The Story of Our Sordid Love

We have experienced, quite possibly, the worst relationship ever--at each other's hands. That's right. Garofalo and Stiller were once an item.

An item of what? is the question. All we can tell you is that the item was highly perishable and went bad after about 12 weeks. We let you in on this secret for a good reason. It is a prime example of the pitfalls that can plague you in that wonderful cesspool we call love.

What follows is an honest account of a real relationship, one that to this day we both regret wholeheartedly. If the tone is negative, do not be put off. Yes, there is still an awful taste in our mouths, six years later, but that doesn't mean your relationship will turn out the same.

Ben's Version

We Meet

Janeane was not what I expected, right from the start. I guess I didn't expect her to be drunk.

I was at T. J. O'Pootertoot's, a popular eatery in Beverly Hills, for nearly an hour before Janeane ambled through the revolving door--about twice before she figured out how to emerge from it.

By this time I had downed my share of gin and tonics, but I was still sober enough to smell the whiskey on her breath.

She seemed eager to find a booth where we could be alone together, and after the pizza-tizers she was feeling--well, how should I put it?--let's just say frisky.

Not knowing what I was in for, I played along, finding her boldness attractive, the gin making her all the more enticing.

By dessert, we were both more than a bit tipsy. We were sloshed.

On the way to the parking lot, Janeane told me she loved me, and then belched. We made out for a long time in my car, which we later somehow navigated to her house. There, we made messy love and passed out with our backs to each other.

After that we were inseparable.

Doesn't sound like a fortuitous beginning, does it? But believe it or not, no real mistakes were made until the morning after. If we had both just left it as a drunken, one-night coupling, it would have been perfect.

But we made the mistake most unhappy couples make--we threw good money after bad.

Rule: Never Have A Serious Relationship With Someone Whom You Get Drunk With and Screw On The First Night.

The Party

The first few weeks were a heady time for both of us. We fell into each other, sometimes quite literally. Under Janeane's influence, I rarely saw a sober moment.

Both up-and-coming in the comedy world, we melded together in the way many codependent couples do. Each reveled in the other's success and fell into deep depression when one of us did not get a job we wanted.

I was experiencing one such depression around the time of my birthday. I had been called back five times to audition for the role of Potsie Jr. on the fledgling Fox network's pilot Happy Days '92.

The idea was that Fonzie, now in his early 60s and penniless, convinces Richie Cunningham, now president and chief executive officer of Cunningham International Hardware, to buy the vacant lot where Al's once stood. Fonzie, who has just been released from the Wisconsin State Penitentiary, has a dream of developing the lot into a youth center. Anyway, suffice it to say that Potsie Jr. was a plum role that could have been what we in the industry call a "breakout character." Like an Urkel, or someone like that.

As luck would have it, I was informed on my birthday that I had lost the role. It seemed that the head of the network thought P.J. (Potsie Jr.) should look more "all-American."

I didn't take it well. Perhaps I had had a little too much of certain pharmaceutical substances that I shouldn't have had; perhaps I was just plain bummed out. All I remember is that when I finally got it together enough to show up at Janeane's, I was wasted. I had repeatedly warned her on the phone that I was not in any mood to do anything special for my birthday--least of all, to have a surprise party. But when I walked through the door, I was greeted by the most mind-numbing shrieks of "Happy birthday!" that you have ever heard. My skull seemed to be vibrating to the point of being about to explode, and then I was inundated with faces of people I hadn't seen or wanted to see in years. It was hell.

In Janeane's defense, I will say that I had not told her that I didn't get the part. She had no way of knowing the depth of my depression that night. To everyone else I was the birthday boy, but to me I was Not Potsie Jr.

The details of that night are still unclear to me. I remember Janeane's being upset that I didn't interact with the guests--and I have a vague recollection of getting quite upset when I walked into the bedroom and the TV was tuned to the old movie Heroes, starring Henry Winkler. I believe I may have thrown the TV out the window.

After that Janeane wouldn't talk to me for a long time. But after I found out that the show was not picked up, things got much smoother between us.

In retrospect, she was right. If she had been stronger, she would have realized that I was transferring my frustration onto her. But by staying in the relationship, Janeane was sending me a secret signal: It's OK to be abusive when you don't get the part of Potsie Jr.

Rule: Never Throw A Surprise Party For Your Mate When He Has Just Lost A Role To Jason Bateman.

Thanksgiving

We probably should have called it quits soon after that incident, but of course we made the same mistake most couples make: We had intense post-fight sex and decided it was time for me to meet her family.

It was nearing Thanksgiving, and Janeane hinted that she would love for me to accompany her to Nutley, New Jersey to meet her clan. I had wanted to take a road trip--camping in the northern mountains of Arizona. It's something I do every year around Thanksgiving, a way of saying thank you to that higher power, in a slightly more spiritual fashion than with a can of cranberry sauce and some dressing.

I posed the idea of a wilderness adventure, and Janeane answered in her usual disarming, straight-to-the-punch manner, "You can go camp up in Wazoo, Alaska for all I care. I'm spending Turkey Day in Nutley with my people." She hadn't said it in so many words, but the message was implicit: Come with me or else. I acquiesced, on the condition that we drive cross-country--which Janeane considered to be a huge concession.

Here's where another mistake was made. Janeane thought she was helping me by agreeing to drive when she really wanted to fly. Because she didn't express her true feelings, I was subjected throughout the entire trip to a rippling, roiling, angry little "fly baby" who wanted nothing less than to be lying back and munching peanuts on United Airlines first class to Newark.

By never expressing her true feelings to me, Janeane inadvertently sabotaged any chance that we might have had for a simple, fun trip.

Rule: Never Commit To A Trip Or Vacation With A Partner Who Has Gastrointestinal Issues That You are Not Completely Comfortable With.

Family Time

The Thanksgiving weekend in Nutley proved to be a seminal point in the relationship. I was not looking forward to the experience. The tension between us was thicker than the Delaware Water Gap (which we crossed entering New Jersey), and things weren't getting any better.

Perhaps one of the mistakes I made--yes, I did make a few in this relationship--was believing what Janeane had told me about her family. How surprised I was to find that these gentle souls could not be further from the portrait painted in her obviously fictitious stand-up act (except for her "Nana," who seemed to be in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's--and an easy comedy target).

Right away, Janeane sensed the ease with which her father and I got along, and it became an immediate flash point.

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While Pops and I stayed downstairs the evening that we arrived, Janeane stormed up to the bedroom, feeling left out. I thought she might be happy that he and I were getting along at all, but for some reason she felt threatened.

Her dad and I finished off three six-packs that night, and by the time I wobbled upstairs, we already had nicknames for each other and a date to finish our quarters game the next morning.

Needless to say, I received the literal cold shoulder that night as I slid next to Janeane in her pink canopy bed, which was as she had left it all those years ago.

In retrospect, it's all very clear. Janeane's career hadn't taken off at that point, and she was feeling the fallout. Her family, being pretty blue-collar, didn't really understand how "the biz" works. All they knew was that she called herself a comedienne, yet she didn't have her own sitcom. To put it in the jargon of the technology age, "Does not compute."

Her insecurity about this--along with her lack of closeness with her dad--had created a tinderbox waiting to blow.

Added to this, her dad and I are about the same height and coloring and share a love of carpentry and stock cars. That was the match to the fire.

And boy, did it blow. Right about turkey time the next day.

I think I might have said, "Pass the sweet potatoes" the wrong way, or maybe I laughed too loudly at Nana's incomprehensible babbling. Whatever it was, all I remember is Janeane exploding out of her chair and letting forth with one of her trademark rants, directed at yours truly. It ended with my volunteering to catch a ride home on the next flight to Los Angeles. Her cute little cousins begged me not to go, as did Dad, with whom I had planned to hit the dog track that evening. But it was clear that Janeane was having none of it. I was back in Cali by eight P.M., partaking of the turkey special at Canter's Deli.

The mistake here was one of mutual enabling. Janeane lashed out at me--also known as blurting--basically regurgitating all her anger and frustration with herself. In volunteering to leave, I thought I was helping. But in reality I was only supporting her blurt, reinforcing its effectiveness.

In Janeane's mind, blurt equaled Ben leaving, which equaled getting her way. What I should have done, as uncomfortable as it might have been, was let her blow her wad, as it were. Let her throw all the stuffing she wanted at me, and when it was over, continue on as if nothing had happened. There's only so much crying an infant can do till she realizes she's not getting her bottle.

Rule: Never Go Into a Loaded Family Situation Without an Escape Route--E.G., an Extra Ticket or Vehicle To Get You Out in a Hurry. I Ended Up Having to Spend a Grand on a Full-Fare Coach Ticket--One I Could Have Gotten Much Cheaper Had I Thought in Advance That There Might Be a "Situation."

P.S.: She drove the Aerostar back at her own leisurely pace--leaving me wheel-less in LA during prime party season. Thanks!

The End

Things settled down when Janeane got back to town. We eventually grew tired of going out to eat alone and began to call each other. When we first reunited, we apologized profusely, each claiming blame for the fight. We both agreed that we needed to communicate better.

About a week into our rapprochement, I got a call from an ex-girlfriend. Melinda and I had gone out for over six years and had a totally platonic friendship, except for the time we had sex about a week after Janeane and I started going out. But that was before Janeane and I were really serious. The mistake there was telling Janeane about the meaningless event, which only served to confirm that Melinda and I were truly not attracted to each other anymore. Janeane held it over my head for the rest of the relationship as proof of my not being trustworthy. Personally, I feel it took great courage on my part to own up to it.

Still, the relationship plodded on for a number of months, both of us awash in a sea of denial. I should mention that by this point Janeane had gained a few pounds, maybe 60 or 70. I think this was a result of her feeling hungry for what was lacking in our relationship. I too was hungry, though I fed my own dissatisfaction with treats of another kind, which I don't wish to elaborate on here. Suffice it to say we were both "out to lunch," both literally and figuratively.

On our three-month anniversary, by which time we were hardly speaking, I made a pathetic attempt to celebrate: a night at the theater! The relationship was over, and not even an evening of watching the most bestest Shakespeare actor would have fixed anything. The only two people who weren't aware of that were me and Janeane.

The show was called What the Butler Saw--one of those interactive dinner-slash-plays where you talk to the characters and go through this big house trying to solve a murder that takes place during hors d'oeuvres.

Things were going fine between us straight through the appetizer. We were giggling at the inanity of the whole thing. There were plenty of suspects, each of whom the audience was encouraged to pick and follow.

Janeane chose Professor Picklebottom, who seemed to have an airtight alibi--he was in the loo at the time of the murder. Yet he seemed to have a suspicious nature, always tapping his fingers on his potbelly and shifting in his old-fashioned wheelchair.

I, on the other hand, chose to follow Lucretia Lustgarden, who in my eyes was clearly the killer. When the lights went out and came back on, there was Dilly McDead, deader than a doornail, a candlestick through his skull. And across the room, there was Lucretia, all five-foot-ten of her tucked tight into those spandex leggings and go-go boots, jiggling out the window, wiping blood off her hands.

I wasn't the only one who suspected her--most of the men in the audience followed after her. But I was quick like a cat and got to her first.

Now here's where it all went bad. I had never been to one of these shows and didn't know the rules. But in my defense, I think the actress playing Lucretia bent those rules a little herself, thinking I might swing her a break in the biz.

I followed her out the fire escape and up to the next floor, into what had been decorated as the torture chamber. Since I was the first up, she grabbed me--let me repeat, she grabbed me--and immediately bolted my arms and legs onto a device I had never, ever come across called the Lonesome Sailor. It basically lays you out spread-eagled on your stomach, and using a ratchet knob device the torturer can expand you four ways to Sunday while your head is in a steel mask that exposes only your left eye and tongue.

Later the actress was fired. It turned out she was looney. But at the time I had no idea. When she started the torture, I had to remind myself it was all just a show, and that everything would be all right. By the time she pulled off her top and pulled out her résumé, I was already in such pain from the Lonesome Sailor that my eyes were too watery to see Janeane when she burst into the room and accused me of being a pathetic pig and just as quickly stormed out.

Within five minutes I was in the parking lot, wearing only my boxer shorts and pleading my case to an infuriated Janeane. By that time, it was really over.

No, I should not have put her in a choke hold, no matter how exasperated I was. The police who arrived were right to separate us, and though the 90-day cooling-off-period restraining order was not really necessary, in the end it probably served its purpose.

We had beaten the horse into the ground. In trying to make it work, we had surely bitten off more than we could chew--in fact, I have Janeane's bite marks on my arm to prove it.

Rule: Never Allow Yourself to Be Forcibly Restrained at an Interactive Dinner Show--Even If It is By a Hot Chick.

Epilogue

Needless to say, Janeane and I eventually were able to become friends again.

But it took a heap of time and a load of understanding. We actually got together and broke up five more times over the next year, but the details are way too repetitive to list here.

And now, as you read Janeane's account, you will see that two people can have different experiences from the same situation. I trust you will realize that my description of the events is wholly accurate and based on journal notes and interviews with various friends and family members. While I am sure that what she believes to have happened is in her mind very real, one must take into account all the circumstances and, above all . . . consider the source.

Janeane's Version

Some incidents in life are blocked out for a reason. Apparently some people enjoy seeing yours truly twist in the wind. Ben will also be dredging up our past; his version will no doubt be a creative rewrite of history.

I will say this: Ben and I are a pair of real go-getters who have successfully gone and gotten. We beat the system: We actually get paid to do what we love.

Co-sponsoring the Meals on Wheels II program has been tremendously fulfilling for us. Meals on Wheels II has taken the wildly successful mobile food concept one important step further. Our program still brings food to the needy--but we charge them for it. By encouraging the homeless to pay for their food, we teach them how to take responsibility for themselves. Ben and I then take that money and spend it.

I was introduced to Ben by a mutual friend, who suspected that we would hit it off. At the time, merging our extraordinary talents and charisma seemed like a good idea; sometimes two heads are better than one when negotiating with the lady we call showbiz. The entertainment industry is indeed a harsh mistress who eats sheltered, upper-middle-class Jewish boys like Ben Stiller for breakfast. He needed me.

Our first date took place in September 1992. (Being a Libra, I felt it would behoove me to date only in September, while my moon was firmly in the seventh house.)1

We met for cocktails and smart talk at Ben's favorite eatery, T.J. O'Pootertoot's. Ben is fond of family-oriented restaurants like O'Pootertoot's, where pizza-tizers are on the house and the birch beer flows in bottomless, frosty mugs. He also enjoys singing along with the mechanical bears and the guilty thrill of tossing his peanut shells on the floor.2

1Ordinarily, I shun all things zodiacal, but in 1992 I was unemployed and chemically depressed. Therefore, I was open to anything that might offer some comfort. I was also involved in several botched attempts at civic anarchy and had received numerous restraining orders. (I like to think that restraining orders are common among seekers and dreamers such as myself.)

"Get a load a me, ain't I something!'" Ben would shout when the waitstaff presented him with a birthday cake. He pulled the birthday stunt everywhere we went. At first I was touched by his boyish love of cake, but then I realized it was a thinly disguised cry for help.

Ben had trouble expressing his needs, and conning innocent theme-restaurant employees into serving him cake was indicative of a much deeper problem. Mustached waiters singing Happy Birthday to him was as close as he ever came to meaningful interaction with other adults. If he wasn't the focus of attention, Ben just couldn't cope.3

Ben came into my living room for more smart talk, we had marginal sex and so it began.4 We had a tumultuous yet lucrative affair. Those were heady times, and we were always on the move. Yet, somehow, I gained 70 pounds.5

Was I, in fact, starving for affection? Was I trying to become some kind of eyesore, so he wouldn't want to sex me up? Both theories are open to discussion. The weight issue was a sore subject for both of us.

Ben was plagued by insecurity and doubt. He didn't want his college buddies to think he would date a "fat chick."6 When asked about his girlfriend (me), he would produce the photo that came with his wallet--even if the inquisitor was someone who knew me or had stated on other occasions that they knew the wallet photo was fraudulent.

I tried to divert Ben's attention from my girth to his favorite subject--himself. Since he liked celebrating his birthday so much, I organized several surprise parties at various eateries and homes. Almost every attempt went horribly awry.

I even started wearing a T.J. O'Pootertoot's mechanical bear costume so Ben would like me better, but the poor visibility grew tiresome and the heavy bear head had damaged my spine.

We spent most holidays at my parents' house in Nutley, New Jersey. But it was awkward because Ben refused to speak to my Nana. He thought she was "stuck up" because she had a sweatshirt and an outsized mug proclaiming her the World's greatest grandma. I tried to explain that they were popular gifts rather than a title she had bestowed upon herself, but Ben would insist that her arrogance had ruined his vacation.

I could go on and on about incidents like that, but I'll cut to the chase and relate the final insult--the so-called straw that broke my inner camel's back.

After months of waiting, I was finally able to score us a pair of tickets for the hottest show in town. Interactive murder-mystery dinner theater has always been Ben's favorite, and there was no tougher ticket than this one, the Cadillac of interactive murder-mystery dinner theater, What the Butler Saw.

The cast had been enjoying tremendous reviews for the show's entire run. One cast member in particular was generating quite a bit of heat in the Los Angeles basin area. Out of respect for her privacy, I'll call her Goddamn Mother-fucker. GDMF played the part of a vixen with the authenticity of someone who has graced many a Hollywood mattress. Hats off to you, GDMF, for playing the role of interactive femme fatale so convincingly that Ben actually gave me crabs that very weekend.

GDMF caught everyone's eye, and by the time the Neapolitan ice cream was scooped, Ben was a goner--and I was gone. I sat in the parking lot waiting for him to take me home.7

I wound up sitting there for 17 hours. When Ben finally showed and asked me for some money, I was confused, hurt and angry. I suggested that we start seeing other people, and he said he had been doing that all along. "No," I said, "I mean actually dating other people, not just looking at them."

"Oh--I see what you're saying," he said. "I thought you meant literally just seeing other people, which sounds sort of frustrating."

The key word was frustrating. I could not believe I had allowed myself to date Ben Stiller, and now I was getting dumped for the female lead in What the Butler Saw. So we agreed that we would meet only for professional purposes, or when we were drunk and felt like having emotionally destructive sex.

This essay is a product of the first part of that agreement. I hope it can help you in ways we were never able to help ourselves or each other.

2 This was a habit resented by many of our friends, who felt it signified a lack of respect for the linoleum tile in their own homes.

3 He mostly socialized with children because, with his lanky good looks, he could easily steal the focus from a nine-year-old. Not to mention his dominance in pickup basketball games.

4 He had an annoying habit of referring to me as Melinda whenever we got intimate.

5 Ben often mentioned how slender Melinda was.

6 Many were the nights I would overhear him muttering in his sleep, or to our sleeping dog, Rusty, "I don't want my college buddies to think I date a fat chick."

7 I couldn't walk home. The aforementioned bear-head-related spinal damage was still fresh.