I asked myself (and many of my single girlfriends), where does a woman like me go to meet a good man? My first instinct was the golf course, naturally. The L.A. country clubs are riddled with reasonably fit, wealthy men with more than ample time to squeeze in eighteen holes before dinner. #TWSS. One tiny little problem: I don’t golf. That’s not to say I couldn’t learn to golf. If going to the same restaurants and bars you frequently haunt isn’t working for you, you need to go outside your comfort zone. But was I really ready to golf? I mean, I could definitely get behind tennis (the outfits are super-cute), but I’m not sure a polo shirt and knee-length khaki shorts would do much to enhance my figure.
Home Depot, I’ve decided, is one of the absolute best places to meet men. Manly men go to Home Depot—the kind who are hoping to make a woman a housewife, not the kind looking to date a “made for TV” one; the kind who like to open doors for ladies and build things with their rough, strong hands. Since there aren’t a lot of single women roaming the electrical aisle, we can have our pick of the litter when it comes to Home Depot’s most eligible bachelors. But be warned: a lot of bored husbands seek solace at Home Depot from overly nagging wives, so fully inspect every left hand for rings or tan lines. It’s also one of the few places on earth where I allow myself to be a damsel in distress. Quite often I need help from a tall, handsome male shopper to pull something down from an impossibly high shelf. (This should go without saying, but always choose the item just out of your reach.) Growing up, I was a really girly girl and preferred to play with Barbies than building blocks, so I’m not that familiar with the tools you find in Home Depot. However, I am pretty familiar with the kind you find in nightclubs in West Hollywood. Needless to say, I can play the part of a damsel in distress and be desperately in need of help from the hunky guy nearby to find the perfect screwdriver. After which, we may go out for a proper screwdriver (the kind made with vodka). And when the sales associate asks if I need help carrying things to my car, the answer is always “yes!”
When you’re tired of prowling the same five places you’ve had on steady rotation for six months, throw on your tightest pair of light-wash jeans and a white tank top (with perhaps a lacy, peekaboo black bra strap dangling out) and make a Saturday afternoon trip to Home Depot. If you stand around long enough looking lost, you’re destined to meet a real man. #TrustMe.
Recently, I decided it was time to call in some reinforcement. I made an appointment with a Los Angeles– area matchmaker—a legitimate, old-school love guru—to set me up with my ideal mate, or at least a good date. She took into consideration a laundry list of things (including my requirements) along with my height, location, finances, interests, and family history, before embarking on her search. She explained that both parties would remain anonymous prior to meeting—which meant we wouldn’t be able to google each other. #Yikes.
A week after my consultation, the matchmaker called to inform me that she had found a fantastic candidate for me to meet for dinner. This is when the first-date jitters started to kick in. I had never been on a blind date where I haven’t been able to at least stalk Facebook beforehand. Two hours before we were supposed to meet, I was sitting in front of my bathroom mirror applying black eyeliner and I froze.
Holy shit, I thought. This guy is so desperate to be in a relationship that he went to a fucking matchmaker! #Hypocrite.
If the date went well and we started to see each other, would it be because he really liked me or because he was just so lonely and ready to settle for anyone who met his criteria? Just then, Jake waddled into the room and complained that he wasn’t feeling well (it’s a frequent trick he uses to get my attention when I’m putting on my makeup because he knows this means I’m getting ready to leave for the evening). I put my hand on his forehead . . . well, he did feel a little warm. I decided not to test it with a thermometer because we moms always know best and I was a little worried I might see the dreaded 98.6. Okay, so I totally chickened out and left a message for my matchmaker that my son had come down with a fever and I’d have to reschedule. I never called her again.
Looking back, I do regret not going on that date. He could have been the next great love of my life. He also could have been just another total douche bag. I realized I was going to have to go about this whole thing the old- fashioned way: throw on a sexy outfit and some strappy heels and force myself to be out on the town.
At the end of the day, I guess I do have one final thing I can blame my ex-husband for: having to learn how to fucking date again, as a single mom and a divorcée.
• 3 •
Douche Bags, Part One
DOUCHE BAG (NOUN)
1. An offensive man that lies, cheats, or is an all-around shady person.
2. Roughly 90 percent of the male population in Los Angeles.
Example: The guy you’re dating is a total douche bag when he tells you you’re the oldest girl he’s ever dated.
Douche bags are everywhere. It’s not an epidemic unique to Hollywood. However, the type of douche bags you encounter is relative to where you live. It’s like baseball: every major city has a team, but the uniforms, the park, and the general style of game play depend on the town. The same goes for douche-y guys. For example, New York City has the pretentious Wall Street bankers rocking crocodile loafers with no socks and some of the Queens-bred slimeballs who still think yellow-gold pinky rings are fashionable accessories. Dallas has some of those “down-to-earth” cowboys who drive $70,000 pickup trucks and think a woman’s place is to be seen and not heard. Miami and Las Vegas . . . do I even need to say it?
Then there’s Hollywood. I like to think of Tinseltown as the douche bag capital of the world. It’s a melting pot for some of the biggest assholes known to man. When I finally made the decision to start seriously opening myself up to having someone to share my life with, I realized that douches, like many things, only get worse with age. And when you’re a single woman in L.A.—especially one known for making questionable decisions in the public eye—trying to avoid these land mines is nearly impossible.
THE CRIMINAL
So it’s not like he was a hard-core felon. I’m not really into hard-core anything (except maybe for some extreme shoe and handbag shopping). He didn’t murder anyone; he just screwed people out of millions of dollars. I mean, find me a wealthy man in Los Angeles who hasn’t done that, right? He was just one of the unlucky bastards who got caught.
Okay, fine . . . so he was also charged with possibly assaulting his ex-girlfriend, but she eventually dropped the charges. Who hasn’t gotten into some pretty nutty, alcohol-induced fights with a boyfriend or girlfriend—am I right? Plus, I’m all for second chances. Oh, and he had his own plane. #LoveAtFirstFlight. I much prefer dating men who have private air travel at their disposal, but in my defense, I did also date a guy with a roommate and a bus pass. I’m an equal-opportunist, but who doesn’t like to go VIP?
We met one fateful night at my absolute favorite watering hole and home away from home, the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was enjoying a girls’ night out and hoping there might be some nice male eye candy. I thought the dating gods were finally throwing me a bone when I saw this guy who was handsome in that silver fox, John Slattery from Mad Men, kind of way. We kept locking eyes across the room, and I couldn’t help but notice the petite young brunette superglued to his side. Usually, I would never go after another woman’s man, but he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring (or sporting a ring tan line) and she couldn’t have been more than six years old, so I figured it wasn’t a romantic type of situation. I finally offered him a small, sly smile while twisting my hair, and he quickly approached our table.
“My daughter wanted to meet the pretty blonde,” he said through a wide smile.
Okay, that should have been my first sign that he was a little slimy. Who uses their kids to pick up dates? I mean, I can wrap my head around using your dog or even a nephew or a niece, but not your own child. He was lucky I was already feeling my second
glass of Whispering Angel, so I overlooked the comment and allowed him—and his daughter—to slide into my booth. (No, that’s not a sexual reference. Gross.)
“You’re a terrible parent.” It was the first thing I whispered to him. He was visibly taken aback. (I’m a firm believer that certain guys love to be insulted. The big, powerful types who have people kiss their asses all day long find it refreshing when a girl calls them on their shit.)
“Excuse me?” he said, through the hint of a smile.
“You’re a terrible parent,” I repeated a little more loudly, but not enough for his daughter—who was already focused on a video game—to hear. “It’s eleven P.M. and your daughter is still awake on a weeknight . . . while you’re out drinking. Shouldn’t she have been in bed hours ago?”
He stumbled through some story about jet lag and a long, late afternoon nap. He could tell I wasn’t buying it when I stopped paying attention about halfway through. I have two kids and knew it was a total bullshit excuse. He could see my interest was fading.
“Can I get you another drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, with a shrug. With the snap of his fingers, a waiter emerged with a bottle of Whispering Angel and three fresh wineglasses. (Did I mention I was at the hotel with one of my best friends, who also happens to be the coauthor of this book and my first one? You don’t think I hang out at bars by myself, do you? #NotYetAnyway.) We engaged in what most people considered harmless small talk, but the rules aren’t quite the same in Los Angeles. It’s a choreographed dance, and every question had to be spot on.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
Okay, I thought. I got this one.
“Right off Mulholland,” I said. My answer was specific enough that it wouldn’t appear I was avoiding the question, but vague enough that I could have been a billionaire or a single mom with a two-bedroom rental house in Encino.
“Where’s your home?” I asked, taking a sip of wine.
He smiled and, without missing a beat, said, “Oh, I’m constantly shuttling between L.A. and San Jose. No place really feels like home.”
Point, Silver Fox. He was able to use my words to craft an even more vague response while still seeming forthright. Okay, maybe it was expensive wine goggles or the way he expertly returned my serve, but he was looking really attractive. I had to regain control of the conversation quickly: “How interesting. What is it that you do?”
His icy blue eyes flashed. It was on.
“I’m a venture capitalist,” he replied through a toothy grin (translation: I’m filthy rich but don’t actually work). I continued looking at him. If you acknowledge the response, he no longer feels obligated to continue. So I didn’t. He finally relented: “I’ve invested with some high-profile start-ups in Silicon Valley.” He took a sip of his wine. “And you?”
“And me what?” I said, pretending to play dumb.
“What do you do?”
“Ah,” I purred. Since joining Housewives, this has been a very tricky question for me. If I tell men that I’m currently appearing on a very popular reality show, it usually has one of two reactions: (a) it sends them sprinting to the nearest exit as soon as the words cross my lips, or (b) it encourages them to pursue me even harder, because this could be their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. I had yet to meet the man who just wanted Brandi.
“I’m a writer, of course.”
Point, Brandi.
We continued our playful back-and-forth for a few more minutes, before I abruptly (always keep them wanting more!) turned my attention to the tiny brunette next to me on her iPhone—of course she had her own cell phone. I asked if I could watch her play Angry Birds.
“It’s called Tiny Wings,” she gently corrected. I watched as her tired eyes bounced all over the screen following a little blue bird racing up and down hills. I could feel the Silver Fox watching us intently.
“She really should be sleeping,” I said. Without hesitation, he motioned to a large man in a black suit to come to our table. His security, I figured.
“Please take her out to the car,” the Silver Fox said, before turning his attention to his daughter. “Come on, baby, time to put on your jacket.” She scooted out of the booth and struggled to pull on her brown fluffy fur jacket, which I assumed had to be real. After all, this was Beverly Hills. The security guard scooped the little girl up in his arms, her white leggings dangling over his stomach, and disappeared into the lobby.
“Well, Brandi,” he said slowly and purposefully while signing a check that seemed to magically appear on the table. “It was lovely meeting you.”
He looked up and smiled. My response here was crucial. It would determine if I was the type of girl you take to dinner or the type of girl you take to a hotel room. While I’m definitely a “take to a nice restaurant” kind of girl, after a few nice dinners I could definitely get down with the hotel room thing too.
I met his gaze and said, “You get that little girl to bed now.”
Nailed it.
He gave me a wink (which should have been yet another clue to just how cheesy he was) and put his wallet in his jacket pocket. He made his way to the doorway but not before stopping to shake hands with at least three different people during the fifteen-foot walk.
My girlfriend had long since checked out of our conversation and was talking to a group of people at the bar, but she rejoined me as soon as he slunk away. We topped off our glasses with what was left of the wine, and I waited. This was the cat-and-mouse game I had missed: the innuendos, the seduction, the saying nothing with your mouth and everything with your eyes. I had been with an older man before, but there was something incredibly sexy about this one.
Not five minutes had passed before he emerged again in the doorway. He marched straight to my table, ignoring the hoots of the people he knew at neighboring tables, and said, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
I smiled and crossed my arm into my lap.
“Can I give you my number?” he asked.
It was a power move that would in theory give me control but ultimately would force me to call him. Then, if I didn’t call, he could pretend he wasn’t even interested enough to get my number, and if I did, he could brag about how much I must want him if I was calling. I knew this game. I’ve played this game.
“My phone is dead,” I shrugged. That’s right, I was actually going to make him ask for my number. He let out a small laugh.
Point, Brandi.
When I got back to my house after midnight, I plugged my phone in to charge and found that I had five text messages from my girlfriend who I had just left. I scrolled through and read one after the other:
“Oh my god. He went to jail!”
“He served like actual time. OMG!”
“Shit. He’s like a legit white collar sleazeball.”
“He squandered millions of dollars.”
“It was in every newspaper!”
This particular friend was well versed in researching and finding people online, so as soon as she got home she started googling the shit out of this guy. What are friends for, right?
“Calm down,” I texted. “Who in L.A. hasn’t spent time in jail?” I was a little buzzed and getting ready for bed. “Let’s chat in the A.M.” I would do my own online research in the morning, but right then I had a date with my pillow that I just couldn’t miss.
After I scrubbed my face and applied my absolute favorite EMK Placental mask, I heard the pings on my phone start coming through one after the other.
“You can’t go out with him!”
“I’m not kidding. He was charged with assaulting his ex-girlfriend!”
“She had to get a restraining order. She says she was terrified for her life!”
“Terrified. For. Her. L-I-F-E!!!!”
“He’s a crazy person. He’ll chop you up into little bitty pieces and leave your body scattered throughout garbage bins in The Valley!”
Clearly my girlfriend was being a little dramatic,
but yes, this was definitely alarming and something I wouldn’t take lightly. Regardless of circumstances, men should never lay a finger on a woman. In a woman? Yes. On a woman? No. I promised her that I would be okay for the night (it’s not like he had my home address) and that we’d talk about it in the morning.
By nine A.M., the Criminal had already left me a voice mail. When I finally crawled out of bed, relishing one of those rare mornings I got to sleep in, I poured myself a cup of coffee with my vanilla Coffee-mate creamer and called my girlfriend. Immediately, she pulled up an article online recounting how he had convinced his business partners to invest in a doomed tech company but somehow managed to pocket millions for himself before he and the business went belly-up. Apparently, he partied pretty hard and developed a wicked cocaine addiction. He also had a well-documented, acrimonious breakup with the mother of that adorable little six-year-old. The mother later claimed he assaulted her and filed for a restraining order. That was not the only time he was arrested. #Ugh.
I know all too well that the public spotlight isn’t always favorable, especially when the media latches on to a really juicy story. This, however, was a little too intense . . . even for me. Or was it? Aren’t there two sides to every story? That’s what they tell me anyway.
“Don’t even call him back. He may go all Fatal Attraction on you,” my friend said.
At that point, I wasn’t planning on seeing him again, but for some reason I felt compelled to at least hear him out. There were plenty of people who had never given me the opportunity to tell my side of the story, so I figured I owed him that.
I went about my day as usual, deciding that I would return his call that evening. I debated getting it over with that morning, but just because we weren’t going to be sparring anymore doesn’t mean you give up on the game.
Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance Page 4
