Deep Thoughts From a Hollywood Blonde

by Jennie Garth

  And, of course, I’ve got my three girls to look after and I’ve got other projects in the works and . . . and . . . and . . .

  The upshot is, I have no idea where this new romantic thing is going, and there’s a chance that by the time this book is actually bound and printed and in your hands things may be different in my personal life, but I’m absolutely certain of one thing: My status won’t have changed. I will still be fully in my life, fully present, and fully engaged. On all fronts. And it will all be good.

  And I won’t, I am beginning to see, ever be alone again.

  MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  You know what’s really awkward? When someone comes up to me and says, “Wow! You look just like Jennie Garth!” Or worse, “Wow! You look just like that girl Jenny, the one who wrote those parenting books and who used to pose for Playboy but is now on The View!” Or even worse still, “Hey! Are you that chick on that 913-something show? Well, you look exactly like her. I always hated that show and I hear she’s a total bitch.”

  As you very well know by now, I am kind of a shy person. So when someone calls me out and tells me I look like Jennie Garth, meaning I look like myself, it’s pretty easy for me to just smile and say, “Thank you,” with some genuine gratitude. This is much easier than getting into the fact that I am actually her, because then the whole experience just blows wide-open and becomes too unpredictable, which can get really awkward for everyone involved, so I just do us all a favor and don’t go there.

  But if someone figures it out on their own, then there’s usually a photo session with a smart phone, or maybe a request to call their friend in Nebraska, just to say hi, and they’ll put me on the phone and then I’ll have to try to convince the stranger I’m talking to that I’m really me and . . . you see? It’s just way too confusing.

  Those very occasional times when I actually do cop to being me, you’d be surprised by how many people want to argue with me about it. These exchanges usually go something like this:

  “No way. You cannot be Jennie Garth.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  “No, I am!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Okay.”

  At this point, oddly, this strange person telling me I’m not me usually becomes annoyed with me. That’s why my go-to strategy of just saying thank you seems to work best for everybody.

  When someone tells me I look like Jenny McCarthy, well, I’ve just never really known how to respond to that. I mean, the only things similar about us are our hair color and our names. (Even though they are spelled differently, and any Jennie or Jenny or Jenni will tell you in no uncertain terms that how she spells her name is highly important to her position in this world.) Jenny McCarthy is actually a friend of mine, and we’ve had several laughs over the years, because she has had the same thing happen to her, where people think she’s me. She even got some mail of mine once, which is kind of scary, because that means that even the U.S. Postal Service confuses us from time to time.

  But anyway, whenever someone confuses me with Jenny McCarthy, I’m kind of flattered, so I just smile and say, “Thank you!” and charge off without feeling like I’ve let them down in any way.

  When someone tells me I look like that mean bitch on that show they hated, I usually do a quick visual sweep of wherever I am, just to see if there’s any possibility I might make a run for it. This is when I tend to blank out for a second, the phrase “Help me!” running along the crawl in my mind, but when I come back to the moment, I just flash my gamest smile and offer a little chuckle to deflect the whole thing. Then I say, “Thank you.”

  That’s my response even when I’ve been insulted multiple times by a complete stranger.

  Thank you. It’s such an important phrase when you’re someone who is recognized on the street by people you don’t know. I mean, what else can you say when someone approaches you when you’re leaving Rite Aid with the deodorant and tampons you so desperately need? Let’s look at several linguistic possibilities and options.

  First, there’s, “Fuck you!” but that’s clearly not a very civilized, ladylike, or mindful way to behave in the world, and it’s certainly not going to win me any fans, so that’s not an option for me. Then there’s, “Excuse me?” said with just the right amount of self-righteous indignation. But ninety-nine percent of the time, if you dare say this, people just assume you’re a little deaf, and so they miss completely that you might be trying to shake them off, and they just repeat what they said, only louder, which only makes the whole encounter more awkward, and then other people usually start to stare, and . . . So why not be smart and just skip right to the “Thank you”?

  Thank you in this context is kind of like the period at the end of the sentence. In one fell swoop, you are being gracious, but you’re also ending the exchange. I mean, what else is there to say after that? Except for, “You’re welcome,” which, frankly, I don’t hear that often. Instead, what I do often hear, just as I’m about to take a bite of my lunch, is “I hate to ask you this, but . . .” and then the stranger who just said this sheepishly holds up her phone and asks if she can have just one picture of me, or a sleeve will be pushed up and I’ll be asked to sign an arm, and I oblige, but I’m always . . . always thinking. . . .

  If you hate to ask, why are you asking? And I mean that with all due respect.

  If I weren’t such a people pleaser, then maybe I’d have the balls to say something like this, but I usually say, “Sure,” or, “Of course,” and on some level I really mean it, because I know that this person—even when they’ve confused me with someone who used to date Jim Carrey—has shown some interest in me and my work, and I am always grateful for this.

  Because we all want to be liked, right? Even when we’re being told by someone we don’t know from Adam that we—or our work—suck.

  IS THERE AN APP FOR THAT?

  Sometimes I wish I could wake up in the morning and turn on an app that would be kind of like a preprogrammed personal GPS. That way all I’d have to do would be turn it on so that Siri or whatever her name is would just say, “Turn left here,” and then, “Turn right here.” And then things like, “Okay, honey. Sit down and take a breather for ten minutes.” Maybe she could even make me a sandwich. And rub my shoulders. Maybe even fold the laundry?

  Do you ever have this feeling? Do you ever find yourself, say, in your house and you’re walking with determination and then you just come to a full stop and find that you no longer have any idea of where you’re going or what you were about to do? This is where I need that Siri person to chime in and say, “You were going to get the toolbox, because you need that tiny screwdriver, because the batteries need to be changed in that little thingie. . . .”

  So there’s that kind of GPSing I could use.

  But there’s also a larger, more existential kind of guidance I’d like. I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if someone (by someone I mean an electronically soothing voice that had no discernible accent and spoke in a reliably emotionless way) chimed in and said, “You need to take on this project because it’s going to be a real game changer for you.” Or, “This is not the house you should buy, because the foundation really sucks.” Or, “I know he doesn’t look like your type, but I’m telling you . . .”

  This “Siri” would be like the ultimate life coach, spiritual guru, best friend, and mother all rolled into one: She’d be like my own private Zoltar, the fortune-teller.

  I guess I’m riffing on all of this at this particular moment because I’m still working to get my own personal bearings in a way. I mean, sure, there are the girls and all their stuff, and I have no complaints there. But after the dishes are done and the girls are off doing their own thing, sometimes I find my compass kind of goes flat and I’ll be overcome with that sense of, “What am I doing here? What is the meaning of it all?” And then I’ll get a little anxious because I feel, at least at that moment, that I’ve got to know what the next steps are and how to plot them on a
map and then how to set myself in motion.

  Broken compass. Blank map. Not sure which way to turn.

  I guess there are two ways of looking at this: I am either everywhere—or nowhere. I am either really living in the present and not worrying about the future, or I’m seriously short a game plan. Depending on what day it is, I can see this from either side. And if I’m feeling all Zen and light, it’s kind of cool not knowing what my next steps will be. If I’m feeling a bit insecure or lonely or hungry, it feels like a massive failure on my part, as though my personal transportation department has gone on strike and I’m just stranded, with no clue where I’m supposed to be headed or how to get there. But then I think (better brace yourself: This is extremely deep), do any of us really know where we’re going? Or, more to the point, aren’t we all going to wind up at the same final destination, no matter which route we take to get there?

  When I get all philosophical like this, I realize it’s not a bad way to be. I mean, people who act like they’ve got it all figured out? Well, this is me calling bullshit.

  Those people don’t have better information than I have; they’re just more confident about the bits and pieces of information that they do have.

  In the end, that’s where I could use a bit more help. I just wish I felt a bit more confident in my own GPS, wish I felt like I could pretty much count on everything being A-OK around that next corner.

  That’s why I think it’s high time someone made that app, the algorithm that crunches your deepest-longing data and gives you the road map for your one true, perfect life.

  I’ve actually given this concept so much thought that I’ve tried to make this work, using Google Maps. I’ve done things like type in the word enlightenment, and a place quite near me in LA actually popped up. Well, it was a business called something like Enlightenment and Compassionate Healing or something, and I read the review, and I’m pretty sure it’s a weed shop. But this emboldened me, so next I typed in heaven’s gate, and this turned out to be a mere 10,360 miles from my current location, in South Africa somewhere. That would entail way too many travel arrangements, so that’s out. Next I typed in peaceful valley, and that’s a reasonable 825 miles northeast, in Colorado. All I’d really have to do is gas up the ol’ Rover and . . . I’m there.

  But you know what? Maybe I don’t need a GPS at all. I mean, when I first landed in LA, I got around, got jobs, got a life, all using the big, clunky Yellow Pages and blue Thomas Guide. And before that, I did just fine without even so much as a cell phone. Maybe I don’t need someone else to invent that app after all. Maybe I’ll find my way all on my own, the old-fashioned way.

  THREE LITTLE BIRDIES

  Growing up I always had this weird sixth sense that one day I was going to give birth to three boys. I don’t know why, and at least I got the three part right. Whether it’s girls or boys, once you become a parent, you are forever transformed. We are all, mothers and fathers, hardwired to care for our little cherubs, and I feel certain that, were I ever put in the terrible predicament of risking my life in order to save one of my girls, I would do it without question.

  I think that’s the big gift of parenthood: It takes your focus off of yourself and turns it outward, so that it rests on others. Your selfishness becomes something else, something . . . selfless. There are degrees of selflessness, of course. You’ve all heard the instruction that is repeated, whenever you are buckling up on an airplane, to “put the oxygen mask on yourself first.” This reminder is particularly important for those traveling with small children, because were the shit to hit the fan thirty-five thousand feet up, most of us would dive for the wee ones, then keel over for lack of oxygen before we could be much help to them. So it’s helpful to be reminded to take care of yourself first, especially if, like me, you tend to be a people pleaser and to neglect yourself—and your needs—by busying yourself with the needs of your kids.

  No one, of course, asks us to do this. But then again, no one is encouraging most young women who are single and working and doing what they can to be a sound family of one to take good care of themselves either.

  I think it’s all about finding that balance point: the fulcrum where you can sit and see it all, while being pretty still and undisturbed.

  I know it’s taken me raising not one, not two, but three kids—all girls—to even begin to realize that I’ve been doing a pretty lousy job of putting that oxygen mask on myself first.

  But, hey: It’s never too late, right?

  This past summer I watched my eldest, who is in high school, head across the country to attend a summer program at a university three thousand miles from us. In New York City. On her own. Watching her leap out into the world with such a strong sense of who she is and such a strong sense of safety and security, I know her dad and I have really done something right. Not to mention the rest of the wise and loving village of friends and family around her, around us, that has helped us raise her well.

  You’ve got to be strong to be a woman these days, and all of my girls have moxie in spades. My littlest, who is all of seven, bowls me over with her awesome fierceness. She is all girl, and she will not be taking any shit. From anyone. Including her mom and dad. But she’s the opposite of a brat: She’s just got lots and lots of self-respect. I like that in a girl. I love it in my girls. And I love it in myself.

  All three of my little birds work hard, play hard, and love well. They aren’t afraid to make mistakes, to roll up their sleeves and get dirty, to lose the game, to be cut from the team. They’re also not shy about sharing their feelings or their opinions. They are amazing.

  I have no idea why, but for some reason, when I was very young, I latched onto the notion that I was meant to be treated like a princess, and that getting up onto the pedestal—and staying there—was the ultimate goal. Where on earth did I pick up this twisted message? Maybe I equated being the baby of a big, blended family—where I always got my way, was always fawned over—maybe I mistook all that doting to mean I was somehow special. Or maybe I was raised in a time when too many Disney fantasy messages were subliminally seeping into my very porous brain. In the end, it doesn’t matter where I picked up the “princess” attitude: I held on to it for too long, and in truth, it just messed me up for a lot of years.

  I wish I had been knocked off my pedestal earlier in life, before I’d done so much damage—the kind of damage one inflicts on others when one has lost her grounding and convinces herself that she’s above it all. I’m not suggesting you need to go knock your kids off their pedestals, literally. I just know—belatedly, it seems—that overromanticizing things negates them. Always looking for the fantasy means you miss out on what is really in front of you. When your head is always in the clouds, in terms of what you believe you deserve, you are bound to experience heartache and disappointment, rather than joy and love.

  There is a way to be realistic and loving and kind and lovable all at the same time, and I’ve spent the better part of my adulthood scrambling around trying to find the person who can show me the way to this more mature way of being. But guess what. Here’s where the whole selfless thing just gets turned inside out: The only way you’ll find that kind of deep, peaceful contentment is to look within. To turn to yourself. Once you get acquainted with yourself and get real and honest with yourself, only then can you even think about becoming selfless.

  For the past couple of years, I’ve really gotten this, and so I’ve begun to pour all the energy and resources I used to spend on gurus and shrinks and elixirs and retreats into studying, thoughtfully and gratefully, human relationships. I want to know everything about them: how they work and why they work. I can see now that being in a healthy relationship takes two capable and willing people, each of whom is really good at living his or her own life—so good, in fact, that each is primed and ready to share that life with another. In this kind of loving, intimate exchange, there is just no room for a princess. Ironic, isn’t it, that I began doing this work at the time when I was
no longer in a relationship for the first time in my adult life. But of course! I’m still settling that oxygen mask onto my nose and learning not to fret about whether or not it’s messing up my hair.

  More than anything, I want to be a good role model for my girls, or at least a realistic one. I want them to see that I’m strong enough to make mistakes and wise enough to learn from them. That I may be old in their eyes, but that I haven’t stopped growing up. They have seen me fall for sure; they’ve been right there, front and center, when I crumpled and cried. Sometimes I cringe when I realize that they’ve seen the real me—the person with all the messy, complicated feelings—and not the polished blonde with the impeccable makeup and the flawless, handsomely-paid-for style. Sure, they’ve gotten the red-carpet me, but even better, they’ve gotten the real me, the one who struggles and falls and fails, and I do not regret that.

  And I want my girls to feel things—I mean, really feel them. I don’t want them to just skate through life—I want them to be fully engaged. Fully present. Fully alive.

  I will know I’ve loved really well and that I’ve become a successful person when I get to see my three little birdies spread their wings and fly.

  DEEP THOUGHTS

  Now you know it’s true: We blondes really do have deep thoughts. I mean, just today I thought: I wonder why Ray’s Pizza stopped using canned mushrooms and started using fresh? Dang it, I hate fresh mushrooms.

  Since I’m into being honest these days, I will say I have spent a fair amount of my blonde life doing everything possible to avoid having to think or, more frankly, feel things on too deep a level. I don’t know if it was just a control thing or a princess thing or a sorry combination of both, but when it came down to juggling the hard feelings we’re all handed, well . . . let’s just say I dropped more than my fair share of balls in my day.