Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (20 page)

During one of our breakups, I went out of town for a few weeks and needed someone to watch my dogs, so I asked my friend, an actor named Angelo “Spizz” Spizzirri, to stay at my place. After I saw how Spizz lovingly cared for my home and animals while I was away, I asked him to be my roommate. Spizz was a faithful, protective sidekick when we went out, and it made me feel safe to have a man in the house when we got home. We liked to party but kept it under control most of the time, which was a refreshing change from Weenie’s increasingly erratic behavior. When we went to Sundance to see a movie that Spizz was in, my boyfriend encouraged me to take the psychedelic drug mescaline, which he told me was like a pill form of shrooms. It’s not. It can create an altered sense of time and self-awareness and made me think the girl across the room was speaking to me with her brain waves. I tried to take off running down the snowy street, and it was Spizz, not Weenie, who stopped me and calmed me down.

Spizz also appreciated my brassier side, which Weenie seemed to barely notice. Spizz once told me that one of his favorite moments from living together was when he brought some friends home late one night from partying to hang out in the hot tub. I was asleep because I had a big day on camera the next morning. I heard loud voices and a ruckus outside, since my room was just above the hot tub, so I ran to my balcony in delirious anger and screamed at the guys, “Shut the fuck up!
Some
of us have to work in the morning!” One of Spizz’s best friends, a guy named Danny, the drummer for the hard rock band Tool, was there. He was shocked to learn that all women aren’t like the eyelash-batting, doormat groupies he was used to. Spizz got a kick out of this for years.

Though I was respectful of people’s schedules when we got our drink on, Weenie never seemed to care who had to work when he wanted to party. The night before
Sabrina
’s season six finale in the spring of 2002, in which Aunt Hilda marries her true love after meeting him at a mall in the Other Realm, I begged Weenie to come home around 10
P.M.
, so I could get a good night’s sleep without hearing him rustle around. I was both acting in this episode and directing it, and because the show was a season finale and a wedding, it was an expensive, arduously produced, and heavily promoted stressor. Though I explained all of this to Weenie a million times, he still called at 9:59
P.M.
to say he was staying out a little longer instead of coming home when he promised. After fighting on the phone and getting a restless night of irritated half-sleep, I heard him knock on my door at 3
A.M
.

I let the guy in but told him to sleep on the couch, and then went to work an hour later. From the makeup chair, I furiously called my friend and assistant Kerry and asked her to pack up his stuff and make sure he was out of the house before I got home that day. Spizz helped, and for weeks after made sure Weenie stayed away, often while wielding a baseball bat. I was done for good—
finito, no mas
. I’d dealt with my boyfriend’s selfish immaturity, narcissism, and instability for two years and realized I wouldn’t have a future—hell, I couldn’t even have a present—with a man like this. I couldn’t trust him, rely on him, or be with him in a way that made me happy for more than a few days. The breakup also made me realize that Weenie wasn’t the first guy I’d taken care of, and I was tired of that too. As the oldest child in my family, I had the protective nurturer thing down pat and went into autopilot with those who needed it. It was time to find someone who could take care of himself and—here’s a novel idea—me, too, when I needed it. I’ve always been strong and self-sufficient, but carrying two people in a relationship wasn’t working for me anymore. I was worn out.

A few years after I met my husband, Mark, who met all of these needs and then some, we faced an unspeakable tragedy. In 2007, my friend Spizz took his own life. I was in unbearable pain from it, and I still find myself praying that he feels at peace and always knew how much I loved him. Spizz’s death also marked the end of an era for me, and the severity of his passing issued a reality check on my rowdier years. James was a free spirit, Weenie needed help, and Spizz had his own stuff to deal with. But me? For the most part, my antics were part of growing up and into myself. I liked staying out late with friends more than drinking and getting high; hell, I barely like to drink a lemonade in one sitting, much less chug a fifth of vodka. And when I did tiptoe on the wild side and experience the darker corners of Hollywood, I was still what they call a “normie” in AA. All things considered, I’d call it a compliment.

Chapter 12

THE ONE THAT NEVER GOT AWAY

I’m rarely a betting woman, and here’s why. When I went to the Kentucky Derby in May 2002, I put money down on a few horses but swore I wouldn’t get serious with any man I met there. By the end of the weekend, I lost about five hundred dollars at the races and fell for my future husband.

For the second year in a row, I was invited to the Mint Jubilee, a celebrity-packed gala held during the Derby to increase awareness and funding for cancer treatment. Since I was on a guy-atus, so to speak, I took my close friend and assistant Kerry as my date. We couldn’t wait to feel spoiled and to hobnob with Southern gentility. And sure enough, when we got to Louisville, we had a full escort team ready to take us to fancy events, complete with a police car as our ride.

One of the stops along the party route was a local hostess’s mansion. I’ll never forget her massive and impeccably organized closet full of awesome designer shoes. Looking inside it was actually part of the official house tour. Once we were done gawking, we mingled. I talked about Louisville’s famed food and music with upper-crust donors and even ran into my old classmate from PCS and NYU Jerry O’Connell, who was on NBC’s
Crossing Jordan
at the time.

Jerry hardly showed me any attention when we were at school or bumping into each other around Manhattan, but that night, he followed me around like a puppy dog. I was flattered by his persistence, but I stopped myself from seeming too available. I bantered with Jerry, but I was being playful, not trying to initiate a hook-up. I’d broken up with Weenie only two months before, and I’d been cheated on twice and dated Weenie while he was courting an addiction, which is a different type of sneaking around but painful nonetheless. I wasn’t anxious to trust or open myself up to anyone soon. If experience taught me anything, it’s that charismatic flirts are rarely boyfriend material—and Jerry sure thought a lot of his own charms. I also wanted to give him a taste of his own standoffish medicine, since he pretended to barely notice me for four years even though we saw each other all the time.

By the next night, Jerry was out of my mind. Kerry and I got really dressed up to attend the actual Jubilee event, where an elaborate dinner and entertainment awaited. We made the most of an open bar with Howie D from the Backstreet Boys, actress Jamie-Lynn Sigler, and plenty of other recognizable faces. Halfway through the night, a man with a walkie-talkie asked if I’d mind introducing the next band. I said I’d be honored. I quickly ran backstage to learn what I needed to say about the Southern rockers from Alabama called Course of Nature.

I was studying the index card with my lines on it backstage. As the more outgoing members introduced themselves, the tall, broad-shouldered lead singer made his way to me more slowly. I kept my eyes on him as I shook hands with everyone else. Before we could say a proper hello, I was called to do my thing, and when I was done, I’d missed the chance to meet that mysterious hottie. I walked back to my table very carefully, standing up real straight to make sure my new crush didn’t see me trip or slouch, all while making sure to suck in the belly.

Back at my table, I told Kerry about the head-turning front man and decided to ask my publicist to introduce me to him when the group was done with its set. She was already on it, thinking we’d make a cute couple. When the band finished and walked past our table to the bar, they didn’t stop to say hi. I had to make a move first. So much for my break from chasing guys.

I told all five men—four band members and the tour manager—how much I liked their music. We took pictures together, and I learned that the lead singer’s name was Mark and that he liked tequila. Bingo. Mark and I decided to do a shot, but when we got to the bar, they were out of the Devil’s water. We didn’t want to leave each other’s side, so we did a shot of vodka instead. I’ve been told that when Russians drink vodka, it constitutes a very special ceremony. If I’d known this at the time, my inner romantic would’ve swooned about what this might foreshadow down the road. But I don’t think it would’ve made the rocket fuel go down any easier.

After a few more drinks, Kerry and I walked the guys to their bus to say good-bye. Mark’s mom, Jen, was touring with them at the time, so I briefly met her and then spent a few minutes smoking a cigarette and chatting with Mark. I don’t even remember what we talked about, because I was so mesmerized by his gentle, puppy-dog blue eyes. He literally made my knees go weak, and I knew right then that he was the most handsome man I’d ever met. But he had to get back on the road. Mark’s tour manager, Eric, gave me his business card and said to keep in touch.

Though my heart told me I’d met a game-changer, there was no telling if I’d ever see Mark again. He was a touring musician and I had a packed schedule as an actress. How would we even make things work if fate
was
on our side? On the one hand, I’d never let a little challenge, like a few thousand miles or a hectic career, stop me from pursuing true love at all costs. But I’m also realistic, and I know that instant chemistry doesn’t always trump a logistical long shot. I tucked Mark’s number in my purse for safekeeping and went on with my weekend. This included getting super drunk and running into Ashton Kutcher, who threw me for a loop when he told me my ex Weenie had moved in with another girl. The news made my head spin, as did the martinis I then began to chug at warp speed. Before I knew it, Jerry O’Connell and I were passing the time with our tongues in the corner of the VIP tent.

The next morning was rough. Kerry and I made our way to Churchill Downs, the Kentucky Derby’s racetrack, where one disaster followed another. First we decided to wear vintage dresses to the event. I had on a white, lacy frock with a matching fluffy hat that was shaped like a deflated soufflé. I looked like I was about to reenact the horse-racing scene in
My Fair Lady,
but with less panache. Kerry had on a vintage green floral-print Doris Day getup with a beret. Again, not our best looks. We were also stumbling around with massive hangovers and nursing a mix of Alka-Seltzer and Bloody Marys, hairing the dog with an antacid. But what really bowled me over was that I saw Jerry gushing all over another woman in the center of the room, surrounded by all the Derby guests. Manwhore suspicions confirmed.

After a horse called War Emblem took home the trophy, and I won Mom three hundred and fifty dollars on a twenty-dollar bet she called in at the last minute (again, that woman with her killer instincts), Jubilee’s people whisked all the celebrities off to a party at another local hot spot. With the other woman MIA, Jerry turned his attention back to me. Too bad I was on to his wandering eye, since I had just witnessed what happened when he spied fresh meat. He asked me if we could see each other when we got back to L.A. in a few days, and I said that I didn’t think that was going to happen.

“What—why?”

“Because I think I met the man I am going to marry.” I was not to be outdone.

“The band guy from last night that you were doing shots with?” he asked.

“Yup.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d see Mark again, but I gave Jerry a shit-eating grin anyway.

Back in L.A., I unpacked my stuff and put the tour manager’s card on my bedside table. I called Eric’s phone the day after I got home (I needed time to recover), made small talk about their gigs, and then asked if Mark was around. He was napping in his bunk, but Eric passed his cell to him anyway. Mark and I spent two hours on the phone that day, and after we reluctantly hung up, he called me right back and said he wanted me to have his cell number since I had called Eric’s. Mark told me to reach him at any hour, day or night, since he slept with the phone by his head in case of an emergency. He had a two-year-old nephew, and he was always on alert in case his sister needed him. This alone told me Mark was a good guy. I later learned that he and his family speak all the time, track each other’s flights when they travel, and call numerous times on road trips to check in on each other’s safety. How sweet is that? He was also a rock star surrounded by groupies, and he’d just given
me
the go-ahead to track him down at any moment.

Mark and I spent the next two weeks on the phone, talking about everything from music (we both listened to ’90s rock) to problems we’d had with our exes (lots of cheaters in our pasts) to our astrological signs (I’m an Aries and he’s Virgo, which was good news since I’d had no luck with Capricorns and Pisces). We also laughed a lot, which was important to me. Mark and I had so much in common that we knew we needed to see each other again to find out if our chemistry was just as intense in person and if there was a future for us. I was nervous because I knew I gave good phone but wasn’t sure if I’d be awkward when we were face-to-face again.

We decided to meet up in New York in the middle of the month, when Mark had five days off and I’d be back from traveling to Monaco and the Cannes Film Festival with my family and best friend from elementary school, Nicole. Mark and I planned to meet each other’s families in New York, California, and Alabama. It would be the longest “date” I’d ever had.

Though I should have been soaking up the French Riviera, I spent most of my time there obsessing over Mark and driving my mom, stepdad, and Nicole crazy. At one point, Mom tried to get me to flirt and dance with some member of the royal family that we met at the dance club Jimmy’z Monte-Carlo. When she reminded me, “If you married this guy, you’d be a princess,” I had other ideas. “I don’t wanna be a princess,” I insisted. “I want to be a rock star’s wife.”