Kiss and Tell (18 page)

There Tracy and I were, sitting on top of a bar at the House of Blues, doing every hand movement and singing every word louder than his backup girls, who couldn’t have been very happy with us. (Sober we were doing this; imagine how dangerous I was drunk.) We were really being obnoxious. After the show we went backstage and I said, “Tom, I have to meet you. My name is Shannon Tweed.” He said, “I know who you are.” I said, “You do?” I was completely shocked. “Well yes,” he said, “you’re Shannon Tweed.” I snapped back to and said, “Oh yes, of course I am.” I said, “I’ve got to tell you this story. When I was 18, I was working in this cocktail lounge… ” I told him all about the belt buckle and how I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. I finished up by saying, “So I really have to lay one on you now. Do you mind?” He said, “I would love that.” So I rammed my tongue in his mouth. Kissed the hell out of him. It was great. Great!

My sister piped up, “Hey, I want one, too.” So she kissed him, too, and the second she was finished her boyfriend walked in. Ted was mortified that we were acting like such fools. We posed for pictures and said, “Let’s give him a Tweed sandwich.” We squished Tom in between us and took a bunch of shots. We were laughing, talking—having such a good time. Then he was pulled away by everyone coming backstage to congratulate him on the show, and I said to Tracy, “We have to go right now, because I don’t want to see any more or know any more about him. This is perfect!” I still had my fantasy, I still loved him, and it was great. Great!

MY SISTER TRACY AND I ARE SO ALIKE. WE HAVE THE SAME TASTE IN PHOTOGRAPHY, CLOTHES, MAKEUP, HAIR AND - SOMETIMES - MEN.

We went to Vegas last year and caught his show again, though we didn’t go backstage. He saw us and waved to me, and that was so hot. So, as I’ve discovered with Tom Jones, I do know the feeling of being a groupie. I don’t want to take him away from his wife or have a lifelong affair with him. I just want to do him, that’s all, but I don’t
really
want to do it, because then the fantasy would be gone. It’s a weird thing. Tom, if you’re reading this, I still want to do you, baby. Always have, always will. Every time I hear that line “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone” I just go crazy in the head.

Gene knows very well how I feel about Tom. I called him after that night at the House of Blues and said, “I just want to tell you that I totally tongued Tom Jones right in front of all the paparazzi, and I’d do it again in a second.” He said, “That’s okay, because I would do Sophia Loren in front of her two children if I could.” “I know,” I told him. “And I’d let you.” He has always loved Sophia Loren. Remember, that’s why our daughter’s name is Sophie. I couldn’t name my son Tom though; it would have taken the zing out of my mental affair with Mr. Jones.

Cut to Gene: He’s on an airplane going to New York one day, and who’s sitting next to him? Tom Jones. So funny.

I’ve only ever asked once for an autograph for myself. One night years ago, Tracy, some friends, and I were at Spago celebrating my birthday, and I approached Sean Connery. We were both standing in a long line for the loo. I said, “Hello Mr. Connery, I’ve always loved your movies and I would really appreciate an autograph if you have time.” He blew me right off. He said something like, “I am here with my family having dinner if you don’t mind,” very coldly, in that Scottish accent. Tracy, who was with me, remembers this incident differently— she recalls him telling us to “Fuck off.” Whatever words were used, he certainly wasn’t gracious, and I felt really stupid.

I’ve been on the other side of that, and I sign the autograph no matter what. I remember once Suzanne Pleshette came up to me and said, “You know, I really like you. You’re a good actress, I hope you get some better roles.” I really liked her; I appreciated her saying that to me. It was very nice. So it hurt that night when Sean Connery was so dismissive. I’ve never asked anyone for an autograph since then. It was just so devastating and embarrassing. He was so rude, and I wasn’t some schmuck off the street; I was in the same restaurant having my birthday dinner! But Tom Jones more than made up for it.

NICK GETTING TALLER! A GOOD-LOOKING BOY.

TRACY, MOM, TRACY’S DAUGHTER EMILY, SOPHIE, ME AND GRANDMA FLORENCE (GENE’S MOM)

Chapter Thirteen

Ripoffs and Piss-Offs

M
oney. It’s important. I always had big plans for what I would do with all the money I earned, but somehow I just kept spending it. This is where Gene and I really differ. Gene is all about getting money, saving it, not spending it, and being buried with it. He has enough money for three lifetimes, and he still panics if a week goes by when he’s not bringing home the bacon. I just say, “Relax, take a break, enjoy life…,” but that is how he enjoys life. He takes no joy in spending.

That’s not to say that Gene doesn’t spend plenty on the kids and me. He never skimps on us. And he’s been really great about spending on our house, because left to his own devices, he’d be living in his old apartment in New York. The whole concept of spending money to create a really beautiful home was another element, like children, he didn’t know how much he wanted in his life. But believe me, he wouldn’t be doing it if he didn’t enjoy it, because there is nothing I can make him do that he doesn’t want to do.

It wasn’t a big risk to build the house, just a big commitment. I’m constantly reassuring him: “It’ll be okay, let’s get some stones for the driveway, some new plants…” I have to poke and prod him every step of the way to put a waterslide in the pool or to upgrade anything. I really care about quality, whereas he thinks a door is a door is a door. He sees nothing inferior about a fiberboard door when compared with a beautiful custom-made door. He really, truly can stare at both doors all day and not see the difference. This is the man who said a room at Motel 6 is just as good as anywhere else. That’s because he doesn’t use anything except the toilet and the television and then he falls asleep. He’s not the kind of man to sit around and appreciate the décor. To me, it’s all about enjoying my environment. I like a room to make me feel warm, comfortable, and relaxed.

The only thing that’s “him” in our home is the entrance. Gene did express a desire for a grand entrance hall—with a dome—for our new house, but that was only for the resale value. When we were designing the new house with architect Tim MacNamara, Gene looked at the plans and said, “Let’s do a dome.” I thought he was crazy. “What the *$(%* do you need a
dome
for?” He said, “Oh, come on, it’ll look good, and it might down the line, later, you know…” I said, “What, for resale? Look, I’m not leaving. You can build your dome, and you can think it will add to the resale value, but I’m not leaving this house. Ever.”

I didn’t want the living room, dining room, or grand entrance. What I wanted, actually, was a new, not necessarily bigger, but NEW house where the fuses didn’t blow out every time I plugged in the blow-dryer, like it did in our original house. And I figured we didn’t really need all that extra square footage; all we needed were rooms we would really use. Gene kept saying, “Yes, but the architect says, for the resale value…” I said, “Fine, then, I’m going to design all the stuff we’ll really use: the kitchen, the family room, the bedrooms, the offices, and
my
bathroom. Separate from his, finally.

In the old house we were supposed to share a bathroom, but Gene didn’t get to use it much because of his bathroom habits. He refuses to lock the door, and then gets mad when we walk in on him. He’s always just reading a magazine on the toilet. I say, “Get out of there! What are you reading in there for?” I’ve never understood that. Well, maybe he feels it’s the only place he can go and we won’t follow him in—but he’s wrong. If I could give only one piece of advice to couples it would be “Don’t share a bathroom,” meaning, don’t use the bathroom at the same time. And close the damn door!

TRACY VERY PREGNANT WITH HER TWIN BOYS WITH MOM AND ME IN 2003.

Gene’s office on the other side of the house holds KISS gold and platinum records and every piece of KISS merchandise imaginable: posters, dolls, clothing, keychains—even pinball machines and coffins. It’s great, fun stuff, and I appreciate it, but I said, “Look, I know this stuff has gotten you where you are today, but really, I don’t want to look at it all the time. I’m not throwing up my centerfolds all over the walls, so don’t you either. Let’s separate our everyday life from our work life.”

It’s a tremendous amount of work to build and furnish the house, because Gene will not get involved (except for the dome). He pays for it, then walks away. When I need more money, though, he’ll ask why, but then he doesn’t want to hear the explanation. He doesn’t want to hear where I’m going to buy it, where I’m going to put it, or why we should have it, but he does want to know exactly why I want more money. It’s a challenge.

Having other people in your house is always a challenge. We’ve experienced it in a couple of different ways, one resulting in a lawsuit, the other in a robbery (remember “Lisa”). We moved out of the ranch style house to a rental while we were building our new home. The rental was a tiny house, even smaller than the original. I wasn’t working as much as I used to, so I decided to let one of the housekeepers go.

After our children were born, I had been busier than ever with work, and we usually had two housekeepers. If I went on location, I could take one, as a nanny, with me and the kids. The other housekeeper would stay with Gene in the house. The two used to rotate. I never wanted to be in the position of hiring someone new at the last minute to baby-sit my kids (or my man) if I suddenly got a job. The most important thing to me was that the kids were comfortable and familiar with their caretakers if Gene and I both had to work away from home at the same time.

By the time we were living in the rental, the movie roles were had slowly petered out, and I was only making sporadic television appearances. It looked like I wasn’t going to be working on anything in the near future. If something came up, the kids would stay home this time, because they were settled in school and were old enough to know that I would be coming back. I just couldn’t justify employing two housekeepers. One of them had a small child at the time, and the other was single with no dependents, so she’s the one I let go. This woman turned around and sued us for racism, mental cruelty, sexual advances from me and Gene—anything and everything—you name it. I had supposedly yelled at her and beaten her down daily.

My first reaction was, “Oh, and you lived with this for how long? Five years you stayed with us when you’re getting beaten down and humiliated every day? I don’t think so!” She had found one of those ambulance-chasing lawyers who specialize in representing nannies who sue their celebrity employers. He approached our lawyers with the offer: “She’ll take $125,000 to go away, and of course that way it won’t make the papers.”

I didn’t give a damn if it made the papers. “Print anything you want, go right ahead, you are not getting a dime,” was my attitude. I remembered the other nanny, “Lisa;” no one else was going to steal from me with my knowledge! The housekeeper lost a really easy job where she had been very well paid while working in a pleasant atmosphere. She was pissed because she would have to find another job, and suing was her way of making us pay. The battle was on.

Her lawyer went through our lives with a fine-tooth comb. Everything we ever said or did to each other over the past five years was up for examination. And it was all so boring and ordinary that her lawyer got very frustrated. It makes a difference in a lawsuit if you employ a certain number of people, because that way you’ll be sued as a company or corporation. They were trying to show that we had lots of employees, so her lawyer was asking me questions like, “So how many people did you have on staff at all times?” I answered, “One.”

“Come on now. What about your chef?”

“Chef? No. I do the cooking.”

“Your driver?”

“You’re looking at the driver.”

“Your shopper?”

“You’re looking at her!”

He truly couldn’t believe how we lived. It was too ordinary, everyday—something had to be going on under the surface. And he dug for it.

Was I sure that Gene hadn’t made a pass at her? I was quite sure. Why was I so angry, yelling at her all the time? I had never raised my voice to her in my life. She lost a good job; she was angry and upset about it; that was it. Our former housekeeper, the plaintiff, would show up in the deposition room, crying and saying, “Look at her! The way she’s looking at me, that was how she looked at me every day! It made me sick, it made me cry!” It was so over-the-top. I was just sitting there looking at her very calmly. I could not believe how far she was taking it.

They went over the most ridiculous stuff with us. Had I fired her because money was tight? What about the diamonds Gene bought you this time and that time? I answered, “That had nothing to do with this. He’s not going to buy her diamonds, too! One had nothing to do with the other!”

Then they played the race card, which was a joke. We’d dated, between us, a representative of at least seven other countries. You’ve got the wrong family on that one. Nor was it about her being an immigrant. Gene wasn’t born in the U.S.; neither was I. Where you come from has nothing to do with anything. Neither one of us cares where you’re from as long as you’re honest and honorable and doing your job correctly.

They jumped on that. “So she was doing her job wrong?”

“I didn’t have any work for her. That’s all. I am not obligated to keep somebody on when there’s no work for her to do. It is not my responsibility to take care of her financially for the rest of her life because she worked for me a few years. I am not her husband; I am not responsible for keeping her in the manner to which she became accustomed. I gave her three weeks’ notice with pay.” That hadn’t been enough, obviously.

The legal proceedings made its way into the papers, of course. We made the
National Enquirer:
“Gene Simmons and Shannon Tweed’s Nanny Sues for Racism, Sexual Harassment, Mental Cruelty.” The subhead was something like: “Miss Tweed Repeatedly Berated Her.” Blah, blah, blah.

They tried everything to get us to pay her off, but we would not budge. I was in litigation and depositions for a year over this matter. I said, “You know what? I have all the time in the world. You are not getting a thing. I’d rather have my lawyer buy new golf clubs than give you one red cent.”

After a year of this we were just about to go to a jury trial and her lawyer made an offer: “Okay, we’ll take thirty thousand dollars.”

“No, no and no,” was our answer.

“Okay, ten thousand.”

“No. Not ten. Not a hundred. Not one dollar. You get nothing!”

Then the lawyer came to us directly. “I’m having second thoughts about the validity of my client’s accusations.” I said, “Oh, now you’re having second thoughts, because you’re not getting any money? Still no! You’re going to have to eat it. Whatever time you’ve put in, that’s tough. Believe me, she’s never going to pay you anything, and we’re not going to pay you anything. Go away. We’re going to trial.”