Let Me Tell You Something (23 page)

I've taught my kids the same thing. We saw Bill Clinton at an event recently, and they were so excited. “Go talk to him,” I said. They all got nervous but I told them, “Remember, he's just like us, don't make me say it!” And they all went over and talked to him. He was so lovely, so gracious. He talked to them for about ten minutes and took pictures with them. They were all so elated after they met him—that man is living history, and he was so kind to them.

To this day, I've never been starstruck. I went to the White House Correspondents' dinner last year. It was a great experience, but I treated it just like any other dinner at The Brownstone. So what if I had George Clooney to my right, and Kate Hudson to my left? I focused on the guests at my table. I ended up sitting next to Ryan Kwanten from
True Blood,
and we had a blast, laughing and joking all night. I didn't feel like I had to run around and schmooze and get pictures with all the stars, I just wanted to enjoy myself.

What was weird that night—and is weird always—is the concept that I'm famous in any way, and that people sometimes have a hard time talking to me because they know me from TV. Fans will get all nervous when they approach me, and it blows my mind. I always want to remind them that I'm just like them, we all use the toilet, we all have bad breath, and we're all human. I get in trouble at public events because I frequently run over my time limits. But I want to make sure that if my fans cared enough to show up, they get a chance to really talk to me to know the real me. Publicists are always trying to hurry me along, but these lovely people got me here, and the least I can do is give them a decent conversation.

At the end of the day, I'm nothing special. I'm just the same Caroline I've always been. I happen to be a lucky bitch, nothing more than that. I have no talent, I don't sing, I don't dance. My face doesn't scare people, but it ain't stunning. This body is what it is at fifty-one years of age. The adoration is something I have a difficult time with. But I'll always be gracious about it. I'm grateful that you're reading my book, and I hope my show makes you laugh. But at the end of the day, I'm just like you.

Tell the truth. Lies will
always bite you in the ass.

The truth is something you can never escape. It will always catch you. Truth comes from maturity and knowing who you are. I know myself. I'm five foot one and 130 pounds. I'm fifty-one and I'm wrinkly. I have very pretty eyes and a great rack—and yes, both are real; I would never lie about that, what's the point? When I started on this show, I knew they wanted drama. I also knew enough about TV to know that trying to bullshit while you have a house full of cameras recording your every move is just about the stupidest thing in the world. You tell a lie on a reality show, they're just going to run the footage of you doing the thing you deny, while you sit there and destroy your credibility. Lying makes anyone look like a fool, but being caught in a lie on a reality show makes you look so much worse.

In the years since I started on the show, there has been a string of very well documented catfights, and I have refused to be drawn into nearly all of them. The only time I reacted to the crap was at the season-one reunion, and at that time, I only got angry because what was being discussed was destructive to my parents. They're off limits.

Ever since then, I have steered clear of all the catfights that the public seem to love. I don't need to get involved. Frankly, on the show and in real life, my policy is to never engage with a liar. If you are distorting the truth to serve yourself, that's your problem, not mine. Say anything you want, true or not. I will weather the storm. I will take the beating, but I will never fight back. I will never honor the lie with a response. I think that my character speaks louder than that. I know my truth, and I know whatever that truth is will eventually come out.

I have seen lies go bad. I've seen them destroy marriages, families, and lives. It's never worth it in the end. So I don't mind keeping my distance from a lie. I'll take the momentary public humiliation, because I know at the end of the day, I'll be fine. But when a lie comes around and hits the liar, it hits them hard.

I'm not going to pretend the lies don't bother me. Just because I choose not to address them, doesn't mean I'm not boiling inside. The most annoying thing is to be sitting across from someone who is lying to your face, and you know it. This happens a lot on the reunion shows. I will always give a liar every opportunity to come clean. I try to bring the conversation around to an opportunity for them to make things right. But if they continue to stick with the false story, it makes me very, very angry, or more accurately, very frustrated. There's something amazing about people who are guilty. They yell. They scream. They need to convince. When someone is not lying, they talk calmly. There's no guilt. Guilty people need an audience, they need theatrics, to make themselves believable.

My first impulse when a liar starts to scream and defend him- or herself is to set things straight. To tell the liar I know they're lying, that they're a terrible person for lying, and how dare they? But I hold back. Even when it's someone who habitually lies to me, I realize that they're never going to change. I follow my own advice, I disengage, I nod my head and I walk away. I have bigger fish to fry.

I don't have a poker face. When someone's lying to me, my face lets them know that I'm not stupid. I know exactly what they're doing. You've probably seen this face on TV. I can't hide it. My body language is stupidly blunt. It takes a lot for me to turn you off. But you will know I turned you off, and in your heart and soul you'll know why I did it. You'll know I can see through you.

I've seen a lot in my lifetime, and I've seen a lot of good people do stupid things. I've seen a lot of heartbreaking situations over an untruth, and it was never worth it. I always tell my children the truth, and sometimes the truth hurts. But I want the same honesty in return. Don't spare my feelings, you're not doing me any favors.

Lies push people to the point of no return, and some lies are so bad you can never come back from them. I'd rather deal with the truth that hurts for ten minutes than deal with a lie for a lifetime.

I may not be the smartest
or the prettiest, but you
will remember me.

I am smart but I'm not the smartest. I'm not unattractive, but I'm not the prettiest. But, trust me, you'll remember me.

When I engage in conversation with you, I'm all yours. If you're going to take the time to have lunch or dinner with me, then the least I can do is give you my full attention. It's a matter of respect, simple as that.

It's almost a disservice to me that I've become known through the show as an opinionated person. Sure, I have a lot to say, but I also love to listen to people. You can learn a lot by listening. Listen between the lines. Sometimes people want your help, or your understanding, but the full truth is too hard for them to say. So listen well, and listen intuitively.

It's funny, as much as I don't love being interviewed, when I am sitting talking to someone, even a complete stranger, I find myself asking question after question. I want to learn more about people. What makes them tick? What motivates them? I've never been to a therapist, ever. I haven't ever felt like I needed one. But I've been told that sometimes I act like one.

I'm sure this is a direct result of being the middle kid in a big family. There were the older kids, the younger kids, and then there was me, stuck in the middle of both.

I learned early on it was better to listen, and keep quiet. I read the situation and acted accordingly. I never found myself taking sides; instead I was able to develop good friendships with all of my siblings, for the most part.

It wasn't until I was an adult that I learned to engage with other adults. As a child, I was painfully shy to the point of complete silence. I definitely didn't make a splash as a kid. But as an adult, I got my sea legs. I realized I had opinions, and I became unafraid to share them. And it just grew from there. But being opinionated was secondary to the importance I placed on truly listening to others, working to understand them and learning from them. That's what makes me memorable.

I wish I was funnier. I love it when someone can just be the life of the party, swing from the chandeliers, make everybody laugh. That's a true gift. It's just not one of my gifts.

(On the flip side, I hate it when people do stupid or contrived things just to get attention. Through my life experiences and my time on the show, I've encountered my fair share of people who hurt others so that they can get attention. People who make themselves feel better at the expense of another can go to hell. They're not worth a glance in their direction; they mean nothing to me.)

I just hope at the end of this journey, people remember me as someone who always had integrity, and stuck to her beliefs. If it works out that in five years, nobody remembers me at all, I'm fine with that. I'll still make my mark on the people that I meet.

You have only one life.
Take that stage and own it.

I've seen so many people die before their time, and it always breaks my heart. I wonder what their last thoughts were, and what their regrets were. For a relatively unadventurous girl from Queens, I've already had a remarkable life, and that has come from being ready to step up when a good opportunity comes my way.

I don't seek adventure. I was perfectly happy as an anonymous wife and mother.

I was hesitant to do the show. I'm not a big TV person. But I figured I would audition for kicks, a summer diversion, a laugh, and nothing would come of it. I never thought I'd get cast. But when I got the job, I took a leap and said yes. I wanted to see where the adventure would take me. I wanted to set an example for my kids, and one day my grandkids—you should always jump at any opportunity presented to you. Once we were done filming the first season, there was a gap of time until what we shot hit the air. As the premiere date got closer and closer, I started to get really nervous. Albert swooped in to save the day and took me on a vacation when that first half-hour teaser aired. We went down to Florida and spent the week on a friend's boat. I watched that first episode on a boat in the middle of the ocean all alone with my husband, and to this day, when I get the DVD of an upcoming episode, I wait until I can watch it with Al.

Even now, five years later, this show puts me outside my comfort zone. It has caused me tremendous heartbreak, and I've had powerful moments of regret over the show. But there have been amazing highs too—and that makes me so glad I took the leap of faith. You only live once.

I get asked all the time what's the best thing that came out of the show. And I always think of the same two things. The first was sharing with viewers Albie's learning disability. It was his decision to share that. While we were filming, he received the letter notifying him that he failed law school—he missed his grade by 87/100th of a point. He came so close to realizing his life's dream, without any help, all while dealing with the challenges of a learning disorder. Albie agreed to let the cameras follow that journey. Even now, when I revisit those episodes, I nearly die. But through it, Albie became a role model for others who were struggling just like he had.