Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  As much as it would please me to go into every sordid detail and reveal just how big of an asshole he could be, my lips are sealed. I had to sign away my right to speak about our divorce settlement in order to get the escrow funds from our Calabasas home, which put a roof over my head and gave the children and me a place to call home. In Eddie’s defense (and in one of the few occasions I will ever defend this man), he was prepared to be generous to the boys and me while he still had a job on CBS’s CSI: Miami. But once he was fired from the series, the game changed entirely. He assumed the firestorm surrounding our divorce was the reason Eddie wasn’t asked to return to the show. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he can’t actually act. Right. That makes total fucking sense. #Oblivious.

  After our negotiations went south, so did my alimony and child-support checks. Ladies and gays, if you do plan to get married, don’t marry a fucking actor. When Eddie was cast on NBC’s Playboy Club, people assumed that I wanted his show to fail, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. A well-paid and happy Eddie translated into a well-paid and happy Brandi. I needed him to work. I never watched the show, but I wanted it to succeed. Much like our marriage, it failed—and so I needed a job.

  Driving around the city, it’s clear that most people in Los Angeles don’t have real jobs. At any hour of the day, the 405 freeway is completely jammed—for no reason. Even if it’s 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, you’re hard-pressed to find a table at Joan’s on Third in West Hollywood or an elliptical machine at the Equinox in Beverly Hills. How were these people paying their rent, and how could I get in on it? I needed some income . . . and fast.

  After my first few debacles dealing with the invasive world of tabloid magazines, I decided that if I wanted Eddie to keep my credit cards activated, I needed to stay quiet. Immediately, I stopped taking calls from reporters looking for comments. But they were relentless—and as we all know, I have a pretty big mouth and a temper to match. You can’t unspill the milk, and I had dumped out enough to fill a swimming pool. I turned off my phone, blocked numbers, and texted, “No comment.” The quieter I became, the more they wanted to hear from me. It’s like any relationship really: the more you ignore someone, the more that person wants you. And I guess there aren’t too many “tabloid stars” that are willing to speak out publicly about their former spouses or their new girlfriends.

  Not long after I went radio silent, my publicist started receiving offers from different media outlets to actually pay me for interviews. It was sort of laughable. I thought, “People will actually pay me to talk?” I’d been running my mouth since I uttered my first word, and now someone wanted to give me money for my opinion? It was genius—and proved lucrative. I didn’t want to go out into the world and bash my ex-husband. With all of his over-the-top, superproduced public displays with LeAnn, he was doing a pretty good job of making him look like an ass. But I also had a mounting stack of bills. I knew that the credit card company would eventually deactivate my card permanently. If he were smarter, he would have paid me well to shut the fuck up forever, as it appears LeAnn did with her ex-husband. (But then again, if that had happened for me, you wouldn’t be reading this book! #JustSayin)

  It turns out that I had supporters out there in the world: men and women who picked up these magazines and read these blogs who related to what I was going through and were interested in what I had to say. I had been told for so long that my ideas and opinions were foolish or stupid that I’d actually started believing it. Once I realized I had this wonderful following, I began getting opportunities to make appearances—and again, people would actually pay me to come to their party, store, or nightclub. My first paid appearance was for a “Fabulous and Single” party at a Las Vegas nightclub that my friend Deb Grimmel set up. She was working public relations for the Tao/Lavo Group and asked me if I was interested in hosting this event for her. I wasn’t that well-known at the time, so I’m pretty sure she asked me mainly because we were friends, but I felt special and was extremely grateful. I could come out with a group of girlfriends, and they would put us up at the Venetian hotel and resort. The more appearances I did, the more I would stay press-relevant.

  These small opportunities began piling up—$10,000 here and $10,000 there—and after a few months of capitalizing on some of them, I was finally able to lease a single-family home in Encino for my boys and me to live in. It was one of the first adult decisions that I had made completely on my own, and it felt amazing. With the help of my parents and the small amount of savings I did receive in my separation, I was finally able to start to build my own credit (which I’m still working on), pay my own bills, and figure out a way to get by from month to month. It was insanely gratifying. I’m not necessarily proud of the means I used, but I’m not ashamed of my actions either. It wasn’t ideal, but I did what I had to in order to make ends meet, given the options available. It was also a hell of a lot better than stripping—I wanted to keep my evenings free to start dating again.

  I discovered that my strongest skill is my voice. I’m honest, filter-free, and incapable of bullshitting—and that’s apparently uncommon in Hollywood. For years, I was told that what I thought and said didn’t matter, so it took me a while to accept that people actually valued my opinions and that eventually I could look to offer them professionally. Going through my divorce, I was able to connect with other men and women, mostly via social-networking sites, who were going through similar and not-so-similar situations: marital problems, failed friendships, raising children, dieting, etc.

  If someone had told me four years ago that I would be a cast member on Bravo’s Real Housewives franchise and writing a book about breakup blunders and overcoming adversity, I would have laughed in his or her face. I was guilty of setting my own limitations. That’s often the case when you’ve been in a relationship that made you question yourself. Or if you discover your partner fucked half the neighborhood.

  When my life took an unimaginable turn, I was completely unprepared. While I was sure of handful of things—I could rock the smallest bikini, fuck like a rock star, and make a homemade penne Bolognese that would change your life—I was insecure about my actual abilities to make a living. It can still feel a bit surreal at times. If you learn anything from my journey, it’s that sometimes the best opportunities are not only unexpected, they may come in the most unusual forms—perhaps a reality show focusing on the teenage drama of six middle-aged women, or becoming the victim of a staged photo opportunity at your five-year-old’s soccer game with his new stepmom. Perhaps.

  I had managed to find a way to pay the necessary bills while still being able to purchase indecent, luxury lingerie to wear for a boyfriend I didn’t have. My alimony expired toward the end of 2012, and Eddie now only provides me with child support, but I have my own job, and I’m making my own money. I got the last laugh, because I knew I was going to be okay.

  brandi’s babble

  Overindulgence can be a good thing—especially when it teaches you what you don’t need.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With Friends like These . . .

  There are two truths when it comes to girlfriends: they can be the absolute best and they can be the absolute worst. (Most of mine are just about the bestest ever, though.) There’s no other way to slice it. Remember when you and your very best friend in the fourth grade painstakingly coordinated your outfits for “Twins Day” at school? Fast-forward to high school when the same girl threatened to kick your ass for getting a haircut that too closely resembled hers. Remember when you spent an entire weekend on the couch with your best friend eating ice cream and watching Zoolander, because she was nursing her first real heartbreak? Fast-forward to a few months later, when the same friend begged you to go to the pharmacy to pick up her Valtrex prescription because she’s too embarrassed. So, I repeat, girls are both the best and the worst.

  If nothing else, a breakup is an opportunity to weed out the total users in your life from your real friends. Thi
s is especially true in Hollywood, where people can smell the spotlight a mile away and will ride your coattails all the way down the Pacific Coast Highway, if you let them. LA hangers-on are about as common as Botox and second wives. Although, this theory can be applied to friendships regardless of where you live. If you have more of something—whether it’s money, power, fame, or happiness—some people around you will be jealous of you and resentful for it. Occasionally, it’s natural to totally obsess over your best friend’s new Alexander McQueen skull clutch or the amazing new promotion she got at work; even the best of friends are guilty of it. The difference is, if you’re a good friend, you can be totally envious of her fabulous purchase or his new job, but also be genuinely happy for him or her. Unfortunately, in La La Land, those kinds of “real” friends are few and far between.

  That’s my experience, at least.

  I had it all. I had the hot husband who had somehow managed to develop a modicum of celebrity. I had a beautiful six-bedroom home in Calabasas and was a stay-at-home mom with two gorgeous little boys. I had wonderful friends who were there for me at the drop of a hat. I had a limitless credit card and a husband who never questioned a single bill. I thought I had won the life lottery.

  Apparently, so did my friends, many of whom were struggling with their own relationships and careers. I’ll be completely honest: a glimpse of fame can be incredibly intoxicating if you’ve never experienced it before. Even though Eddie wasn’t well-known, being a working “actor” came with its fair share of perks, and in our social circle he was the only one who had established any kind of name for himself in the industry.

  There is no exact science to why some people “make it” and others don’t. It’s perseverance and hard work coupled with an obscene amount of luck. I’ve said it before: Eddie is a pretty face, not a talented actor. That’s not to say he couldn’t be. If he spent half as much time learning to develop his craft as he did juggling all the women in his life, he’d probably have a shelf full of Oscars—or at least a few Emmys.

  Once Eddie started carving out a television career for himself, it was amazing how many people came out of the woodwork. But I loved it. I loved being the woman who had it all. And I loved being the woman behind that man. When we were married, we had a wealth of friends who seemed so present and supportive. I felt so blessed.

  As the saying goes, the higher the climb, the bigger the fall.

  When my world began crumbling around me, I realized I had three tiers of friendship:

  1. Those friends who hit the road at the first sign of trouble. It’s all gravy when you’re throwing parties with top-shelf booze or picking up the tab at the hottest new restaurant, but when you actually need a hand? Forget it.

  2. Those who stick around long enough just to see you miserable before jumping on the next rising star (in this case, LeAnn). It’s actually twisted. You allow these people into your world and share countless memories with them, but you learn one day that they resented you all along. And when you are at your lowest of lows, they rejoice in your misery, because they have seemingly been waiting for this moment. I guess that makes people feel better about their own lives. Then one day, they’re just gone.

  3. Those who won’t budge. Friends for life. These are the men and women that I cherish. Come rain or storm, we will always be there for one another. Maybe that’s the silver lining after having to deal with shitty people: you can truly appreciate the good ones.

  If you had asked me four years ago, I would have been certain that almost all of my friends would fall into the third category. I would have bet my life on it. Being seriously wrong was something I was getting used to by now.

  Turns out about half of my friends snuggled right into the first two slots. That revelation was almost as heartbreaking as my divorce.

  I wasn’t the first of my friends to go through a divorce, and odds are, I won’t be the last. One friend in particular went through a messy, nasty divorce just a few years before Eddie and I separated. She was Asian, a stylist I met while modeling, but we didn’t hang out much until we were both retired, pregnant, and living in the same city for once. Originally, our friendship was built out of convenience from being on the same jobs, but it eventually developed into something I valued. So when she told me she and her husband were getting a divorce, I was happy to be a part of her support system. I even moved her into my guest bedroom during her darker days. I would spend countless hours doubling as her therapist over bottles of wine and leisurely lunches—but unlike traditional therapy sessions, I always paid the check at the end. I didn’t mind, because that’s what friends are for. Money was going to be tight for her for a while, and I was certain that she would be there for me if I ever needed her.

  And she was . . . for a price.

  When I decided to check into the Beverly Hills Hotel (after discovering Eddie’s second affair), she immediately packed a bag and came along with me. And why wouldn’t she? She knew I was hitting rock-bottom and that I needed her. I assumed that since she had already been down this path, she would be the rock to help me figure out this new life and repay the kindness I had shown her. I’m sure it had nothing to do with a free stay at one of the most luxurious hotels in Los Angeles or the chance to see a former trophy wife fall from her pedestal. She sat there, wiped away my tears, and told me how much better off I would be without him. She also ordered an insanely expensive bottle of tequila and put it on my room tab.

  She wasn’t perfect, but she was there. What I did discover was that having a recent divorcée as a “friend” meant that I also had a round-the-clock drinking partner, if I needed one. Like me, she was single, unattached, and seriously enjoying her freedom for the first time in years—something I found attractive in friends at the time. After her divorce, she slept around and was always eager to drown her sorrows on my dime. However, that was the extent of what she could offer. It was a oneway street, and if I wasn’t going in the same direction, I needed to get out of the fucking lane. Otherwise, she would run my ass over.

  She quickly grew tired of listening to my problems and rarely had the time to listen to me vent or cry. She was always down for a good time, but never a sad time. After all the meals I had picked up, she never offered to pick up a tab or even give me the courtesy of a halfhearted wallet reach—despite knowing the severity of my financial crisis. Although, at a Sunday BBQ in the Valley, she did once offer me the opportunity to be in a threesome with a really gorgeous firefighter she was dating. Unfortunately, I already had other plans.

  I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I figured that her inability to listen to my problems was just self-preservation. Maybe it was hard for her to witness my divorce? Maybe it was, in a strange way, forcing her to relive her own heartbreak (although she also confided in me that she married for money and not for love)? I started to back off our friendship, because I didn’t need to get trapped in her downward spiral. I wasn’t trying to abandon her; I was just trying to protect myself. Much as I was with Eddie, I was completely blindsided when the floor fell out from underneath me.

  It turns out I should have listened to my gut: she was a selfish asshole and extremely unhealthy for me to be around. About two years later, she sold a completely false and insanely hurtful story about me to a tabloid, to make some extra cash. Times were not that tough for her, so she chose to be cruel purely for the sake of hurting me. #JustSayin.

  Once you realize that a friend is only looking out for himself or herself, you need to be able to cut your losses and walk away. A tiger doesn’t change its stripes. If you’re going through a breakup, the idea of saying goodbye to a friend isn’t the greatest feeling, but it’s for the best in the long run. There’s already so much negativity in the world, why keep the door open for more? Like they say: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, go fuck yourself. Or maybe that’s just me who says that.

  During the divorce of yet another close friend, I was by her side for the entire roller coaster and, again, moved her in
to my guest room. (I should have started renting that place out by the night.) Unlike my stylist friend, this was a girl I grew up with. We met in Europe as teenagers and traveled the world together—we even had our first threesome together! We were as close as any two friends could be. Eventually, we both moved back to LA and met our future husbands—who also became great friends. We were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and spent most weekends together. It couldn’t have worked out better if we had planned it, except that we both married fucking douche bags.

  When I was having dark moments, she tried to be there for me the best she could, but she was still struggling herself. One night she tried to take me to Shamrock on Sunset Boulevard to get my first tattoo, telling me it would be the first step on the road to self-discovery. I considered getting just a little heart someplace private. I’d never considered it before, so I got two steps inside the tattoo parlor before my better judgment kicked in: MILFs don’t have ink.

  She was my sister in a lot of ways, but I could sense a growing distance between us over time. Months went by, and she became increasingly unavailable—to talk, to work out, and even to party (which was a rarity for my group of girlfriends). I was totally baffled, but she promised me nothing was wrong.

  Shortly after, it all made sense.

  One afternoon, a mutual friend sent me an e-mail with a link to paparazzi photos. I opened the link and got my breath knocked out of me. Staring back at me from the computer screen was my best friend of more than fifteen years walking down the street and laughing with my husband’s new wife. I leaned in closer to the screen, certain I wasn’t seeing this correctly.

  Why would my friend for nearly half my life be hanging out with my ex-husband’s new wife? The woman who sat by my side during some of my darkest hours was now parading around town with the same woman who caused me all that pain. With shaky hands, I fumbled through my purse for my cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed her number. There was no answer. She had to have known I would figure all of this out eventually, even though these photographs were “oh so candid.”