Previously on Two Truths and a Lie…
Long before Romy and Michelle argued over who was the Mary and who was the Rhoda, my friend Farah and I routinely debated which one of us was the Amanda and which was the Allison. In true Amanda form, I always declared myself Amanda—and walked away.
Melrose Place debuted the summer I graduated high school, coincidentally the same summer Donna Martin graduated, and the summer I moved out of my mom’s apartment and into adulthood. College wasn’t in the cards for me, and since I was already living on my own, Melrose Place and Friends became my surrogate college experience as I navigated three jobs and juggled multiple roommates while diving straight into the workforce. From Ross and Phoebe to Billy and Sydney, they felt like my peers—young twenty-somethings bushwhacking their way through the wilds of the '90s, trying to figure out who they were in a rapidly changing world.
The mid-'90s—the era of neon hyper-color shirts that changed colors when you touched them—was an exciting, high-contrast, and vibrant time to be alive, especially in my early twenties when my dreams still felt bold and unabashed. The world seemed to exist in technicolor, offering everything from Pearl Jam to Public Enemy, My So-Called Life to Seinfeld, Linda Richman ('no big whoop') to Wayne’s World, Hocus Pocus to Titanic, The Simpsons to Beavis and Butt-Head, Tonya Harding to O.J. Simpson—and of course, the ultimate antithesis to pop: grunge.
Grunge wasn’t just about angsty rock music—it was also a look: long underwear under a flannel shirt on a sunny day, over-plucked eyebrows, dark Bordeaux lipstick, clunky Dr. Martens boots, and the faint smell of clove cigarettes in the air. But most importantly, it was an attitude.
We were scrappy and rebellious. People often say our generation was angsty, but it wasn’t because we were disenfranchised—we were just impatient and bored. Defiance came naturally after years of being left to our own devices. We were know-it-alls because we’d had to learn it all. Being pushed out of the nest wasn’t terrifying—it felt inevitable, the natural next step in our evolution. We couldn’t wait. We were ready to take the stage after years of rehearsal, and that headstrong attitude shaped us. It’s almost hard to believe now that I ever lived with such self-assured confidence, but back then, our world felt indestructible. We believed Pat Benatar and Billie Jean when they declared we were invincible.
We were know-it-alls because we’d had to learn it all.
But that was then. Nowadays, I have a panic attack if Starbucks runs out of oat milk or if someone sneezes in public. It’s no secret that the last few months (or years) have been emotionally tough—for me, and for all of us. After the high of my wedding and turning 50 in June (hands down the best weekend of my life), the inevitable crash followed. Months of meticulous planning had culminated in a beautiful crescendo, only for me to find myself swallowed by the vacuum of "what's next?" I navigated this transition as best I could, but I soon realized I’d been perched on a precarious pedestal of happiness, balanced perilously atop a steep cliff of despair.
Then, just a week after my birthday, I caught the NKOTB strain of COVID and was knocked right off my perch. Thankfully, my symptoms were mild, but they drained my energy to the point where lifting my head felt monumental. I spent three days in bed, doom-scrolling through Instagram, where post after post blurred into a repetitive, overwhelming noise that only got louder as you tried to turn it down.
As if that weren’t enough, many of my closest friends had been gradually leaving Los Angeles since the pandemic began. The weekend of my wedding had also doubled as a going-away party for two more friends, and whether true or not, I couldn’t shake the lonely feeling of being left behind. By day four of COVID, I managed to drag myself to the couch, only to be gutted by the news that Richard Simmons had passed away.
His death was yet another important person gone, leaving me to feel like the last one at a party. Loneliness was seeping in, and the political landscape was weighing on me like a wet weighted blanket. The thought that Ivana’s ex-husband might win again steeped me in melancholy, and I still can’t wrap my head around how that could happen.
I don’t want these letters to veer into overly political territory, but I can’t avoid it entirely—especially when I’m reliving memories and processing my feelings in such an open forum. But I have to ask: how are we, as the "greatest nation in the world," being held hostage by elderly white men who seem so deeply incompetent? How is this the best we have to offer? I’m excited about the prospect of Kamala, but I’m also terrified and flummoxed that the race is so close.
As I spiraled into free fall, I realized I needed to make some changes. The most obvious was logging off Instagram and Facebook for two weeks, which turned out to be my best decision. We often lose sight of how many endless opinions bombard us when we’re scrolling. Even if those opinions match ours, we really don’t need more than maybe three on any topic. We certainly don’t need thousands. I missed the RNC entirely, and when Kamala was announced, I was able to stay in a bubble, too nervous to see how people would react. It was just enough to allow my depression to scab over.
Then, just as my sadness was peaking, our friend Aben took us to see Alanis Morissette in Palm Desert, with Joan Jett opening. Watching Joan Jett dominate the stage even after all this time was empowering, but when Alanis took the stage, it felt as if she had arrived in a DeLorean—every sensation in my body was reprogrammed to 1995.
Her voice is more powerful and nuanced than ever. She moved across the stage with the energy of an athlete, pacing like a feral animal. My head tilted back, mouth wide open, I sang every lyric at the top of my lungs—it felt more like an incantation than a rock concert. I was in sensory overload as my mind transported me back to the mid-nineties. It wasn’t just nostalgia; it felt like plugging my Na’vi braid into my avatar and reconnecting with who I was and how I navigated the world back then. I remembered how fearless I was, bulldozing my way through life—defiant, bold, and ready to conquer anything. Back then, it wasn’t about whether I was worthy of L.A.; it was about whether L.A. was worthy of me. During her two-hour show, I felt like Michael Mancini waking up from his coma and rediscovering my true identity. Several times my body covered in goosebumps.
They say to take inspiration where you can find it, and that night reignited something in me. I’d been a barely lit candle for months, and somehow, Alanis brought her bright burning wick close enough to mine to help brighten my fire.
But that was just the beginning of this silly anecdote. A few days later, I Heart Radio launched a podcast called Still the Place, hosted by Melrose Place OGs Laura Leighton, Daphne Zuniga, and Courtney Thorne-Smith. I tuned in for the nostalgia but quickly became engrossed in their conversations and started rewatching each episode alongside them.
Back in the '90s, Melrose Place was my absolute favorite show. I hosted Melrose Mondays at my first apartment, where we’d drink wine, and I’d whip up gnocchi and my grandmother’s cucumber and tomato salad. For that hour, my phone was off the hook—literally, with the receiver resting on the counter—so anyone who called would get a busy signal. No interruptions were allowed. As I started binging the series again, it felt like stepping back in time, reliving those parties and that era of moving to Los Angeles, fueled by that unstoppable internal bravado. I was remembering how I felt inside in that time of my life.
I like to call these 'God moments' or times when guardian angels step in—those seemingly insignificant moments that, in retrospect, mark the turning points in your life. I know it sounds corny, but I was just happy to feel lightness again. Somehow, between Alanis’s concert and my rewatch of Melrose Place (I’m deep into season four, and for the life of me, I can’t remember why I ever rooted for Allison; I’m definitely Team Amanda!), I caught a glimpse of who I used to be and remembered who I wanted to become. I’m learning there’s power in looking back—not just at the details, but at the emotions and feelings we had in the moment. And back then? I had feelings, I had all of them! My desire to be bold was bright and fierce—I wanted to make a name for myself in Hollywood. Before the doubts, before the heartbreaks, before I had trouble sleeping, before 9/11, before the pandemic, and before realizing there’s less road ahead than behind—I was self-determined, carrying an ‘anything is possible’ energy. And it was empowering.
This writing project is a direct result of that renewed energy. I became enamored with creative writing during an English class when I was 14, and my teacher praised a poem I had written. My dream in high school was to become a journalism major, live in Santa Barbara, and write cover stories for Rolling Stone magazine. The most romantic fantasy of all was during the filming of Three Kings in Casa Grande, Arizona, when I would drive 40 miles to the nearest Barnes & Noble. For everyone who complained about big-box stores, when I was homesick, those familiar places felt like a warm blanket. I’d fantasize about writing a book that could be found on the shelves of any Barnes & Noble, and in that moment, I’d feel at home. There are plenty of booby traps that come with that fantasy, but I’ll save them for another day.
For years, I convinced myself I wasn’t a writer because I didn’t have a degree. Yet, on the flip side, I always imagined I’d eventually publish a memoir once a publishing house came knocking—when, in reality, my stories were just collecting dust in old half-used spiral notebooks in tattered boxes I’ve lugged from garage to garage over the years. What I’ve come to realize is that I’m done waiting for the 'perfect moment' or fooling myself into thinking millions are eagerly awaiting my book. Instead, I’m sharing my stories now, on my own terms—because that’s exactly what twenty-something me would’ve done. And if someone learns from my experiences or feels empowered by my struggles, that’s great. But if the only outcome is that it’s cathartic because I finally said it out loud, well, that’s pretty great too.
Now, I don’t want you to think that what I’ve experienced has healed me or led to some grand enlightenment. It’s more like a fuse has been lit. Every time I finish one of these stories—whether it’s the quirky details of my Hollywood life or raw reflections on my mom or divorce—I feel a deep sense of pride and accomplishment. And when you let yourself feel even a small spark of pride, it blossoms into joy. Joy brings hope, and once you have hope, you’re nearly there—because with hope, you can always find faith. Today, my faith tells me to stay hopeful: that everything will work out, that I have so much more to accomplish, and that I’m just getting started—even at 50. Believe it or not, all of these reminders came rushing back after being transported back to the '90s, thanks to Alanis Morissette—and a little help from Amanda Woodward.
Results from the previous Two Truths and a Lie which you can catch up on by clicking here.
Truth #1: Hard to imagine, but I was embarrassingly close to getting Aladdin’s face—yes, the Disney cartoon—tattooed on my shoulder. Remember my Billy Baldwin confusion? It turns out I had the same situation with Jon Bon Jovi. I didn’t recognize my feelings as a crush; I mistakenly believed I wanted to be him. So when I saw his Superman logo tattoo on his shoulder, I thought, ‘I need one too!’ The truth was, I just found his arms incredibly sexy, and the tattoo happened to be there. Not wanting to outright copy him, I eventually settled on… Aladdin. Why? Because in my 19-year-old mind, that whole crush thing extended to a cartoon and was so confusing that I convinced myself a tattoo of Aladdin would be cool. (It’s ok, I’m facepalming for you right now.)
Remember those God moments I mentioned above? In what I can only describe as divine intervention, I had a sudden vision of myself at 70, still rocking Aladdin’s face on my shoulder—and it just seemed ridiculous. So, on the way to the tattoo parlor, I grabbed a friend's knitted throw blanket with a giant sun on it and told the artist, That. I want that. A sun felt more timeless—and 30 years later, it mostly holds true.
The lie: Shaunessy and I didn’t get matching tattoos for our 30th friendship anniversary—but after writing this, I think there's a good chance we will. Maybe even ice cream cones. I’m totally in.
Truth #2: Yes, there is indeed a ladybug tattoo on my foot. I don’t get to see it often, thanks to the steel-toed shoes I have to wear around all the names I drop—and you should be wearing yours for this next part! The tattoo exists courtesy of Grant Show and a scavenger hunt that Tiffani Amber Thiessen and I organized for Constance Zimmer’s birthday.
When we were coming up with the challenges, we never thought anyone would be crazy enough to actually get a tattoo, so we assigned a ridiculous amount of points to it. By luck of the draw, I ended up on Grant’s team, and as we were sprinting down Hollywood Blvd, we passed a tattoo parlor. Out of nowhere, Grant said, 'You’re getting a tattoo. I’ll pay for it.' I was too overwhelmed by the fact that Jake Hansen was telling me to get a tattoo to even hesitate. My Aunt Bernice had recently passed away, and she loved ladybugs, so it felt meaningful. We won first place, though I couldn’t tell you what the prize was. But I’d say the ink on my foot and becoming friends with Grant was reward enough.
But the most surreal moment with Grant—aside from the fact that we became friends—was while I was making my grandmother’s cucumber and tomato salad for dinner at his house one night. It caught me off guard when I thought about how many times I had made that same salad for my Melrose Place viewing parties. There’s no way my 20-year-old self would’ve believed it. Life has a funny way of surprising you if you let it—and of reminding you just how far you’ve come.
Next time on Two Truths and a Lie…
I played Fussball in Joey and Chandler’s apartment on the set of Friends.
I was in the Thriller dance sequence from 13 Going On 30. Blink and you’ll miss me in the back row on the right.
I was with Leonardo DiCaprio on a private plane and there was terrible turbulence and all I kept thinking was that I would be known as "Leonardo DiCaprio and Others" if the plane crashed.
Leave your guesses in the comments and stay tuned for the stories…
“Two Truths and a Lie: A Storytelling Challenge!”
Join me in a fun guessing game where you’ll determine what’s true and what’s made up from my life experiences. Your guesses will inspire fresh writing prompts for future stories, blurring the lines between fact and fiction. Let’s see where your imagination takes us!
The perfect moment is right now, it’s always right now 🙌❤️
Right there with you on Melrose Place! Obsessed!!! Good ol days❤️ need grandmas salad recipe please. Thanks for another one of your heartfelt stories👍🏻