Initially, I thought it was cruel to put fat people in housing that would remind them of their favorite syrup—Log Cabin. I mean, if my roommate ended up being a black woman with a handkerchief around her head, I knew I’d be at Waffle House in half an hour. But it turns out that, unlike the Caron Foundation, Onsite didn’t have the ball-busting roommate policy I had hated. I had made sure before I signed up that I would have a room all to myself since I would be attending the Grammys the following week and I couldn’t afford to be kept up by potential roommates’ snoring or crying. No, I had to be at the top of my game when I spent the disappointing, all-this-effort-for-nothing Grammy weekend in L.A. After hearing me out, the administration at Onsite gave me a private room—at no extra charge! This is, by the way, the one and only perk that being a chubby female celebrity provides. And when I showed up there on that drizzly day in February, I discovered what a room it was!
My cabin was something right out of a magazine ad for a quaint little bed-and-breakfast. After I dragged my two fifty-pound suitcases up the four or five steps to the front door (when these rehab facilities will start employing bellmen, I will never know!), I turned the lock and entered the room that would be my home for the next five days. Complete with cute country-chic bedspreads and pillow shams, the room was filled with warmth—figuratively and literally—as the fireplace glowed to greet me. Hoisting my bags onto the spare bed, I slowly unpacked, relishing the aloneness and telling myself how lucky I was to have secured such a peaceful room, all to myself. At that moment, I knew serenity would wash over me for the remainder of my days there.
“IT’S MY SECOND TIME HERE.” The female voice came crashing through the wall, interrupting my reverie. I had been lost in my fantasy that the loudest noise I would hear at Onsite that week would be the tinkling of delicate copper wind chimes, but the voice snapped me back to reality. It was so loud and clear that I hightailed it into the bathroom to see if another patient had taken up residence in my shower.
“I WAS HERE ABOUT EIGHT YEARS AGO FOR THE LIVING CENTERED PROGRAM,” the voice continued. “SO NOW I’M BACK TO WORK ON MY FOOD ISSUES.”
Holy crap! This week wasn’t going to be awash in the sea of tranquility after all. Seems that my half of the lovely little log cabin was just that—only half the space of the entire house—and on the other side of the flimsiest of plywood walls, a wall thinner than one in a Brazilian slum shanty, there were three women bunking together and each seemed to have the acoustical range of Celine Dion. Like ’Til Tuesday said in the eighties, voices carry.
Oddly though, I wasn’t feeling what I normally would have felt under such noisy circumstances: annoyance. Okay, well, I was a little annoyed. But mostly, the emotion that surfaced was that of being left out, ignored, and I knew it was just a matter of time before my self-esteem would plummet into “not good enough.” At that moment, I decided I needed to knock on that plywood wall and join the party—although Richard Simmons is the only guy I’ve ever heard of who thought four chunky bitches working on their weight issues was a “party.”
“Uh, I just wanted to let you guys know that I can hear everything you say.” I searched to find the right words to convey what I was trying to tell my housemates, Charlotte, Karen, and Vanessa. “I mean, not that it was disturbing me—I have earplugs. I just wanted you to know that if there’s something you don’t want me to hear, it’s only fair you know that these walls are thin.”
Just like the three good little codependents they were, the ladies couldn’t apologize quickly or vehemently enough. Truth be told, they had nothing to apologize about. I actually enjoy eavesdropping, but since the place ran on confidentiality, I thought I better go introduce myself before I ripped a loud one and they knew I could hear them too.
Karen interrupted my stammering by grabbing a chair, bringing it over to me, and insisting I get out of the door frame and sit down. The eldest of the group, Karen, from that moment on, was the mom of the group—the self-aware, willing-to-work-on-herself mom none of us had ever had. Instantly put at ease, I chatted with them until it was mealtime—the only group activity none of us ever seemed to want to be late for.
Strolling over to the main building where meals were prepared and eaten, we learned that each group ate in a separate room, depending on its issues. We food addicts ate in a room near the front of the house that was decorated entirely in antiques with tons of doilies and nothing whatsoever edible. No fruit. No little candies. No scented candles. Nothing. Coincidentally—or possibly not coincidentally—this was the coldest room in the main building, plus it was the room farthest from the buffet line. I guess their thinking was that if we wanted food so badly, we wouldn’t mind the walk. And we were the ones who were sufficiently bulked up to handle a chill.
In the room across the hall from us was the group of folks working on their money issues; the counselors ate in the room next to us; and lastly, toward the back of the house and right near the buffet was the mysterious group with the door closed, the guys working on their sexual issues.
As we split up to eat in our assigned rooms, we closed the door and the gossip began. Joining the three girls and me in the food issues group was one male, and I instantly knew two things about him upon saying hello: He was gayer than Siegfried and Roy’s tigers, and he had recognized me instantly. Where the three women weren’t in on my identity, Kyle’s combination of being chubby and gay put him smack in the middle of my comedy target demographic. I don’t know why I was surprised to meet someone like him at Onsite. We were in the woods—I was bound to run into a bear. From the second I met him, I knew Kyle would be my partner in crime at Onsite, and by “partner,” I mean someone with whom I could check out all the hot sex addicts.
But, it turns out, this wasn’t going to be as easy as it seemed. While the “Healing Sexual Issues” guys dined near us, did their group therapy near us, and ate snacks in the communal kitchen around the same time as us, not one of them would acknowledge us. And I’ll admit it, after day two, my self-esteem was at an all-time low. I mean, here were guys who, I assumed, would jump on the ground and fuck a crack in the sidewalk, and I couldn’t get even one to look at me.
Now, looking back, I know this way of thinking was horrible. Hoping to have sex with a guy working on sexual addiction would be the equivalent of one of them hoping to get me to eat a Twinkie. However, based on the fact that I would have killed for a Twinkie, I figured at least I had a shot.
I stopped wearing sweats and started wearing my cute camouflage pants and pink tops, and did my hair and makeup every day—not the full treatment, but the “I’m not trying hard ’cause I’m in rehab, but I’m still cute” look. I knew I had to be at least one of the fifteen guys’ type! There was a super-hot black guy, a couple of Latinos, and a few very rough-trade-looking white guys. At least one of them should have found me slightly adorable.
And as part of the chubby group, I knew I would be the one they would notice first. Karen was too old for them and was a mother figure; Charlotte was way too classy with her gorgeous Southern accent and artistic sensibility; Vanessa was married and made sure everybody knew it; and Kyle was a big fuckin’ fag. I was the easy mark, goddamn it! There was no lock on my panties and they definitely didn’t have to solve a riddle to get into my vagina!
But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I timed my visits to the kitchen to coincide with my prime targets’, I got nothing more than a nod before the object of my desire beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t know what to do! I was trying to work on my food issues, so I couldn’t eat through the terrible feelings this was bringing up for me. I couldn’t drown my sorrows in male attention, since I couldn’t get any of the straight guys to throw me even a hello. So I had nothing to do but face my feelings—the entire point of rehab. Sadly, I wanted to do anything but that.
In my room one afternoon after another ignored-by-sex-addicts morning, I scrolled through the contact list in my phone. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking—aren’t you s
upposed to hand in your phone when you check in? Yes, assholes. But I had told the powers that be at Onsite that due to my Grammy nomination—i.e., supreme importance—I had to be in possession of the phone at all times. However, I had promised to only check it once a day, and I had vowed to never, ever use it to dial evil ex-boyfriends and people who triggered my food issues.
Scanning the list of contacts in my phone, I made a list of people who were not technically in those categories. There was Jerry in Chicago—my pre-Tommy boyfriend who had become a friend with flirting privileges. There was Derrick in Minneapolis, a very hot Denzel lookalike who was a fireman I was planning to hook up with in a month. And there was Charlie, a light-skinned chubby fan with a heroin-addict brother, who I liked to talk recovery with. So I planned it out—any time the feelings became too much and I couldn’t pick up food or one of the sex addicts, I could text or call one of them and make the pain go away.
Yes, I know, I know—I should have been journaling, reading, working on my issues. But, at the time, I guess you could say I just wasn’t ready. If I needed a “harmless” conversation with a man to get through the week, so be it. And even though this would distract me from working on myself, the seminar was only a little over $2,000, plus airfare. Even if it was a waste of time, I could make that money back in my next seven minutes onstage.
One day after lunch, I realized I had about thirty minutes until our next therapy group and headed into my cabin under the guise of taking a nap. Since our days always began around six thirty A.M. with morning meditation—what a load!—everyone was usually exhausted by noon. Locking the door, I texted my black fireman and his response was instant.
“I was on the news last night, boo,” he typed.
“What for?” I queried.
“Put out a fire at the news station. Wanna see a picture?”
You bet I did. First of all, as everyone knows, firemen are hot. Second, black firemen are even hotter. There’s something really sexy about watching a black man run into a building instead of out of it with a plasma TV under his arm.
And what a picture it was! There was my hero, in his gear, posing for a photo on his triumphant evening of saving lives. Well, that was all it took to get my motor running. I knew I had to take care of this need now. I saved the photo and hopped to it.
My excitement was nearly quelled when I realized my situation. Here I was, ragingly horny for the first time since I had come to Onsite, but surveying the room, I realized that getting the job done here was going to be tougher than I thought. First of all, it was daylight and everyone was walking around the grounds. I ran to the windows, hoping to pull the curtains shut, but when I did, I noticed they were so sheer, so transparent, that anyone could see in them without even squinting.
Now that I think about it, the curtains were probably flimsy so the sex addicts wouldn’t spend their every waking moment jerking off. In fact, I had heard that the sex addicts were required to sign a contract saying they wouldn’t spank it the entire week they were there. But I wasn’t a sex addict! I was just fucking fat! I deserved real curtains! Besides, no one wants to see a fat bitch rocking the little man in the boat by herself.
With only seventeen minutes left before group, I raced into the bathroom, the only windowless room in the place. Instantly hearing voices from the adjoining room, I realized that if I could hear them, they would certainly be able to hear me, and I couldn’t risk them hearing my solo action. And since the bathroom was divided into two tiny rooms, there was no place to even sit down and get comfortable and make the magic happen.
By then, I was hotter than ever and determined to make it work. Kicking the door shut between the two parts of the bathroom, I turned on both the sink and the shower to drown out any noise I might make. I considered lying in the bathtub but would never have had time to do my hair and makeup again on the off chance one of the sex addicts would say hello to me. So, wedging my five-foot-nine frame into the four-foot space on the floor in front of the bathtub, I propped my feet up against the door at a forty-five-degree angle and did the same on the opposite wall with my neck and shoulders. In short, at that angle I looked like a partially opened Swiss Army knife and it was anything but comfortable, sexy, or romantic.
Now, believe me, I’m quick—in fact, I often finish faster than my partners. But today, with my neck crooked and my feet up against the door in case any staff member should let himself in for a random room check, I was taking more time than usual. Plus, now I was starting to break a sweat since the only thermostat was in the girls’ room and for some reason those bitches had it cranked up to a hundred. And my neck, which hadn’t been the same since a car accident when I was thirty, was starting to throb from the uncomfortable position it held on the wood-paneled wall. “Holy crap,” I thought, “how do people in trailer parks do it?!?” This clearly wasn’t going to be my best effort. But I was gonna finish, goddamn it! I hadn’t come this far not to come!
With only three minutes left to spare, I was finally done. Flushed and even more exhausted than when I had gone into my room for my “nap,” I jogged over to the main building for group therapy.
“Did you have a good rest?” Charlotte asked sweetly as I came in.
“Oh, yeah, great,” I responded, my eyes quickly darting up and to the left—a sure sign that I was telling a little white lie.
“Hmmm,” I thought. “Note to self: Sign up for ‘Healing Sexual Issues’ workshop asap.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Porkers, Pukers, and Purgers
Three months later, it was May 20, 2008—a mere three days after my sold-out show at Carnegie Hall, perhaps the most impressive concert venue in the United States, if not the world. Actually, when you’re a comic, any venue whose name doesn’t include the word “chuckle” or “hut” feels like a step up. But three days later, my location was a far cry from Carnegie Hall’s revered vaulted ceilings. I was in a room with three walls made of cinder block and one of bad pine paneling straight out of the Brady Bunch’s basement. I was lying on a hard mattress—not hard in the “it’s good for my lower back” kind of way, but hard in the “belongs in a hotel that charges by the hour” kind of way—and I was staring at a three-inch-thick binder of rules, mealtimes, and twelve-step worksheets. My suitcases had been searched, my car keys had been taken away, and my door could be opened at any time by any staff member without any notice. It was like being a teenager under my mother’s roof all over again.
I was in rehab for the third time in a year. I was a reality show and two fits of ’roid rage away from being Danny Bonaduce. And these were the walls I would stare at for the next twenty-eight days.
Unfortunately, after my one week in codependency rehab and my five-day food issues workshop, I knew I needed more. Having spent the better part of both those weeks making friends and figuring out how to squeeze one off, I knew a longer, more hard-core stint in rehab was needed. I’d had food issues ever since I came out of the womb, and they weren’t going to get resolved in a week. I needed to commit myself the way people who needed to kick heroin committed themselves. So, after watching Sandra Bullock’s movie 28 Days, I told my manager that I would be taking May 19 through June 17 to work on myself. Right after Carnegie Hall, I was going to rehab for the third, and I hoped final, time.
As I write this, I have to admit to myself and to you, dear reader, that this decision wasn’t exactly easy. I had had enough glimmers of hope on the outside that made me want to take that month and spend it like normal people spend their vacation—getting sunburned at the beach and arguing with my friends and family. I was long done with Tommy, I wasn’t dating and indeed felt more complete than ever without men, and I wasn’t excessively overeating. I had a new shrink and I was going to several types of weekly twelve-step meetings. I even had a sponsor who was helping me work Step 1, which is admitting I am powerless over food. Oh, I was powerless all right. I had found it impossible to tell the Pillsbury Dough-boy no.
But now, things were differ
ent. I was working on it. I told my shrink I didn’t need the twenty-eight-day program. I was starting to feel better about myself and I could use the $18,000 the rehab would cost for charity. (Prada’s a nonprofit, right?) I had stopped gaining weight and had found some cute summer clothes in size XXL at Target. Who knew they even carried that size, except for the black women on TV’s Big Ass Barbecue?
Then something happened that made me say yes to rehab again. I’ll call it Hurricane Bubba.
Now, those of you who know me know I have an uncanny connection with Sirius Satellite Radio’s Bubba the Love Sponge. For some reason, Bubba gets an unusually large kick out of me, and I am hugely tickled by him. In fact, Sirius program director Tim Sabean has told me on more than one occasion that if there’s one woman who can hold her own with the more-demented-than-Stern Bubba, it’s me. Our onair chemistry is magic, and due to the genuine warmth we have for each other, a friendship had developed effortlessly between us.
I have always looked forward to appearing on Bubba’s show—especially in person—and looking at my calendar, I realized that shortly after the Grammys, I would be in Florida with my brother’s family. That meant I could drive over and do an in-person appearance on Bubba’s show in a few short hours. I suggested this to Bubba’s producer, Spice Boy, and Bubba was thrilled since we hadn’t seen each other in over a year, when I had appeared in-studio with Tommy. So it was settled that right after Disney World with the family, I would drive to Tampa and hang out on the show. I couldn’t stop smiling thinking about chilling with my radio pal.
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