WARNING: If you are squeamish, do not read this.
WARNING: If you are a man, do not read this.
WARNING: If you are Tori Spelling, do not read this.
I've only told two people this story in my whole life.
Yeah, it's that kind of story.
But when Pickles mentioned that the Spelling Manor had finally been sold, I found myself telling her the story. And as with the one other person I had told, she was stupefied with horror and hilarity. And insisted that I spill.
And so, deep breath… here I go…
In 2003, I occasionally hung out with Tori Spelling. How that came about I won't go into, but suffice it to say I knew her well enough to be invited to dinner at the Manor one night.
Do you think you might be nervous about having dinner with uber-famous people in a 123-room, $150 million dollar house? Would you worry that you'd spill something? Break something? Do something humiliating that would haunt you for the rest of your life?
I remember it so clearly. I looked good that night. I was wearing a tank top and a cute little light-colored mini-skirt.
And a thong.
Yes, that's a vital piece of information.
There I was, sitting with Aaron Spelling and his guests as he chatted about his past in television and all the stars he had met. Thinking that he was quite charming and that maybe I was going to be okay, that maybe, just maybe, I would escape, that maybe, just maybe, I was going to make it out of there alive.
Kind of adorable, my optimism, yes?
As Aaron waxed rhapsodic about what a pill Bette Davis was, I suddenly felt something. To this day, I'm not sure if that "something" was in my nether region or in my mind, a sort of warning bell. All I knew was that I needed to go to a rest room and fast.
I asked discreetly and was directed to a guest bathroom whose furnishings cost as much as my college education. The one thing they hadn't invested in? Extra toilet paper. One slender roll hung on the golden holder. And one slender roll was not gonna suffice tonight.
Because Aunt Flo had come for a visit. Two weeks early.
But Auntie looked different. Unlike her normal slim self, the mildly annoying guest who generally came for a few days and disappeared quickly. The Aunt Flo who was visiting me at the $150 million Spelling mansion was the fat lady of the circus.
Because, and I hesitate to tell you this part of the story but at this point what does it really matter, I had suffered a miscarriage a few weeks prior. Do you know anything about the first period after a miscarriage? It's more like an exclamation point. Bolded. Underlined. Italicized. On the repeat key. Covering six pages.
I went into complete panic mode, going through the cabinets (empty), the medicine cabinet (gold-flecked handcream), the towel closet (hand towels so plush you could take a nap on one). There was nothing, NOTHING, in that room that was absorbent AND could be jammed into one's thong. Hands shaking, I unraveled the entire roll of toilet paper and re-raveled it around the dental floss that was masquerading as my underwear.
I had every intention of asking my hostess for help, but when I came out of the bathroom, she was deep in conversation with another guest. Across the room. Past Aaron who eagerly launched back into his stories as soon as he saw me.
I will now invite you into the monologue in my head:
"Tori, look at me. Look up. Look up. Look up Look up Look up. LookupLookupLookupLookupLookup."
"But what would you do if you did look up? You don't live here. Your stuff is not here. Your mother is probably menopausal. I know she has a gift-wrapping room and a bowling alley here in the house, but I doubt she has a tampon room."
"Wait! Is that the maid? The maid will help me! Maid, look at me. Look at me. Lookatmelookatmelookatme. No. No, don't say 'dinner is served'. No, please don't tell us to move into the dining room."
"I'm moving into the dining room. I'm moving into the dining room with a full roll of toilet paper between my legs. I'm not saying anything to anyone, I'm just moving into the dining room. And I'm going to sit in a minute. Sit on a chair."
"And there's the chair. It is a white silk brocade chair. And they're asking me to sit on it. They're asking me to sit on that silky white chair with my Red Sea bottom."
Now in abject terror, I quickly duck into yet another guest bathroom just off the dining room. It looks like someone has butchered a hog in my underpants. And there is a half-roll of TP hanging on the spindle.
"FOR THE LOVE OF EVERY HOLY ANGEL OF CHARLIE!!! THESE PEOPLE ARE RICH!!!! CAN THEY NOT AFFORD A SECOND FREAKIN' ROLL OF TOILET PAPER?!!"
I have no choice. I take a hand towel and wedge it in my thong. And walk very very very carefully to my silky white chair so that it doesn't fall out on the dining room floor.
And I sit on that chair. I sit on that glowy, snowy, cloud-puffy white chair. I sit on my maxi-towel on that dreamy, creamy, don't-be-streamy white chair.
And I pray. God, how I pray.
And the dinner goes on. And on. And on and on and on. I drink my red wine. I watch the juices flow out of my medium-rare filet mignon. I watch the tasteful serving cup of ketchup be passed around. And I feast on irony.
Finally, the moment arrives that I have been dreading with the intensity of a thousand episodes of Love Boat. Dinner is over. And I have to stand up.
I offer one last prayer before I do.
"God, remember that story in the Bible about the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years? I just did the equivalent of that in an hour and a half. But Jesus healed that woman and I believe you can heal the white silk brocade chair. Amen."
I stood up. And there was nothing on the chair. NOTHING. When I went to the bathroom it looked like the Battle of Antietam had been fought in my drawers, but there was NOTHING on the $150 million dollar Spelling Manor white silk brocade dining room chair.
Now how can people say there is no God?!
If you liked this post (or at least didn't pass out from the sheer stress of reading it), come on over and Like "Earth Mother just means I'm dusty" on Facebook. And I will send you a nice clean hand towel as a gift.
No. I won't. I promise.