Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

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  CONTENTS

  Intro

  Chapter One: If He Walks like a Duck and Talks like a Duck . . . Then He’s a Pig

  Chapter Two: It’s a Breakup, Not Cancer

  Chapter Three: The Third Kind of Job

  Chapter Four: With Friends like These . . .

  Chapter Five: Drugs and Other Drugs

  Chapter Six: 17 Again

  Chapter Seven: Drinking and Tweeting

  Chapter Eight: My Favorite Threesome

  Chapter Nine: His Future Ex

  Chapter Ten: I Will Survive

  Chapter Eleven: A Billionaire Saved My Life

  Chapter Twelve: A New Housewife

  Acknowledgments

  About Brandi Glanville

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to the two people who have had the most impact on my life since my divorce: Michael Broussard and Leslie Ann Bruce Amin.

  Michael Brousssard, my amazing book “gaygent,” my future husband, and my third child. Since meeting you, my life has changed—I now have family in Southern California. Most importantly, thank you for not allowing me to fire you after you left me drunk and lost at a gay bar in Venice when we had barely just met. You truly are “the gift that keeps on giving.”

  Leslie Ann Bruce Amin, my amazing coauthor of this book, one of the most talented writers that I know, and one of my dearest friends in the world. You are smarter, funnier, and more photogenic than me, and at times brattier than me. I would not be where I am today with out your love, advice, and direction! Thank you for not allowing me to put half-naked pictures of myself on the internet. I love you.

  INTRO

  Are you a vagina owner or a gay? Then you’ll want to read this book. Has your partner ever tried to convince you that you were just “born” with HPV? Then you’ll definitely want to read this book. Have you woken up one morning in a three-bedroom rental in Encino, only to find your husband is now married to a washed-up country-music singer and you’re in the middle of a reality-television meth controversy? You’re going to want to pour yourself an extra large glass of sauvignon blanc . . . because you’re me.

  As a forty-year-old divorcée and a single mom, I am the first to admit that I don’t have all the answers. Okay, that’s a lie. I actually have answers for everything; I’m just fairly certain they’re all wrong. Over the last four years, I’ve watched my world explode right in front of me, and for the first time ever, my path is completely up to me. No parents, agents, or husbands to tell me where to go, how to act, or what to do next. Sure, it was scary as hell, and sometimes even now I wake up and wonder what happened to my picture-perfect life. But I’d rather struggle with my uncertainty and fear than continue to live a lie. It took me a while to figure that out, because the lie can be comfortable and easy. But I had to ask myself, What kind of life is that?

  When I got divorced, I realized I had completely lost my sense of self. I had always identified myself as any number of nouns: daughter, sister, girlfriend, model, friend, wife, mother, occasional amateur pharmacist—you get the point. I spent most of my life happy just squeezing into someone else’s idea of the roles I should play. And finally, after four decades of living, two children, and one costly divorce, I am thrilled to be meeting Brandi. And can I be honest? It took me a long time to get to her, but I think she’s just amazing.

  My journey has not been smooth or without embarrassing hiccups—and by hiccups, I mean huge mistakes—but better me than you, right? Hopefully, you can learn from some of my blunders. . . .

  I spent my entire life doing what either fell directly into my lap or what other people told me I should do (although I didn’t always listen), so you can’t fault me for going crazy when given my first glimpse of freedom. Most women make their mistakes during their college years. Well, I didn’t go to college. I went to Europe. And while girl-on-girl experimentation and drugs were prevalent, it wasn’t quite the same. I had an agent watching me like a total hawk during every waking moment, and I had the pressure of the nineties fashion world on my shoulders. I know it sounds like champagne problems, but when you’ve had a notoriously beastly supermodel push you off the runway during Paris Fashion Week or helped a “friend” cover her heroin track marks for a runway show, then come talk to me about how high-pressure college is.

  Silly mistakes can be fun and adventurous—it’s also where my self-discovery happened. However, waking up in the VIP room of a Vegas strip club only to discover that I’d married my former best friend’s ex-husband—and tweeted it out to roughly eighty thousand people—is a story I’d sooner forget. I’d also like to forget the one about my husband having an affair with a country-music singer—along with just about every cocktail waitress in LA—but we can’t pick all of our battles; sometimes they choose us.

  While I don’t consider myself a “celebrity,” I hope my story will allow you to peek behind the curtain of a true Hollywood breakup. It’s so salacious, it might as well be a Lifetime movie. Oh, wait . . .

  For the first time ever, I will reveal the dark underbelly of a celebrity breakup—including staged photo ops with paparazzi, tawdry weekly-magazine contracts, and even how social media can be your own worst enemy. So let me offer you my first piece of advice: if you don’t already have a prescription for a good antidepressant, go see a doctor. (I recommend Lexapro; they’re now making a more cost-effective generic form! Who said health care was failing?)

  But this isn’t just a breakup book, ladies and gays. As a middle-aged divorcée who is trying to #KeepItSexy, I’m offering this single’s guide to getting your life back together for anyone who is in need of a well-deserved pick-me-up and perhaps a little direction. I know what you’re thinking: What does this woman know about my struggles? Sure, I’m a former-model-turned-reality-personality living in Beverly Hills. I’m sure most of you are thinking, Boo-fucking-hoo. But I didn’t always have what I have now. I started out in the ghetto of South Sacramento, getting beat up daily by a neighborhood thug. Yes, I was previously married to a gorgeous Cuban actor, but he almost ruined my life. Yes, I misidentified historical icon and British politician Winston Churchill as an American civil rights activist on national television. And, yes, I’m known for my tiny bathing suits and my lack of a filter. But I’m also a single mom who shamefully had to go to her youngest son’s preschool Halloween parade in the outfit I wore on a date the night prior, because I somehow found myself staying over at the Beverly Hills jail, slapped with a well-deserved DUI. And three months after I left my husband over his inability to stop cheating, I sat alone on Christmas Eve looking at Twitter photos of my entire family having a beautiful holiday dinner—without me. Instead, in the center, sat the woman he wouldn’t let go. Even my mother-in-law, the light of my life whom I nursed through cancer, was there. I sincerely hope this never happens to you.

  My mother taught me three simple truths in this world that everyone should recognize: everybody has been dumped; everybody has a bad day; and everybody hates anal (unless you’re gay . . . even then it’s a maybe). These are truths, people.

  I’m a firm believer that however you come into this world is how you live your life. I was born on November 16, 1972, feet-first with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck three times. Despite my dramatic entrance and a few firm smacks from the doctor, I refused to cry. (Let’s be honest, I’ve alwa
ys enjoyed a good spanking.) Growing up the second of three kids, I had a relatively typical childhood. My father was the local marijuana distributor, my mother regularly failed to wear undergarments, and our gay teenage neighbor lived on our couch. I routinely got into fistfights with our neighborhood bullies, I tweezed my eyebrows within a centimeter of their life trying to mimic the glossy fashion magazines I was obsessed with, and my first kiss was with my cousin “Biffer.” Like I said, totally normal. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, it also prepared me perfectly for the world of reality television.

  After high school, I spent a year partying in San Francisco, enjoying my fair share of mind-altering drugs, while weaning myself off my Almay shimmery-pink and midnight-blue eyeshade kit (my agent made me get rid of it). Somehow, I stumbled upon a successful modeling career that took me to Paris and Milan at nineteen years old and introduced me to a world of Brazilian bikinis, private jets, and uncircumcised penises. I had never even been on a plane before (and purposefully missed my first flight, out of fear). When I met Eddie at twenty-three years old, he asked me to stop traveling, thereby crippling my career, but I was happy to oblige. I would have done anything for that man. And at twenty-eight, I found myself the Hollywood trophy wife to a little-known, but relatively successful, made-for-TV-movie actor. But what he lacked in public notoriety, he more than made up for with local “star”-fuckers. After eight years of our marriage and his high-profile affair with a country-music singer, I discovered my husband landed more pussy than a Backstreet Boy—back when people actually fucked Backstreet Boys.

  It doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, or where you live, everybody struggles from time to time. It’s not the struggles that define you; it’s how you overcome them. Among the many lessons I’ve learned, here are a few of my favorites:

  If your husband requires more than one “guys’ night” a week, he’s either fucking a twenty-year-old cocktail waitress . . . or gay.

  You don’t need a job to go on a $20,000 shopping spree at Neiman Marcus; you just need an ex-husband, his American Express card, and a chip on your shoulder.

  It’s okay to talk about your breast implants; it’s not okay to talk about vaginal rejuvenation. Even if you get vaginal rejuvenation. Shh!

  Do not be ashamed of taking antidepressants; basically everybody does. Be ashamed if you’re not talking about it.

  Your friends will always be your friends . . . as long as your husband doesn’t marry someone with more money, paparazzi on speed dial, and a mansion in Nashville.

  So get your Kindle, e-reader, iPad, or even good old-fashioned printed book ready and hunker down with your favorite blanket, because this girl’s guide—complete with hate sex, plastic surgery, and lesbian make-outs—makes Fifty Shades of Grey’s “red room” seem like a nursery rhyme.

  CHAPTER ONE

  If He Walks like a Duck and Talks like a Duck . . . Then He’s a Pig

  People always say, “Don’t panic.”

  Really? Who are these people? I discovered that my husband of eight years was banging every short skirt—and wide back—in Hollywood after seeing it on the cover of a celebrity-gossip magazine, but I’m supposed to stay calm? I’m supposed to eat shit with a fork and a knife and say thank you when I’m done swallowing this crap?

  Fuck off. I’m here to tell you that if your husband, wife, boyfriend, or girlfriend is cheating, life, as you know it, is over. It’s the God’s honest truth, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either completely blowing smoke up your ass, a lawyer, or my ex-husband.

  It’s actually quite the contrary. It’s time to freak the fuck out, and that’s not just acceptable, it’s obligatory. The rug has just been pulled out from beneath your feet, and everything you thought you knew with absolute certainty has vanished. Absolute hysteria is just the beginning—you’re about to embark on an entire roller coaster of crazy-ass emotions. So I, Brandi Glanville, am here to bestow this simple but valuable piece of information on you: if you discover your partner is cheating, drink like it’s your last party, blame everyone else for your problems, let “binging” be your new favorite hobby, and, by all means, FUCKING PANIC.

  It was a cold, sunny morning the day my world fell apart.

  Sure. There were signs. Like, what man has baby wipes in the center console of his Porsche? Please, like he ever changed a diaper. It’s not a science, but I’m pretty certain my husband was getting more than his fair share of roadside assistance.

  But, as the saying goes, ignorance is bliss: I had a beautiful, six-bedroom home in Calabasas, a full-time nanny, a brand-new Range Rover, an $11,500 boob job, two wonderful little boys, and a gorgeous Cuban husband. And I was the perfect little Hollywood housewife. Yes, the writing was on the wall that my husband was far from perfect, and, yes, every so often my curiosity would rear its head, but I chose to ignore it because life was good—plus, even if I believed it, I couldn’t prove a damn thing—in fact, it was great. So when reports of my husband’s infidelities became national news one fateful March morning, I was the lucky recipient of the world’s biggest gut punch. (Both Sandra Bullock and Elin Nordegren would soon follow my lead—let’s just say Eddie’s lucky his golf clubs weren’t handy.)

  It was just your typical Wednesday. Like clockwork, a sleepy-eyed Mason wandered into our bedroom just before five in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have a six-year-old? And just as I did every morning, I gently tugged him into bed and placed him between Eddie and me. With my finger, I would softly trace letters across his tiny shoulders until his eyelids fluttered and he drifted back to sleep. Eddie would, without opening his eyes, smile and toss his strong, muscular arm over us both and pull us to his chest. Wrapped up in each other’s arms, my little family and I would fall away for a few more hours of precious sleep. Oftentimes, I would even lie awake, taking it all in and appreciating how perfect life could be. Not until we heard Jakey’s cries would Mason finally say, “Mom, go get your robe.” I would crawl out of bed and head down the hallway to release Jake from his kiddie corral with Mason trailing behind me.

  The sound of Jake’s shrieks would echo through the house until I would finally swing open the door and see my two-year-old sitting behind his baby gate with crocodile tears and a smile from ear to ear. “Faker,” I thought, but still I picked him up and hugged him hard until I could feel his little body relax. I couldn’t resist that face—or those gorgeous dimples. Well advanced for his two short years, Jake Austin Cibrian not only managed to crawl out of his crib nightly, but he’d also figured out how to open the door to his bedroom. Did I mention that he was still in diapers? This kid would be the death of me.

  So being the paranoid and nurturing mama bear, I had nightmares of my precious baby waddling about in the middle of the night and tumbling down the grand marble stairway or climbing up the banister and falling to his certain death onto the foyer floor below. I know I was being totally irrational, but I decided to put a lock on the outside of his door, because if he was clever enough to climb out of a crib, the baby gate was going to be zero challenge for him. I was aware that this was in strict violation of a number of fire-department building codes, but I didn’t care. Seriously though, it isn’t as drastic as it sounds, but you try going to Mommy and Me class with a bunch of uptight professional Beverly Hills mothers. Ultimately, if it gave me the peace of mind that he was safe so I could sleep for six uninterrupted hours, then I was willing to do just about anything.

  Isn’t that the goal with all parenting? Don’t kill the kids? Shit, isn’t that the goal with every relationship—not killing one another?

  When I finally managed to get both of the boys dressed, the three of us headed to the kitchen for our typical morning routine: a breakfast consisting of hardboiled eggs, Honey Bunches of Oats cereal, and Gatorade, followed by the Round Meadow community car pool and a laundry list of errands to run before the trip to Parrot Cay Eddie and I were planning that weekend. My best friend was getting married to the man of her dreams—who just s
o happened to be Hollywood’s biggest movie star, Bruce Willis—and it was the first time in months that Eddie and I were escaping for a grown-ups vacation. No babies and no BlackBerrys; just my handsome husband and me.

  Let’s be clear, Eddie and I had an extremely healthy sex life (so where he got all that extra energy, I’ll never be sure), but every so often we would run away together so we could make love in the middle of the afternoon as loud as we wanted, for as long as we wanted. And he would kiss me the way he did when we had nothing but time. That, coupled with an occasional lesbian make-out, was the recipe for our seemingly successful marriage. I know what you’re thinking: how was it okay for me to hook up with other women, but not my husband? Welcome to La La Land, ladies and gays. If you don’t keep your man satisfied, there is some other hussy who will. I thought keeping things spicy in the bedroom was the only surefire way to keep my man from straying. #LessonLearned. I’m not talking about any below-the-belt action, just some harmless grab-assing and sexy making out. I can definitely appreciate a pretty girl, so on occasion I would hook up with girlfriends, so that my husband could watch. (Sometimes the girl had a boyfriend or husband, too, who also seemed to enjoy the show.) It was harmless and Eddie seemed to appreciate it, because without fail, it would lead to some pretty hot sex afterward. Like I said, I was just an average Hollywood housewife doing whatever I could to keep my husband happy.

  After breakfast and midway through an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, I popped a toothbrush in each boy’s mouth and began packing Mason’s lunch. Right on cue, Eddie dropped into the kitchen to give the boys and me our morning-ritual “love bug” kiss (where all of our lips met) before heading off for the gym—already fully showered. (Again, you would think a little alarm would go off, but nothing.) Little did I know that our simple, boring morning encounter would be the last time I would ever see the man I married, my Eddie. He gave me a tap on my booty—his favorite part of my body, which he often referred to as my “upside-down heart”—and flashed me one of his toothy, crooked smiles, complete with those dimples that I loved so much. (Flash forward: Eddie ended up getting Invisalign to straighten his teeth from crooked to perfectly perfect. Now if only he could do the same to his crooked-ass lies.)