Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  The next step was to get Eddie out of the house. Not only was it completely unhealthy for us to be living under the same roof, but I also didn’t need him hanging around and asking questions while I recovered. For a while, I tolerated his living there because it was a way to hold on to him and to hope that we could one day be fixed. But after making love to him through tears and anger, I realized he was a perfect stranger to me now. How could I want something back that never existed? I couldn’t unknow everything I had discovered, and I didn’t want to. I liked the woman I was becoming—slowly, but surely—and I was interested in where this new road would take me.

  So I got Eddie out of the house the quickest way I knew how: I called my mom. Once I informed him that my mother was coming to stay for two weeks, Eddie immediately got an apartment at the Oakwood in Woodland Hills—the land of furnished housing for temporary residents and cheating spouses. I didn’t tell my mom why I needed her to come stay until after she had already touched down at LAX. I was still a bit embarrassed about going through with the procedure, but I was also convinced she would always be supportive no matter how insane I sounded or what I decided to do with my body. She’s my mom. She thinks I’m perfect just as I am, but I also knew she wouldn’t be judgmental about the procedure.

  I was nervous leading up to the procedure, and I was on so many medications afterward that my memory of that time is a little foggy. I’ve enlisted my mother, Judy Glanville, to offer her recollection, as well:

  It was August 2009 when Brandi called to ask if I could make a trip down to LA. She told me that she needed me to stay for two weeks because she was going to have a surgical procedure that was going to require bed rest. At first, I figured it had something to do with her interstitial cystitis (chronic bladder inflammation) and that she needed some help caring for the boys, as well as herself.

  Brandi picked me up at the airport. When we arrived at the house, Eddie had still not fully moved out, although he was noticeably absent during my visit. The children were told their dad was staying in the other bedroom, because he was snoring too much for Mommy. They were so young and still unaware of what was going on.

  Brandi handed me some papers and said she needed me to read them. The papers consisted of pre- and postoperative instructions for patients undergoing vaginal-rejuvenation laser surgery, as well as what the surgery entailed, and I committed them to memory as best I could. (Brandi’s note: My mom could not have been more supportive. When I finally mustered up the courage to tell her what I was about to do, she lifted up her hand to give me a high five. She said, “Brandi, you are such a strong girl. I support whatever you need to do to get over this asshole and out of this mess.” She never ceases to amaze me.)

  The day of the surgery, Eddie’s father, Carl, picked Brandi and me up and drove us to the surgery center in Beverly Hills. The doctor’s office had mistakenly told Brandi the wrong time, so if her nerves weren’t already going crazy, now she had more time to wait and think about it. Carl and I stayed with Brandi for a while, until she told us to go out and grab lunch. Then Brandi texted me that she was going in, so Carl and I went for a walk. We kept our conversations out of Eddie and Brandi’s private business, because that was going to get us nowhere. When he and I returned to the center, we waited . . . and waited. It felt like forever.

  By the time Brandi was alert enough to go home, it was already dark outside. Carl started the forty-five-minute journey back to Calabasas, but had a hard time seeing at night. Brandi was on the verge of a panic attack, so I decided it was better if he pulled over and I drove us the rest of the way—we didn’t need to get into an accident hours after the surgery.

  When we got back to the house—safe and sound—Carl and I immediately put Brandi to bed. She had a urinary catheter in her bladder, which was to stay in for several days, so she would not have to get up to use the bathroom, but more important, to keep the vaginal and perineal area clean. That first evening, Brandi was still numb from the local anesthesia they had injected into the surgical site, but it didn’t last long.

  The next morning, she was in so much pain that we called the office to have a nurse come to the house to administer more anesthesia injections. (Brandi’s note: If you do choose this surgery and, like me, need a house call from a nurse, just know that it’s insanely expensive. I sort of wish I’d just toughed it out.) When that wore off, Brandi was again in so much pain that we called the clinic. This time they told us to come back to the center.

  It was dark, and I was forced to drive despite being completely unfamiliar with Los Angeles. Brandi was in agony, clearly not in the happiest of moods, but she had to help me with directions back to Beverly Hills (most of which were delivered in a loud, irritated voice). When we got there, she went immediately into the doctor’s room, but, yet again, whatever they gave her wore off a few hours after we got back home.

  Brandi’s nerves were now raw, and she was in excruciating pain. She said she felt as if the balloon of saline solution that keeps the catheter in the bladder had shifted and that the catheter had pulled out of the bladder and gone into the urethra.

  I had experience dealing with catheters when I was a nurse’s aide earlier in my life, so I decided to deflate the balloon and remove the catheter myself. When I called the clinic to tell them what had happened, they told us it was essential that the catheter remain in place, so off we went again . . . back to Beverly Hills. Since nothing else seemed to work, the doctor gave Brandi a prescription for pain medication and told her to routinely apply ice packs to the perineum. The medication caused some additional minor complications, which caused even more discomfort, but we endured.

  The boys were home during all of this, but were being cared for by the nanny and Eddie’s parents. I also chipped in whenever Brandi was resting. As part of my job, I was to keep the children from bounding into the bedroom and onto the bed. They are both lovey, cuddly, snuggly boys who were used to lots of physical contact from Mom, so it was confusing for them not to be able to play with her and roughhouse with her. It was especially tough for Jake, who was only two years old at the time, with Mommy at the center of his little world.

  They weren’t thrilled that I wouldn’t let them in the room, but I did earn some bonus points when we went swimming, because I would actually swim underwater and get my hair wet. (Mom would never get her hair wet!) Besides that, I cooked a few meals (one of which was a sandwich for Brandi that she complained about, because she didn’t approve of the bread. I knew the bread wasn’t really a big deal and that it was just a way for her to blow off a little steam), played games, and watched a lot of Max and Ruby.

  Seven days after the surgery, Brandi was already up and moving. I was packing up and getting ready to head back to Sacramento when my cell phone started ringing. The number on the caller ID said it was a reporter from People magazine. I decided it was best not to answer, but I immediately told Brandi. She asked me for my cell phone and went out back to take the call. (Brandi’s note: The reporter had called to ask about rumors that Eddie was house-hunting with LeAnn. After hearing the entire story, I declined to comment. I didn’t know anything, anyway. I had been busy the last few days.) As I watched Brandi walk around the yard on the cell phone, she saw a baby rattlesnake come down the waterslide and into their pool. Without so much as a flinch, she got the pool skimmer and pulled the snake out of the water—while still on the phone. Snakes had always terrified her, so I was in awe of her newfound courage. She calmly walked the net over to the back fence and tossed the little guy back into the wilderness. I remember thinking how proud I was of her. My daughter was such a good person.

  It was a painful time, both emotionally and physically, for Brandi, and emotionally for me. I wanted so badly to be able to fix everything, but that was not within the realm of possibility. So I tried to be there for her the best way I knew how, helping her take care of her new “kitty cat.”

  While I don’t remember much, I do remember that the recovery period was beyond what I�
��d imagined it would be. It was more painful than childbirth. It was absolute hell. My boob job didn’t hurt at all and everyone had told me it would, so I figured it would be the same for vaginal rejuvenation. Not true. I felt as if I were on fire and I could do nothing to make it stop. I wanted desperately to crawl out of my own skin. My muscles were totally clenched at all times, and I couldn’t imagine a worse pain. I thought in the back of my head that maybe God was punishing me or trying to teach me some medieval lesson. Perhaps I’d let my ego get the best of me, and I was now paying the price. I remember thinking, “Hell must be an eternal recovery period from vaginal rejuvenation.” I was so clouded that the days blurred together. I was certain something was wrong, that I would never be back to normal, that I shouldn’t have gone through with this stupid fucking procedure, and then, finally, “Oh my God, I’m dying.” The silver lining was that in those few days of extreme pain, I didn’t think once about Eddie or what’s-her-face. It sounds bizarre, but I sort of understood why some people would cause physical harm to themselves when going through emotionally difficult times. Physical pain can make you forget just about everything else.

  Since I’m allergic to hydrocodone—the main ingredient in Vicodin—they gave me Percocet when I went back that third time with my mother. During the procedure, the doctor used a laser instrument to cut the inside of my vaginal wall and sewed me up using dissolvable stitches. Afterward, I was told absolutely nothing was to go inside my vagina for six weeks—no tampons, no cock, no vibrators, and no fingers (I wish my mom were in the room for that conversation). It was just like after childbirth; nothing was to enter my kitty cat for a month and a half then, so I already knew I could do it.

  I was bedridden for roughly a week and should have stayed longer, but my mommy duties called. The boys would no longer stand for an inactive mommy, so I needed to get a move on. Plus, I get bored easily. I’m grateful, however, that I had that week. I wouldn’t have been able to go through the surgery—something I knew I needed to cleanse myself of Eddie—if I hadn’t had Mommy to come stay with me.

  No matter how old you are, there’s no cozier feeling than to have your mom take care of you. After I had Mason, my mom stayed with me for an entire month. He was her first grandchild, and she is absolutely amazing with babies. (I think it’s a gift you acquire after having and raising three children of your own.) She was by my side for a week and a half after Jakey was born, but already had four grandchildren by the time Jake arrived . . . and had to race back up north for the birth of number five. Busy Grandma.

  Once the pain had subsided, I felt absolutely new again. I felt as if I had rid myself of any last vestige of Eddie. But most important, it gave me a fresh outlook on my future—a future that was beginning to look brighter and tighter. I anticipated being totally blown away by the results. I should have been for $12,000, right?

  Truthfully, though, I wasn’t sure if it even worked properly! I mean, how would I be able to tell until I actually used it? So, my hunt began for the perfect man to give up my “second virginity” to. While I was eager to get back on the horse (so to speak), I was going to be exceptionally picky. I had this budding new flower, and the recipient was in for a special treat. The only thing I was sure of was it wasn’t going to be Eddie.

  Well, it didn’t take long for Eddie to call about the bill. A week after the surgery, he was on the phone screaming, “What the fuck cost you twelve thousand dollars? Who the fuck is Dr. Matlock? Did you get a nose job?”

  I responded simply, “Yes. A nose job.” And I hung up the phone. My phone rang again about five minutes later: Eddie. This time I didn’t answer. It rang again—and then again. “Ahh,” I thought. Eddie must have discovered Dr. Matlock on Google. I decided it was probably best to avoid his calls for the next few days while he cooled off.

  Even though Carl drove me to the surgery (he thought I was totally crazy, but stayed with me anyway), and Eddie’s mother knew exactly what was going on, they kept Eddie in the dark. At the time, they still considered me a daughter, so they let him figure it out on his own. It would only be a matter of time.

  When we finally spoke a few days later, Eddie was still absolutely livid—partly because of the staggering price tag and partly because of his overwhelming jealousy that some other man would reap the benefits of his ex-wife’s brand-new pussy. In hindsight, I know I shouldn’t have put it on Eddie’s card. I was being vengeful and it came back to bite me, because this was something I was hoping to keep private. And in what world would Eddie not immediately run to tell his new girlfriend? Naturally, this woman was beyond ecstatic to be in possession of this crazy personal information about me and started spreading it around like wildfire. It didn’t take long for her minions to begin shouting my private business from the social-media rooftops. I, of course, denied it at first. I never thought it would be something I would open up about, but I also realized that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, either.

  It took me a long time to test my kitty cat out. I have to say that so far the reviews are stupendous, and I’m happy with the sensation myself. Eddie knows that he has never touched the “new” me, and that gives me so much joy. Now, every time I bend over at soccer practice and feel his eyes on my ass (yes, he still checks out my ass), I think, “You’ll never touch me again . . . ”

  At the end of the day, we need to do whatever it takes to move on. Don’t be ashamed of any decision you make, and stay strong. Much like the pain of recovering from vaginal rejuvenation, this, too, shall pass.

  brandi’s babble

  Ultimately, my husband got a new vagina . . . and so did I.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Drinking and Tweeting

  Remember the good old days when social media didn’t exist? When the first thing you grabbed in the morning was a cup of coffee and not your iPhone and when personal privacy wasn’t just a setting you have to select? I think of those pretech days as the golden years, when everything you said and did wasn’t an opportunity to alert five hundred of your “closest” friends (and something that could come back and bite you in the ass later).

  Social media has completely changed the way we interact with one another. Instead of calling your best friend for a movie night, now you send him or her a Facebook message. Instead of mailing baby announcements when you have a child, you blast it out on Instagram. And instead of your casual one-night Vegas wedding to your former friend’s ex-husband one New Year’s Eve’s remaining between you, him, and the county clerk, it gets blasted to the Twitter-verse and ends up #Trending on every gossip site from here to Timbuktu. Oh, wait, that’s just me. Either way, social media has made even the most intimate events something you share with not only everyone you’ve ever met, but complete strangers—narcissism at its finest. It’s how people announce engagements, travel plans, weddings, pregnancies, new jobs, new relationships, new shoes, deaths, divorces, promotions, and even breakups.

  I think social media is the enemy of anyone going through a split. Technology is no longer just how we connect with each other, it’s how we disconnect with each other. You used to be able to break up with someone (a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, or friend), and he or she virtually disappeared from your life. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?

  Sure, occasionally a certain sappy song or romantic movie would come on, and you’d wonder what he or she was up to, but there was no way to know. Of course, you could always pick up the phone (and more recently, text or e-mail), but that would require that person’s knowing you were thinking of him or her. Where’s the fun in that? You never want them to know you’re thinking of them, so you refrain. Before long the memories start to fade. One day, you realize you can’t quite remember how she smelled or the exact color of his eyes. Eventually, without ever knowing it, you just forget that person altogether. You replace old memories with new ones, and life goes on. It was the clean break you needed to move forward.

  Well, Facebook fucked that up, didn’t it? Welcome to 20
13, ladies and gays. A breakup is no longer grabbing a tub of ice cream, a box of Kleenex, and watching The Notebook. Today, it’s the chance to enter into a second, extremely unhealthy phase of your breakup: cyber-stalking. You know what I’m talking about. It’s that impulse to constantly refresh his Twitter feed to see if he has posted anything new. Or that urge to routinely check Instagram for new photos of that face that you should already have long forgotten. So thanks to some dorky dude from Harvard—and the virtual parade of social media that followed—we can subject ourselves to this cruel form of self-torture. I was cursed with a front-row seat into my ex-husband’s brand-new life without me. Via his new girlfriend’s Twitter page, I was pretty much able to witness every moment of their lives—partially because I was obsessed with tracking him, and partially because she loved to fucking post shit to piss me off (and still does). #FML. I knew better. You know better. We all know better. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to stop. It’s completely masochistic, but strangely satisfying. After months of waffling, you finally decide that you have mustered enough courage to “unfollow” that person on Twitter or “defriend” him or her on Facebook—a decision you will undoubtedly regret when you’re psychotically driven to check whether his profile photo has changed or when you’re obsessively counting how many tweets he posted in your absence (especially if he is “private”). #CrazyTown. However, that’s better than the alternative when one day you go to check his profile and you’ve been defriended, or worse . . . BLOCKED. #Gut-Punch. Or perhaps you’re like me and never “friend” or “follow” your ex and his or her new partner to begin with. Instead, you stalk their profiles through mutual friends, because you don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that you follow them.