by Jennie Garth
BUILDING OUR BOAT
Peter and I had definitely taken the road less traveled. First came love, for sure, but instead of marriage, we had jumped right to the baby carriage. Now, I can’t see doing it any other way, not only because having Luca was the best thing that had happened to both of us, but because it gave us the time, as Peter used to say, to “build our boat.” This meant that we took our time to work on creating a relationship, a family, that would have staying power. And we were, by the time 90210 wrapped, doing a pretty good job of it.
When he proposed to me, I knew that it meant so much to him, to us—more than I can even describe here. It was so much about our both wanting to stand before our families, not only in honor of each other, but in honor of them, and to acknowledge how gratefully interconnected we felt. Getting married was a decision that I knew took Peter a while to come to. I knew he had given it so much thought and consideration. I took this really seriously and even converted to Catholicism so we could have a traditional Catholic wedding mass.
I loved the planning of it. I decided on a white-and-deep-red theme. We decided to make the wedding something of a “queen’s affair,” because Peter had three older sisters serving as his attendants that day, and I had three of my sisters attending me. The half dozen sisters were joined by his three best childhood friends, and Tori and Tiffani and Andy, my best mom-friend, rounded out our dozen by serving as my bridesmaids. They all looked so gorgeous in their strapless deep-ruby-red gowns.
I loved my dress, a stunning creation by the designer Reem Acra. My dress was so dramatic, especially the train, which was superlong and embellished with a huge, hand-stitched silver cross at the bottom. It had a swooping, off-the-shoulder neckline that was so romantic. Sweet Luca would also be wearing a Reem Acra gown that had been custom-made for her to match mine. I knew Peter would love this.
But even more dramatic was my hair, which had been shot through with chunks of honey brown. It was piled on my head in a way that seemed to take many of our guests by surprise. It was edgy and unexpected and daring, which was just what I wanted to complement my traditional gown. I loved it! But it did, I’ll admit, look a bit like my hairstylist, Kelly, had set a fountain on the top of my head.
Luca looked like an angel that had dropped straight down from heaven. She had her luscious ringlets set just so, and her dress was adorned with a deep red sash, the same color as the bridesmaids’ dresses. She solemnly carried a small wicker basket filled with fresh red rose petals. Just as she was about to make her way down the aisle, the priest told her not to just strew the petals along the white runner, but to actually hand a petal to each of our one hundred and fifty guests. Luca took this job quite seriously, and this meant those little fingers took one red rose petal out of that basket at a time. This took great concentration on her part, and I watched, my heart breaking with the overwhelming adorableness of her, as she carefully chose each rose petal and then handed them off: “Here’s one for you, Uncle Bob; one for you, the lady in the hat I don’t know; one for you, Kevin Spacey, since you just worked with Daddy; one for you, Jason Priestley, because I’ve known you since before I was born.” I just watched her in awe and tried to be patient, because it took her a good ten minutes to make it to the altar.
And then, when she finally got there . . . my dad took my hand. Yes! He had miraculously made it to wedding number two. He was a little wobbly, for sure, but he looked so handsome and debonair in his bespoke suit. I rested my hand on his arm and we began our slow walk down the aisle. I was in tears before I was even halfway to the altar. It just overwhelmed me how beautiful and serene the church was, how everyone we loved best in the world was there, holding their breath with such fierce love as I made my way to Peter, who was looking at me with such intensity. Though there was a moment, strangely, when I looked over at him during one of the readings and I noticed that he was looking off into the far distance, with a focus on something that was way, way beyond where we were. I remember wondering, just for a split second, where he was. But that moment passed, and when we came together, face-to-face to say our vows, we held each other’s hands tenderly and tight. At one point I began to cry again, and I dropped my tissue down into the bodice of my gown, and without missing a beat, Peter took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dried my eyes. It was one of those moments, the kind you never forget.
Our reception was a rocking, relaxed party, and I’m pretty certain everyone had a great time. My favorite moment? Dancing with Peter, Luca held between us, the three of us laughing so hard. We were like the Three Musketeers, ready to embark on life’s next great adventure. Together.
Our boat was built. And there, in that idyllic little chapel, we had just set sail.
ALL ABOARD!
I was stoked about my life. And now I was stoked about work again. I’d just heard from my friend Peter Roth, the head of Warner Bros. Studios, that the pilot of a new comedy that I’d lobbied hard for, and which he’d had the faith to cast me in, was going to be picked up. The show was called What I Like About You, and costarred a talented young actress, Amanda Bynes. This news meant we would be going into a full season’s production, and Peter Roth wanted me to appear at the “upfronts” in New York, where the show would be unveiled. The upfronts are a lavish series of events where the networks release their fall lineups and trot out some of their stars. Advertisers clamor for airspace on the “hot” shows, and there’s a feeding frenzy of deal making, parties, and press appearances. All in all, it’s a pretty great time.
And I was feeling great, too! I was in smoking-hot shape, having finally gotten my body back after baby number one; my little family was going to travel with me; and, it’s worth mentioning, I was finally back to being blonde. It’s no coincidence that I landed What I Like About You as soon as I gave up the brunette experiment. Knowing I was about to begin a great full-time gig meant it was the perfect time for us to take a trip east: We’d both get in some business and we’d get to spend time with Peter’s family. We were ready. Let’s do this. Let’s get on that train!
Train, you say?
Peter and I were still in the middle of our “no airplanes for us” phase that we’d adopted right after 9/11. Plus, we took Luca with us wherever we went, and somehow or another we’d gotten all goo-goo eyed and romantic about taking the train across the country. I fantasized about our being tucked into a sleeping berth that was romantically cramped, like the train car that Eva Marie Saint and Cary Grant steamed up in North by Northwest, except ours would have a wee trundle bed in it for Luca. We’d feel like pioneers, making our way across this great land of ours, and we’d marvel, in awe, at all of the beauty around us.
I guess I should have been tipped off by the brochure Peter shared with me:
“Save money and make memories when you take the kids on a journey they won’t soon forget. They’ll take in the wonder and fun of the train, while you enjoy a trip without baggage fees and traffic stops. So whether gazing out the window or cuddled up with a book or movie, the fun just keeps on going.”
And let me tell you, the fun really did just keep on going. Just before we were set to depart, I found out that we would be traveling with a stowaway: I was pregnant! Little Lola would be on board too . . . in my belly.
Now we had all the more reason to celebrate—we would spend five glorious days together, taking in all that wonder; then we’d land and get to share our fabulous news with the Facinelli side of the family.
But here’s what that brochure failed to mention. The “wonder” is how they cleverly design those family cars. This sleeper car included a couch and chair, and when you lifted the cushion on the chair—voilà!—there was your own private commode! There was a sizable gap between the bottom of the cushion and the metal bowl, so the pleasant aroma of whatever your family member had deposited could swirl and waft into the four-by-four space we were now trapped in.
What’s even worse—especially if you’re newly pregnant and your senses of smell and taste h
ave become super X-ray sensitive—was that these very seats would become our beds at night. This meant that while we rested, our heads were just inches above the cesspool beneath that cushion. I’m sure you’re not surprised to learn that, given that our “family car” smelled faintly like the restroom at a truck stop before we even got settled in, and once we figured out why, we all opted to use the more public restrooms on the train.
In fact, we spent very little time in our “family” car, and chose instead to roam the train, exploring. For me, this meant searching for food, and let me tell you, it is not very easy to find something fresh and nutritious on a vehicle that is chugging through shockingly vast empty swaths of our country. I’m a pretty picky eater to begin with, and I’m largely vegetarian, so eating on that train turned out to be one of the great unplanned “fasts” of my life. I don’t mean to be unkind, but the food on that train, which was all shrink-wrapped and slightly soggy, made McDonald’s seem downright free-range fresh, and so I tended to nibble on whatever fresh fruit I could scrounge up.
We would, however, stop from time to time, so they could change engines and so we passengers could step off and take in a bit of fresh air. Once, somewhere in the middle of the country, as soon as I stepped off the train, I smelled popcorn. There! Across the tracks, tucked into a strip mall, was a movie theater. Without a thought, I just all-out sprinted across those train tracks and ran into that movie theater and ordered a large popcorn, extra butter and salt. It was the best meal I had during those five days.
And then there was the sleeping part of it all. I’ve already let you in on the little under-the-mattress-there’s-a-toilet secret, but then there was the challenge of actually sleeping on a moving train. I don’t know why it was, but during the day, the train seemed to meander across the land at a lovely, just-right pace that felt almost kind of hypnotic and dreamy. But at night? That’s when I guess they made up for all the time they lost driving at a reasonable pace during the day, because all of a sudden, almost as soon as the sun went down, they floored it and you found yourself kind of hanging on for dear life while the train transformed into a giant metal heat-seeking missile that was hell-bent on reaching its target. The clickety-clack of the wheels on the tracks became an incessant clanging, and the cars moaned and buckled and swayed like mad against the crazy velocity. Trying to sleep while all this was going on defied the body’s logic, which was convinced you were on a runaway death trap and so was constantly braced for impact. Peter and I would clutch on to each other, snuggled up under the twenty-thread-count sheets imprinted with the train logo, our heads perched at unnatural angles on those rock-hard, yet crunchy pillows, our eyes wide and unblinking, locked on each other with an “I hope we get out of this alive” intensity. It was probably a good thing that the rocketing train was so loud that we couldn’t talk; otherwise, we’d have been screaming for our lives. Of course, little Luca managed to sleep like a rock, and I remember feeling relieved when dawn would break and I could see the sky again.
Despite the fact that those five days felt like fifty, we did make it to New York alive, a little ragged and wrinkled, and more than a little motion sick, but happy to be back on Peter’s home turf and in the bosom of his big, loving Italian family. They loved it when they got to see us, especially Luca, and they were all over the moon with our news about bambino numero due.
While my family was nestled into our larger family, I got to glam all up and strut my stuff at all of these fancy “upfront” parties and events, and it felt great to hear how excited the execs and the advertisers and all the rest of the players in the television universe were about our show. And all this positive feedback was a very good thing, because I still had to tell my bosses about my pregnancy, and I wanted to do so in the least disruptive way possible, especially since I’d be playing a single gal who lives with her younger sister. I knew my bosses weren’t going to be thrilled about my news the way Peter’s nonna was; that’s for sure. But what was a girl to do?
WHAT I LIKE ABOUT YOU
After all the drama Kelly Taylor went through, I just didn’t want to be so serious anymore. I actually wanted to laugh and make people laugh, so I decided comedy ought to be my next move. I got on the phone with Mr. Showbiz and said, “Start sending me out on meetings for a comedy, a sitcom; I’m ready to make people laugh.” To which he replied, “Okay. But . . . can you be funny?”
It turns out Mr. Showbiz wasn’t the only one asking this question—even I wanted to know. So every night, after Luca went to bed, I started watching sitcoms like crazy, tuning in nightly to reruns of Friends or Everybody Loves Raymond or Will & Grace. I wasn’t watching for the escapism or even the laughs; I was watching it in order to crack the code and get a sense of the rhythm of it all. I wanted to absorb as much as I could about what made a comedy work. To Mr. Showbiz’s credit, he got me an audition pretty quickly, but it did not go as well as we’d hoped, and let me tell you, there is nothing funny about a bad audition—well, at least if it’s yours. For me, I can tell I’m tanking when I start to sweat like a pig—the flop sweats. It’s the worst. You’re trapped in a room with a casting director, maybe some executives, and you’re horrifyingly aware of how bad you are sucking, and your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, but I was just too earnest, too serious, to stop the audition and say, “Wait. This was a bad idea.” There was too much Kelly Taylor in that room with me; I was just too tightly wound.
My next audition came around, and straight to the comedy coach I went. Together we broke the scenes down line by line, talked endlessly about the characteristics that made my character say the things she did, and worked on how much faster the delivery is when you’re riffing with someone else for laughs.
I was twenty-nine at the time, and had been “unemployed” for about a year. By unemployed, I mean I was working; I just wasn’t signed up for a recurring role in an established series, like I had been for so, so long. And consequently, for the first time since I’d landed in Hollywood, I felt a bit discouraged. Before I could get too down in the dumps, though, Mr. Showbiz called to say a full-on offer had come in for me to star opposite the teen sensation Amanda Bynes in a half-hour comedy. I was stoked! And more than a bit surprised, because I still, to this day, have no idea why they took a bet on an actress with absolutely zero comedy experience.
A few days later, I met with Amanda and the producers, and it felt like my first day on 90210 when we did a table reading of the script. I felt a little awkward and a bit uncomfortable, as though somehow they knew, before they even met me, that they’d hired the wrong girl. But things went well and they felt good enough about my odds to hire me on to film the pilot.
We shot the pilot for What I Like About You in March 2002. I remember this because it was right before my thirtieth birthday, which coincidentally was also Amanda’s sixteenth birthday. When you share a birth date with someone, you are kind of karmic “twins,” and you automatically have a certain unspoken bond, just like the bond I shared with my father, who was also an April 3 baby. To celebrate our joint “big day,” the producers brought in a huge cake with both of our faces reproduced in frosting on it. It was a great way to start a new job, and it’s a birthday I will never forget.
We’d been cooped up on Soundstage 25 on the Warner Bros. lot for two weeks, prepping to shoot the pilot. In that short amount of time, I learned that comedy is way more demanding than drama. You have to be present, nimble, and ready. I felt like a featherweight prizefighter training for some big fight. There was a “training” schedule, if you will, and it ran on a weekly production clock. On the first day of the week we’d get the script, and we’d all sit around a big table and read through it. We all would read our respective parts—me, Amanda, Wesley Jonathan, Simon Rex, Leslie Grossman, and Allison Munn. Plus whatever guest stars were involved that week. The writers needed to hear their words out loud so they could tell if the jokes were working and if the dialogue was flowing and hanging together. It was all out there, and so if a joke bombed�
��or if one of us bombed in the telling of it—a note would be taken and we’d move on. I would get a little self-conscious, a little shaky in the knees, whenever my lines came up, having that same kind of terrified sense of anticipation you might have when it was your turn to talk in front of the whole class.
I learned pretty quickly that read-throughs are where it’s at: If you didn’t hit it then, you might be taken out of a scene, or at least your joke might be. So there was a level of energy to the performance, even at that early stage, that was crucial to the success of the whole. I found it pretty exhilarating. And I didn’t want to screw up and have my lines cut or be rewritten for a funnier actor.
I loved my character, Val Tyler, too. She was super-high-strung and very OCD and was always trying to be in charge of her younger, more erratic little sister. This was my first time playing the “older” person on a show, the “parent” part, if you will. And now, I was the more seasoned actor on set, with years of experience under my belt. The unpredictable-teenager part was now being played flawlessly by the lovely and incredibly professional Amanda. I feel so grateful that she was such a pro, because the truth is, I hadn’t really spent any time around teenagers, and because of my experiences with them as fans, they kind of freaked me out a little. Plus, for most of my life I’d always been surrounded by adults, so being around an actual child actor was pretty eye-opening, and it made me feel less fearful about what I’d bump up against once my Luca reached her teens.
Once we’d tackled the table read, the writers would go back to their lair and we actors would get to work, putting the show “on its feet.” This meant starting at the top and working through the whole show scene by scene. There was a lot of blocking out of movement and intricate staging for everything that was on the page.