I said, “No, you can’t! They won’t be our friends. They’ll hate us. It’s my dream!”
Dean was like, “Fuck it, we have friends already.”
I said, “We’ll kill them with kindness. Once they know us they’ll come around.” Dean was skeptical, but he didn’t do anything. He knew how much it meant to me to fit in.
A week later our neighbors from across the street stopped by to welcome us to the neighborhood. I opened the door to find them standing there with flowers from their garden and homemade brownies. The bad taste of Wally’s politely threatening email left my mouth. Neighbors were bringing brownies! I’d only seen such encounters on TV. But I knew what it meant. It meant I really, truly lived in a neighborhood for the first time in my life. Yes, I have to admit I paused for a moment to wonder if they had poisoned the brownies, but that’s just me and my irrational fears. It was absolutely no reflection on the perfectly nice, normal people standing at the door waiting to come in. Right. I was a mess. I’d just been nursing Stella. I was in sweats and my hair was a disaster. Stella was wrapped in a blanket. “I’m so sorry the house is such a wreck!” I said as I invited them in. They had a son, Sam, who was close to Liam’s age. I hoped that the boys would be friends.
I showed them around the house, which still had stacks of boxes yet to be unpacked and piles of stuff everywhere. They were so pleasant and friendly. I was trying my best to be equally pleasant and friendly. Everyone was doing the right thing, but I could see that they felt weird. I felt weird too. We all felt uncomfortable. It should have been so nice, but something wasn’t natural. What was going through their minds? Did they think we were normal or celebrity-warped? Did they wish we hadn’t moved in but still dropped by anyway because that’s what you do with neighbors? Would they have felt equally uncomfortable if we were anyone else? Is that just part of meeting the neighbors? Is it always a little awkward? Or was it me: was I the one making it awkward? I’d never done this before. Had I brought Mommywood to their pleasant neighborhood? Or were they exiling me to Mommywood because that was where we belonged? Everyone moves. Everyone meets neighbors. Most people look for friends—or at least acquaintances—and ways to fit in. But our celebrity brought with it other issues and considerations that had nothing to do with who we were. Was a normal relationship with neighbors possible for us? That whole internal monologue went through my head as I gave them the tour and told them I hoped we’d all get to know one another. Yeah, maybe that’s why I didn’t come across well. I had a lot going on in my head.
We put the bumpy entry into the neighborhood aside to focus on more important things: decorating. Sure, I wanted the house to be super chic but my big thing was that it had to be cozy and child-friendly. That was the idea, anyway. Then I started designing. I got so excited. It was like Liam’s first birthday party all over again. I start off small, but then I get carried away. I couldn’t help myself. I had always lived in rentals, so I’d never decorated my own house before. The bed-and-breakfast was my taste, but we worked with a designer who brought us ideas and samples and mostly we said yes or no. This was my first chance to design a house in the style I wanted. As soon as I got going I thought, Wow, I have great taste! When I was growing up, wallpaper was unchic. It seemed sort of tacky, like having a furry toilet seat cover. But now I was seeing such amazing new wallpapers. And to me nothing said “This is not a rental” more than wallpaper. I became wallpaper-obsessed. I would have wallpapered the refrigerator if we hadn’t had a budget.
Did I say cozy and child-friendly? Sure, sure, but I’d always dreamed of having a formal living room. It’s funny, because when I was growing up we had, like, fifty formal living rooms and they meant nothing to me. But in my adult life I never had a real living room. It was always a living room/family room. Sometimes it was a living room/family room/office. Now we had a separate room that we planned to use as a family room. This was my chance to design the formal living room of my dreams.
I was decorating the house in Hollywood Regency style, a throwback to old Hollywood glamour. I did the living room fireplace in gold and black lacquered wood. There was a velvet tufted couch and an antique Aubusson rug (well, a faux Aubusson). I recovered a set of old leather club chairs—my one concession to the budget. There were light silk drapes with embossed trees. And there was a hint of Asia in the buffet and the prints on the wall. The bar cart was fantastic. It was stocked with etched crystal decanters and highball and shot glasses. Kid-friendly? Not so much.
Okay, so the living room was chock-full of accidents waiting to happen. And, wouldn’t you know it, it was Liam’s favorite room in the house. All he wanted to do was chase us and be chased around that room. Clearly the first time Liam decided to throw a ball in the house it was going to land smack in the middle of that glassware-filled glass cart. Still, I cherished that space. I pictured myself in a long caftan, with long painted red nails, reclining on the velvet couch with a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in hand. I loathe scotch, but who cares? I’d twirl it in the glass and just be in heaven.
When the living room was almost complete, I started to panic. Our media room was tiny, and we wanted it to double as a playroom. Maybe we needed the living room to be a place to watch TV. Dean hates TVs. He’d rather not have TVs anywhere, especially in the bedroom or the kitchen. But the house I grew up in had TVs in every room. Dean and I compromised: I agreed not to have a TV in the bathroom, I promised him the TV in the kitchen would be off during family dinners, and I reminded him that he liked the bedroom TV just fine when we were watching porn.
Now it suddenly seemed important that the living room have a TV. A critical anchor for the room. I couldn’t help myself. I put a huge TV in, facing the couch. But the truth is that once we settled into the house, we never used the living room TV. Media room TV? Yes. Kitchen TV? Yes. Bedroom TV? Yes. But the living room TV? Never. So in my dream room there’s a gigantic TV on the wall as decorative art. It isn’t exactly Hollywood Regency. I blew it.
The living room isn’t cozy. It isn’t family-friendly. We hardly ever use it. But every night before I go to bed I walk past the doorway and stop to look because it’s so gorgeous. I turn out the lights, smile, and sigh with self-satisfaction.
At long last it was done. Dean and I, Liam and little Stella were home. And Patsy was back to help care for Stella. For my first postbaby exercise effort I wheeled out the honkin’ double baby jogger that was the cornerstone of my suburban fantasy. I strapped on a brand-new pedometer so I could track how far I was running. I found a thermal mug that fit in the jogger’s cup holder and filled it with iced coffee. I put on the cutest running outfit I could squeeze my postpartum body into (in case of paparazzi) and put my hair back. I gave both the kids diaper changes, slathered Liam with sunblock and arranged the shade so that Stella wouldn’t get a drop of sun. Then I set off on my jog.
A couple of blocks later my legs seemed to stop all by themselves. It dawned on me: I can’t do this! Another strike against the suburban dream. From now on I would just walk. That would be my exercise. It was better than nothing.
One day, as I was preparing to embark on one of my mega-calorie-burning strolls, our painter came in and said, “That’s your neighbor. He just asked me about your wall.” I ran to the window to see a man just turning to walk away. So this was Wally—the one-man welcome-to-the-neighborhood committee. He was still asking the painter about the alleged six-foot wall. After I sent him that email saying we weren’t building one! He didn’t believe me! This guy I had to meet.
Dean and I hurried outside and walked right up to him. Dean said hello and shook his hand. I grabbed him, hugged him, and said, “Oh my God, I’m so excited to finally meet you in person. I’m so glad to be in the neighborhood.” The whole time I’d been telling Dean, “We have to kill him with kindness. I’m telling you. I believe in this.” So I hugged Wally, and when I stepped back, I saw his whole facial expression change. The tenseness drained out. It was genius. He was super nice from that momen
t on. And just like that, hope sprung anew.
I couldn’t blame our neighbors for having their doubts about the celebrities next door, but they’d get to know us, we’d get to know them, and soon enough we’d all be playing kickball in the palm-tree-lined streets. Or at least our kids would be while we drank fruity cocktails from a punch bowl. The suburban dream was alive again.
End of an Era
There was an emptiness in our new house. I knew it was coming. I knew it the minute I found out that Stella was going to be born on Mimi’s birthday. I knew Mimi was going to die. You know, one life finishes when another one starts, circle of life, all that.
Mimi was a true Hollywood pug. She wore couture clothes, which I kept in a little armoire. She would have it no other way. People chastised me for dressing her, but you have to believe me when I tell you that Mimi felt naked without clothes. When she heard the sound of me opening the armoire, she always came flying, howling with excitement. She loved getting dressed and would push her little front legs through the sleeves. I swear, any doubter who watched me dress Mimi became a believer. Put that pug in a dress and pearls and she was happy.
Mimi starred with me in my series So NoTORIous on VH1. Any time you see a dog in a scripted show, it’s a trained dog. Not Mimi. The script would say, “Mimi runs across the room, jumps into Tori’s arms, and howls.” I’d get nervous. Mimi had many qualities, but obedience wasn’t top of the list. Stardom was, however. Mimi hit her mark every time. She was a true performer. As befit a star of her stature, Mimi walked the red carpets (okay, she was carried). The paparazzi would shout, “Over here, Mimi!” and she’d turn, pose, and wait for the flash.
Mimi was a star, but she wasn’t immortal. I already knew she was on her way out. She was eleven years old, which is very old for a pug. She was never a very healthy dog. She had problems with her hips, neck, breathing, heart; it’s actually amazing how many problems she packed into that little pug body of hers. I always gave her the best medical care I could find—top vets, holistic treatments, acupuncture, water therapy, massage, pain management counseling, and plenty of love. (I’m joking about the pain management counseling. Sort of.)
The morning of Stella and Mimi’s birthday (Mimi: eleven, Stella: zero) I’d been a little put out that I had to deal with Mimi’s birthday—the cake, putting her in a dress, taking pictures. Seriously, a dog party? On the day I might die in childbirth? But now I thank God I did it. One week later—just three days after we came home from the hospital—I was in pain from my C-section, so though I usually come downstairs with Liam for breakfast, that day I stayed in bed. Patsy brought me Stella whenever she needed to nurse. Around two p.m. I was nestled in bed, and Paola had brought Liam up for a visit. Liam opened a magazine. There was an ad for our show in it, featuring Mimi. Liam pointed right at her and said, “Mimi! Mimi!” for the first time.
Maybe Liam knew something at that moment that none of the rest of us knew. Soon after that I finally got out of bed to get some lunch. Dean stopped me on the stairs and said, “Mimi died about fifteen minutes ago.” I started crying right there on the steps, saying, “No! Mimi was my baby. My life. My everything.” It’s true, Mimi was raised as a baby, not a dog.
I came downstairs, memories of Mimi flooding my mind. I remembered her sitting in a makeup chair at So NoTORIous, eating a bacon and egg breakfast burrito every morning, living the life. I thought about the time Dean and I brought her to a bar and she hung out on a bar stool for hours, just happy to be with me. (She did poop behind the counter. It was a bar. Things happen.) I thought about the time I brought Mimi to the Malibu Country Mart in a bikini. A man saw her and said, “That’s disgusting.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “You put a dog in a bathing suit. You think she likes that?”
I said, “Of course! She’s in Malibu.” Mimi absolutely liked to be dressed in a style appropriate to the situation.
Oh, for so long I’d brought Mimi everywhere with me. She was my best companion. I loved her.
All that was true, but I also felt bad about how I’d treated Mimi in her final year, after Liam was born. I know it’s normal to pay less attention to a beloved pet when you’re pregnant, then taking care of a baby, then doing both at the same time, but I still regret it. I didn’t dress her up as frequently. Because of her hips, she could only walk on carpet. When I passed by her little dog bed, she’d whine. I always stopped to pet her, but I wouldn’t pick her up and carry her everywhere I went the way I once did. Mimi was by all standards a well-cared-for dog. Our housekeeper Isabel was devoted to her. She walked Mimi and fed her and spent time with her. Still, I wish I’d found a way to give Mimi ten minutes of my complete attention every day. So little time, yet it would have meant so much to her.
Downstairs, on the sofa next to Mimi’s still-warm body, I started to melt down. When Nanny died, I wished I’d called her back and seen her more. I told her that in the last phone conversation we had, and she said, “It’s okay. Just remember to call your dad. It makes him sad when you don’t call.” Nanny gave me wisdom that I could use, right then. But when my father died I had the same regret. I hadn’t seen him for nine months. I let my discomfort with my mother overshadow all the years I’d had with him, years that meant so much to me. The excuse that I didn’t feel welcome only goes so far. I could have barged in and said, “He’s my dad. I want to see him. I don’t care if I’m not welcome here; I want to see him.” I’d been given these two major opportunities to learn from my mistakes, but I’d gone ahead and repeated this mistake for a third time. Not holding Mimi for ten minutes a day was equivalent—on a dog level—to not calling Nanny or my father. I felt extreme guilt. I don’t stay in touch with the people (and in this case, dog) I love most in the world, and then they die. I could have done more, I should have done more, and now it was too late.
Mimi was a Hollywood star, and she deserved a Hollywood funeral. I know what you’re thinking: a memorial for a dog?—must be just another excuse for Tori to host a theme party. But the truth is that I was dreading the memorial. I don’t love dealing with feelings; part of me just wanted to move on. Mimi was gone. It was time to let go. Then I thought about how much Mimi loved attention, parties, and publicity. She was such a grand dame. I knew she would have wanted a big party with crowds of people paying their respects. And I knew there were many people who needed a place and a community of fellow mourners to grieve their loss. If my dog Ferris passed away, I wouldn’t think of throwing a memorial party. That’s not his style. Ferris would be embarrassed at all the fuss. But Mimi—Mimi had to go out in style.
Okay, I’ll admit it: once I was committed to hosting such an event, my party-planning passion kicked in. Mimi’s memorial took place at a Zen tea garden in West Hollywood called Dr. Tea’s. It was the same spot (though the name had changed) where we had had Liam’s baby shower. And, yes, there was a theme. So sue me. Mimi’s signature color was pink, so everybody came to the memorial dressed in pink. There were passed hors d’oeuvres—deviled eggs because they were her favorite—as well as pink cocktails and pink flowers on the tables. For all my reservations about the memorial service, once I was there, it was so beautiful and I felt so happy and was a little bit teary with the knowledge that Mimi was smiling down on it, loving her last moment in the spotlight.
After half an hour of cocktails, everyone gathered to watch a video tribute on a big screen. There was footage from her appearances on our show and still shots—Mimi on the lawn of our bed-and-breakfast; Mimi in my lap; Mimi lying on my pregnant belly; Mimi in a dress with boots—all set to music. Oh Liam and Stella, just you wait. There is nothing I love more than a video montage.
Every celebrity with a heart should commit to a charity she believes in. Mimi was an unofficial mascot of Much Love Animal Rescue, an animal shelter I work with all the time. Mimi regularly attended Much Love events. Her openness about her roots as a pet store puppy and about the health issues she had faced her whole life brought awareness
to the problems of dogs who are inbred and poorly treated in puppy mills and pet stores everywhere. Dean came forward to read a letter from the head of Much Love. Then he announced that we were establishing the Mimi La Rue Fund for sick and injured animals in conjunction with Much Love. There were “puggybanks” on all the tables where people could make donations.
Jenny’s husband, Norm, had sent us a poem called “Rainbow Bridge” about the doggy afterlife, which Dean read. Then Mehran came forward and asked everyone to lift a glass of pink champagne. Mehran used to housesit for us sometimes. He always says, “Even when I came home late, disheveled and reeking of a bar, Mimi would still cuddle. Oh, the things that Mimi saw—and she still loved me.” But at that moment, when Mehran got up to make his toast, he was so nervous that he started by saying, “Mimi was a person who was a friend of mine.” Person? Jenny and I were in the front row and chuckled. It lightened a sad moment.
Everyone was handed a little pink box. A speaker from Agape—a trans-denominational spiritual center—read a prayer, and after the prayer she asked everyone to open their boxes. Inside each box was a monarch butterfly. We released them and they all flew out into the sky.
The famous pet psychic Sonya Fitzpatrick had done a reading with Mimi once for Entertainment Tonight. I thought maybe she could come to the service, but she wasn’t available. Someone recommended another psychic, who specialized in connecting with loved ones who’d crossed over. She could work with people or animals, and she agreed to come.
After the service I spoke privately with the pet psychic. I told her about my guilt. I thought now that there were two babies in the house, Mimi felt unwanted and gave up on life. I wanted to know if Mimi had died of heartbreak. The psychic saw it differently (go figure). She said, “No, Mimi was waiting for the right moment to go. It was meant to be. Mimi and Stella had an agreement before Stella was born. A bond. This was Mimi’s time. She left this world knowing that Stella would be there for you. You’ll see, when Stella can speak, you’ll see that she knows who Mimi is.”
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