Melissa Explains It All: Tales From My Abnormally Normal Life (24 page)

Don’t get me wrong, I got a lot out of shooting
SVU
. I became close to the brilliant and hilarious Diane Neal, who played Assistant DA Casey Novak, and had the honor of working with the vivacious Annie Potts. My agents also liked that I now had a weighty piece of tape on my demo reel. But during those two weeks in the city, I almost rethought the career that I couldn’t wait to supposedly balance with being a mom. It was so hard on me that I didn’t work for a while, until I was pregnant with my second son, Brady. Maybe morning sickness got me back on track.

Soon after I got knocked up a second time, I was offered the lead in Lifetime’s
Whispers and Lies,
a horror flick about two cousins who visit a seemingly perfect island with dark secrets—a place where nobody seems to die (
dun dun DUN
). Though I swore up and down that I’d never do a scary movie when I left
Sabrina,
the genre was a profitable one, and as a working mom, who was I to pooh-pooh that? I was also about five months pregnant, but I failed to mention my growing bump for fear that producers would discriminate against me. I took the part, and once the directors saw me in Vancouver, they realized camera angles and wardrobe would need to be carefully thought out. Though my growing uterus popped while shooting toward the end of my second trimester, I had a lot of energy and maintained an average weight, and I did everything they needed. Okay, so maybe I ran a little slower when the zombies began to hoof it, but the movie was a bust anyway, and I’m fairly confident that it had nothing to do with the bun in my oven.

My son Braydon Hart Wilkerson was born on March 12, 2008. With my second child, I felt more confident and relaxed as a mother, so I went back to work sooner than I did with Mason—only this time, I took the whole family with me, since Mark had just finished touring. When Brady was about four months old, Mark, the kids, and I flew down to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to shoot Hartbreak’s first feature film, called
Nine Dead.
This movie was my mom’s passion project after years of busting her hump and trying every avenue to make the flick happen. It was yet another thriller, but we used a special RED digital camera. At the time, this was a newfangled technology that let us keep the scene rolling without worrying about having to cut with every actor’s tiniest stutter. We also didn’t need to wait hours for the camera to reload film or rehearse like crazy to perfect a scene because we were putting it on expensive film. We could essentially “rehearse” while the cameras were rolling, or play around with the dialogue and blocking because the machine caught every bit, and we could play it back. It felt like we were filming a play, because we shot the script from beginning to end in real time, with only a few retakes here and there. Usually a movie or TV show is shot out of order—sometimes with the biggest scenes first, like a make-out scene or important climax (probably to get it out of the way before the actors feel burned out or get on each other’s nerves and the chemistry is unfixable). But with the RED, we shot the whole thing, start to finish, in twenty-one days.

As a new mom, working on
Nine Dead
was a dream come true. I was surrounded by supportive family, so I had my pick of childcare if I wanted it. There was only one major wardrobe change, which meant I could spend more time breast-feeding and playing with my boys, instead of running between scenes to my trailer for hair, makeup, and clothing tweaks. Finally, my character was handcuffed to a pole in a small room, so I didn’t need to coordinate blocking with our director, our rhythm was never interrupted with prop and set changes, and I could really focus on my performance. Oh, if I could only be handcuffed to a pole in all my projects.

*   *   *

Mark and I had a lot of friends in California, but we always knew we’d eventually want to be part of a community that’s close-knit, safe, and entertaining for kids. In L.A., locals drive like erratic pricks, even if you’re pushing a stroller down a street that doesn’t have sidewalks. We rarely met our neighbors, which meant never waving at friendly faces or borrowing that proverbial cup of sugar. Public schools are underfunded and private schools are ridiculously expensive. Then there’s the traffic, which is a time-suck at all hours of the day. Mark and I made a pact that before Mason began kindergarten, we’d find somewhere else to raise our family. Since we were both East Coasters at heart, we began to brainstorm spots on the East Coast to lay down some roots.

In the summer following
Nine Dead,
I auditioned for the role of the murderess Roxie Hart in the Broadway production of
Chicago.
I know I’d sworn off musicals, but a few nonprofessional singers had starred in this role, so I thought I could too. I didn’t get the part, but it put us in a good place to start our house hunt out east. We began by listing all the areas we wanted to see, then called the local realtors and asked family and friends in those areas to join us. We brought our new nanny with us, and leaned on family for babysitting.

Our exhaustive search would have bankrupted HGTV. We started in Nashville, which was Mark’s first choice, since he’s from the South and so many music execs live and work there. We had fun at a Titans game, but when we toured those oversize homes, they were spread too far apart to shout to a neighbor during an emergency. I also couldn’t walk to a store or Starbucks, which felt isolating. We moved on to my old stomping grounds on Long Island—albeit the more upscale sections of the North and South Shores that my family could never afford when I was a kid. But like Nashville, the best homes were far from town and inconvenient for errand running and play dates. By the time we reached Connecticut, which was next on our list, we felt defeated. We thought we’d hit a few places in Fairfield County, and if that turned out to be a bust, we’d consider North Carolina and Atlanta. Nonetheless, I cried all the way to the Constitution State. I wasn’t hopeful.

We explored three towns in Connecticut, just outside Manhattan. The first was Stamford, but the people we met all felt a little older than us, and we needed our contemporaries. Next up was Darien, which has a pretty center of town, good restaurants, and beautiful homes, but none of the houses really fit our needs. Finally, we drove up the coast to Westport, which had an old Americana feel but with newer businesses and younger energy. It boasted a great school system, a private beach, a bustling downtown, and amazing farm-to-table restaurants—not to mention a regional country playhouse whose co-artistic director, until recently, was talented actress Joanne Woodward, Paul Newman’s widow. I was impressed that this theater transferred a lot of hit shows to Broadway. We had family in New York and even our good friends and Mason’s godparents, Michele and David, who worked with me on
Clarissa,
nearby. When I saw a group of kids pile off a school bus and run into the arms of their fit and fashionable moms, I knew we’d found our town.

Mark and I visited a handful of houses, and we found one new-construction home that I thought about every day after we returned to L.A. from our search. It was surrounded by woods, which made it feel very private, and we even saw some wild turkeys crossing the road, which was quaint. The backyard hill was sloped perfectly for sledding, and the nearby Long Island Sound smelled like my childhood. But we didn’t make a move, because the housing market was in free fall, and we wanted to unload our place first. I prayed every night that our L.A. home would sell before that house in Westport did.

The best way I could think to get my head out of housing woes was—you guessed it—to get another job. In October 2008, I took Mark, the kids, and our nanny to Atlanta while I shot
My Fake Fiancé.
Mom and I were given a rom-com script that we loved about two strangers in dire financial straits who stage a fake engagement and wedding, just to collect the gifts. We optioned the story for Hartbreak and sold it to ABC Family, since they’d already shown us so much love already with our wedding show,
Tying the Knot,
our movie
Holiday in Handcuffs
, and years of
Sabrina
reruns.

My old pal Joey Lawrence and I costarred in it, which was a good time since we usually only saw each other in passing at events. Joey had just killed it on ABC’s
Dancing with the Stars,
so the network was on board with our suggestion—that is, until Joey arrived in Atlanta with a shaved head, which they feared wouldn’t go over well with their young audience. Just as they were about to ring my old on-screen flame James Van Der Beek to replace him, Mom put her foot down and insisted that Joey and I would have terrific on-screen chemistry. ABC Family conceded, the movie premiered with big numbers, and it led to a pseudo-spinoff, our current sitcom,
Melissa & Joey.

On the set of
My Fake Fiancé,
where I was surrounded by my family and yet another loveable cast and crew, my work/life balance hit its stride. When I wasn’t shooting, I took the boys to listen to a trumpet player on the corner, stuff our faces with fried chicken and tomato pie at Mary Mac’s Tea Room, and visit the Georgia Aquarium at least once a week. At the age of three, Mason was obsessed with sea creatures, so I arranged to dive into the shark tank, full of whale sharks, hammerheads, and groupers. Diane Neal, who played my sister in the movie, carried Mason on her shoulders and followed me around the outside of the glass tank, so he could see his daredevil mommy in action. Mark was also able to take advantage of the travel perks. He spent time with his family and saw a few SEC college football games.

Almost exactly one year after our initial trip to Connecticut, we sold our L.A. home and loaded our bags and dogs onto a plane. The Westport house had waited for us. We knocked on our neighbors’ doors and began making friends with other parents who happened to live within a seven-mile radius. We put Mason in school, just as we’d planned, and formed a community around like-minded transplants. When I wasn’t working, I rowed crew on the Saugatuck River, went spinning with girlfriends, had coffee dates, formed a book club, and organized a dinner group that still meets every Monday night, so our husbands could bond too. We even bought a fish tank, though it’s a twist on what we had in Encino. We scaled down from two hundred gallons to ten, and it’s home to a hearty turtle we found in our backyard. The boys named him Dusty.

Chapter 14

IT’S ALL ABOUT THE CANAPÉS, BABY

Whether you take entertaining cues from Lisa Vanderpump, Rachael Ray, or P. Diddy, God is in the details—the Pandora playlist or poolside DJ, cocktails-’n’-nibbles or a flashy prix fixe, a cozy private venue or the VIP room of a club. A theme can tie it all together, and for me, it has to be clever. But no matter how you play hostess, the point of gathering friends and family is to make memories you can cherish forever. Well, that, and to give everyone a reason to say nice things about you later.

I’ve been honing my entertaining skills for a while now—come to think of it, ever since I hosted my twenty-first birthday bash that landed in
People
magazine and bought my first home in L.A. Back then, the recipe for a good time included a well-stocked bar, a who’s-who guest list, and ashtrays on every possible corner of the deck, poolside, and hot tub. And while Hollywood parties can be an epic statement of flash and ego, mine were mostly a way to spoil my closest friends and family. I wanted everyone to enjoy my little paradise.

When I lived in L.A., most of my friends happened to be crafty and creative, so I liked throwing parties that spoke to those instincts. Plain paper streamers and latex balloons were for other people. One of the best soirees I ever cohosted was for my friend Kimi. Eight of our girlfriends spent months organizing a Barbie-themed surprise party for her birthday, since Kimi is a girly-girl who lives for fashion and has a well-dressed Barbie collection to show for it. We decided to make the event a “progressive” party, meaning we’d move from place to place as the night went on. I rented a 1950s limo and driver for a pop of Hollywood glam, and we dressed like our favorite Barbie dolls or ones we made up. I looked like a Princess Barbie with a silky pink floor-length skirt and colorful halter top, which was the polar opposite of our friend Christine’s Native American Barbie look. We surprised the clueless Kimi at her house and helped the birthday girl with her costume—a corset from her wedding she’d dyed bright red, a flouncy tulle skirt, and lots of gold, silver, and pearl necklaces. She was
Moulin Rouge
Barbie, based on our clique’s favorite movie at the time.

The girls and I piled into the limo to begin our fun-filled odyssey. My house was the first stop, where my three-year-old sister Sammy’s life-size Barbie propped the door open and welcomed us with stiff, plastic arms. I draped pictures, chairs, mantels, and the staircase in Pepto Bismol–pink boas and ribbon, and hired a bartender to serve pink cosmos. I had filled every frame in the house with shots of Kimi from different ages and events, and positioned various Barbie and Ken dolls around the plates of appetizers. After some serious noshing, we went to Mom’s house for homemade lasagna. We ate dinner on her good china, in her formal dining room, as if it were a Barbie Dreamhouse, all while Mom served us dressed in her brilliant costume as “The Barbie Nobody Wanted.” She wobbled around on one high-heeled shoe and wore a cockeyed crown, with messy hair and grass stains on her gown. We all wore shorts under our skirts, so after dinner, we stripped down and jumped on the trampoline out back. We ended our night at Eryn’s house, where we opened gifts and dug into a Barbie cake—the kind where the doll’s head and torso sits on top of an edible skirt. Most of us stayed over for a slumber party. We were like our twelve-year-old selves again, but with boobs and weed.

The Barbie party was such a hit that the following year, I threw a
Gilligan’s Island
theme party for Eryn. The girls and I started by sending Eryn on a multi-destination scavenger hunt to help her collect pieces of her costume—first to our friend Ralph’s house where she found a red wig and fake birthmark waiting, then to the produce section of the grocery store to discover a pink boa and a note telling her to go to my house. At Chez Hart, a life-saver pool toy hung on the door with the words “SS Minnow” Sharpie’d on it. We decorated the entire inside with almost a hundred straw skirts, hammocks, and a few blown-up palm trees. A bartender whipped up piña coladas and mai tais. Instead of singing “Happy Birthday,” we tweaked the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song with lyrics about Eryn’s life and bludgeoned a hula girl piñata for what seemed like hours, until we got the last Kit Kat to fall out.