Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance

by Brandi Glanville

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to all the men I’ve loved before and to all of the single people looking for love in this world: keep hope alive, learn from my mistakes, and by all means #KeepItSexy.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Introduction: How to Get Screwed

  Chapter 1: I Survived. Now What?

  Chapter 2: Table for One

  Chapter 3: Douche Bags, Part One

  Chapter 4: So I Fucked a Movie Star

  Chapter 5: Douche Bags, Part Two

  Chapter 6: The Booty Call

  Chapter 7: The Friend Box

  Chapter 8: Dating and Parenting

  Chapter 9: I’m Just Not That into You

  Chapter 10: Drinking and Tweeting Again

  Chapter 11: The Unicorn Chaser

  Chapter 12: My “In Case of Emergency” Contact

  Mom’s Epilogue: The Real Brandi

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  How to Get Screwed

  Fuck me.

  Since I announced this follow-up book to Drinking and Tweeting, I’ve been asked countless times to describe what my second book will be about. I’m sure people have wondered what I could possibly have left to discuss after I freely aired all of the dirty laundry in my first book, from my husband’s torrid affairs with cocktail waitresses, well-known actresses (#MyLipsAreSealed), and one cunt-ry music singer to my undergoing vaginal reconstructive surgery to make my kitty seventeen again. The answer was simple: drinking, dating, and occasionally medicating . . . and other ways I’ve gotten fucked.

  There are a million ways to get screwed in this town—and I’ve experienced most of them.

  Learning that some douche bag, wannabe talk-show host that I went on one pity date with was selling completely false stories about me because not only was his career in the shitter, but I also refused to have sex with him, is one way. Getting pinned to the hood of a professional athlete’s Porsche on a dark side street in Beverly Hills because neither of us could wait the fifteen-minute drive to his house is another.

  I’ve never seemed to have a problem getting fucked—good or bad.

  Now, don’t go all reality-TV crazy on me and pretend to be offended. Whether you’re actually saying it or just thinking it, we’ve all been there, and it’s not just a Hollywood problem. In today’s world, you don’t have to be in the spotlight to get screwed. Perhaps one night you have a few too many drinks at dinner and your friend posts a drunk-eyed photo of you on Twitter or Instagram, and all of a sudden all of your “followers”—including work colleagues and family—know you’re a total lightweight. Some might even say that they’re really “worried about you”—which happens to be one of the most judgmental, condescending phrases ever, in my opinion. Or you’re recently single and need to feel wanted and sexy again, so you call your ex-boyfriend in hopes that he’ll drive out to wherever to help “Stella get her groove back” only to realize that he’s been constantly following you on social media for a month and demands answers to every single post you’ve written since you broke up with him—all the while pretending his “friends” sent him the posts and he doesn’t actually care.

  It’s been five years now since my life was forever changed. It’s been five years since I discovered my ex-husband was sleeping with half of the women in Hollywood and that everything I wanted to believe with absolute certainty about my life was so very wrong. I’ve been separated and then divorced for almost as long as I was married, which is a strange thing to even write. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that my ex and my baby boys were snuggling on the couch with me in our gorgeous Calabasas home. Other times it feels like it was all a crazy dream I had one night a very long time ago. But I have three permanent reminders of my marriage that I live with every day: Mason, Jake, and HPV. My boys are the light of my life. Even if on my wedding day someone had a crystal ball revealing my future heartbreak and devastating divorce, I still would have walked down that aisle. These little fuckers were and always will be worth it.

  My HPV, on the other hand, was not. Statistics don’t lie. Half of all sexually active Americans have HPV, although most don’t even know it. #SeeYourDoctor. By age fifty, 80 percent of all American women have contracted the virus, according to various reports. It’s nice to know I’m not alone, but it still doesn’t make getting my cervix scraped every three months any more fun. Reading stories online where people bash you for openly talking about having contracted the virus because you were foolish enough to believe your husband was faithful also isn’t my idea of a good time.

  I went through hell and back, but I’m here, I’m breathing, and I’m still using wildly inappropriate language at the worst possible moments. #BrandiBlunders. I’ve embraced being a single mom and created a very happy life for my boys and me. I continue to make embarrassing mistakes all the time and I still have a really poor knowledge of historical political figures, but I’ve always owned it. #Duh. No more ex-husband to blame, no more horrible friends to make me feel bad, and no more seventeen-year-old vagina. (See chapter 4 where I discuss one of the gorgeously well-endowed men I dated. My kitty’s probably more like twenty-three now, which isn’t horrible. #CouldBeWorse.)

  And even when I am having the worst of days—like discovering that there were photos splashed everywhere of my black thong hanging out of my cream-colored dress because I had a few too many glasses of wine while out with friends and didn’t anticipate a sea of paparazzi—I still wouldn’t trade my life for anything. (Side note: That also happens to be the dress I wore on the cover of my first book. Thanks, Alice + Olivia, for helping me with both the best and worst photo ops of my life.)

  Five years ago, I was a blindly happy Calabasas housewife who didn’t know how to google, tweet, or text. #IgnoranceIsBliss. I was just like any normal mom who read celebrity tabloid magazines at the grocery store checkout merely for entertainment (and not to see if I was in any of them running my big mouth). Other than being the best mom and wife I could be and raising my children to become proper gentlemen one day, I had no real career or identity of my own. At that time, I had already achieved every goal I thought I wanted.

  Guess what: Life goes on after reaching MILF status—one of the few labels I actually welcome. Today, I’m no longer that gullible housewife; I just play one on TV. (Thanks, Andy Cohen!)

  Life has a funny way of working itself out.

  I’ve been in the public eye now for a few years, and while I’ve definitely learned my fair share of lessons (like overly cross your legs yoga style when you get out of a car, never go outside without makeup, and always be nice to the paparazzi), there are some things I just won’t get used to.

  For instance, I’ll never enjoy learning incredibly private things about my personal life from the cover of a magazine. #UsWeekly. Of course, I might end up running my mouth about it later, but call me crazy, I’d just like to be the first to know. Last year, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was an unfaithful wife.

  According to the report, I had sex with some guy in my family home six weeks after my second son was born. Really? Six weeks?

  Now, as all of you ladies who have children know, doctors order at least that long before your kitty is even ready for sex (not to get all National Geographic, but I think it’s more like twelve). And seriously, who feels hot enough or confident enough about her body to sleep with a new partner a month and a half after she’s had a child? At that point, you’re probably too embarrassed to even have sex wi
th your own husband, let alone some hot stranger. Oh, not to mention that for the first two months I had a house filled with family, a round-the-clock baby nurse, and a full-time nanny, all the while dealing with postpartum depression. I mean, who comes up with this shit? Seriously, let’s think about it. Who on earth would have anything to gain by leaking false information about an alleged affair seven days before the tell-all book about my philandering ex and his mistress hit bookstores? Hmm. You tell me.

  To top that, my “affairs” were apparently with former NBA player Rick Fox, who I don’t believe I’ve actually ever met, and restaurateur Harry Morton. Knowing what I do now about what a sham my marriage was, I may have welcomed dating either one of these eligible bachelors, but it just wasn’t true.

  Did I casually and frequently date before my divorce was finalized and my husband was already in a public relationship with another woman? Hell, yes, I did. Did I ever have an affair before that? No. Not ever. That’s just not in my DNA. #ForBetterOrWorse.

  I’ll never get used to reading false claims about my personal life in the press, but I also appreciate the opportunities that being in the public eye has afforded me. It’s what I signed up for and what ultimately helped save my life.

  Only recently have I truly started putting myself out there again in the dating world with an open mind and, more importantly, an open heart. I needed time alone and time to find myself. I needed to figure out who the fuck I was. I had one serious relationship shortly after my divorce that opened my eyes and taught me how to have fun again because apparently life does exist outside The Valley after the age of thirty. However, I’ve mostly remained guarded and terrified of being hurt again. While opening my mind was a relatively easy task, you’re about to find out I had a bit more trouble opening my heart.

  At forty years old (going on twenty-five), I was finally ready to be a single woman again, but I had zero idea what to expect. To put it quite simply, the game has changed. You heard it here first, folks. If you’re like me and have recently reentered the dating pool as a single parent or divorcée, you’re in for a serious fucking wake-up call. Oh, you’re married or in a long-term relationship and think this doesn’t apply to you? Well, go fuck yourself. Knowing how to play the game—or that there even needs to be one—is just as important for keeping your partner as it is for landing him or her in the first place. #KeepItSexy. After thirteen years with the same man, I was finally off the bench and ready to play a few innings.

  First, I had to figure out what I wanted in a partner. I’ve always had a type: tall, dark, and handsome. Since my relationship with my ex turned out to be an absolute disaster, I figured that it was a good idea to cast a wider net. I decided no type of guy was off-limits (except the taken ones!) and adopted the mantra “Yes is the new no!” It’s been a liberating experience; it’s also gotten me into a little bit of trouble (like, maybe don’t say yes to skinny-dipping on a public beach after your third glass of wine). Because of my new outlook, I’ve gotten to know some really amazing men—and some pretty serious douche bags as well. My list of possible suitors ranged from twenty-three to fifty-six years old and was comprised of a film director, surfers, a felon, artists, D-list TV actors, real estate agents, a few not-so-closeted gay men, and—gasp!—even a couple of movie stars.

  The next thing I needed to figure out was how to date in this technology-infused world. Of course, I knew that certain things would never change, like always keep your kitty cat fresh, never be too available, and just say no to booty calls. I mean, I was married to an actor for eight years; I wasn’t dead. But learning to date again now is a whole new animal . . . and I’m not just talking “cougar.”

  When I first discovered the benefits of technology and social media, I used it to obsess about my husband, his future wife, and our children throughout our breakup and divorce. Once I decided I was open to love again, I realized that technology is also a very powerful—and dangerous—tool. Gone is the time of the “three-day rule.” #SoLastCentury. Today, it’s rare to actually pick up the phone and call someone. Even my own voice mail instructs callers to text me instead—my in-box is always full.

  Instead, we text, tweet, Facebook-message, and whatever other social fucking media I choose not to know about. #WhatTheFuckIsLinkedIn? I’m still trying to figure out Twitter. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg (and at forty, who still plays “just the tip”?).

  Barely surviving my divorce taught me that health, happiness, and honesty are the key ingredients to any successful union. It may sound obvious, but only after you learn to accept and forgive your own flaws and shortcomings can you forgive those in another individual. Face it, people, no one is perfect. Only after you let go of the pain in your past, can you have a future with someone new. Only after you’ve spent countless hours with some battery-operated bedroom toys can you fully direct your partner on what your exact needs are. And once you’ve conquered all of this, you’re finally ready to share yourself, imperfections and all, with another person who will undoubtedly have just as many flaws of his or her own.

  So join me in this new, unpredictable adventure, as I fumble through the dating world as a single parent, divorcée, reality personality, and just unlucky gal who occasionally gets lucky. Who hasn’t experienced a nip slip or two? I mean, it’s not like I started my reality career with a sex tape . . . but after all, I wouldn’t be me without my fair share of mistakes. At the better judgment of my publisher, agent, and mother, some of the names and details of certain people have been changed to protect the privacy of the innocent . . . and not so innocent.

  Here are a few of my favorite lessons learned:

  1. Bathroom hookups are great ideas in theory—but a little less practical when there are cameras filming your every move. #RHOBH.

  2. It doesn’t matter how much money you have. Every woman gets wrinkly elbows eventually, and there’s no such thing as knee lifts. Trust me, I’ve checked. #DoctorsKnowBest.

  3. You should never kiss and tell, especially when it’s a really famous Scottish actor and you’re on live television. #KnowWhenToPleadTheFifth.

  4. Finally, when you write an entire cunt-ry album about your affair with a married man, most people won’t buy it. #JustSayin.

  • 1 •

  I Survived. Now What?

  THE VALLEY (NOUN)

  1. A northern suburban area of Los Angeles where white picket fences and PebbleTec pools are synonymous with antidepressants, cheating spouses, and gossipy housewives.

  2. The seventh ring of hell.

  Example: After the former actress abandoned all hope for her once-thriving career, she resigned herself to living in The Valley.

  I finally made it!

  In Los Angeles, where you live is almost as important as who you know—or who you’re fucking. And my new home is in the ultra-swanky Bel Air neighborhood (you’ll learn more later about who I’ve been fucking).

  After all these years, I was finally on the “right” side of Mulholland Drive—the iconic, windy road that sits on the top of the Santa Monica Mountains and separates L.A. proper from—gasp!—The Valley. It’s the infamous road where old-time mobsters used to “dispose” of informants, where Charlie Sheen wrecked a car or four, and where I had a few close calls of my own. #NoDrivingAndTweeting.

  You may be thinking I sound like a total brat, but I’ve paid my dues in LaLa Land. Don’t be fooled by all the sunshine and pretty people: Hollywood can chew you up and spit you out faster than another new iPhone comes out. It’s a city where people measure you by your appearance, your contacts, and your bank account as opposed to your character. So even if you don’t got it, you have to flaunt it—especially when it comes to Hermès bags, zip codes, and fancy cars (which are generally leased). That shit is expensive! #FakeItTillYouMakeIt.

  When it comes to domestic life, you can tell a lot by a person based solely on where he or she lives. The impossibly hip twenty-somethings and tormented unemployed actors live in the gritty Los Feliz and Silver
Lake areas. The gays, celebrity wannabes, and star-fucking cocktail waitresses rent overpriced studio apartments in the heart of West Hollywood. The not-so-struggling artists reside in the canals of Venice Beach. The incredibly rich and famous stake their claim in Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and Malibu. This is how L.A. slices and dices.

  When I first moved to Los Angeles with my friend Michelle in 1995, we rented a studio apartment on Doheny Drive and Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood (yes, we fell into that category) with a single full-size bed, a hot plate, and a nearby pay phone we used as a landline. The scene was so unlike what we were used to in Europe, where we used to model, or even San Francisco. All the women seemed to look the same: blond hair, big lips, and even bigger boobs. In the modeling world, your unique traits are celebrated. Los Angeles seemed like a virtual silicone assembly line churning out one Pamela Anderson–inspired look-alike after another. After about a year of “roughing it” in our tiny apartment, our very rich, very Persian male friend—who we used to do some major partying with in San Francisco—offered to contribute half of our rent for a nicer apartment provided that whenever he visited L.A. we would be his token arm candy and help him get into all the cool clubs and events. (He would have never gotten in without being flanked by a couple of models.) #ShahOfSanFran. At twenty-three years old, it sounded like a fantastic idea and not the least bit like a platonic escort service. Let the record show, neither Michelle nor I ever slept with him—in fact, he’s still a close friend of mine today. Like lots of guys, he just wanted to be around a couple of pretty young models and, like most girls, we just wanted our own bedrooms, telephones inside our apartment, and a fancy meal once in a while. #WinWin.

  Soon after I met the charming “made for TV” actor who would one day become my philandering ex-husband, he whisked me away from my place on the Westside to his Toluca Lake condo—my first taste of Valley life. Anyone raised in the eighties knows the movie Valley Girl—it’s where the brooding hunk from Hollywood falls for the bubbly popular girl from the wrong side of the hill. There was a certain social stigma attached to the valleys of L.A. Today, it’s actually hip to live in certain areas of The Valley, but it still produces a wrinkled nose from most 90210-ers. When I told my friends I was moving to Toluca Lake, they felt the need to say something consoling like “I’m sure it won’t be forever,” “At least you’ll be close to the Hollywood Bowl,” or “You can get some fabulous shoes with all the money you’re saving.” I mean, I wasn’t moving to fucking Siberia.