Call Me Debbie: True Confessions of a Down-to-Earth Diva Read Free

their cultural feet were planted back in the conservative, clean-cut fifties, and they were more Pat Boone and Debbie Reynolds—pretty square. But they still appreciated music. Money was tight, but Dad bought us a piano, and we all took lessons. Mom would teach herself songs from The Fifty Top Romantic Songs of the Era— sweet, melancholy ballads like “Red Roses for a Blue Lady”—as I sat next to her on the piano bench with my eyes closed, listening to her pretty voice.
    At church, I had traded in my pillbox hat for a navy pinafore and a repertoire of gospel hymns. I happily discovered that the hymns were beautiful love songs about God, like “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” and that I could sing them with all my heart, too.
             I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free.
             His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.
    I adored their spiritual sweetness. But if my parents thought they could exorcise their little girl’s inner diva by choosing what and where I sang, they were mistaken.
    My very first public performance in church, at age five, was to be a duet, “Fairest Lord Jesus,” with another girl from the choir. The church was filled with at least a hundred congregants, and all eyes were on us. I wasn’t nervous or self-conscious—after all, I had years of experience under my belt. I was excited—this was to be my first “real,” nonfamily, audience! But my little singing partner was petrified, and when we reached the second stanza she flubbed a line.
    “No, no!” I corrected her loudly, bringing the performance to a halt. Everyone was silent as the pianist tried to get us back on track, playing the same bars over and over as the choirmaster motioned from the sidelines to keep going. But my public scolding completely paralyzed my singing partner, who stood frozen at the altar. My parents, front row center pew, were horrified at what I’d done, I’m sure.
    As a consummate professional, I knew the show had to go on; I continued the duet as a solo. And even though they could not clap in church, I could see my audience was pleased.
    Soon, I was also able to transplant my budding acting skills into a role that served God and was therefore approved by my parents. The Sunday school teacher had noted my can-do spirit in that duet fiasco and began assigning me roles in the Sunday school pageants. My debut role was as a lead angel, but, being every bit as driven and ambitious as my father, by Christmastime I had petitioned for, and won, the coveted role of the Virgin Mary in the Nativity play.
    I committed to it with all the fervor and passion in my young heart, knowing that, in the Greatest Story Ever Told, this would bemy greatest part of all time. Never mind Eliza Doolittle and Maria von Trapp—I now had the responsibility of playing the Mother of God, for heaven’s sake! I had arrived! I practiced casting my gaze downward modestly in front of the bathroom mirror, and our show a few weeks later was a huge success. The pastor himself took me aside afterward and told me that, even with my slight Cockney accent, he had never seen a more convincing Mary.
    EVERYTHING WAS GOING well for me, and that’s why what happened next was so disturbing. My parents had gone out on a rare “date” one Friday night and left Rob and me in the care of Paige, the babysitter, a bookish teenager from our church. She arrived just as we finished dinner, so she knew I’d been fed. But as soon as Mom and Dad were out the door I made a beeline for the kitchen. Paige was playing with Rob in the other room as I opened the fridge door and stood in the light’s harsh glare. There it was, on the top shelf, like a siren singing an irresistible song—a jar of green olives stuffed with red pimientos. I wasn’t hungry; I’d just eaten a big dinner and my tummy was as stuffed as those olives. But for some reason, as soon as Mom and Dad left the house, I had an uncontrollable urge to eat as