Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  Pills aren’t the answer to everyone’s problems, and prescription-drug dependencies are both real and scary. (I’ve seen enough Intervention to know this.) However, I found that Lexapro can offer me the stability I need to play soccer with my boys without breaking down in tears. It has been the crutch I sometimes need to be a good parent and to get through my days while actually enjoying them! This is simply my truth.

  I don’t know about other cities, but in Los Angeles about 90 percent of all women are either taking or have taken some kind of happy pill—and I know with certainty every single Valley housewife has a standing prescription. They don’t call it the Valley Vitamin for nothing. A lot of my friends are on Lexapro—either because they’re struggling with their role as a new mother and all the hormonal changes that come with it, or because they’re simply getting older, and getting old sucks for everyone, especially for former models.

  People act as if it were this dirty little secret. No one wants to talk about it, because it’s like admitting some kind of failure. Men and women are far more comfortable talking openly about smoking pot or snorting cocaine than they are about needing the assistance of a legal antidepressant. It’s like, “Hey, I’m just partying. I don’t need drugs to get through the day. I am in control of my days. I just do a bump or toke a bowl now and again because, unlike you, I’m totally normal.” #Hypocrites.

  I’ve talked openly about it both in interviews and on my Twitter feed. People shouldn’t feel as if it were this terrible thing to recognize a problem, recognize that they’re mistreating themselves and the people around them, and want to get help. As soon as I mention to people that I’m on Lexapro, they immediately launch into their own story about Zoloft or Prozac. I think people want to be honest about it, much as with postpartum depression, but still can’t shake the stigma surrounding it. Hell, if I were afraid of what people might think, I’d never leave my house—or wear a bikini.

  I’m also not afraid to admit that I occasionally rely on Xanax to help me with my anxiety. While most users of Lexapro require it daily, people require Xanax only during extremely stressfully situations. After the Lexapro, it was the very next prescription called in to my local pharmacy.

  Xanax helps keep me calm when I feel a panic attack coming on—those usually occur during short flights on small airplanes (those of you who saw the second season of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills will get that reference) or on the morning you find out your ex-husband has married the woman he had an affair with, and your children walked her down the fucking aisle. #XanaxRules. While my now-small dosage of Lexapro grants me the sense of normalcy I need to get through the day, the Xanax mellows me out completely (and makes me a little silly). Like I said, it’s not by any means a habit, and I’m definitely not operating any heavy machinery while under its influence, but it gets the job done when needed.

  The one habit I did need to sideline was my drinking. After my divorce—even with the help of Lexapro—I fell into a bit of a tailspin (and an eventual DUI arrest). My life had become the textbook Cougar Diet: sauvignon blanc, Lexapro, and weekly magazines. Plus, the Lexapro (an antidepressant) coupled with the alcohol (a depressant) made for an extremely dangerous combination.

  Ironically, I rarely drank when Eddie and I were together. We’d have an occasional glass of wine with dinner and definitely loosen up at parties or events, but I wasn’t a big drinker. That quickly changed after we separated. White wine became my constant shoulder to lean on. Coupled with the Lexapro, it was the only way I could get myself through my days and get to sleep at night. I realize how dangerous that was, but my life was unraveling at the seams.

  So, you’ve all heard the story: I slashed the tires of my husband’s two Harley-Davidsons. Not only is it true, I would do it again in a heartbeat. After two glasses of wine and a particularly bad evening, I had worked myself up enough to grab the largest knife out of the kitchen block and head straight to the garage. I slashed four tires in all—two wheels on two bikes. I’m not necessarily proud of my actions, but in that moment it felt really, really good. I was hurting so badly and made a knee-jerk decision to ruin something I knew he loved.

  In my defense, I told Eddie what I had done before he tried to drive either of them. He wasn’t too thrilled with my actions, but what was he going to do? Have an affair? Plus we were still married at the time, so I actually owned the bikes, too. Given everything he’d put me through, he was seriously lucky that’s all I took a knife to. Don’t think I didn’t fantasize about going all Lorena Bobbitt on his ass.

  I wasn’t trying to kill him (not this day anyway); I just wanted to piss him off. #Success.

  I don’t blame the wine for sending me into a spiral. I wanted to do it anyway, but the wine gave me the courage.

  Two glasses of white wine was enough for me to get tanked. Luckily, two glasses of wine is about all I can handle nowadays. However, for a long time it wasn’t two glasses I needed to calm me down, it was two bottles. That much alcohol for a woman who weighs 120 pounds is extremely unhealthy. I’m pretty sure my organs are pickled.

  Considering that I was simultaneously watching another woman fill my shoes entirely and completely take over my life (#SingleWhiteFemale), I’m pretty lucky that I didn’t become a fucking crack whore or a heroin-addicted stripper. Well, the stripper option was briefly on the table, but heroin? Not a chance. I saw firsthand how that fucks people up. #Models.

  I was drinking so profusely that the hideous hangovers actually stopped, so I started having booze-filled lunches. I started hosting my friends every night for man-bashing parties, so I didn’t have to drink alone. I also became a pro at drunken sex-skyping with a handful of friends with benefits. (That’s what the kids are calling it, right?) Clearly, these were all distractions so that I wouldn’t be forced to deal with my problems and sadness.

  Yes, drinking became a dependency, and I’m not proud of it. Sitting at soccer practice, I would watch the mounting e-mail exchanges between our lawyers, and the craving would hit me like a ton of bricks. I would pack up the kids as quickly as possible so Mommy could get back to the house and relax with a bottle of “grape juice.” My trips to the grocery store became much more frequent, almost daily. I would make a beeline to the wine aisle and search for the already-refrigerated screw-tops. (I did not have time to bother with uncorking the damn things.) That’s when I started to realize what a problem it was becoming. I seriously didn’t want to waste time uncorking the fucking bottle?

  While I regret my reliance on alcohol, I always to try to find a silver lining in any situation. Drinking became a way for me to socialize again. I spent months hiding out and feeling sorry for myself, only allowing those closest to me (or whom I thought were closest to me) into my world. One glass of wine alone could take the edge off, and I became more relaxed about reentering civilization. After two or three glasses of wine, my confidence was completely restored. Chardonnay—or any white wine—was a huge kick-starter to my ability to start dating again. At first, drunken sex was the only kind of sex I could have (especially because I wasn’t necessarily attracted to my first boyfriend after my split). My grape-juice problem became my “rape”-juice problem. It took about two years before I could have sober sex. Actually, it took me about two years of overindulging in white wine before I could do most things sober, when it came to men. I think two years is a good barometer for anyone going through any kind of major change—whether it’s divorce, death, illness, a new job, a new home, or a new relationship. After twenty-four months, most of the dust should have settled, and you can start moving on with your life in its current state. Or maybe I just made that up to make myself feel better. #WhateversClever.

  I’m aware that it sounds as if I was an alcoholic. Maybe I was, but it wasn’t the booze in itself that I was addicted to; it was the need to escape my problems. Once I mastered that, I was able to curb the drinking. It had a lot to do with therapy, but more to do with the humiliating DUI charge I was slapped with and the Breathalyz
er I was required to install in my car for five months (you’ll read about that stuff later).

  Anyone who watches Housewives or keeps up with my Twitter feed knows that I still like my wine, but long gone are the nights when I would polish off two bottles. Today, two glasses is a big night, and I definitely feel it the next day. And I never drive buzzed.

  brandi’s babble

  Take a fucking cab.

  CHAPTER SIX

  17 Again

  Be honest. If you had the chance to have your seventeen-and-a-half-year-old pussy again, wouldn’t you jump at the opportunity? That was my perfect pussy age. Virgin? No, too painful. And, let’s be honest, a little awkward. Twenty-one? No, thanks. I had already spent too many years in Europe by that point. Seventeen and a half was my ideal.

  These were my choices when I visited Beverly Hills–based vaginal-rejuvenation pioneer Dr. David Matlock. I never imagined myself looking into such a procedure. Don’t get me wrong; I’m very pro-self-enhancement. For example, I always knew that I would get my boobs done after having children. (I seriously don’t understand why women bother doing it before.) In the nineties, I would go to San Francisco to see one of the first plastic surgeons in the country to specialize in Botox. I started using cellulite cream as a twentysomething. I have never been coy about my vanity, I just never expected to find myself at Dr. Matlock’s office—but my life’s journey had shifted course, and I had decided to shift with it.

  My ex-husband never practiced self-control, so it came as no surprise that he continued dating his new girlfriend while still living under the same roof as me. He would leave for days at a time without even the courtesy of a thinly veiled explanation (I wouldn’t have believed his ass anyway, but I would have appreciated it if he at least had the decency to lie). We were separated, but hadn’t yet moved forward with the divorce. Eddie continued walking all over me, as he did throughout our entire relationship. And there I was—still madly in love with him—praying that he would find his way back to me. That being said, I’m hardly a shrinking violet. We would get into some crazy-heated arguments that would, naturally, lead into some of the most intense and passionate sex of our relationship. I knew he was fucking another woman, but I couldn’t help myself.

  I was rarely insecure, but I would ask Eddie from time to time if my vagina was the same after childbirth, praying it was still tight enough for him. He always said yes, except once—and that was the first step on my road to Dr. Matlock.

  Eddie had started taking Propecia, like many men, because he was concerned about hair loss. He had fantastic hair, but who was I to sideline his vanity? I appreciated that he took care of himself, but this particular drug has a lot of nasty side effects—including ones that happened in the bedroom. I knew he was concerned about his hairline, but momma needed something hard. I was not down for a limp dick and gave him an ultimatum: it was the Propecia or me.

  Eddie never took well to being cornered . . . or criticized. So it was no surprise that he immediately shot back that my lady business wasn’t what it used to be, either. He was actually quite vulgar and said something I don’t care to repeat, so pardon my momentary filter. Please enjoy this moment. It doesn’t happen often.

  I could tell he immediately regretted saying it, but the damage was done. I already had my insecurities after having two children. I always kept myself together, working out and eating well, because our marriage and our sex life were important to me. But when it comes to a vagina, there’s not much you can do beyond surgery. It wasn’t necessarily a hot dog in a hallway, but it had definitely changed. Pushing out two babies will do that.

  I remember in detail the last time we made love. He was living in the guest room at the time and we had gotten into yet another knock-down, drag-out fight, and, as always, instead of dealing with it, he headed toward the door.

  This was a particularly bad fight, so it didn’t surprise me when he disappeared for a few days, leaving me alone with the boys. It was a picturesque afternoon in Calabasas, and I was sitting in the backyard watching Mason and Jake take turns on the waterslide. Our backyard was like a beautiful playground, something we could never have afforded if we lived on the other side of the hill (translation: Beverly Hills). I was enjoying the sunshine in one of the few peaceful moments I had those days when my phone rang. It was a gossip reporter asking me for my reaction. “My reaction to what?” I asked. Apparently, while I sat at home with our children the night before, my husband was attending a Kings of Leon concert at the Hollywood Bowl with his girlfriend.

  “Wow,” I thought. “He isn’t even trying to hide it anymore.” I called the nanny outside to keep an eye on the boys while I went inside to go rifle through his room. Of course it was an invasion of his privacy, but I didn’t give a fuck. When I tried to turn the knob, I discovered a lock was on the door. We never had locks in our house (except for the outside of Jakey’s kiddie corral, but I already explained my decision for that). I felt my blood begin to boil. I grabbed the phone and started calling his cell phone over and over. Of course, he didn’t pick up, but I’m certain he knew I had figured it out.

  I spent the rest of the day working myself into a frenzy, so when he finally returned home that night, I went for the jugular. I was screaming at the top of lungs, “How could you do this? How could you go out in public with her?” He didn’t say a word and headed for his room. When he finally managed to unlock the door, with me screaming over his shoulder, I tried to bulldoze my way into his room. He turned around and tried pushing me back out the door. Somewhere between the yelling and the pushing and the tears, we started kissing. Not an apology kiss or an I-love-you kiss, but an angry kiss. It was a go-fuck-yourself kiss. But we didn’t fuck ourselves; we fucked each other. Hate sex, it turns out, is pretty hot, but I knew then that I didn’t want that. Not with Eddie. Not anymore. When it was over and we were lying on the floor of the guest room—the room I apparently was no longer allowed access to, despite being in my home—I felt bruised and broken. In that moment, I knew I never wanted to feel that way again. This would be the last time Eddie ever touched me.

  And I knew only one way that I would for certain keep this promise to myself. I was about to be reborn—or, rather, rejuvenated.

  I was at the nail salon flipping through one of the glossy fashion magazines when I came across this piece called “The Secret Plastic Surgery No One Wants to Talk About.” I was intrigued. The article discussed in detail the rising trend of vaginal-rejuvenation surgery. When I got home, I started doing some research on the procedure. (Surfing the Internet became my new hobby. See Chapter 7. #GossipSlut) and discovered that it was basically the equivalent of a tummy tuck for the inside of your kitty cat. There was usually the exterior, addon option of the labia-lift, but that would most likely cost extra and eww. As for me, I’ve always subscribed to the school of thought that men don’t really care what it looks like—pink, gray, hair, no hair, landing strip—to them, it’s all the same. Once they get to that point, they’re not going to turn back because you never got laser hair removal on your lady business. I looked for local doctors who performed this surgery and stumbled on Dr. Matlock, one of the pioneers in modern vaginoplasty. I immediately decided to schedule a consultation and thought it was best if I went by myself. I was a little embarrassed at first and never thought I would ever be sharing it (especially in a book!), so I first wanted to navigate these waters by myself, to see if it was something I could actually see myself doing.

  When I arrived at Dr. Matlock’s Beverly Hills office, I could tell that a couple of the nurses were clearly up-to-date on their celebrity gossip and recognized me right away. But they couldn’t have been any sweeter. I filled out all the paperwork, still not sure if this was for me, but I wanted to hear what the doctor had to say. Dr. Matlock immediately made me feel at ease in what could have been an uncomfortable situation. He informed me that, despite my concerns, I was in great shape for a thirty-six-year-old mother of two and a rejuvenation wasn’t necessary; ho
wever, if it was something I really wanted, he could definitely help me with a kitty-cat upgrade. I told him that I would read all the literature and take a few days to think about it. After all, this pretty intense surgery had an even more intense price tag: $12,000. Plus, the recovery period was at least two weeks, and I would need someone on hand to take care of me. The boys had the nanny, but I couldn’t exactly ask her to help me with a catheter. I mean, I could, but I’m pretty sure she would have charged me extra.

  I had already undergone some fairly painful LEEPs for the HPV I’d contracted, so was I really going to put myself through this because of him, too?

  Later that night, over a glass of sauvignon blanc, it occurred to me: a brand-new vagina would be an Eddie-free vagina. It would be something completely unknown to him and would offer me the fresh start I so desperately deserved. It was time for my pussy to be reborn. I understand that, to many of you, this may seem like an extreme measure to take to cut someone out of your life. But I’ve always been an extreme kind of girl, with extreme emotions. I loved this man so much and so hard that I needed a reason to never let him touch me again.

  I called to schedule the surgery, and when the nurse asked how I was going to pay for the procedure, I decided that since Eddie had ruined my vagina for me, he could pay for a new one. I gave her Eddie’s credit-card number—the same one he’d canceled for a brief period after reading a negative quote about him I gave to the press.