Mommywood (11 page)

Maybe Liam knew something at that moment that none of the rest of us knew. Soon after that I finally got out of bed to get some lunch. Dean stopped me on the stairs and said, ―Mimi died about fifteen minutes ago. I started crying right there on the steps, saying, ―No! Mimi was my baby. My life. My everything. It‘s true, Mimi was raised as a baby, not a dog.

I came downstairs, memories of Mimi flooding my mind. I remembered her sitting in a makeup chair at
So NoTORIous,
eating a bacon and egg breakfast burrito every morning, living the life. I thought about the time Dean and I brought her to a bar and she hung out on a bar stool for hours, just happy to be with me. (She did poop behind the counter. It was a bar. Things happen.) I thought about the time I brought Mimi to the Malibu Country Mart in a bikini. A man saw her and said, ―That‘s disgusting.

I said, ―What?

He said, ―You put a dog in a bathing suit. You think she likes that?

I said, ―Of course! She‘s in Malibu. Mimi absolutely liked to be dressed in a style appropriate to the situation.

Oh, for so long I‘d brought Mimi everywhere with me. She was my best companion. I loved her.

All that was true, but I also felt bad about how I‘d treated Mimi in her final year, after Liam was born. I know it‘s normal to pay less attention to a beloved pet when you‘re pregnant, then taking care of a baby, then doing both at the same time, but I still regret it. I didn‘t dress her up as frequently. Because of her hips, she could only walk on carpet. When I passed by her little dog bed, she‘d whine. I always stopped to pet her, but I wouldn‘t pick her up and carry her everywhere I went the way I once did. Mimi was by all standards a well-cared-for dog. Our housekeeper Isabel was devoted to her. She walked Mimi and fed her and spent time with her. Still, I wish I‘d found a way to give Mimi ten minutes of my complete attention every day. So little time, yet it would have meant so much to her.

Downstairs, on the sofa next to Mimi‘s still-warm body, I started to melt down. When Nanny died, I wished I‘d called her back and seen her more. I told her that in the last phone conversation we had, and she said, ―It‘s okay. Just remember to call your dad. It makes him sad when you don‘t call. Nanny gave me wisdom that I could use, right then. But when my father died I had the same regret. I hadn‘t seen him for nine months. I let my discomfort with my mother overshadow all the years I‘d had with him, years that meant so much to me. The excuse that I didn‘t feel welcome only goes so far. I could have barged in and said, ―He‘s my dad. I want to see him. I don‘t care if I‘m not welcome here; I want to see him. I‘d been given these two major opportunities to learn from my mistakes, but I‘d gone ahead and repeated this mistake for a third time. Not holding Mimi for ten minutes a day was equivalent—on a dog level—to not calling Nanny or my father. I felt extreme guilt. I don‘t stay in touch with the people (and in this case, dog) I love most in the world, and then they die. I could have done more, I should have done more, and now it was too late.

Mimi was a Hollywood star, and she deserved a Hollywood funeral. I know what you‘re thinking: a memorial for a dog?—

must be just another excuse for Tori to host a theme party. But the truth is that I was dreading the memorial. I don‘t love dealing with feelings; part of me just wanted to move on. Mimi was gone. It was time to let go. Then I thought about how much Mimi loved attention, parties, and publicity. She was such a grand dame. I knew she would have wanted a big party with crowds of people paying their respects. And I knew there were many people who needed a place and a community of fellow mourners to grieve their loss. If my dog Ferris passed away, I wouldn‘t think of throwing a memorial party. That‘s not his style. Ferris would be embarrassed at all the fuss. But Mimi—

Mimi had to go out in style.

Okay, I‘ll admit it: once I was committed to hosting such an event, my party-planning passion kicked in. Mimi‘s memorial took place at a Zen tea garden in West Hollywood called Dr.

Tea‘s. It was the same spot (though the name had changed) where we had had Liam‘s baby shower. And, yes, there was a theme. So sue me. Mimi‘s signature color was pink, so everybody came to the memorial dressed in pink. There were passed hors d‘oeuvres—deviled eggs because they were her favorite—as well as pink cocktails and pink flowers on the tables. For all my reservations about the memorial service, once I was there, it was so beautiful and I felt so happy and was a little bit teary with the knowledge that Mimi was smiling down on it, loving her last moment in the spotlight.

After half an hour of cocktails, everyone gathered to watch a video tribute on a big screen. There was footage from her appearances on our show and still shots—Mimi on the lawn of our bed-and-breakfast; Mimi in my lap; Mimi lying on my pregnant belly; Mimi in a dress with boots—all set to music. Oh Liam and Stella, just you wait. There is nothing I love more than a video montage.

Every celebrity with a heart should commit to a charity she believes in. Mimi was an unofficial mascot of Much Love Animal Rescue, an animal shelter I work with all the time. Mimi regularly attended Much Love events. Her openness about her roots as a pet store puppy and about the health issues she had faced her whole life brought awareness to the problems of dogs who are inbred and poorly treated in puppy mills and pet stores everywhere. Dean came forward to read a letter from the head of Much Love. Then he announced that we were establishing the Mimi La Rue Fund for sick and injured animals in conjunction with Much Love. There were ―puggybanks on all the tables where people could make donations.

Jenny‘s husband, Norm, had sent us a poem called

―Rainbow Bridge about the doggy afterlife, which Dean read.

Then Mehran came forward and asked everyone to lift a glass of pink champagne. Mehran used to housesit for us sometimes. He always says, ―Even when I came home late, disheveled and reeking of a bar, Mimi would still cuddle. Oh, the things that Mimi saw—and she still loved me. But at that moment, when Mehran got up to make his toast, he was so nervous that he started by saying, ―Mimi was a person who was a friend of mine. Person? Jenny and I were in the front row and chuckled.

It lightened a sad moment.

Everyone was handed a little pink box. A speaker from Agape—a trans-denominational spiritual center—read a prayer, and after the prayer she asked everyone to open their boxes.

Inside each box was a monarch butterfly. We released them and they all flew out into the sky.

The famous pet psychic Sonya Fitzpatrick had done a reading with Mimi once for
Entertainment Tonight
. I thought maybe she could come to the service, but she wasn‘t available.

Someone recommended another psychic, who specialized in connecting with loved ones who‘d crossed over. She could work with people or animals, and she agreed to come.

After the service I spoke privately with the pet psychic. I told her about my guilt. I thought now that there were two babies in the house, Mimi felt unwanted and gave up on life. I wanted to know if Mimi had died of heartbreak. The psychic saw it differently (go figure). She said, ―No, Mimi was waiting for the right moment to go. It was meant to be. Mimi and Stella had an agreement before Stella was born. A bond. This was Mimi‘s time. She left this world knowing that Stella would be there for you. You‘ll see, when Stella can speak, you‘ll see that she knows who Mimi is.

Mimi was so tired in the end. She had trouble walking. She had no zest for life. She was just lying there. After talking to the psychic, I felt that Mimi had been hanging on just long enough to see me through Stella‘s birth. Mimi thought she was my protector. She knew I‘d have a girl. She was willing to let the girl take her place. She waited for Stella to come. Once I had my little girl, I was happy and she could pass knowing things were going to be okay.

In a back room, just for the family, Mimi was resting in an open casket, pink of course. She was laid out in her favorite pink dress and pearls, surrounded by flowers. We brought Ferris in to say good-bye. I took some time alone with her.

Mimi was my first baby, and even though I got most of my opinions about parenting (positive and negative) from Nanny and my parents, it was with Mimi that I got some real, hands-on practice. I remember one Halloween I brought Mimi to the set of
90210
(Mimi always went to the set with me). I started to dress her in her Halloween costume. She was going as a prima ballerina. But Mimi, who usually loved nothing more than a fancy new outfit, especially a pink one, was not having any of it that morning. As I tried to slip her tiny paws through the petite sleeves, she was struggling and crying and making it harder on both of us. I didn‘t want to force her to get dressed. She usually got so excited about it. But here it was, Halloween, the one day of the year when dressing up was really important (to me, anyway), and she picked this of all days to decide to be an ordinary, clothes-resistant dog? Time was ticking. I was late to work, and I hated to be late. I had a meltdown. I shouted, ―Mimi, be still! You‘re being a bad girl!

Mimi instantly cowered and went submissive. I got her outfit on, but now I was the one who was crying. I drove to work with tears running down my face. At work I sat in the makeup chair tormented by what I‘d done. She was a dog. I had no business forcing her to wear clothes, and I had yelled at her! I never yelled at Mimi (which may explain why she was never exactly housebroken). As they attempted to fix my mascara, I wailed, ―I‘m a bad mom! I‘m a bad mom! I was devastated.

Being a mom one day was so important to me, and I knew Mimi was my practice child. I could just see myself trying to dress my own baby, having a mental breakdown, and screaming at him. A person like me couldn‘t have children. I‘d scar them for life. I was literally in hysterics. The makeup people finally gave up and sent me to get my hair done. They‘d try again later.

I‘ve never forgotten that episode. When Liam twists and writhes, not wanting his diaper changed, I have all the patience in the world. When he throws his spoon to the floor time after time, I calmly pick it up and ask if he‘s done eating. When he isn‘t ready to get out of the pool, I remind him of all the fun things we have to do at home. I still have to work at it sometimes, but Mimi taught me patience.

Mimi saw me through a complete chapter of my life. She was there for me in my twenties. I think of those years as the time when I was really growing up and becoming an adult, and Mimi went through everything with me. Bad boyfriends, breakups, friends, my party days. We‘d all come home drunk and curl up with Mimi on the couch. Mimi saw it all. Mimi was there through my first marriage, my divorce, my second marriage, my first pregnancy, Liam‘s birth, my second pregnancy. It was as if she recognized that I was completely formed, married and settled. There were no more major ups and downs to come. Her work here was done. The Mimi years were the years that made me the woman I am today.

I said my last good-byes and kissed her. I closed the casket and they took her away to cremate her.

People
magazine posted news of Mimi‘s death in their obituary section. Not long after Mimi died, Dean and I were in a restaurant and the waiter said, ―I‘m sorry to bring it up, but my friends and I are huge fans of Mimi La Rue and we were really sad to hear about your loss. Mimi was a true star, a paparazzi sweetheart. I know she is missed.

At her memorial, the pet psychic said that Mimi will come back in some form to let me know things are okay. Ten minutes after all the butterflies that we released flew out of the tea garden, I saw one last butterfly fluttering around near Stella and said, ―Look! It‘s Mimi. Maybe it was Mimi, who can say?

Isabel, who loved Mimi so much, has transferred her devotion to Stella. She truly believes there‘s a connection. She‘ll say, ―Look how good she looks in pink. Like Mimi! and, ―Oh, Stella wears little dresses. Like Mimi! Isabel is so sweet that I never have the heart to say what I‘m thinking in my head,
Yeah,
um, lots of baby girls look cute in pink and wear little dresses.

But every so often I see a monarch butterfly in our backyard.

That seems unusual to me: I haven‘t seen a ton of monarch butterflies in my daily life, and I‘d never seen one in the backyard of any house I lived in (and a couple of those backyards were big enough to qualify as nature preserves). I look at the butterfly, watching it flit here and there in its peaceful journey, and I can‘t help wondering if that‘s Mimi, telling me it‘s all going to be all right.

When’s the Baby Due?

A
week after Mimi‘s memorial, when Stella was two weeks old, Dean and I went out for our first lunch since her birth. I was still healing from the cesarean section and hadn‘t begun to think about the baby weight and how and when I was going to get rid of it. I didn‘t have unrealistic expectations for how I should look two weeks after giving birth, but I knew other people did. When I say other people I mean the media. It was a given that how much weight I‘d gained and lost and how quickly it came and went (or didn‘t go) was going to be public fodder. People on the street would check me out, maybe whisper to one another. The paparazzi would swarm to get the least flattering shots. They would sell the photos to magazines, that would then present my postbaby body for everyone else‘s judgment. It feels a lot like construction workers staring at my tits, but more intense. As if every thought that a construction worker had was posted on a giant billboard for the world to see. For some reason people think it‘s acceptable to judge women‘s bodies as if they‘re show ponies. And I guess by posing on red carpets I‘ve made myself fair game for the less flattering versions of that spectacle. I‘ve signed on to that lifestyle.

I flashed back to a day when Liam was three months old.

Most people who knew that I‘d been pregnant now knew that Liam had been born. I was in the market, and a woman said, ―I recognize you. When‘s the baby due? Before I could answer, she grabbed my belly. My three months postpartum jelly belly. I wasn‘t ready to look at it in the mirror, much less offer it up for stranger grabbing. The perpetrator (okay, maybe she was the victim) released her grasp, realizing instantly that the baby had moved out; I started my diet that night.