I didn’t get the job, but I was so glad I went. The day after that I had lunch with a model girlfriend, who told a wonderful little story about how the handsome movie star Gerard Butler had hit on her at the gym that morning and wouldn’t take no for an answer, even when she said she was married.
See, I could make good decisions when it came to men. Except for when I couldn’t. Another night at Chateau, Matt tried to entice me with another setup. “He’s a big agent at CAA,” Matt said. “You might really like him.” Jim Toth was thirty-eight, about thirteen years older than me, and ready for marriage and babies, the whole nine yards. I wasn’t, because I had just dumped Chris, but Jim was funny and smart, and we really hit it off. So when he asked for my number, I gave it to him.
Sure enough, he texted and asked me out for sushi. (What is it with these guys and sushi? It’s so L.A.!) We had a really nice time but it was clear to me that we were in different places in our lives and he was too old for me. After our date, he texted me a lot, but I kept blowing him off. Eventually, he called me out on it and I decided to be honest with him. “I’m not ready to date right now,” I admitted. After graciously saying he understood, he stopped contacting me completely. The next time I heard about Jim, he’d become Mrs. Reese Witherspoon.
He wouldn’t be the only good guy I let get away. I also briefly dated Jamie Linden, the adorable screenwriter of 10 Years and Dear John, who last time I checked, was very seriously dating New Girl star Zooey Deschanel.
Instead of dating Jim or Jamie, who were rich, handsome, and talented, whose arms did I run to? A washed-up model friend named Dylan who was scraping by with short-term gigs as a cameraman on reality shows like Undercover Boss. Oh, and selling the medical marijuana he grew in his apartment (he was a licensed pot dealer). Dylan was the exact opposite of Chris, which is why I stupidly gravitated to him. He was a man’s man, someone who liked drinking and eating meat.
Only two weeks after Chris left, Dylan was on my couch as much as the throw pillows. And for the next year, I thought we were actually quite happy. My career exploded during this time so I was gone a ton. Tragically, my beloved agent, Mamie, at L.A. Models was diagnosed with breast cancer, and a week before she passed away, she took me to lunch and basically ordered me to switch to the Ford agency in L.A. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” she whispered naughtily.
After Mamie died, nobody else at L.A. Models remembered to submit me for castings, so I listened to her advice, and signed with Steve Miller at Ford. He had booked me on the Rome A&F shoot in Arizona and had also made the move to L.A. Signing with him was a smart decision: I landed my first US magazine cover for Fitness and a bunch of lucrative TV commercials, like Jim Beam, Caesars Palace, and Clarisonic, which was a $35,000 payday alone. My face was also plastered on the front of a Clairol hair dye box, which was very exciting considering my classmates nominated me for Best Hair way back in eighth grade. I also flew to New York once a month to shoot catalogs, which was my bread and butter, and even did a photo shoot with Conan O’Brien, who was on People’s Most Beautiful list that year. He was so humble and asked me if I did anything wild and crazy the night before. He said he wanted to live vicariously because he was an ol’ married guy.
I was also constantly getting what I called mailbox money, unexpected residual and royalty checks that appeared every time one of my commercials aired. I was loaded and loved spoiling Dylan, who was always anxiously awaiting his own mailbox money—unemployment checks. I made him gourmet dinners, homemade tamales, Ina Garten’s meatloaf—and took him on a crazy-expensive trip to Maui, where I rented a stunning three-bedroom beach house.
I must have been so busy that I was ignoring all of the red flags that were right in front of my eyes:
1.Dylan was sponging off of me and eating all the food in my refrigerator.
2.He drank like a fish. When he wasn’t working, he’d ride his bike to all of the beach bars, his own little daily pub crawl, and get smashed.
3.Our sex life was awful. Not sure if it was all the booze or what, but we rarely had sex. One of the few times we did, he stopped in the middle because, as he put it, “I just got tired.”
4.I was gaining weight. Dylan was so slothy it rubbed off on me (luckily I got the Fitness cover before this happened). My agent Steve asked me to lose a few pounds, so I started taking four-mile walks back and forth to Venice Beach. On one of these walks, I bumped into Cavan Clark, a wild and woolly photographer, who shot me for Charlotte Russe in San Francisco years before. He had a gorgeous house on the strand and invited me up to his porch to chat sometimes.
5.Dylan flat-out told me he didn’t believe in marriage. He was the second long-term boyfriend to do so.
Even though we had absolutely no future together, about a year and a half into the relationship, I made two gigantic mistakes. First, I allowed Dylan to take pictures of me naked in the bathtub, which I had innocently gone into one night when I was sick with the flu. Second, I found a cute little house to rent in Mar Vista and we moved in together. Two months into it, when rent was due, Dylan told me he could only contribute $200 of our $2,700 rent.
God, the guy was a total loser! I dumped his ass, paid to put his shit in storage, and thankfully managed to wiggle out of the lease. I moved into my own little house in Santa Monica, mentally exhausted and totally down with love. The first night in my new home, I got drunk by myself and wallowed in misery about my disastrous romantic history. I turned on the TV and The Bachelor was on. Brad Womack’s second season had recently started and it wasn’t clear yet that he would turn out to be one of the biggest dicks in the history of the show. At this point, he had humbly apologized for picking neither girl in his first incarnation as the Bachelor and was enthusiastically and sincerely looking for real love and a wife. He was being so romantic and chivalrous, unlike Dylan.
During one of those commercial breaks, when host Chris Harrison asked, “If you’d like to be on the next Bachelor . . .” my ears perked up. Impulsively, I got my laptop, logged on to ABC.com, and applied.
The generic questionnaire took about ten minutes to fill out. I uploaded three of my favorite modeling pictures and wrote a short essay, explaining that it was hard finding love in L.A., that I’d dated actors and models, had my heart broken, and worked my ass off. But after being told by my last two boyfriends that they didn’t believe in marriage, I was a hopeless romantic looking for someone who did believe in making a lifetime commitment.
When I pressed SEND, it felt no different, no more possible, than signing up for one of those “Win a free iPad!” contests.
I didn’t expect to ever hear anything back.
* * *
KEEPING IT REAL
How to Get Noticed in the Application
Send in your best photo. Cut to the chase and save producers time by wearing a bikini in the photo.
Be heartbroken. A good breakup story, in which you’ve been dumped cruelly and callously, helps your chances.
But be ready for love. Nobody wants to date a sad sack. Say you’ve recovered and are looking for the real thing.
Show off your romantic side. Tell stories about the most romantic thing you’ve ever done. But don’t lie. They will eventually figure that out.
Toss around some clichés. They really like it when you say you want a good story to tell your grandkids someday, or that life is better spent when shared.
Don’t beg. That’s unattractive.
* * *
I was single again, but not for long. The serial rebounder strikes again! The day after I shot the e-mail off into the Bachelor abyss, I ran into Cavan on one of my fat-burning power walks through Venice. He asked me out, and I said yes, even though he was moving back to San Francisco and wasn’t really my type. He was bald and kind of overweight, but had a sexy swagger. His confidence was off the charts and he was really funny. We got some fish tacos at James’ Beach, made almost famous in the movie I Love You, Man, and I was instantly smitten. What can I say? After being burne
d by Dylan, Cavan was refreshing, a real man: he was independent, hardworking, and a true gentleman.
When it rains it pours. Within two days of that first date, I got an e-mail from a producer on The Bachelor, asking if I would come in to meet them at their production office on Bundy and Olympic, which was conveniently located just down the street from my new house. I was totally surprised. I was so certain I’d never hear back I’d already forgotten that I’d sent the e-mail. I didn’t respond right away. I went on date number two with Cavan first, and he was so charming, I confessed right on the spot that I liked him. After his eye twitched a little, he said he really liked me, too. And just like that, I had an insta-boyfriend and a response for The Bachelor producer. I thanked her for reaching out, but informed her I’d met someone and that I’d be back in touch if anything changed.
Of course, it did change. I quickly realized that at thirty-five, Cavan was a little too old for me. I was twenty-seven at this point. Plus my crazy, nonstop love life was also starting to get a little old. And with Cavan in San Francisco, I was back in an annoying long-distance relationship.
Because I was often home alone, my sister Rachel came to visit me a lot. She unapologetically liked to watch TV, just like me, and we got really into the new season of The Bachelorette together. Ashley Hebert was the lucky girl looking for love this time and Rachel asked me which guy I liked best.
“Ben,” I said without hesitation. I thought the sweet wine maker from Sonoma was so cute and almost sad. I loved his long hair. He kind of reminded me of my first boyfriend, Jono. On one episode Ben got to ride mopeds with Ashley through the streets of Taiwan and I was actually a little jealous.
Four months into my relationship with Cavan, I started to pull away. The more I watched The Bachelorette, the more I realized that Cavan wasn’t the right man for me. I wanted a guy more like Ben. As I lost interest in Cavan, he started to lose his cool. He got really possessive and obsessive and would text me constantly when I was out. The final straw came when I went to a Victoria’s Secret party and he barraged me with a dozen messages. I couldn’t deal anymore and broke up with him. After it was over, he’d call me crying and bombard my landline fifty times in a row.
Only weeks later Jesse popped back up in my life, “bumping into me” at my gym, curiously right after I changed my Facebook status back to “single.”
“Well, well, well,” I said. “Look who’s here.”
“I was hoping I’d see you,” he admitted shamelessly, like he always did. He said he’d lost my phone number after a jealous girlfriend deleted all the female contacts in his phone.
“Oh no, not again!” the gym’s juice-bar girl cried, rolling her eyes. She’d seen this all before.
And darn it if she wasn’t right. Jesse and I fell right back into it. This time, he seemed different. Instead of partying, we strolled through the Century City mall together, ate at Pink Taco, and he even went to see chick flicks like Sex and the City 2 with me. But sadly, a leopard never really changes its spots. One weekend I went out of town, to Arizona again for the love of God, and Jesse called me and said he was in Palm Springs for a boys’ weekend playing golf. He was heading back to L.A. and wanted to take me to dinner as soon as I returned home. It was so sweet of him to check in, right? Wrong.
He wasn’t even in Palm Springs! At the same time Jesse called me, I got a text from a friend, who’d spotted him in Venice Beach with a girl. I Google imaged Jesse and pictures instantly popped up on TMZ.com of him straddling some chick in a park. “This is PDL—public display of lust!” the caption read. “Jesse Metcalfe reminded us of his existence by tongue-wrestling this skyscraper of a blonde at Venice Beach. The couple had a roll in the green that left Jesse feeling a little too sexy for his shirt, apparently.”
That was the final straw. All three of the men I considered the loves of my life had used me and/or betrayed me. None of them—not Chris, not Dylan, not Jesse—had any intention of ever marrying me. And I wouldn’t have wanted to marry any of them anyway. They all had major character flaws.
Were there any nice guys on the planet who actually wanted to get married?
Ben Flajnik. I felt strangely connected to him. By this point in The Bachelorette season it was obvious to me that Ashley was more in love with J. P. Rosenbaum and would probably end up with him. The tabloids were already saying that J. P. won and that Ben might be the next Bachelor.
After being heartbroken about Jesse for about ten minutes, I decided I wanted revenge. I went back into my e-mail inbox and found the address for the producer of The Bachelor. I knew the show would start shooting really soon after The Bachelorette finale, so I wrote and said I hoped it wasn’t too late, but I was single again.
A producer wrote me right back: “Can you come in tomorrow?”
* * *
KEEPING IT REAL
How to Throw the Best Viewing Party
by Rachel Robertson
As an ultimate fan of the Bachelor and Bachelorette franchise (I have watched every episode since the show’s inception), one of my favorite things to do during the season is to get my girlfriends together and watch the show. Here are my top five tips for throwing the most dramatic viewing party in Bachelor/Bachelorette history.
1.Nicknames Are Key Especially early on, it is hard to tell the contestants apart and remember who is who. I recommend you and your friends come up with little nicknames or phrases for each person that remind you of what they do (free spirit, cruise ship entertainer, I’m a model!), what was unique about them (horse girl, girl with two kids, guy on the skateboard), or when necessary, notable fashion mistakes (too spray-tanned girl, bad-weave girl, guy with the ascot).
2.Create Some Friendly Competition I recommend a drinking game in which each person drinks at certain words (rose, drama, house, date, love) or when certain inevitable things happen (like when a contestant suddenly seems to realize that he or she is not the only person dating the Bachelor/Bachelorette and gets upset—hello, don’t these people know what the show is about before they go on it?). Another idea is creating a bracket and getting some friendly wagers going on who will go home on a certain episode or who the ultimate winner will be!
3.Set Some Ground Rules With a room full of women, it is quite possible someone will want to talk throughout the entire show. I had to set some ground rules with my friends, especially when Courtney was on. Example: no talking between commercial breaks, unless we paused the show! Another boundary to decide on is whether or not you want to hear spoilers. Like it or not, and accurate or not, Reality Steve is out there and some people may want to tell you exactly what he says happened. I personally prefer the element of surprise, as it makes the whole experience more interesting.
4.Roses, Hot Tubs, and Some Other Ambience Ideas While you don’t want to creep out your friends by creating a Fantasy Suite, it is fun to incorporate some Bachelor-related decorations or settings into your viewing party. When Courtney was on the show, my girlfriends and I created a foam board where we had pictures of each of the girls and we would remove them one by one as they were sent home. Or you can never have too many roses or bottles of champagne at a viewing party. And, of course, if you can host a viewing party in a hot tub, all the more power to you, girl!
5.Use Your DVR to Your Advantage I can’t tell you how many times we have watched the preview for upcoming episodes of The Bachelor, and particularly the final episode, in slow motion, with frequent rewinds. It is incredibly fun to try to piece together the tiny details to predict who is getting the final rose, and who will be crying in the back of the limo.
* * *
3
MALIBU BARBIES & BEN
My hunch was right. On August 1, 2011, Ashley chose J. P. instead of Ben as her future husband in the season finale of The Bachelorette. I genuinely felt bad for Ben, who was furious and embarrassed after Ashley let him get down on one knee to propose, only to lift him back up by the elbow and reject him. I wondered if he’d ever recover from such a humiliati
ng and cruel public dumping. The rumor was that the show’s fans desperately wanted him to be the next Bachelor, but he was so pissed about being humiliated he was playing hard to get with the producers. Nothing official had been announced yet, not even on the “After the Final Rose” show, when he faced Ashley graciously and stoically.
In my heart, I truly believed Ben would be the next Bachelor and I wanted it to be him. In my very first meeting with the show’s producers, they actually asked me who I’d like the next Bachelor to be and I, of course, said “Ben.” After having my picture taken, a producer handed me a huge packet and I thought I was in. That was easy! Not so fast. Next, I had to make it through Finals Weekend, which took place just five days after The Bachelorette finale aired.
When I showed up to the nondescript hotel, I was told to keep a low profile. Nobody could know that I was there for The Bachelor. As soon as I arrived I was escorted from my car and then whisked straight to my own room by a producer. If a random guest asked what all the commotion was about, we were supposed to say, “We’re filming a movie!”
Finals Weekend is a twelve-hour audition meant to whittle down the potential dates for The Bachelor to about thirty women. But it’s also an important test to see who can make it through the intense interview process without cracking, crying, or showing their true (ugly) colors. They shuttle you to various conference and hotel rooms for different parts of the audition. Not once during the entire day did I see another contestant. From the very start, producers want you laser-beam focused on the show. There are absolutely no distractions.
The first leg of the marathon day was a 150-question personality test. After the personality test, which I decided to answer as honestly as possible—as opposed to answering strategically, or what I thought they might want me to answer—I was taken to the show’s resident psychologist. I didn’t know this at the time, but the curly-haired shrink from Beverly Hills travels with the show and is a permanent fixture on set. I guess she must have thought I was one of the crazy people because she looked over my personality test then peppered me with questions about my drinking habits, asking if I thought I had a problem and if I’d ever had a fight after a night of boozing.
I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends: Confessions of a Reality Show Villain Page 6
