Drinking and Tweeting

by Glanville, Brandi

  Despite the fine alleged on the police report, I never paid a dime for bail. With no prior criminal record, the booking clerk released me at 8:30 the next morning. The only real punishments would be the utter humiliation and a court-mandated Breathalyzer. It was to be installed in my Range Rover, and I was required to blow into it before my engine would start. That’s it. I literally walked right out of the police station.

  I found my billionaire boyfriend circling the building in total confusion—this was clearly his first dalliance with the BHPD. We drove back to his house, and I was relieved to find my car still parked in the driveway. Since I was technically on private property when I was pulled over, the police couldn’t impound it. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Brandi Glanville’s Drunk Driving 101. First of all, don’t drink and drive. It’s just not worth it—trust me. Second, if you’re an idiot (as I was) and get pulled over, make sure you pull onto a driveway of someone you know. It will save you a fortune in impounding charges.

  I’m not quite sure this was even legal for me to be driving just hours after my DUI, but I immediately jumped into my car and behind the wheel—still in my lamé leggings and faux-fur vest—and headed to Jake’s preschool Halloween parade. Despite the fact that I was driving, it was a complete walk of shame. This was officially my rock bottom.

  It was time for me to grow the fuck up. Even if it was just a couple of glasses of wine, I recognized that I had been indulging for way too long. It was time to figure this shit out and clean myself up. Seriously, what was so important that I thought it was a smart idea to get behind the wheel of a car? I truly believe that God was looking out for me that night. I think he was offering me the dramatic wake-up call I so desperately needed.

  I needed to understand that I had somehow stumbled upon a sliver of tabloid fame, and now my actions and fuck-ups would be made available for the world to read about. They would be filed away, so that one day my boys could dig them up. I needed to be an adult . . . for my kids and for myself. I royally fucked up. I was beyond lucky that getting pulled over in a driveway was the extent of my punishment for drinking and driving. I was so fortunate that no one got hurt. What if I had hit another car? What if someone was hurt or, God forbid, killed because I made a terrible, stupid decision? Talk about not being there for my kids. How could I be there for my kids, if I was spending years upon years in jail because of a reckless decision I made one night? I needed to figure my shit out . . . immediately. I had spent a year and a half in a total fucking tailspin, and guess what? I needed it. My life had shattered around me, and I needed to fall off the deep end for a while.

  Sometimes you need to lose yourself to truly find yourself again. But at the end of the day, you have to know when to wake the fuck up and get on with your life. When I had the “drive of shame” to my son’s school, I knew that it was my time. I had to snap the fuck out of it. I had allowed myself to go crazy, but now it was time to fall back in line. It was time for me to invest in life’s three core therapies: Hypno, Beauty, and Retail.

  Shortly after my DUI, I started seeing a hypnotherapist to help cure my face-picking addiction. It sounds crazy, right? I needed therapy so I would stop tearing open the blemishes on my face. A close friend of mine suggested I meet with famed hypnotherapist Kerry Gaynor—apparently Dr. Gaynor had cured my friend of his cigarette addiction after just three sessions. After I was finally able to snag an appointment, Dr. Gaynor immediately diagnosed my face picking as a form of self-mutilation and that it would take far more than three sessions.

  He said the picking was a symptom of the greater stresses in my life—but seriously, it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to figure that out. We spent about five sessions diving into my skin issues, and I learned of a few contributing factors to my addiction. (1) Early in my modeling career, I was told that I was a body girl, not a face girl. I don’t care who you are, that’s going to fuck with most people. (2) At thirty-eight years old, I was just returning to the dating scene, in a city that prides itself on youth. And finally, (3) I have crazy-ass control issues. When my kids aren’t around and I have too much time on my hands, I pick out of boredom. It allows me to forget about the other stressors in my life for a time, because I become obsessed with digging needles into my face. After the fifth session, Dr. Gaynor suggested I have a burial for my tweezers and needles. I’m sure there’s some emotional significance, but I felt like an asshole burying my beauty tools in the backyard. Today, I’m allowed to have tweezers again, but not any needles. Keeping needles—or any other sort of weapon—away from most scorned women is probably a smart decision for everybody involved.

  Once we got a good handle on the picking, Dr. Gaynor began asking me about other issues in my life. I think dealing with my face-picking addiction opened up the floodgates to the world of shit I had been swimming in. We started talking about my DUI arrest and my increased drinking since the divorce; we talked a little bit about my newfound trust issues with men and the occasional bouts of depression. We even spent some time talking about how I can better coexist in a world with LeAnn. I’m no longer allowed to google either LeAnn or my ex-husband.

  My obsession with them was not out of jealousy or spite. I decided to divorce Eddie after discovering he was having a second affair (I’m a serious fool for not leaving him after the first one). He would never have left me otherwise. I chose this life. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was mine. When it came to Eddie and LeAnn, I was more concerned with my children. My ex-husband and I rarely communicate. I am blocked from ever calling his cell phone, and not until recently was I finally given a home phone number for him and LeAnn (it only took them two years), so it could be really difficult getting ahold of my kids. I would occasionally start to panic after not hearing from them for a day or two, so I would turn to Google to try to find where they were—just so I could rest assured that they were still breathing. As part of our custody agreement, I needed to be able to contact the boys while they were with their father, but for a while I was only given the number for their magicJack—a phone service that connected through their Internet. This allowed them to follow the court ruling inexpensively and easily without giving me a landline or a cell-phone number. This service only worked when the computer was on, which was never.

  Dr. Gaynor said that my issues—from the face picking to the paralyzing fear of flying to the obsessing over my children—were all symptoms of my greater need to be in control. At the end of every session, he would lull me into deep relaxation and chant some affirmations. I saw him for two years, until, from his point of view, I was cured. However, I do keep one of his voice-mail messages saved on my phone, because just hearing his voice soothes me. I like to think he enjoyed our conversations, because I can’t imagine he gets too many patients as candid as me.

  I was dealing with my head and heart; now it was time to deal with the outside. Sometimes it’s easy to just stop trying, isn’t it? But we’re not doing anybody any favors if we don’t take care of ourselves.

  Since I was able to curb the picking, I decided to focus on healthier ways to make me feel confident about my skin. My list might seem extensive, but I assure you, each procedure is completely necessary for me. Once a month, I treat myself to an IPL (intense pulsed light) photofacial to help reduce brown spots and acne scars. Every other month, I go in for a more intense laser therapy called Perfecta. I give myself weekly Jessner lactic acid peels to rejuvenate my skin and tighten my pores. Botox has been a part of my life for nearly fifteen years—today I am getting it in my forehead, around my eyes, and for the bunny lines around the bridge of my nose. I also dabble in fillers (both Juvéderm and Restylane) for my smile lines, the lines around my lips, my acne scars, and my nose.

  Right after Eddie and I split up, I got fillers in my cheeks but absolutely hated it. I was totally unrecognizable. I’ll never do it again. Once I did this ultrasound therapy called Ultherapy to tighten up my jawline and neck, but it hurt like a motherfucker, and I’m not even sure it worked.
Plus, given my allergy to most pain medication, I got to feel every moment of torture. But I like it to hurt. I want to feel it working, so I know I’m getting my money’s worth. Now I know this seems just like a continuance of my self-mutilation, but Dr. Gaynor can assure you that it’s not. Promise!

  Contrary to popular belief, I’m an eater: fried foods, pasta, hamburgers, cheese, guacamole, chips, hot dogs . . . you name it. You’ll never find me ordering a piece of dry fish with a side of steamed broccoli. I was blessed with a speedy metabolism (don’t hate me, I promise I was born with many other flaws), so when I was younger, I had a difficult time keeping on the weight (it sounds like champagne problems, but trust me, it was just as annoying then as trying to lose weight is now). I lived in Milan for most of my modeling years, so I developed an obsession with Italian food, Italian clothes, and Italian men. All the calories I consumed from the fresh mozzarella, fried calamari, and veal Milanese were burned during evenings with Paolo, Gundem, and Mossimo (to name a few).

  Today, I have become diligent about working out. For me, Pilates is the best way for me to maintain my figure—long, lean, and strong—but it’s different for everyone. I like Pilates because it lets me exercise while lying on my back. #Lazy. Experts always say that the most important thing is just getting off the couch, even if it’s just to go for a walk. Bullshit. My eighty-five-year-old grandma goes for power walks that would put most people to shame, so don’t tell me you can’t aim a little higher. If you are under the age of sixty-five and not suffering any serious medical condition, get yourself to the gym—walking alone is not going to get you a twenty-five-year-old-looking ass. The only thing that will do that is intense exercise that gets your heart rate going. If you get bored chugging away on the elliptical, you can always opt to have a lot of rowdy sex instead.

  When I’m going through a particularly rough time, the next step is to go shopping. They don’t call it retail therapy for nothing, people. Whether it’s $100 or $100,000, set aside some money to indulge yourself. I call it “the come-fuck-me fund.” It’s the quickest way to get a much-needed pick-me-up.

  It doesn’t take a fortune to look like a million bucks. Growing up, I would head to all the high-end stores and scout out that season’s trends before heading to more cost-effective shops to put together similar looks. Fashion does not need to be expensive, but if you have the cash to burn, by all means drive immediately to Neiman Marcus.

  For you ladies, invest in some fabulous basics. You know your best assets, so don’t be afraid to show them off. Whether it’s an hourglass figure, head-turning cleavage, a high, cute derriere, or legs for days, make sure that you work what your mama gave you.

  1. Jeans: Women today don’t wear “mom jeans,” they wear skinny jeans! Throw away those baggy, acid-wash Eddie Bauers and treat yourself to some great low-rise, skinny jeans. Sears stores across the country used to offer customers the opportunity to design their own Levi’s. Old Navy does the same. It’s a great way to custom-create a pair of jeans perfectly suited to your body. And remember, the higher and smaller the pockets, the higher, firmer, and cuter the booty. You can quote me.

  2. Black sport jacket and white top: Nothing pairs better with a great pair of jeans then a formfitting blazer and white tee. The blazer should have just the slightest shoulder pad and a tapered, short waist (to show off those small, high pockets), and for me, I prefer a body-hugging wife-beater. You can also pair the jacket with a men’s button-down, with the top few buttons left open. It’s a classic look that is both sexy and powerful. And that’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it?

  3. Sexy heels: Every woman should own a pair of basic, black, pointy-toed heels. The look never goes out of style because it looks good on everyone. Plus, it’s a surefire way to make you feel sexy as hell.

  4. Black bra: The final element is a black bra. I don’t want to see any women rocking this outfit with a boring nude bra. I want to see lace, frills—hell, I would even be open to some bedazzling. It’s meant to be a little naughty underneath all that nice.

  brandi’s babble

  Have more fun than you can handle, but always be the one in control.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Billionaire Saved My Life

  Like the old saying goes, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Well, I’m fantastic at that game. After a thirteen-year leave of absence, both my vagina and I were returning to the dating world feeling, in a way, reborn (mine was more of a figurative rebirth, while my vagina . . . well, that was chapter 6).

  In some ways “dating” was an entirely different beast from what it was when I was last single, but in other ways, it was completely the same. The same fundamental rules apply—don’t be too available; don’t be a stalker; and don’t give away the milk for free (unless you don’t care if you see that person again)—but it’s their application that has shifted. I needed to reeducate myself on the ways of the dating world, so here’s what I learned. . . .

  As I talked about earlier, social media is the largest indicator of whether someone is available. Since we can easily google just about everyone we meet, we’re quickly able to identify some key facts about him—and usually determine right away whether that person is single. Before, it used to be whether that person had a ring on his finger (or a tan line where it normally is, for the really shady types. #JustSayin) or purposefully starting a conversation with “Well, my wife and I . . .” as a way to clue you in.

  Facebook, Twitter, and all the rest have made stalking a potential love interest exponentially easier. It used to be that you would just call his or her house every few hours and hang up before the message machine clicked on, until you finally got through! Who needed to know that you had been calling every hour on the hour? #NotHot. Today, that is (a) totally unnecessary, because you can go on Twitter to find out exactly where that person is at any given moment (and with whom!), and (b) who has a landline with a message machine anymore? If you called that person’s cell phone ten times in a day, he or she would have ten missed calls from you. And that’s just #CrazyTown.

  Speaking of cell phones, they have completely changed the rules of communication when dating. It used to be that a person had three days to call you after getting your phone number, and as the recipient, you had to wait at least twenty-four hours before returning the call. Well, I think that logic can be completely thrown out the window. The three-day rule was first invoked because it would cause the person waiting for your call to assume you were busy (out of the house, not near a phone) and not overly eager. While the principle still applies, who today doesn’t have a phone on him or her at all times? I’m sorry, but the “I’ve been too busy to call” excuse just doesn’t work anymore—especially in LA. Everyone sits in traffic, so everyone has time to call.

  The twenty-four-hour response is also no longer applicable. If you wait more than a day to respond to someone, it gives the impression you are uninterested (because you most likely are). Today, it’s assumed that you know the very moment someone calls, texts, or e-mails (and certain smartphones can even tell you if your text message or e-mail has been delivered and read). Generally no one is without his or her cell phone for more than three hours, so if you are interested, I think the three-hour rule is a good place to start.

  Also, “sexting” is still sex. Okay, not really, but I think it’s important to point out that if you’re sending dirty text messages or having naughty FaceTime/Skype-time before he or she takes you on at least a second date, it’s still giving away the goods for free. It’s tempting to have a few glasses of wine and to start sending photos of yourself in sexy lingerie, but by all means, resist that temptation. Haven’t we already learned enough lessons from former Disney starlets?

  I’ve been back in the dating world now for a little more than three years, and I’ve already made some major mistakes and learned some valuable lessons. Here are a few more rules for getting back in the saddle:

  1. Do not have more than two drinks and the
n expect to make a good decision. If I have learned anything through this journey, it’s that men look much better after two drinks, and they might as well be Mark fucking Wahlberg after three. Everything looks better through wine goggles.

  2. Just because he offers to pick you up does not make him a gentleman. How a person acts when he walks you to your front door is what determines whether he is a gentleman. I’ve found that a date will oftentimes offer to pick me up, purely so he can try to attack me as I reach my front door at the end of the night (figuring my bed isn’t that far away).