In December, I started seeing Lana around the gym by accident for real. She’d switched to 9 a.m. training sessions, and I was at my usual 10 a.m. slot. When we crossed paths, we’d say, “Hey, how you doing?” I would throw in a compliment or whatnot, something like, “Your hair looks good today.” She would say, “Thanks,” always polite, but she gave me no sign of interest. She remembers me saying once, “You look like you lost some weight,” and she replied, “Oh, I guess I was fat before.” I was just saying anything to start up a conversation, but in hindsight, that’s not something you should say to a lady.
I decided to ask her out anyway. I told John what I was going to do, and he sussed her out about it with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
“My client Sebastian wants to take you on a date,” he said.
This information came out of nowhere for her. Although I’d been complimenting her and smiling hard for weeks, she had no idea I was flirting until John said something. She replied to John, “Tell Sebastian I don’t date anybody who has a higher body fat percentage than me.”
She was joking (her comedy is so dry). All of John’s clients had just had their body fat tested, and she knew that there was no way mine was less than hers. Next time I saw her, I got on the treadmill next to her, started running alongside, and said, “Word has it that you don’t date anybody with more than twenty percent body fat. I don’t fall into that category. I could get there eventually, but in the meantime, would you like to go out to dinner with me?”
Lana laughed and said, “Okay.” We decided on Sushi Roku on Third Street in L.A.
Right on time, I picked her up at her place, a really cute house. She opened the door and said, “I’m still getting ready. Come on in.”
I went in, expecting to wait in the living room or kitchen for her to finish, maybe meet her roommates or something. But she brought me right into the bedroom and told me to have a seat on the bed while she put on her makeup right in front of me.
I might’ve said, “Okay, we just met.”
It just felt too friendly, too intimate, too soon. There wasn’t the barrier that should have been up, or at least had always been up, on first dates with other women. Normally, you don’t get that peek behind the curtain right away. Lana’s complete lack of mystery had me baffled. I know now that my wife has a resting smile face, but that night, her grin had an edge. Apparently, I made her nervous, and yet she’d invited me into her bedroom after thirty seconds.
Another thing that confused me: She didn’t have roommates. The whole house was hers. She was barely out of college and she had her own home? I thought, What’s going on here? It was no dump, either. The house was quaint, artsy, full of paintings, sculptures, eclectic objects, shelves full of books, crystal jobbies, a painted chalkboard with doodles and drawings, cool lighting fixtures. The whole place was beautifully designed, with custom-made furniture. The vintage chairs were different from the upholstered couch, with mismatched decorative pillows, like they had been picked out separately.
Where I grew up, you went to Wickes Furniture and just bought the complete set.
John had warned me that Lana’s family was well off, but until I saw her house, I didn’t know the extent. When I was twenty-five, I was in a dark one-bedroom in full view of a couch humper.
So we came from different worlds. That was okay. I’d met all kinds of people since I moved to L.A. I wasn’t worried about her background or intimidated by it. It just added another layer of intrigue. I wanted to hear more about growing up down South, which I knew nothing about, and how she had decided to move to L.A. I could tell her my stories about Chicago. We’d have a lot to talk about.
But as soon as we got in my car to drive to the restaurant, she stopped talking.
We sat down at the table, and still, she didn’t speak. Not even to say what she wanted to eat. I ordered for us both. Throughout the entire meal, I did all the talking. She was polite and engaged, always smiling. But there was nothing coming out of her mouth. I ran through a ninety-minute extended monologue. It was agony. I even dipped into doing my act, on the first date, to fill the time.
I could tell she was nervous or shy beyond belief. But why? It wasn’t like we hadn’t spoken to each other before. I’d just been in her bedroom! After sushi, we went to Pinkberry at the Grove—an outdoor shopping mall. She still didn’t talk, but it was easier to not have a conversation while walking around in a crowded place. By the time I dropped her off, I’d completely run out of material.
The next day, John asked me, “How’d it go?”
I said, “She didn’t speak.”
“Lana? Lana Gomez? What!? I can’t get her to shut up.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a sweet girl,” I said. “Really nice, polite, but not much to say.”
After thinking about it for a week, I chalked up her silence to extreme shyness or nerves. It was worth trying again. I called her and she told me she was at work. She was an artist, the resident painter at the Kelly Wearstler Boutique, her favorite interior design company in L.A. She was getting her feet wet and learning from Kelly, a woman Lana admired who was and still is one of her biggest inspirations.
We had a fantastic chat on the phone, with some great banter. So why was she so quiet face-to-face? Then she admitted, “I’d never been on a first date before.”
At the time, Lana was twenty-five, and she’d been a serial monogamist. She and her friends would all go out to parties together. Socializing was more communal. They would go out to a bar or to somebody’s house with sixteen people. Her generation didn’t date per se. They hung out.
That was not how I rolled. I loved dating, especially first dates. I’d been on dozens of them, Mr. I’ll-Take-You-Out-We’ll-Have-A-Nice-Dinner-And-A-Cocktail-After. The first proper date Lana had ever been on—when a guy picked her up, took her to dinner, and brought her home—was with me.
She added, “I was intimidated. All I know about you is what I found on Google.”
Pre-date Googling, the curse of the digital age.
She’d read some interviews with me and found videos on YouTube.
Not good. Since Lana was so silent, I was drawing straws and had gone into my act in order to have any conversation, and she had just watched the clips earlier that day on the computer. She had seen how critical of other people I was in my comedy, and she was afraid she’d say or do something that I’d be offended by or would judge harshly. She didn’t want to give me material that would later turn up in my act.
The irony is, now I get material from her constantly, and she’s in my act every night.
“I was shy,” she said. “I have no idea why. I’m never like that!”
We kept talking, and I started to tune into her deadpan sarcasm and dry humor over the phone, and I was really liking it.
ON OUR NEXT date, we went to see Frost/Nixon with Frank Langella and Michael Sheen. It was a weird choice for a second date. The movie wasn’t a formulaic romantic comedy, although Frost and Nixon butted heads in the beginning and got together by the end (kind of). The whole time, I was worried about what Lana and I were going to talk about after. Lana wasn’t born until nine years after Nixon resigned. She barely knew anything about him. I suggested the movie because I like historical films, but in hindsight, maybe I should have picked something even remotely sexy. I could tell that I needed to implement something fun to get the night going, so we got margaritas after the movie and the conversation flowed well.
On our third date, we went on a hike to Runyon Canyon. Lana had told me that she’d been a competitive gymnast throughout high school. I’d seen her on the treadmill at the gym, and I knew she was in incredible shape, not to mention ten years younger than me. And I was . . . doing my best. I wasn’t in bad shape (just ask John Travolta), but I’m more of an indoor kind of person generally.
When you first start dating, you want to feel like you can impress the girl. As we hiked up the mountain, I quickly realized that was not going to happen. I didn’t have th
e stamina to keep up with her. At one point, she grabbed my hand. While trying not to overtly gasp for breath, I had the presence of mind to think, Oh, how sweet. She wants to hold hands. My heart beat a little faster, which is saying a lot.
But then she said, “Come on!” She wasn’t being romantic. She grabbed my hand to tug me along faster.
Lana wasn’t going to slow down for me, and she expected me to pick up the pace. This dynamic—her pushing me (or pulling me) to push myself—has been a recurring theme in our relationship. When I grew up, I did some things (homework, school projects) half-assed. I put effort into things I cared about, like my style, but otherwise, I was okay with okay. Not Lana. She puts extra effort into everything, from hiking a mountain to wrapping a gift to raising our daughter. She’s a born perfectionist with an eye for detail. I might look at, say, a hotel room, and think, It’s all right. But Lana will dissect it, and say, “The color is off. The couch makes no sense over here.” After nine years together, now I, too, walk into a room and notice five things I’d change to improve it. In a way, Lana has made me even more judgmental. In my single life, I asked, “How can I make it?” In my married life, I ask, “How can I make it better?” Before that Runyon Canyon hike, I never would have imagined I could practically run up a mountain. I’m not a perfectionist like she is, by any means, but when I watch her work extra hard at the gym or go the extra mile in any arena of life, I feel like I have to try to match her, or I’ll never catch up.
When we got to the top of the mountain that day, I looked at her and she looked at me. I was gasping, dizzy and sweaty. Then I saw the Holy Grail, a water fountain! I ran over and took a big sip. Then I looked behind me and realized there was a line of people . . . holding dogs. Lana smiled sweetly as she said, “Oh my God. I can’t believe you drank out of the fountain where the dogs all drink.”
We didn’t kiss that day, or on our fourth date. Or the fifth or sixth.
I definitely, desperately, wanted to kiss her, but I was still getting to know her and her sense of humor. She wasn’t demonstrably affectionate and never gave me any obvious cues that said, “Kiss me now!” She kept saying yes to dates, but I wasn’t sure how she felt about me. I asked myself, Does she even like me? Where are we going with this?
Lana could run a mile in eight minutes flat, but the pace of our relationship was agonizingly slow. To be honest with you, it was strange for me. I’d never waited seven dates to kiss someone in my life. But for whatever reason, lunging in, mouth open, didn’t feel like the right thing to do with her. I was waiting for the right moment.
About a month into our whatever-it-was, we were at her house, hanging out on the couch, talking. It was getting late. I was going to Dubai the next day and had to go home to pack, so I said, “I’ve got to go.”
She said, “Okay.”
We made eye contact, held it, and without words or any nonverbal communication, we leaned toward each other and kissed for the first time. It was a passionate kiss, but I understood it wasn’t going any farther. Clothes were not going to come flying off. After a few minutes, we separated and said goodbye.
In my car, driving home, I was reeling. What just happened? Does that mean we’re together? So she does like me? I could not figure her out. To this day, there are moments when my wife mystifies me. Keeps things interesting.
The Dubai trip was an all-expenses-paid five-day gig to perform at a wedding. The groom’s father—a real estate mogul in India—was paying me $15,000 for one night’s work. It was the most I’d been paid in my career. They’d originally wanted Russell Peters, an Indian comedian, but he wasn’t available or he asked for too much. I guess I was next on their list, and I jumped at the opportunity.
I’d just had a breakthrough with Lana, though, and leaving town immediately after didn’t feel right. Although the timing wasn’t ideal, I somehow managed to enjoy the unlimited champagne and flat-bed seat in my first class cabin, also paid for by the groom’s father. The flight attendants on Emirates wear those adorable little red hats with the white veil, and they’re always smiling. They were nothing like the flight attendants on American Airlines, who look at you like they want to kill you for asking for a blanket.
After the seventeen-hour flight, I was picked up in a limo and taken to the Burj Al Arab Jumeira, aka “The Most Luxurious Hotel in the World.” It looks like a sailboat in the sky. I was shown into a luxury suite with panoramic views of Dubai, and introduced to my private butler. It was so over-the-top opulent. Everything was silk or crystal. There was a mirror over the bed. The Burj Al Arab is called a seven-star hotel. There’s no such thing. They just made that up to sound unrivaled. I, for one, had never seen anything like this before. It was kind of gaudy, to be honest. Lavish, but also tacky.
The wedding planner came by to check on me, and told me about all the activities planned for guests throughout the weekend. Dune buggy rides, surfing school on artificial waves, hot air ballooning. I listened to the list of my options, but all I could think was If only Lana were here. When a relationship is just starting to kick off, you want to be joined at the hip, to share everything. In that phase of love, going food shopping at Ralph’s is a crazy fun adventure. And here I was, in an exotic location, living in insane luxury, but it felt empty. We weren’t even two months in, and I missed her already.
I passed on the dune buggies and surfing. I didn’t know anyone and I hate to be the fifth wheel. The idea of showing up at some activity with the wedding guests mouthing “Who’s this guy?” to each other was enough to keep me away. Besides that, I don’t like to interact with the audience before I do comedy. When I have corporate gigs, the organizers often ask me to sit down for a dinner with the company’s staff beforehand. But I can’t eat a plate of chicken and rice, make small talk with strangers, and then say “excuse me” and go on stage.
Whether it’s a high school auditorium or a Broadway theater, the audience is separated from the actors with a curtain. It creates a divide between reality and the willful illusion of the show. You don’t want to see the actors putting on their makeup and costumes beforehand. To enjoy the experience of the show, you need to believe that the stage is another world.
I feel the same way about comedy. Mingling with the audience or even walking through the casino before a show spoils the mystery. I want the audience to think I was air-dropped onto the stage, like, “How’d he get here?” Going on a camel ride with the wedding guests beforehand would have ruined it.
The only perk I took my hosts up on was a massage. Even then, I didn’t feel comfortable taking advantage. I got the fifty-minute basic rubdown instead of the hour-and-a-half four-handed hot rock aromatherapy treatment with the bells and whistles. I kept thinking they’d look at the bill and say, “The fucking comedian got an hour-and-a-half massage?” In truth, they probably wouldn’t have cared or even noticed. I could have had spa treatments dawn to dusk and no one would’ve batted an eye. I felt guilty about using the butler. My first night, he asked, “Would you like me to draw you a bath?” What would that entail? Turning on the faucet and putting some soap in there? What the hell was he going to do? I declined that, too. I drew my own bath, and I shoveled all the Hermès bath products into my suitcase.
I spent much of that weekend alone in my suite or at the pool by myself, but I wasn’t lonely. I was communicating with Lana the whole time. Of course, it would have been much more fun if she had actually been there, but it sufficed to send her photos and videos with “Holy shit, will you look at this!” captions. The way my wife grew up, she’d seen luxury hotels and was very well traveled. She even did Semester at Sea in college, studying on a ship for a few months, visiting ten different countries. She’d gone to Cambodia in college. The farthest I’d gotten was Cancun. I don’t think she had the same shock and awe reaction to the Burj Al Arab that I did, but she had never been there and was loving my updates.
Being in that otherworldly place, performing at a wedding, made me think of all the meals and vacations I h
oped to have one day with a wife and family. Since Lana was on my mind, I put her in the role of bride. I’d never done that before, with any girlfriend. We’d only just kissed once, and it was way too early to go there mentally. But instead of being scared, I liked what I imagined. I could see it with her.
When I got home, the slow pace of our relationship suddenly hit the gas. We were together constantly, spending most nights at her place. Every Saturday I was in town, we’d lie out all day by her pool. At night, we’d try every restaurant in the city. I went from Does she even like me? to falling in love in just a few weeks. What had finally brought us together was being 8,300 miles apart.
LANA AND I had been an official couple for about two months when she told me her mother and stepfather were coming to L.A. from their home in Naples, Florida, and they wanted to meet me.
She’d previously described her large, blended family. Barry, Lana’s father, had passed away suddenly, tragically, when she was seventeen. A few years later, her mother, Simone, married Scott. Simone had been married before Barry, and had two kids from that marriage, Lana’s half brother and half sister. Scott had also been married before Simone, and had four children from that marriage. Although Lana was the only child of Simone and Barry, she had two half siblings and four stepsiblings, along with nine (half/step) nieces and nephews. Serafina, our baby daughter, already has a lot of cousins.
I didn’t grow up with a large or blended family. The Maniscalcos of Arlington Heights, Illinois, are a small clan, and we’re full blood related. My parents were only married to each other (until that ended unexpectedly several years ago). My sister is my sister, no qualifiers. We’re all Catholic. Lana’s Jewish, but some of her siblings aren’t. I needed a chart to figure all this out.
As complicated as her family was, everyone got along. They were close like my family. The feelings were the same, even if their Brady Bunch circumstances were wildly different.
Stay Hungry Page 10
