SEZZ. . . . What former sitcom queen who hasn’t been able to get arrested finally did . . . driving the wrong way on the PCH at two a.m.? According to the police report, Ms. Washed Up and Has Been drank a little too much vino. . . . like, say, three times the legal limit. And from the mug shots that are about to be released, it appears that someone’s been skimping on the highlights.’”
Mom was so mad some lines popped up on her forehead, which, given the amount of Botox that had built up over the years, was close to a miracle. “First of all? It was not two a.m.—it was three. And I was drinking vodka, not wine. And I was only two-point-nine-eight times over the legal limit.”
“I don’t know what that Simon person is smoking, talking trash about your hair,” the cornrowed woman said. “’Cause I think it looks great.”
“Thank you,” Mom said.
She had been trying to get it done for about a month, but ever since Miki, her hairdresser, had gotten his own show on Bravo, he was now more famous than she was and had trouble fitting her in even though she had been his first celebrity client.
Ben walked over to the door and peered outside. “Janie, we need to go. There’s a ton of paps out there.”
She turned to the woman. “You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror, would you?”
I grabbed Mom’s arm. “Mom, come on.”
“Okay, okay.” She looked me over and pulled out a lipstick from her bag. “Bug, you look pale. Just put a bit of this on, will you?”
“You’re insane,” I said, shaking my head as I pulled her toward the entrance.
“You ready?” Ben asked me before he opened the door.
“Do we have a choice?”
“Nope.”
“Then, sure. Why not?” I replied.
CHAPTER THREE
I spent my sixteenth birthday in rehab.
Well, visiting Mom in rehab. She hadn’t wanted to go (“Rehab is for people who have a serious drinking or drug problem,” she kept saying. “Not someone like me who has a drink once in a while to unwind.”) Ben, her agent Carrie, and her publicist Jared thought it was a good idea. (“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jared said during the Team Janie meeting at our house the morning after the arrest, “but I’m thinking we might be able to get you a book deal for a memoir out of this. Or at least a column in Oprah’s magazine.”)
So two days, countless snarky blog posts underneath Mom’s mug shot, and a very unflattering photo of me taken by the T.J. Maxx lady making the rounds on the Internet later, Ben arranged for Esme, our housekeeper, to stay with me during Mom’s time away, and he drove her down to Oasis, a “full-care facility for the recovery of mind, body, and spirit” (read: fancy way to say rehab). He took her when I was at school. More specifically, while I sat in class trying to focus on the trig quiz in front of me. Fully aware that no one else in class was focusing because they were sneaking looks at me to see if I’d end up losing it like Lara Newberry (the Daughter Of a stand-up-comedian-turned-movie-star) had the day after her mother had been shipped off there. (“All I can tell you is when you go for Family Weekend,” she told me in the bathroom, “make sure you go hungry, because the food in the dining hall there is awesome. Totally organic. And because alcoholics crave sugar when they’re detoxing, the dessert and snack selection is super-great.”)
I may have looked as if I was keeping it together on the outside, but inside was a different story. That following Wednesday, before joining my friends in the cafeteria, I stopped in the bathroom. Luckily, I was close to the nice one—the one that they had just redone over spring break so that it no longer smelled all vomit-y. (Private school for girls = beaucoup de bulimia.) Once in, I went to the handicapped stall and managed to plop down on the toilet and grab on to the metal rail before my heart started to pound so hard it felt as if it was going to come through my
Mom was so mad some lines popped up on her forehead, which, given the amount of Botox that had built up over the years, was close to a miracle. “First of all? It was not two a.m.—it was three. And I was drinking vodka, not wine. And I was only two-point-nine-eight times over the legal limit.”
“I don’t know what that Simon person is smoking, talking trash about your hair,” the cornrowed woman said. “’Cause I think it looks great.”
“Thank you,” Mom said.
She had been trying to get it done for about a month, but ever since Miki, her hairdresser, had gotten his own show on Bravo, he was now more famous than she was and had trouble fitting her in even though she had been his first celebrity client.
Ben walked over to the door and peered outside. “Janie, we need to go. There’s a ton of paps out there.”
She turned to the woman. “You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror, would you?”
I grabbed Mom’s arm. “Mom, come on.”
“Okay, okay.” She looked me over and pulled out a lipstick from her bag. “Bug, you look pale. Just put a bit of this on, will you?”
“You’re insane,” I said, shaking my head as I pulled her toward the entrance.
“You ready?” Ben asked me before he opened the door.
“Do we have a choice?”
“Nope.”
“Then, sure. Why not?” I replied.
CHAPTER THREE
I spent my sixteenth birthday in rehab.
Well, visiting Mom in rehab. She hadn’t wanted to go (“Rehab is for people who have a serious drinking or drug problem,” she kept saying. “Not someone like me who has a drink once in a while to unwind.”) Ben, her agent Carrie, and her publicist Jared thought it was a good idea. (“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jared said during the Team Janie meeting at our house the morning after the arrest, “but I’m thinking we might be able to get you a book deal for a memoir out of this. Or at least a column in Oprah’s magazine.”)
So two days, countless snarky blog posts underneath Mom’s mug shot, and a very unflattering photo of me taken by the T.J. Maxx lady making the rounds on the Internet later, Ben arranged for Esme, our housekeeper, to stay with me during Mom’s time away, and he drove her down to Oasis, a “full-care facility for the recovery of mind, body, and spirit” (read: fancy way to say rehab). He took her when I was at school. More specifically, while I sat in class trying to focus on the trig quiz in front of me. Fully aware that no one else in class was focusing because they were sneaking looks at me to see if I’d end up losing it like Lara Newberry (the Daughter Of a stand-up-comedian-turned-movie-star) had the day after her mother had been shipped off there. (“All I can tell you is when you go for Family Weekend,” she told me in the bathroom, “make sure you go hungry, because the food in the dining hall there is awesome. Totally organic. And because alcoholics crave sugar when they’re detoxing, the dessert and snack selection is super-great.”)
I may have looked as if I was keeping it together on the outside, but inside was a different story. That following Wednesday, before joining my friends in the cafeteria, I stopped in the bathroom. Luckily, I was close to the nice one—the one that they had just redone over spring break so that it no longer smelled all vomit-y. (Private school for girls = beaucoup de bulimia.) Once in, I went to the handicapped stall and managed to plop down on the toilet and grab on to the metal rail before my heart started to pound so hard it felt as if it was going to come through my
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