Chapter Fifteen

JOHN SWEENEY’S DOCUMENTARY ON SCIENTOLOGY, which aired on May 14, 2007, oddly enough coincided with another major event happening in my life that was hard for me to handle—the very last episode of The King of Queens.

Leaving that show was so difficult; it really was like ending a marriage in that a lot of history happened in the nine years we worked on it. When I looked at everything around me, the many people I knew, the many things I had achieved, they reminded me of The King of Queens. That was my home, a place where I felt I had finally been accepted somewhat in a business I never felt part of. My house is The King of Queens. My wedding and baby—King of Queens. Kevin’s marriage and first two babies—King of Queens.

It was also hard to say goodbye to a show that didn’t get canceled but just ended. Yes, there were reasons, first and foremost of which was Kevin’s movie career, which took off after he did Hitch. Kevin didn’t want to tarnish the series with its being canceled or going out with low ratings. The show was special to him and he wanted to honor that.

The show that critics called derivative and not funny enough became the twelfth-longest-running sitcom in all of television history. No matter how many awards we didn’t win or how many times the network moved us around, our viewers were as loyal to us as Carrie and Doug were to each other; they were the ones who kept us on air, making us one of only a handful of sitcoms of that period to make it to 207 episodes. So in what was more a collective feeling than a decision, we said, Okay, this is it, it’s time to end the show.

And although our finale didn’t come with the typical fanfare or press coverage, the end of The King of Queens was no less dramatic. When Kevin and I looked up at that old piece of wood above the doorway to the set that I promised on our first show we wouldn’t see forever (but that we had looked at far longer than either of us ever imagined), we both started crying. We didn’t even need to speak; each of us knew exactly what the other was thinking: That’s history. Our history. I have never recovered. I miss him, our writers, the cast, and the crew every day.

Where do you go from there? I didn’t really know what I wanted to do after The King of Queens because it was such a big part of me. You don’t do a show for that long only to walk right into the next one. My main goal for a few years after the finale was not to go into something else that would be a disgrace to what I had just done for nine years.

In 2010, not long after I ran into CBS head Les Moonves and his wife and television personality, Julie Chen, at a party, my agent received a call about a new chat show for the network called The Talk, created by Roseanne alum Sara Gilbert as a time-slot replacement for the long-running soap As the World Turns. The daytime talk show was pitched to me as six female hosts who would sit around and have candid discussions about our lives as moms, wives, sisters, and working women. We would tell real stories about real relationships and real problems. That idea excited me. It was also something totally different for me, which was appealing, even though I knew that at some point I wanted to return to sitcoms. But CBS, the only network still doing traditional multi-camera sitcoms, offered me a development deal in tandem. I was thrilled to stay in the family and said yes to The Talk.

The show—which premiered on October 18, 2010, with Julie, Sara, Sharon Osbourne, Holly Robinson Peete, Marissa Jaret Winokur, and me—turned out to be much more difficult than I had imagined. For the first time on TV I wasn’t playing a scripted character; I was just me. And I was scared.

Initially, all of us co-hosts bonded, both on set and off. We went on outings to the zoo with our kids, hung out at one another’s houses, and got along well. We shared a lot of moments together. Things started to break down among us when I realized that the producers wanted to script the conversation between the hosts, losing any sense of “realness” to the discussions. I had thought we were going to discuss spontaneous and authentic stories. Instead, this felt manufactured. As a result, I became an “unofficial” producer. The co-hosts and producers would come to me with ideas and I would weigh them and find what I thought was relatable. An example of this came up once in a Monday morning cast and producer meeting. The producers asked us what we did that weekend. Julie mentioned that she and her husband had gone to an event at which the president was speaking. The producers thought this would be of interest. What I found to be relatable and funny was that Holly was at that same event, only her seats were in the nosebleed section, while Julie and her husband Les were somewhere in the first ten rows. Holly kept waving, unsuccessfully, to get Julie’s attention. The difference in where they were seated was what was of interest and set up for a better conversation. But while I had what I thought were good ideas and a firm grasp on what our audience could relate to, my opinions and my mouth often got me into trouble.

Celebrities often have a list of what they won’t talk about. Understandable. I never wanted to talk about Scientology, ever. But sometimes, when it came to guests on the show, it got to be ridiculous. For example, when Craig Ferguson was a guest on our Valentine’s Day show, I thought it would be fun to talk to the late-night host about the worst gift he ever gave his wife on Valentine’s Day. The note we got back from his publicist, however, read: “Don’t talk about Craig’s wife. He doesn’t want to talk about his personal life.” “Why, is he getting divorced?” “No, they said he just doesn’t want to talk about her.” This was Craig Ferguson, not Brad Pitt, who I’m sure would have been happy to talk about his wife. As a result I ignored Craig on air because I wasn’t allowed to ask him any questions that people could relate to and I could relate to. I got tweets about it that day: “Why are you not talking to Craig?” “Why do you hate Craig?”

I thought the six of us should have real conversations on the kinds of topics that women really talk about, like how sex seriously drops off after marriage. Like, for me, I want to have sex more, but by the time eight o’clock hits, I’m too tired and think I should have done it earlier. But I don’t like daylight, so unless blackout curtains are on hand I’m out because I’m trying not to show my husband my cellulite.

That would have been a fun conversation to have on daytime television. That would have been different and a conversation Barbara Walters could never have on The View.

I would want to hear that conversation. Crass, sure, but that’s the kind of thing I’m interested in hearing. Now, I understand that when you’re Julie Chen you can’t really talk about how your husband does annoying things like scratch his balls. But still…

Sharon Osbourne, the resident wacky matriarch of the show, was particularly fond of telling stories about herself on air that stretched the truth. I really loved Sharon’s balls. That she could make up a good story and not worry about it.

Sharon, being the grand dame of The Talk, was necessary to the show’s survival, but her crazy ways and eccentricities that played well on TV were harder to take as a co-worker. One day I might find myself in a fight with her on set (in between the camera rolling), and the next a crazily lavish present of a full-grown tree that must have cost her thousands of dollars shows up at my house with a note that would read, “I’m such a twat!” You just never knew where you stood with Sharon. But when she told me, “I am a true friend to you,” I believed her. Having said that, while one day she was your best friend, the next she wasn’t. When I would try to ask someone about it, they would reply with, “Oh, that’s just Sharon.”

As her friend, I knew Sharon had problems with Julie. Wanting respect, not criticism, Sharon started to rail against everything from the eight a.m. planning meetings to the upfronts in New York, which she didn’t want to attend because CBS was giving her only one first-class ticket and a coach ticket. If she was going to attend the presentations, which all the networks make to advertisers, Sharon had to bring along her whole crew (hair, makeup, etc.). She also didn’t want to stay in the hotel that they were putting her up at. Sharon was so angry she told Holly and me that she was going to quit the show. As difficult as Sharon may have been, I did quite enjoy her, and personally I didn’t want anyone leaving the show the first year. She had paid her dues in her career and I felt that she deserved much of what she was asking for. I called a meeting to see if we could work something out among ourselves, pay for the upgrade and share stylists or something. But instead of working things out, Julie and Sharon got into it. I could feel the tension quickly rising between them. Sharon accused CBS of being a cheap network; for America’s Got Talent, NBC gave her a $50,000 budget for clothes. Julie fought back by boasting about CBS’s superior ratings. It was delightful. Our very own Battle of the Network Stars! And in this corner…I spoke to Julie and persuaded her to give Sharon due respect, let her skip meetings, let her take days off, make her feel important.

Sharon, Holly, and I also decided we were going to go to the network and make some changes on the set so no one individual was running us, but rather we worked as a team. We thought this was the right move. The second season was going to be better. After all it was a tough show and we all had our moments.

Out of all the women on the show, I had the most in common with Holly, as we were in similar situations—we didn’t have husbands to pay the bills like Ozzy Osbourne or Les Moonves. Holly and I were the breadwinners of our families, so we had a different perspective that was probably more in line with Sara’s. But unlike Sara, Holly and I weren’t the type to keep quiet when there was a problem. Sara, although the creator of the show and a producer, had zero power and didn’t like to make waves. She worked for the boss’s wife. A vital point that one must understand if one wants to keep one’s job.

My mother, sitting in my dressing room while we discussed our plan to meet with the CBS heads, wagged her finger no.

“Ma, stop,” I said. “We’re going to get it all out in the open. It’ll be good.”

She just shook her head no and said, “You are so stupid if you think this is a great plan.”

We had gone through three executive producers before the end of the first season. And to welcome our new EP, we decided to all meet at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Before the “Go, team!” dinner I had talked to Julie on the phone for an hour about the terrible prospect of Sharon leaving. I knew she was serious about it because she had pitched Holly and me for an NBC show Howie Mandel wanted to do. But CBS really felt like family, so I wanted to make The Talk work. “Meet with her an hour before our dinner so that you can massage her a little,” I said to Julie. “We really don’t want her to quit.”

Heartened by the fact that Julie listened to my advice, I decided to send an email out to all the hosts the night before the dinner. I thought this was as good a time as any to kind of clear the air.

“Looking forward to seeing everybody,” I wrote. “It’s going to be a new wave. It’s going to be positive. So, know that.”

And I was feeling positive when I walked into the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel the next night to find Sharon and Julie deep in conversation. I went to sit down, but Julie said, “Oh, we need more time.”

“Sure, of course. Of course,” I said, because I was in on the side deal with Julie. So I went to the bar, where I waited until the rest of the cast and our new executive producer showed up. Then we proceeded to the table, where we made small talk for about five minutes before Sharon answered one of my pleasantries with a serious attack.

“Who do you think you are, sending an email like that to everybody?” she asked, staring me down from across the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, you know, sending that positive email when you’re the most negative person on the show.”

“I’m negative, or I care? Because I love how everybody asks me in the morning meetings what they should say, because they know I’ll tell you if you’re going to look like a complete asshole or not. So, yeah, I am harsh, but it’s because I want this show to be good. So when I say to the producers, ‘What are we doing that’s a little bit more interesting than The View?’ it’s not to be a bitch but to do better. Meanwhile, you saunter in when you feel like it, and give everyone a hard time. So if you think caring means a bad attitude, then, yes, I have one.”

“The only reason you care is because you’re a loser, and you have nothing else going on in your life.”

“Oh, did everybody hear that?” I said, looking around at the table, where everyone else was dead quiet. “Honestly, Sharon, it would be in your best interest to just back it down.”

“Or what?”

“Or what?” I said incredulously.

“Or you’re going to get your low-life Mafia family after me?”

“No. I’m going to take this iced tea that I’m holding in my hand and I’m going to crack it over your fucking head.”

And with that, I got up from the table before anyone could see the tears in my eyes and went outside to pull myself together. Holly quickly joined me, trying to console me. I was confused and hurt. Yes, I thought, I’m a pain in the ass, but weren’t we a team? Clearly Holly was the only one who took my side and stuck up for me. That’s why she and I have remained friends to this day.

—

DESPITE ALL THE UPS AND downs I went through on The Talk, I really did think things were going to turn out okay. It might sound absurd for someone who almost got into a fistfight with her co-host to say that, but TV is a high-stakes business where passions run high. Having been on a sitcom for nine years, where there were periods when Kevin and I weren’t talking to each other or the writers weren’t talking to either of us, I thought we would get through this, because to me a show is a family and all families fight but they eventually get past their rough moments.

I was so convinced that I had a future with The Talk that I hosted a wrap party with Holly at her house after our first season when CBS didn’t want to pay for one. We even bought wrap gifts (mugs that said “I survived Season 1”).

Cut to the summer of 2011. Not long after the wrap party, I got a call from my agent: “Your and Holly’s options are not getting picked up for Season Two.” This was a new version of “It’s not going any further.” I could only believe that Sharon was behind it. So apparently my mom was right again. You know, they say when you get older you learn that your parents might actually know what they’re talking about.

At the time, not getting cast for a second season hurt—a lot—because Holly and I helped launch this show. Our blood, sweat, and tears went into it, so to be discarded in the way that we were felt horrible. Not to mention that Holly and I had gone to bat for Sharon, who I blamed for what had happened to us (of course Sharon denied having anything to do with it). Our ex–co-hosts then added insult to injury by going on every program they could to talk about us, and say we were fired because we weren’t authentic. Every time they needed a ratings bump, they discussed us on The Howard Stern Show and said things about us like that we were “ghetto,” or that they’d heard “there’s a catering job that opened up on the set—maybe Leah can get that.”

I was shocked that they would pull such a childish and vindictive publicity stunt. Coming from The King of Queens I wasn’t used to all the power games and backstabbing. It was the depressing but real side of Hollywood where everyone is so worried about their own job that they’ll do anything to keep it. While we had plenty of opportunity to respond to the attacks, Holly and I took the high road and didn’t comment in return. It would have just added fuel to the fire.

I’m not blaming anyone else for the way I acted (my “humor” can come off as abrasive or degrading, so much so that I was actually called into Human Resources while I worked on The Talk, where I got reprimanded for how I spoke to people)—and I don’t even blame myself. Certain environments don’t bring out the best in you, and I can say with full confidence that although I don’t have any regrets, The Talk wasn’t my finest moment.

A few years later, as fate would have it, I took a recurring guest role on The Exes, which filmed on a stage upstairs from The Talk. So while working on the TV Land sitcom I could actually hear the hosts of the talk show below me. I saw my old dressing room, all the guest rooms I personally shopped for and decorated…I felt it was my baby too. I helped launch it. What I should have known was this: The show was going to be on air regardless of my fighting for it to be better.

One day, while I was sitting outside my Exes dressing room, who should walk by but Julie Chen. I was angry for a long, long time after leaving that show, but in that moment there was something in my heart that said, “Let it go.”

My outlook in life as a Scientologist caused me to ask what responsibility I had for the place I found myself in. So with all those things and more running through my head, I made a quick decision.

I stood up, grabbed Julie, and hugged her.

“I’m sorry for my part,” I said.

While hugging me, she was also trying to pull back and get away, but I said, “It’s not going to happen. I’m not disengaging. So this uncomfortable moment’s going to go a little bit longer, Julie,” which made her laugh.

I let her go and she smiled broadly at me and said, “I hope everybody’s well, and that you’re well. And I wish you nothing but the best.”

Her reply was poised and polite. I felt like I had done my work and I was ready to move on, regardless of whether she or the rest of the co-hosts had.

—

EVEN NOW, AFTER DECADES IN this business, I still have moments where I am trying to fit in as an actress in Hollywood, as if I were somehow an imposter. For so long, I looked for acceptance from everyone from my dad to the people in this town. What I have slowly come to realize, and often still have to remind myself of, is this: There is no “right” way to be. I am flawed and imperfect, but am uniquely me. I don’t fit in and probably never will. And I don’t have to try to anymore. That other person was a lie. And let’s face it, normal is boring. We all have something to offer the world in some way, but by not being our authentic selves, we are robbing the world of something different, something special.

My time at The Talk was a lesson in learning who my true friends were. If there is one thing I can brag about and be proud of in my life, it’s my dedication to friendship. If I call you a friend, I mean it. You are now on par with being a family member. Friendships are not made overnight; it takes time, effort, and energy. For me, friendships are tested not in the best of times, but in the worst of times. You don’t always get a second chance to be there for someone when they really need you. So when I say I will be there, I mean it. And when I need you, you better be there. Everyone has deal breakers and this is one of mine.

If real friends are hard to come by in life, you can imagine what it’s like in Hollywood. I have said I can count on one hand the number of real men I have met in this town. Finding real friends, who will step up and say or do the right thing on your behalf, is almost impossible as well. Most are just looking to save their asses or their jobs, loudmouths who will say anything to anyone but secretly apologize behind closed doors. Leading actors, big executives, and powerful people talk a big game until they realize their jobs might be on the line, and they instantly become complete and utter pussies.

Stupidly perhaps, and sometimes at the cost of my own job, or being labeled “difficult,” I’m willing to say shit to people no matter who they are and what the consequences may be. And yes, in the end, I’m probably cutting off my nose to spite my face. But that’s who I am.

When I started to write this chapter, I had planned to spill all of the details behind why Holly and I were not asked back to season two but then as I read it over, I thought I would just be doing what they wanted. I would be no better than them.

So yes, I was an asshole when it came to defending myself, the other hosts, and the show as a whole. Rather than kiss everyone’s ass, I brazenly (and oftentimes obnoxiously) spoke my mind, and as a result lost my job. But I stood by what I thought was right and I was a friend to those who I felt deserved my friendship. While I am able to forgive those who spoke out against me at The Talk, I have learned a valuable lesson in Hollywood and in life; by their actions, they will show you who they are.