Going Off Script

by Giuliana Rancic

  “What’s up, loser?” she greeted me.

  “I think I got my period,” I confided.

  “What?!” She and her bitchy friends immediately ran to the backyard, and I chased after, hoping she wasn’t about to do exactly what she did:

  “Mom, everyone!” I heard her crow. “Giuliana got her period!”

  Everyone started applauding, the cousins started hooting, all the aunties and mothers dabbed at tears, and I was hoisted up onto a table. Uncles started handing me hundred-dollar bills. I ran inside crying.

  It was even worse my second cycle, when we were in Italy for our annual August vacation. This time, it was ninety degrees outside and oppressively humid, and we were walking everywhere to say hello to all the relatives and old friends. I wasn’t allowed to wear tampons (“You’re Italian, you don’t wear tampons!” Mama had decreed) because they would steal my virginity (and then what? I would be forced into a shotgun marriage with a box of Tampax?). Unfortunately, I had a really heavy flow, and I had to use four pads at a time, fashioning them into a bulky Kotex diaper that anyone around me could hear squishing as I walked. As we toured the town with me in my period pants, hot and miserable and crampy, I would look for the nearest place to sit down when we ducked inside the hair salon, bakery, or wherever Mama, the grand marshal of our little parade, decided to stop. When we went inside our family friend Maurizio’s clothing store, everyone was greeting each other while I sat off in a corner with my eyes half closed, mouth-breathing over my braces, my bad perm sticking out in ten different directions, and I overheard Maurizio suddenly ask, “But where is Giuliana?”

  “Giuliana? She’s right over there!” my parents exclaimed, pointing to me like a zoo specimen.

  “That’s Giuliana?” Maurizio said, remembering the little blond angel who had left Naples six years earlier. His voice dropped lower, but I could still hear him. “What’s wrong with her? Is she…” Political correctness hadn’t made it to Italy yet, and my eyes flew open at the Italian word. “…A mongoloido?” My parents seemed shocked and swiftly set the record straight:

  “No, she just has her period!!”

  Worried that I might leave the wrong impression elsewhere as I traipsed through Naples in my period pants, my family made it a point to inform anyone and everyone from then on that Giuliana was menstruating.

  So there was no possible way I could end up embarrassed on a reality show. It’s pretty much impossible to offend me. I’ve been immunized for life.

  “We can use it for good instead of evil,” I urged Bill. Honestly, we didn’t have any big issues to reveal, and we were both so committed to maintaining integrity and authenticity that the only way we would sign an agreement was if we were allowed to produce the show ourselves rather than handing the steering wheel over to someone else. Granted, that would give us the power to refuse to air footage if we chose, but that wasn’t our motive and we never exercised that option: We wanted an ironclad guarantee that what viewers saw was our unaltered reality. No ginned-up story lines, and no major cast members except us. Friends we’d never met would not suddenly materialize to go on vacation and fight with us. Bill agreed to give it a go.

  When we went to the semiannual Television Critics Association press tour in Pasadena, California, where networks present their new lineup of shows to over two hundred columnists, critics, and reporters at once, the very first question out of the pack was one we’d asked ourselves:

  “Why would anyone watch the two of you?”

  I said something along the lines of us feeling that people were hungry for something more positive, that this was just the beginning of a new trend, a whole wave of reality shows that were more down to earth and that people could relate to. “We want to inspire people, not disgust them,” I explained. The critics’ reaction seemed to waver between total disinterest and open hostility. When we walked off stage, Bill looked at me with something just short of terror in his eyes. “Maybe this is not such a great idea,” he said.

  Back on stage, the press was gobbling up another new E! reality offering: Leave It to Lamas, featuring Lorenzo Lamas’s multi-divorced family and a story line revolving around his grown daughter’s attempts to reconcile Lorenzo and the son who no longer spoke to him. Mike Fleiss, who produced The Bachelor and was behind the Lamas show, was going on and on about the drama and scandal this family had to offer when a reporter jumped in and said, “The Rancics were just out here, and they said people are tired of that sort of thing and are craving positive reality shows.” Mike gave him a sardonic smile and replied, “That show won’t last one season.” Funny thing is, the Lamases were gone in four episodes; we’ve aired over eighty. When it came to real-time drama, we would turn out to have more than enough to spare.

  On the first day of filming, we were expecting two cameras, an audio guy, and a producer to show up. Instead, we opened the door of my one-bedroom Wilshire Boulevard condo to a traveling circus of fifteen people, including two executive producers, a network executive, and a director. Two trucks were blocking valet parking, people were loitering in the hallway because they couldn’t all fit into our living room, and building management was freaking out and telling us we needed various permits. We needed more than that. Some Valium, for example: Bill was ready to pop my head off my body. Our supposedly low-key little glimpse inside the life of two newlywed lovebirds was suddenly a Spielberg movie. Our little kitchen was overtaken by the day’s catered spread for the crew, while the rest of the condo was busy getting an unwelcome makeover. Big paper globe lanterns known as China balls were permanently affixed to the ceilings of our bedroom, kitchen, living room, bathroom, and closet. Filters were put over all the can lights in our ceiling, and our windows were coated with a dark tint. Sloppily, it turned out; Bill was super pissed when he saw all the bubbles left behind. It felt like we’d signed the wrong contract and had accidentally agreed to let moles flip our house.

  “Um, so you take this all down at the end of the day and put it back again next time, right?” I said brightly.

  “Oh, no, we’re going to leave it here for several months,” the producer replied. “We’re shooting ten episodes.”

  After they called it a wrap that afternoon, Bill surveyed the muddy footprints, half-eaten sandwiches, empty toilet-paper rolls, and other assorted debris left behind.

  “This is so invasive,” he complained.

  It didn’t get any better, but I kept trying to make excuses until I ran out.

  “Maybe we could live somewhere else and just come here to film,” I suggested. Bill looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

  “That’s not reality, honey,” he said. Integrity is one of Bill’s sexiest qualities, but it can also be one of the most frustrating when he feels like he has to examine everything so carefully under his personal microscope. Sometimes you just have to live life ad-lib. From the get-go, Giuliana and Bill was a major bone of contention between us, and we argued about it constantly. But you can’t break that invisible “fourth wall” on TV and talk about being on TV while you’re on it. So the very subject that was dominating our lives and causing the most friction was taboo when the cameras were around. Instead, we’d have to pretend we weren’t pissed off when the crews arrived, and sit and talk about our day.

  External Me: “So how was your day, honey?”

  Internal Me: Just be nice for the fucking cameras, Bill, is that too much to ask?

  External Bill: “Good! How was yours?”

  Internal Bill: Actually, I’m terrible, because I had no idea I was marrying a camera whore!

  External Me: “Good, I just found out I’m interviewing Angelina Jolie next week!”

  Internal Me: It’s not my fault you come across as such a stick-in-the-mud.

  External Bill: “That’s great, honey! So, I went to check out a new building I’m thinking of buying today.”

  Internal Bill: And maybe after I kill you for getting us into this, I’ll bury your body in the foundation.

/>   External Me: “Really? That sounds exciting!”

  Internal Me: Maybe I should’ve just held out for George Clooney, after all.

  Every scene that first season, we’d watch and then second-guess afterwards. Did we say too much? Not show enough? Bill thought I was being too candid; I thought he was being too uptight.

  “This isn’t going to work if you won’t open up!” I lectured him.

  “Well, you’re acting like an over-exaggerated version of yourself!” he shot back. When we gave our separate on-air interviews—the ones they call “confessionals”—we would sometimes end up surprised by the other person’s take on whatever had just happened. Watching later, we would look at each other: “Really? That’s what you thought?” Bill would be surprised when I dissed some friend of his he thought I liked; I would be pissed when the camera caught him being curt with my mother and rolling his eyes behind her back when she was bugging him while he was trying to work.

  “Why do you want to do this so bad?” Bill was getting exasperated. He kept issuing dire predictions about Giuliana and Bill hurting our marriage; I kept insisting that our marriage was stronger and bigger than our reality show. Giuliana and Bill were like some passive-aggressive clone couple whose sole purpose was to aggravate us to death so they could take over our life. It’s true that I was getting most of the attention. Reality shows tend to favor women more than men—shopping, lunching, and gossipy spa days are always good fodder for the cameras. Women make up the majority of the viewers, and they’re not interested in watching guys sit around and talk about Sunday’s big game or how the market is doing. There’s a much finer line for men to walk on reality TV: guys who participate too much will draw resentment and ridicule for being wannabe Housewives (witness Slade Smiley from Orange County and Simon van Kempen from New York), but the ones who balk and just lurk in the background can end up vilified as selfish jerks or just plain shady. Producers loved it when they got me in some funny, relatable predicament like buying an oversized, overpriced sofa behind Bill’s back, but then Bill would end up the killjoy talking on camera about budgeting and finances. The straight guy never gets credit.

  “You can’t have Lucy without Desi, honey,” I’d try to appease him.

  It would have been easy enough for him to sneak out and buy some piece of furniture he really wanted, or stage something else to “get even” with me on the show, but that wouldn’t be Bill in real life, and he wasn’t going to sacrifice authenticity for Q scores. He stuck to his guns and played it real, and the tables actually turned: men started tuning in because they liked the way Bill thought and had been in situations like his in their own relationships; women started scolding me on social media for spending too much on the stupid couch. Bill still felt aggrieved. Adding insult to injury, I would show up looking glamorous because I was coming home from shooting E! News or Fashion Police, or hosting some red-carpet event, which meant I had the benefit of professional hair, makeup, and wardrobe people, while Bill was stuck with whatever was clean in his own closet and whatever hair gel was in our bathroom. (Reality stars have to provide their own glam squads and wardrobes.) When we added all the aggravations up, the show was more of an effort than it was worth in the beginning. The only reason we didn’t walk away mid-season was because of my separate relationship with the network, and the fact it would be my boss we were letting down.

  “You know what?” I told Bill. “Let’s just do one season, and we’re done. One and done, okay?”

  That first season was pretty dreadful, both on air and off. One entire episode was spent picking out lanterns for our brownstone on Chicago’s Gold Coast. Should we go bigger or smaller? This shape, or that one? Who would want to watch thirty minutes of that? I wondered later. At one point, I had even tried to convince Bill that lanterns were “like choosing your earrings with a little black dress—they’re what makes the dress pop!” Next thing we knew, people were quoting that line all over the place. It was a good reminder that what our audience wanted to see was everyday life.

  Even though being on the show was stressful, watching it was actually having the opposite effect: It was like free therapy. I would see myself incessantly taunting Bill about a cheesy piece of art an ex-girlfriend had given him depicting a sax player with his cheeks puffed out and think, Am I really that annoying? Bill, on the other hand, was troubled by his own seriousness. That reluctance he still had to just let go when the cameras were around was detracting from how funny—and fun—he really is. Watching himself, he gradually became more relaxed and patient. (“You’re right, honey. I was too tough on you. It looks great and we use it all the time,” Bill conceded when he saw the infamous sofa episode.) I worked on turning myself down a notch or two: when you have the luxury of seeing yourself played back on TV after the fact, you realize that you never sound or look exactly the way you think you do. Learning to compromise and not be right all the time is a big lesson for any couple, especially when you’ve already been independent for so long before you married. Giuliana and Bill showed us what we were doing wrong, and probably saved us thousands of dollars we would have spent having a marriage counselor tell us the same thing. Watching our best and worst behaviors playing out on the screen, we saw how we bonded, and how we drove each other away. We could correct course as we went. The reality show kept us in check.

  That first summer after our wedding, Bill and I decided to “pull the goalie from net,” as he likes to put it, and start trying to have a baby. Growing up in close-knit clans had made both of us yearn for a big family of our own, and with me at thirty-five and Bill at thirty-eight, we didn’t have time to waste. When I still hadn’t conceived by Christmastime, I consulted my ob-gyn. He suggested we try artificial insemination to turbo-boost my aging eggs.

  “What about him?” I demanded, shooting Bill an accusatory look. “He has old sperm!”

  “Excuse me?” Bill objected. “I do not have old sperm. My sperm is amazing! You have old eggs!”

  From that point on, our pet nicknames for each other became Old Eggs and Old Sperm, or just OE and OS. People were horrified, especially when Bill called me Old Eggs on air, but hey, I was going on thirty-six and my eggs were old. It may have been lame, but that stupid private joke made us laugh, and we were going to need that.

  I would have to give myself shots in my belly for the week leading up to insemination. The first two days, I was too nervous and went to the doctor’s office to have them do it. The third day, I did it myself with the nurse coaching me. By the fourth needle, I was okay with doing it myself. We would come to the doctor’s office right when I ovulated, and a market-fresh sample of Bill’s sperm would be washed and concentrated into a team of top candidates, which would then be inserted into my uterus via catheter. It was relatively quick, minimally invasive, and even though it didn’t have as high a success rate as in vitro fertilization, where the sperm and egg are fertilized in a petri dish and then transferred to the mother’s uterus, it was worth trying.

  The production crew trundled into the doctor’s office with us and commandeered a nurse’s station to set up their equipment and lay out their catering for the day. “No way in hell,” Bill said when the cameras tried to follow him down the hallway as he carried his little plastic cup to a private room. We also barred cameras from filming the procedure itself, but we let them come into the room afterward, when I was supposed to just lie on my back with the table slightly inverted, and stay as still as possible for thirty minutes. It was awkward. At home, or running around doing stuff together, Bill and I had gradually learned to ignore the cameras and forget that we were miked. You’re never not aware that they’re there; you just stop caring that they are. But this was so intimate. I was supposed to keep quiet, Bill was holding my hand, and everyone hovering in that exam room was basically waiting for my egg to invite some passing sperm to stick around for Cap’n Crunch. Were we expecting some sound effect to confirm it so the news could be relayed to the production command center in the nurse’
s station? (“We have contact, copy that…”)

  Afterwards, Bill was upset. “That was so intrusive,” he remarked. That was another one of our hot buttons about the show: Bill was the “No” guy, more likely to ban the cameras than I was; knowing this, the producers naturally tried to pull end runs around him and ask me first. “I’m the one everyone hates for always saying no, and you’re always saying yes,” he grumbled. Getting on the same page 100 percent of the time was never going to happen, given our different natures, and we never really knew how far we were willing to go until we were in the actual situation. We agreed wholeheartedly about sharing our struggle to have children, but the boundaries shifted as unpredictably as our life did; we had fully expected a quick, happy ending. Infertility hadn’t touched either of our families—both my sister, Monica, and Bill’s sister, Karen, had beautiful children and no problems conceiving. I was otherwise healthy and fit, with no history of endometriosis or other conditions that might impact my ability to get pregnant. Bill was perfectly healthy, too. We were one of the countless unlucky couples diagnosed with “unexplained infertility.”

  Artificial insemination carries a high risk of multiple birth, because you don’t know how many of the eggs will be fertilized. Oh my God, I’m going to be the next Octomom, I thought. We would have to convert a tour bus for all the car seats. I would have to get some kind of industrial breast pump, maybe a milking machine from a dairy or something. When I calmed down, I settled into the happy certainty that we were going to have twins. I was certain of it, and Bill eagerly bought into what I believed to be my woman’s intuition, too.

  A month later, we learned that I wasn’t even carrying one baby. I felt disappointed, but we decided to try another round of IUI. Still no baby. After a third attempt with no results, my gynecologist told us it was time to consult a fertility specialist. We did some research and made an appointment to start this tougher journey.