our fourth child, Finn, came right on the heels of our third, and the press showed cute pictures of my pregnancy bump and the “look how quickly she slimmed down” after-pictures. I talked in the press about my health issues surrounding the pregnancy, but nobody really knows the impact it had on me and my family.
Our family is complete now: me; Dean; our four beloved children; my stepson, Jack; and a somewhat changing menagerie of pets and farm animals. The show that tracked our family is over, but we go on changing (houses), growing (our suburban farm), and getting into unexpected scrapes (paparazzi-fleeing car accidents). I’m the first to admit that I haven’t figured things out yet. But at least I tell it like it is.
The Test Is Conclusive
The first sign that something wasn’t exactly normal happened in the middle of work craziness. On Thursday, February 10, 2011, in the middle of doing photo shoots for my about-to-be-published party-planning book, celebraTORI, my gay husband (whom I call my “gusband”) Mehran and I were scheduled to fly to Tampa. I had an appearance on the Home Shopping Network (HSN) to promote our jewelry line. I had started freaking out about the plane trip a week in advance. (That part was completely normal.)
Every guest who appears on HSN to sell their products agrees to do a middle-of-the-night segment—to pay your dues. Then you appear again on a prime-time block the following day. It’s a brutal schedule on a normal day—I’m sure Suzanne Somers and George Foreman
didn’t relish hawking their goods in the dead of night—and my fear of flying compounded the stress, but as I was soon to find out, this wasn’t a normal day. Mehran and I left L.A. in the morning, transferred in Dallas, and arrived in Tampa around dinnertime. I went on the air at two in the morning. The next day, after meetings with HSN, I was back on the air from four to six P.M.
By the time I got to my prime-time slot, I was exhausted and a little bit nauseated. Story of my life. I’d come directly to HSN from working on celebraTORI. I created and threw four parties for the book, coming up with everything from invitations to favors. For the photo shoots, I was involved in everything: art direction, props, food styling, and fluffer to Coco, our white silkie bearded chicken. I had plenty of people to help me, but because I’m incapable of delegating anything beyond lawn care (although I do like the grass to be mowed to 2.5 inches), I styled and directed each image. I blinked my eyes—and now I was on the air.
What I said about our jewelry wasn’t scripted. With a perky smile glued on my face, I talked about how my pieces were “vintage-inspired with a modern twist” and added, “I call it ‘modage.’ ” The producer was in my earpiece, giving me merchandising updates: “We have a hundred more of this necklace. We’re almost sold out of the coral bracelet.”
Everything was going swimmingly until . . . I started to feel sick to my stomach, like I might throw up. There was no stopping the HSN train. I was on the air, live. At home, people were watching me, looking at the jewels Mehran and I had worked so hard to design, calling to talk with me, and waiting to decide if today they would make a purchase. The sales ticker was within sight, and the speed at which its numbers rolled higher was an immediate reflection of how good a job I was doing. So, sickness be damned, on I went.
“I used to make this particular piece for high-end boutiques in New York. It was worn by celebrities. Now you can look like a million bucks, but you don’t have to spend it!” Ooh. I could see that the TV viewers at home loved that one. All of a sudden they were picking up the phone. The sales numbers started to run up higher and higher. I glanced off to the side stage, where Mehran was standing. There was a big clock near him, showing me how many minutes I had left. Twenty minutes to go. I’m going to throw up. What if I throw up on the air? I’ll never live it down. The Soup embarrassing clip of the week, here I come.
Every so often there was a sixty-second commercial break. Hidden from the camera, I had the Diet Dr Pepper with a straw (so I didn’t ruin my lips) that had become my HSN tradition and good-luck charm. I would sip from it while the host touched up her lipstick. Usually I glanced at Mehran to see how our sales were going. This time I mouthed to him, “I’m so sick. I’m not going to make it.” Unfortunately, this too fell into the category of normal. I’m always sick.
Mehran mouthed back, “Me too,” and rolled his eyes. Much as Mehran had in the past taken on my baby weight, he also has sympathetic headaches, stomach problems, and low energy. I know we’re BFFs, but even my ailments aren’t my own anymore. When he has a headache, I’m like, “Please, can you be a little more original? Maybe a kidney stone?”
And . . . we were back on the air. “The best thing my customers say to me is, ‘I bought this necklace for myself, but my daughter wanted to borrow it. Then my granddaughter.’ I make timeless pieces.” (Check out this bracelet. I’m about to vomit all over it. Your granddaughter would love the very same one!)
This wasn’t exactly Broadway, but the show had to go on. Story of my life. I sold my jewelry with a smile, counting down the minutes. As soon as we wrapped, I turned to the host.
“So great to be here,” I said. “Loved it. See you next time.” I gave the host a big hug good-bye. I walked off the stage as gracefully as I could in my high heels; ran through my dressing room, where HSN’s jewelry buyers were sitting on couches, waiting to go through next season’s collection with me; went into the adjoining bathroom; and promptly threw up. I had been closer than I even realized to tossing my cookies live on national TV. It would have made for some good reality TV, but the drama was wasted on real life.
Mehran went out to the HSN buyers and explained to them that I was too sick to meet. But I wiped my mouth, washed my hands, walked out, apologized, and did the meeting, sick as a dog. I spent the plane ride home in the bathroom of first class, kneeling on a paper towel, throwing up. It’s the only way to fly.
OKAY, SO I figured it was food poisoning from the plane, a stomach bug, or that I was simply extremely overworked and exhausted. I got back to L.A. late that night. When I got off the plane, texts from James, an art director I’d met during the first season of Tori & Dean who had become my good friend and was working with me on the parties for the book, started rolling in. This time they were photos of a do-it-yourself bar, set up with vodka, champagne, soda, cassis, elderflower syrup, pomegranate syrup, and other options in glass carafes, with homemade tags hung from twine. He’d captured what I wanted, but I wished I were there.
The next day, I woke up still feeling sick. I was supposed to go straight to a photo studio, where we were working on shots for celebraTORI. (Even though we shot four full parties, afterward we spent full days in the studio shooting detail shots of the invitations, flowers, extra food, and other party elements in order to get the perfect lighting.) I headed to the studio, with Coco in the passenger seat—she would appear in lots of the photos as the mascot of the book. I wanted to fiddle with every detail, but after I’d driven halfway to the studio, I pulled over on the side of the road. I texted James: “i’m dizzy. i’m going to throw up. turning around. SO sorry.”
I felt terrible about missing the photo shoot. We were on a tight shooting schedule. We couldn’t miss a day. They’d already had to do a full day of shooting while I was at HSN. There was so much to be done, and I’m a control freak. If I wasn’t there, how would I get the shots I wanted? The next day was Saturday. We were headed to Joshua Tree for the weekend. I was hosting a Cowboys and Lace party for celebraTORI. Of course I couldn’t have it in my house. It had to be in the desert. Because the pictures would be that much more fabulous. I needed vintage duds for the shoot, and I didn’t want my outing to be wasted, so on the way home I stopped at Jet Rag, a used-clothing store on La Brea. Coco and I ran in and grabbed a few frocks—Gunne Sax–style floral and lace prairie dresses—for the shoot in fifteen minutes flat. By the time I hurled my bag into the back of the car, I was sweating and about to puke, but it had been an amazingly productive detour. I headed home.
What happened next really should have clued me in. On the way to my house, as if on autopilot, I pulled over at a Taco Bell. I still felt sick, but I also felt a sudden and very strong desire for a number one combo: a Burrito Supreme and a Taco Supreme. And a cherry limeade. With my delicious meal in my lap, I started to drive away from the restaurant—I was fully planning to eat at home—but, oddly, I found myself parallel-parking on Ventura Boulevard. I opened the bag and wolfed the burrito and taco down. I tossed a few pieces of shredded lettuce to Coco, saying, “Sorry, that’s all you get. Mama’s starving.” Yeah, I should have known something was up.
THE NEXT DAY I went to Joshua Tree. Dean and I had just finished shooting the last episode of sTORIbook Weddings. I’d begun work on the party-planning book before we finished the weddings. And Dean was staying home from Joshua Tree to get our new store, InvenTORI, ready for opening on Monday, Valentine’s Day. There was a lot going on. No wonder I was sick.
We got beautiful photos of the party in the desert, but it wasn’t much of a party. We’d had Game Night and Spa Day parties, both at my house, both real parties with my friends. But Cowboys and Lace was not a party at all. The Guncles, Bill and Scout, and their infant daughter, Simone, drove all the way to the desert. The show put them up at a hotel. A producer brought them to the set. There was no chitchat or festivity. It was all, “Places, everybody. We’re losing the sun.” At some point I said, “Oh my God, all my party guests are always gays and girls.” So Vidas, the straight p
roducer who had once buried my underwear at the demand of my psychic, Mama Lola, stepped forward, put a cowboy hat on, and joined the photo.
On the way home from the desert I shopped for InvenTORI at a fantastic antique store. There were so many great pieces that I ended up renting a U-Haul to bring it all back to L.A. We got home around eight P.M. Twelve hours later Dean and I were at InvenTORI, scrambling to make sure everything was ready to go when the doors opened at nine A.M.
The store was a madhouse. The line to enter stretched around the corner. The paparazzi were having a field day. I chatted with every single person who came in, pointing out the antique French country farm table that I’d had in every apartment and house I’d lived in since I was twenty, or a bar cart I’d found at a flea market and had enjoyed in our dining room. Coco, who was a fan fave, had to be at the store opening. We had faux-Coco fuzzy stuffed chickens made by Jellycat for sale, displayed in a chicken-wire armoire. We were shooting the sixth season of Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood, so our two cameramen and all our producers were there, catching the day on film.
At four in the afternoon, as I sat in our back office, everything spinning and my makeup artist Brandy giving me sips of ginger ale, I admitted defeat. Dean would have to cover for me until closing time. We didn’t want to say I was sick on Tori & Dean—it wasn’t worth dwelling on a stomach bug because nobody thought it was leading to a real story line. Instead, we said that I was going home to take care of Stella, who was sick. It was true, Stella was also actually sick, but the real reason I left was that I couldn’t stand up for another minute.
I went home and climbed into bed. I was texting with Mehran, who, when he found out I wasn’t feeling well, wrote “is there anything I can bring you?”
I wrote “a pregnancy test?” I knew I could trust Mehran to be discreet. I took pregnancy tests all the time. Since Dean and I always knew we wanted a third, we’d left it up to fate and hadn’t used birth control in the three years since Stella was born. Whenever I felt the least bit off, I self-diagnosed myself as pregnant. I was single-handedly keeping EPT in business.
Spelling It Like It Is Page 1
