Mommywood by Tori Spelling Read Free Book Online

psyched for her, so I made a point to watch it. The first night I turned it on, there she was, blasting me. She doesn‘t just hate me. She obsessively hates me. I‘m a running joke on her show. When the bikini shots came out she said on the air, ―So I promised I wasn‘t going to slam Tori Spelling anymore because we have the same publisher, but I just can‘t help myself. She held up the magazine, opened to photos of me. ―We just don‘t want to see this. Here I thought I was sending a positive message to women that being pregnant is beautiful and we should be proud of our bodies. Of course, Chelsea had an important message too: after comparing a person to Seabiscuit for a while, you should shift and say she looks bad pregnant, just to keep it fresh. Got that, everyone?
    On one hand, I guess she‘s using me as the butt of her jokes because she knows the public is interested. That means I‘m noteworthy. Or infamous. I‘m used to that. On the other hand, I really did think we were friends. I don‘t know what‘s more Hollywood—that she‘s busting on a friendly acquaintance for cheap laughs, or that I thought we were actually friends in the first place. Producers from Chelsea Lately actually called a couple of times to ask if I would be on the show. Why would I be on the show when she‘s so mean to me? Maybe that‘s the most Hollywood aspect of it all—that I would come on a show after being treated like that, no hard feelings, because it‘s just entertainment. It‘s not real. And besides, I‘m supposed to want the exposure that being on the show of someone who hates me would generate.
    Even at home my pregnancy wasn‘t my own to enjoy or suffer. Both my real husband and my gay husband claim to have gained baby weight when I was pregnant. The first time—with Liam—Dean ate whatever I ate just to keep me company. If I was craving McDonald‘s, he ran out to get McDonald‘s for both of us. If I wanted dip made from a packet of Lipton‘s onion soup with Ruffles potato chips, Dean wanted onion dip with Ruffles.
    Mehran, my gay husband, took this reaction to another extreme.
    When I was four months pregnant, Dean went to Canada to visit Jack. Mehran was staying with me, as he always did. I woke up at three in the morning to discover that Mehran‘s side of the bed was empty. I went downstairs to investigate and found him alone in the dark kitchen, wreaking havoc on a bag of Doritos.
    He had a midnight craving. Mehran claims that as soon as I was pregnant, he was absolutely ravenous for nine months.
    Pregnancy is the world‘s greatest excuse for decadent consumption. During my first pregnancy I went crazy with the food.

Brownie
    bites,
    old-fashioned

glazed
    doughnuts,
    microwave mac and cheese—you name it. But then I found my true craving. Dean fixed me a bowl of rocky road ice cream.
    Aha! After that Dean fixed me a bowl every single night. I‘d always been skinny, so I didn‘t worry about how much I was gaining. I was sure it would come right off after I had the baby.
    But it hadn‘t been as easy as I thought it would be. There was way too much exercise and not-drinking-wine for my taste. If possible, I didn‘t want to go through that again. So during the second pregnancy I was trying to be more mindful of what I was eating. I mean, I still wanted carbs all day long, but I tried not to eat so terribly.
    Then, two months into the pregnancy, Dean asked, ―Aren‘t you craving rocky road? Well, now that he mentioned it, I was.
    Thanks a lot. I told Dean not to buy the ice cream, but the next day he brought it home anyway. Surprise! He started bringing me a generous bowl every night. I had to eat it: I didn‘t want to hurt his feelings.
     
    That was bad enough. Then one morning, Dean asked,
    ―What do you want for breakfast? and while I was thinking it over, he said it. Those fatal words. ―How about some rocky road? The world stopped. It‘s like my eyes were opened for the first time. Rocky road