Life Is Not a Reality Show (16 page)

My sisters and I have suffered through the loss of our parents—a painful experience, as anyone who’s lost a parent knows. Every family endures tragedy of one sort or another. If it’s played out in public it can be particularly difficult, and sometimes the circumstances surrounding a loss make it all the more wrenching.

Whatever the source of loss or tragedy or crisis, one thing remains true: that’s when family has to pull together. That’s when you have to rely on your sisters or brothers or aunts or cousins, even on the friends who are family to you. That’s when you as family have to form a tight circle of love and support to get you through the painful ordeal.

Sometimes a loss is compounded by conflict among the people left behind. But that is precisely the time when you should try your hardest to set personal disagreements aside to come together.

I could never have gotten through the death of my mother or even Farrah going to college without my sisters’ help. And I believe that my own daughters have already begun building the same kind of bond that will see them through personal tragedies and crises in their lives.

Some of my friends feel almost like sisters to me, including the women I’ve become close to from
Real Housewives
. When one of them is hurting, I do too. When you truly love and care for someone, you suffer along with them. At those times I try my best to step in like a sister to lend a hand or a shoulder, and to give my time and effort to help them. I envelop them with love.

Tragedy sometimes makes us feel that we can’t survive the pain, can’t make it through. But with sisters and family and friends, we can. What a blessing they are.

No matter what, though, having that fight play out on camera for millions of people to see was just absolutely horrible for both of us, as was the aftermath. Kim was of course very hurt. And I began having anxiety attacks from the stress.

This is where the hummingbirds come in. I told you about the psychic who told us our mother would come to us as hummingbirds. When she said that, I was astonished because I’ve had many strange things happen with hummingbirds. They often flit around me and won’t leave my side, to the point that I’ve been able to take close-up pictures of them right next to me. And I had an experience with a hummingbird after the big fight with my sister.

I was immediately devastated by the fight. Afterward I lay in bed sobbing and talking to my mom. “What do I do, Mom? What should I do? Talk to me.” I just cried and cried and hoped for an answer.

Finally I got up and went downstairs, and I saw a hummingbird outside the window of my kitchen door, just lying on the ground. I was shocked; I’d never seen a hummingbird still like that. Even if they linger close to me, they always seem to be flitting about. So I opened the door and picked it up and held it in my hand, sobbing.

I’d like to clear up a common misconception once and for all.

Mauricio is Mexican. I think most people know that, though a few people think he’s Italian. No, he was born in Mexico, lived there until he was six, moved to the U.S. for a while, and then went back to go to high school, and finally moved here when he was about twenty.

But Mauricio does not have any Mexican blood, which confuses and even upsets some people. When I say he has no Mexican blood some people think I’m insulting the Mexican people, which is ridiculous.
I don’t care where Mauricio’s blood comes from!
I’m just trying to explain his background.

Mauricio’s father Eduardo is Russian, which explains my husband’s last name, Umansky, the name I use in my personal life. Mauricio’s grandfather had taken the family out of the country to escape the genocide during World War II and ended up in Mexico. Mauricio’s mother, Estella, is of Lithuanian, Greek, and Turkish descent. (Makes sense—Mauricio looks like a Greek statue to me! Ha-ha!)

But just like I would say I’m American because I was born and raised here, the Umanskys say they’re Mexican. Because they are! They loved their life in Mexico. So no one is disavowing their heritage here!

In any case, it doesn’t matter where they came from because they’re wonderful, lovely people, and I feel so fortunate that we’re all family. Sometimes my mother-in-law comes to the house to babysit if Mauricio and I have to go away, and the kids visit her here in town too.

Mauricio’s grandmother and his cousins and uncles still live in Mexico City and we visit there sometimes. His grandmother Olga—or Tita to the kids—is amazing. Even in her eighties, she’s always so put-together and energetic. I want to be like her! She walks a couple of miles every day and she’s always dressed to the nines, with her big sunglasses, jewelry, and manicured nails. I love her for that. After that rough patch at the beginning that prompted me to write her a letter, we developed a very nice relationship.

I had one real advantage with my in-laws when I started dating Mauricio. You know how some mothers can be very critical of the woman their son is dating, especially of their cooking? Well, I had it made with Mauricio’s mother, because she didn’t know how to boil water or make toast! Everything I made—and I didn’t have much of a repertoire then—she thought was amazing. She always wanted the recipe! I could have made soup from a can and she would have said to Mauricio, “Darling, this girl can really cook!” Ha-ha!

Then I looked at the bird and thought,
This is my mom!
I said, “Mom, what do you want me to do? What are you trying to tell me?” I glanced up through the window and saw my housekeeper looking at me like, oh my God—she’s lost her mind! Ha-ha!

The bird was totally limp and his eyes were shut, and I was pretty sure he was dying. Then all of a sudden his eyes popped open. It was the most unbelievable moment. And then he flew away.

I went inside and told my husband the story and even he got tears in his eyes—which is something, because, you know, men are not ones to be thinking,
Ooh, that’s a sign!
But I believe it was a sign from my mom, letting me know she was there and I know she was sad about what happened.

I admit it: the fight was something that (a) should have never happened and (b), if it did happen, it should have been a private family moment. But when cameras are filming you living your life, it’s easy to forget they’re around. Kim and I have been on camera since we were little girls, and the
Real Housewives
crew is with you so much that they become very familiar. They’re not strangers! I mean, my kids get excited and jump up to greet them when they arrive at my house. When your emotions run away with you, you can totally forget you’re being filmed. That’s actually the whole point of the show!

I never thought of myself as a naive person before, but I realize I was very naive in thinking that filming a reality show would be easy. No big deal, you’re just being yourself and there’s a camera there catching it, right? I’m a very open and honest person, so no problem. Right?

I had no clue how anxiety-provoking it could be. My niece Paris seemed like she had fun with her reality show. I think some of it was actually difficult for her and hurt more than she let on, but I figured if she could handle it, so could I. I mean, I am older, but I guess she’s stronger! Dealing with the public’s misperceptions of me, especially with regard to my sister, was just really rough.

Strangely enough, I think something good came out of the blowup between Kim and me. Since that fight, I feel like our relationship is so much better. For me, it’s been an opportunity to go back to where we were not just before the fight but to where we were years ago. She got things out, I got things out, and it was therapeutic in an odd way. I can’t speak for Kim, but I think it was a blessing.

The whole experience also taught me some lessons. In fact, the very source of much of my distress—people who didn’t know me criticizing and judging me—was actually instrumental in helping me learn those lessons.

People on Twitter and everywhere else said negative things about me, not just that I was terrible for attacking Kim that one time but that I was rude to her all season, and how dare I not stick by my sister? Finally I sat back and thought,
Okay, even though those people don’t know the background of WHY I felt or acted the way I did, I can learn from them nevertheless
. Even though I had my reasons for reaching my boiling point, there’s a better way to handle things. I don’t need to get so frustrated or angry.

Obviously my approach to Kim wasn’t working anyway, so clearly there needed to be a change if I wanted our relationship to improve. Maybe I needed to be gentler. Maybe I didn’t always have to try to be the mom in my relationship with my sister.

It took an outsider’s point of view to teach me those things, but finally Kim and I were able to talk things through.

So here’s my advice. Issues between people can and should be dealt with in a civilized way. It’s much better for everyone involved if you can keep your cool. Because that old expression—sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me—just isn’t true.

Also, there’s something to be said for communicating with the target of your anger. You know, face it and deal with it—sooner rather than later. Don’t wait until the resentments, yours or hers, build up to the point of explosion.

Thank God Kim and I are okay now. That doesn’t necessarily mean we won’t ever fight again, but she means the world to me. And Kathy, too. We are family!

My hair … well, I am totally neurotic about taking care of it. Some people are consumed by dieting; some are fanatic about their skin. I’m fanatic about taking care of my hair.

And I thought you might like to benefit from my neurotic obsession. Ha-ha!

People used to ask me all about my extensions, but, um, I don’t have extensions. Never did. I think they’re terrible for your hair. I especially hate to see so many young celebrities getting them, because they’re just destroying their hair and really won’t be able to get it back. I realize that some people feel extensions are the only way to get the thickness they want. My niece Paris has her own line of hair extensions and really likes the look they give her.

I have to tell you, I know from experience that the old saying is true: gentlemen really do prefer blondes! On my worst day as a blonde, my very ugliest day, more men would look at me than they would on my absolute best day as a brunette. Honestly, I’d still rather be a brunette, because a blonde is just not who I am.

Okay, now that we’ve got that settled, let’s move on to the hair on my head. Ha! I get a lot of questions about my hair, mostly about what I use on it. People assume because of where I live and what I do that I must spend a ton of money on products—but I don’t! My shampoo comes from a drugstore!

When people ask me what I
do
to my hair, the answer is simple: as little as possible! I really believe less is more with hair.

The best way to have beautiful hair is to accept the hair God gave you, love it, and work with it. Don’t try to turn it into something it’s not.

And above all, treat it right!
That
I can help you with.

I was the only brunette among my three sisters. I had dirty blond hair when I was very little but it got darker as I got older. And I had long hair too—always long, dark hair. Well,
almost
always.

My mother drilled it into me to take good care of my hair. We kept it long, though she took me every six weeks to have a trim. But one time we were in a mall and she was suddenly seized with the notion that she’d have my hair cut. She was thinking I could get a Dorothy Hamill cut, you know, the wedge worn by the Olympic figure skater back in the ’70s? My hair was all the way down my back then, so it would have to be totally chopped.

But before she got me situated in the salon, Mom called my agent and told her she was going to cut my hair. My agent said, “Don’t you dare! Don’t you know that’s her look? She has to stick with it!” I didn’t quite get what she meant at the time.

That was my mom’s one impulse regarding my hair, but after that she was constantly telling me that I could never cut it. “Never, never. It’s your signature!” She got a little carried away with it at one point because it had grown past my butt. I said, “Mom, my hair is half my body! It’s making me look like I’m three feet tall!” Ha-ha! So after that I kept it just to my waist.

My mother never would have allowed me to dye it either. Now, I had gone through phases when I used purple and burgundy mousse in my hair. That was back when we were all trying to look like Madonna. It was just mousse, not dye, and that was okay because I was young. Although, looking back, that was
not
a good look. If I had actually colored my hair or, God forbid, come home with a tattoo or piercing, my mother would have thought I was all of a sudden a gang member! She was very uptight about these things.

Eventually, of course, I just had to experiment, so when I was sixteen I got a layered look. That also was not a good look. I grew it out again and then when I was twenty-one, I went an almost platinum blond for a little while, then stopped that and let my hair recover.

It was about another ten years before I did anything else drastic to my hair. I got tired of my mother always badgering me about not cutting it. I went to the hip hairstylist of the moment in Beverly Hills, you know, “You gotta go to him, he’s so cool, he cuts all the celebrities’ hair!” So he cut all my hair off into a Meg Ryan kind of short look, really choppy with the ends sticking out. I looked like an artichoke. And then I would take the ends and put stuff in them to make them stick out even more.