Leggy Blonde: A Memoir

by Aviva Drescher

  They all eat differently. Every night our home is like a restaurant and every child gets a different meal according to his or her needs. (I am such a sucker.) The other night, Veronica said, “You know, the food here is like gourmet food.”

  I said, “Oh, my God! Thank you!”

  Then Harrison chimed in, “It’s not a compliment, Mom. Kids hate gourmet food.”

  On any given night, I will make a salad and piece of grilled chicken for Harrison, who has a big appetite and can only fill up if he eats a lot of veggies. For Veronica, who is super skinny and picky, I stir-fry some shrimp and carrots. Every night, I boil pasta for her, in case she refuses to eat the other options. Hudson was diagnosed with a feeding disorder and a failure to thrive as a baby. At age one, he couldn’t eat solid food and was severely underweight. A therapist had to come to the house five times per week to exercise his oral motor muscles. We managed to get enough calories in him without a feeding tube. But he still struggles, and only eats a few types of food: ravioli, pizza, chicken fingers, fries, and meatballs. He has never tasted a fruit or a vegetable in his life. He won’t put them in his mouth. Sienna is the only kid who will eat anything. For my husband, I do my best to keep our dinners healthy and fun. The meat is grass fed, the chicken free range and organic. I use plenty of anti-inflammatory, anticancer turmeric and cumin. Our fruits and vegetables are pesticide free. I serve antioxidant-rich blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries for dessert. It’s a bit of a buzz kill.

  I cook with stainless steel only. None of my cookware has Teflon or nonstick surfaces. I avoid aluminum foil. I am a supporter of Trash Cancer, Fran Drescher’s charity that educates people on how to lower the level of carcinogens in their home. I know it all sounds very obsessive and overprotective. Look, anyone can get hit by a truck or get cancer. You never know what’s going to happen. But, in my opinion, you can stack the odds in your favor by avoiding pesticides and chemicals in the food you eat.

  I realize I’ve picked up a little of my father’s obsessiveness about food. But the only fad I follow is whole, organic, healthy. Like Dad, I take vitamins, including D and C, a multi, and fish oil supplements. We all do (except Veronica). I do loosen up and put out junk food for special occasions. If we have a Super Bowl party, I will serve Doritos, even soda. (Not Coke, though. That stuff puts me over the edge.) We will do sliders and pigs in a blanket, although I think hot dogs are toxic. Nitrates are the worst.

  They’re just four fairly normal kids in a fairly normal family. Now you know my secret: I really am a real housewife and real mother, not a reality character. How boring!

  • CHAPTER FIFTEEN •

  Housewives

  In season five of The Real Housewives of New York City, shortly after arriving in Saint Bart’s, I got into a screaming match with Ramona and Sonja and called them both “white trash.” White trash? Really, Aviva? God, who is that bitch, that shrieking banshee? I know one thing. It’s not me. It couldn’t be. I don’t speak to people like that. I’m a good person, devoted to family and public service. I try to be sensitive, tolerant, kind, generous, and loving. Did I really just call those women “white trash”? It couldn’t be me.

  All right, it was me. Well, not me, per se, but me in an altered state. I did argue; I did fight; and I did call them by that vile phrase. How do these things happen? I was trying to preserve my dignity, and oopsy—I blew it. For myself at least.

  I could give you a number of lame excuses—excuses that are true, mind you, but excuses nonetheless. And frankly, there really isn’t any excuse for my behavior. I’m ashamed of myself. I apologized and tried to make things right on the reunion show in hopes that Ramona and Sonja could forgive me. The good news is that I was brought back for another season of Housewives.

  I get a vibe from some people that they think I believe that I’m in some way better than them, that I’m a snob. Maybe I am a bit of a snob. The thing is, it’s not that I think I’m better than they are, it’s just that I like my taste more than I like theirs. It’s just human nature. I prefer my Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to your, say, Stouffer’s Macaroni and Cheese. I’m not judging your goddamn white-trash macaroni and cheese. I just like mine better. I don’t think that makes me a snob. I try not to make a show of my taste. But I tend toward the classic styles in literature, music, dress, and art. Those of us who do will always be accused of snobbery. Still, there’s nothing elegant about saying what I said. I felt attacked. And I’m not pretty when I’m attacked. I surprised and shocked myself when that über-cranky bitch came out. I am usually pretty unruffled—unless you screw with my family. Then the mama bear comes out. So I’m copping to it: that nutty lady is a small part of me. A footnote, I hope, and I want you to have the full story. That’s why I wrote this book.

  I know a lot of readers probably skipped right to this chapter to get the “dirt” on The Real Housewives. And believe me I understand. I probably would have done the same thing. But before going on, I’d love it if you went back to the beginning and read about my life up to this point. My turning into a Real Housewife is much more interesting if you know how I got there.

  And, oh, by the way, there really isn’t any dirt. One thing about The Real Housewives . . . it’s all up there on the screen.

  I watched The Real Housewives of New York City sporadically during its first several seasons. I didn’t think I related to it much, but it was well done, the women seemed interesting, and what the hell—I watch TV for escape. One night, I turned it on in bed with Reid. He was horrified.

  “I’m never watching this again,” he said. “It’s banned.” I didn’t argue. I’m going to get into a fight over a stupid reality show? Please. Men don’t get the appeal. Reid found it unendurable. I didn’t blame him for loathing the show. On the other hand, I can’t stand Dexter, one of Reid’s favorites, in which the hero is a serial killer. Reid insists it’s less violent than Real Housewives.

  Even though the show didn’t hold any particular meaning for me, I did get a kick out of watching LuAnn de Lesseps. We’d met before at a party at our mutual friend Maria’s house. LuAnn was standing next to me, and I said, “You are so stunning.”

  She laughed and said, “So are you!” Ha! I was pregnant with Hudson and was enormous. But I accepted the compliment. Isn’t that just so Housewives? Two women gushing about how fabulous they look at a party? Anyway, Reid and LuAnn’s husband the Count started talking. (I had no idea anyone was a Count or Countess. I did not even know what that was until the show introduced LuAnn.) The four of us had dinner one night and we tried to get together again, but it just didn’t pan out. A year later, the first season of the show aired, and I was pleasantly surprised to see her on it. I was all, Go, LuAnn! I thought that was the closest connection I’d ever have with the show.

  In the summer of 2010, my childhood friend Jake told me that Bravo was searching for a new housewife for the show. He’d described me to the producers.

  “Please let them come and interview you,” he said.

  “Absolutely not. I am not going on that crazy show.”

  But I have to admit I was intrigued by the idea. I’d never really thought about being on television, and if I had, I probably would have seen myself on something like the Charlie Rose Show—pretty much the polar opposite of Housewives. When I’d bring up this outlandish idea to friends, I was surprised how many urged me to take it seriously. “It’ll be fun.” “What’s there to lose?” “It will be good for your One Step Ahead initiative.” “You can raise awareness for your charities.” “It could lead to something bigger.” And so on. I wasn’t tempted, but I was curious. So when Jake pushed it, I agreed to an interview.

  The producers came to our house. They filmed me nine months pregnant with Sienna, which was hilarious in and of itself. When I wasn’t selected for the new season, I didn’t care either way. Sienna was born, and Reid and I were thrilled. I was grinding my own organic baby food and breast-feeding around the clock. The thought of a film crew following me aro
und was absurd. I had four kids and no idea how to juggle it all. I was starting to get overwhelmed (of course) about the avalanche of things to do.

  When the older kids were in school, I took Sienna to one of my favorite restaurants, Via Quadronno on Seventy-third Street between Madison and Fifth, to meet a friend for lunch. Valerie Cooper was my mentor, a woman I looked up to and idolized. I said to her, “How am I going to do this? How can I get them all to school and make their meals? How am I going to read them all bedtime stories while nursing and help with homework?”

  She smiled and said, “Just love them. When you feel overwhelmed, just love them.”

  It was the best advice I’d ever gotten. I’d been trying to do everything for each child, and that was what pushed me near the edge. Valerie’s words gave me permission to be imperfect. I couldn’t be with all of them at the same time. I couldn’t do everything for all of them. But I could, and did, love them. I could hug and kiss them and make them feel cherished. If that was all I did, it would be enough.

  So that was where my head was during the broadcast of season four. My days were packed with kid stuff, school and activities, homework and dinner. But I admit I did pay more attention to Housewives. Although I believed my joining the show was a dead issue, I still imagined myself among them. How would I react to this; what would I say about that. It was a fun little game I played with myself. A lot more fun, anyway, than imagining myself being interviewed by Charlie Rose.

  The year went by in a blur. As crazy as it was, I remember that as a very happy year in our lives. I was in the Hamptons relaxing with the kids, watching a movie in the movie room when I received a phone call from Jen O’Connell, the executive producer of the show, saying that they would like to reconsider me for the next season’s cast.

  At my second Real Housewives interview, I looked more like myself. My pregnancy fuzziness had cleared up. I wasn’t nauseated or green-skinned. My hair was clean, cut, and colored. They must have liked what they saw the second time around. A week later, they handed me a contract.

  Deciding to be on this reality show was one of the hardest decisions of my life. Reid and I weren’t so enthusiastic the first time around. But then we softened on the idea. It seemed, from the outside, like a fun adventure. But we had to think it through carefully. Reid and I had a lot to consider. The children, his business, our family and friends.

  I still couldn’t make up my mind. For a month, we went back and forth.

  “Let’s do it!” we agreed.

  “No fucking way are we doing it!” we agreed.

  “You have to do it,” said Sarah and my half sister Michele.

  “You’d be insane to do it,” said other friends.

  Fran Drescher said, “Break a leg—I mean that metaphorically. And lead with your philanthropy.” As a philanthropist herself, she understood exactly why I wanted to do the show. If I could help just one person, it would be worth the risk.

  My father was way into it. In the four years since Mom died, he’d been living it up in Miami. If he came on the show, he’d get attention (and dates) out of it.

  I tended to agree with my friends who said I’d be insane to do the show, but being insane has never been a deal breaker for me. What concerned me most was that the Housewives didn’t always come off so well. You could get the feeling that while they may put themselves forward as strong, confident people, they were really superficial. Their talk wasn’t about current events or what they were reading or science or global crises; it was about parties, men, nail polish, clothes. Don’t get me wrong, I can be all about parties, men, nail polish, and clothes. And certainly it wouldn’t be a problem to fill forty-four minutes of that every week, but most of the time I’m that other person. I’m not saying I’m some deep brooding genius either, but this “real housewife” is somewhere in between. My greatest fear was losing control over how I was perceived. Maybe that’s shallow in itself, but it doesn’t only affect me; it can affect my family, now and in the future; it can affect the work I do for both a career and my charities. It also affects my self-image. I will absolutely cop to being shallow in that way.

  But the reasons to say “yes” were far more practical. I was now in my forties with two degrees (including a law degree), four children, one husband, and no career. Being a real housewife and a real mom takes up all my time and gives me great satisfaction, but it’s not enough. It can be mind-numbing. Being on a national primetime series could create opportunities. It wasn’t lost on me that Bethenny Frankel used Housewives as a springboard to an industry that includes books, DVDs, products, and her own TV show.

  And I would be getting a salary! It still allowed me to contribute to my family. Not enough to make any appreciable difference in how we lived, but earning money is good for the self-esteem, and it means my generous husband doesn’t have to see my Botox bills.

  You can see from the above that I wasn’t completely altruistic in my consideration, but I did like that the show would give me a bully pulpit to advance awareness and acceptance of people with missing limbs. I wanted to show people that it was okay to be an amputee, that wearing a prosthesis was easy. I wanted to prove that amputees could do what everybody else could. When I was a girl and teenager, I didn’t know any amputees. If I’d seen one on television who was married, had a couple of degrees, was a good mother to four children, ran around to lunches and parties in New York City, I would have felt better about myself and my future. It seemed like a door opener, a great opportunity.

  The truth was, I still had one foot in the closet, as it were. Many of my friends, people I’d known for twenty years, were not aware that I wore a prosthesis. I hid and covered my leg as much at forty as I had at six. I wanted to take that final step of total exposure, which was a half step beyond total acceptance. I would expose myself for the sake of others. But I wanted an emotional breakthrough for myself, too.

  “Reid, honey, do we have any skeletons in our closet here? Any extracurriculars I should know about?” I asked him one night.

  “No!” he said. “Have you made any sex tapes, Aviva?” Nope. (Too bad. We would have become gazillionaires with a reality show and a sex tape. Oh well, you can’t have it all.)

  And finally, the most superficial reason of all—television! It may be a reality show, but it’s still fun and a whole new experience. I’m not an exhibitionist, but remember me dancing on the tables in Alexandre’s club? Well, that was me, too. It seemed cool that Perez Hilton would write lies about me; Page Six would get it all wrong; and I’d be getting a front-row seat and a back-stage pass to a phenomenal piece of pop culture.

  In the shadow of these thoughts, I found myself moving away from “no.” I believed our family life and marriage were strong enough to withstand the stress and publicity. I reckoned the novelty and celebrity the kids would enjoy would more than compensate for the inevitable teasing they might get at school. Jane might sue again or triple up on mediation appointments, but then again, Jane always might sue again.

  Oh fuck it, let’s do it.

  All else aside, whatever would happen seemed very worth it in exchange for helping others on a really large scale.

  My father always said, “Everything that you worry about never happens. But what you don’t worry about does.”

  As a professional worrier, I spent a ton of time stressing out about the hundred things that didn’t happen. The show didn’t affect my husband, our marriage, his business, or our kids. Jane didn’t sue. But I did get strung up by the press and the fans. It was all very new. Fran had warned me to have thick skin.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Reid and I signed the contract. As I prepared mentally and sartorially for filming, I took a long, hard look in the mirror. With four kids, I didn’t have the time to do that too often. Oh, boy. I didn’t love what I saw. The cameras would pick up every flaw and wrinkle, sag and bag. I had two months before shooting. That gave me just enough time to spruce up.

  Surgery Number Seven a
nd a Half: Bilateral Eyelid Lift

  I went to one of the top plastic surgeons in Manhattan and said, “I’m kind of in a rush to have the procedure and heal before I start filming.”

  He said, “I can squeeze you in, but it’ll have to be on August 20.”

  Naturally, because my lucky streak did not quit, that happened to be the day before Hurricane Irene, a monster storm that tore through New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, and New England, leaving massive devastation in its wake.

  The doctor had a weekend house on Long Island. When I arrived at his surgical suite, he made it clear that he did not want to be there. He had to get to his house and batten down the hatches before the storm hit. So his frame of mind was nasty, and here I was with my five hundred questions. His patience with my anesthesia anxiety ran out by question number two. He refused to discuss it.

  “I don’t want general,” I insisted. “Just numb the area around the eyes.”

  “We have to put you under. You can’t handle it awake,” he snapped.

  “I had my leg cut off awake,” I said, “I think I can handle an eyelift.”

  “An anesthesiologist will be in the room to put a catheter in your arm, just in case you can’t deal with it,” he said.

  “It won’t be necessary.”

  “I insist,” said the doctor.

  Reid squeezed my hand. He knew all this talk about anesthesia made me really anxious. This wasn’t the proper state of mind to be in. “I’m telling you, I don’t need it,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “Mr. Drescher, would you please leave the room?” asked the doctor.

  Reid thought he was going to examine me, so he left. When the doctor and I were alone, he screamed, “Just stop making a big deal out of this! Let the system do its job! You’re such a pain the ass!”