Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance

by Brandi Glanville

  During a particular “on” period, we were spending a lot of time together but always ended the night at my house. I knew he had a one-bedroom apartment in Beverly Hills and I didn’t care, but he never invited me over. It couldn’t be that he was ashamed about his home. Could it? On the few occasions I suggested we stay at his place because it was closer than driving up to Mulholland, the Latino pulled out whatever excuse he could think of:

  “I have to work early in the morning. I won’t want to wake you.”

  “My air-conditioning’s not working, and it’s so hot.”

  “My place is such a mess.”

  I have two crazy little boys and two poorly house-trained dogs, but his place is a mess? Most days, it looked like a fucking tornado blew right through my family room—and I would catch the Latino scanning the room, resting his eyes on an empty Lunchables box on my coffee table or a pile of wet towels by the back door. I knew he was über-uptight: his hair was impeccably groomed, his Prius was impossibly neat, and even his “comfy” clothes meant a James Perse T-shirt and perfectly tailored jeans. It became obvious he was so embarrassed to show me his home that he decided to overlook the dog hair on my couch. Sure, I had my issues with the Latino, but his rental apartment wasn’t one of them.

  Living in Los Angeles can really fuck with your priorities. He had a really rough breakup with his ex-girlfriend of many years because she left him out of the blue for a very wealthy man. It really did a number on him—and he later confided in me that it was the reason he was so tough on me at first. #MajorTrustIssues. #ICanRelate. At forty-five years old, the Latino created a respectable life for himself—a luxurious life by many people’s standards—but there’s something about this town that can make you feel like that’s not enough. His ex-girlfriend did just that.

  I’ve never been the type of person to care about how much someone is worth or what kind of car they drive. As long as you can afford your life and still pick up the tab for dinner every once in a while, it’s none of my fucking business. So I finally demanded to see the Latino’s home. We were getting along really well at this point. I had introduced him to the boys as my “real estate agent” (a straight one), and we were talking about taking our first trip together—a weekend getaway to Santa Barbara. If we were going to keep dating, I felt it was important that he show me his home. I wanted to prove to him that it wasn’t the size of his bank account that mattered to me—it was the size of his heart, his hands, and, well, you know what else. Plus, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t keeping any human fucking heads in his freezer. I’ve seen enough Dexter to recognize the signs. Nine times out of ten, people who were raised as only children and are that uptight are serial killers. #Fact. I needed to cover my bases.

  The building was one of the more modest on the tree-lined street. We walked the single flight of creaky stairs to the second floor of the building. Once we hit the door to his unit, he was already apologizing for the mess.

  There was no mess. It looked like one of those staged apartments that no one actually lives in. It was small and plain, but everything appeared to have a “place,” so much so that I didn’t even know where to put my purse. I scoured each room for any sign of life and felt relieved when I spotted a small green plant in the kitchen.

  Aha, I thought. I could put a check mark next to number four. He is capable of caring for another living thing. It wasn’t the biggest commitment on earth, but it was better than nothing. Sure, he had been burned in the past, but this was a good sign. All wasn’t lost.

  I took a few steps closer. No, I thought. It can’t be . . . Yes. Yes, it is. It’s a fake fucking plant. Are you kidding me? A fake plant? Honestly, I think I would have preferred finding human body parts in his freezer.

  “Dude,” I said. “You gotta get rid of that plant.”

  “Why?” he asked, genuinely shocked. “I’ve had it for five years!”

  “And you’ll have it for fifty more; it’s not fucking real,” I said, disgusted.

  “Well, I really like it.” He was getting defensive.

  “At least get a fucking orchid,” I said under my breath, but not soft enough. He looked at me with contempt, so I decided that if I was going to wear the “crazy bitch” hat, I might as well go for it: “Can’t you commit to take care of anything?”

  We weren’t talking about the plant anymore.

  “Commit?” the Latino shouted back. He was pissed—and you know what they say about Latin tempers. “Brandi, I’m there whenever you call. You need help looking for a new place? I’m there.”

  “You get paid for that,” I spat back.

  By the look in his eyes, this insult clearly stung, but he kept going.

  “How about when you have to leave last minute for an injured cousin? I’m there to take care of your dogs and clean your fucking kitchen. I’ve committed to you. I’m there for you.”

  “You’re only there when the cameras are on!” I yelled. That was my go-to insult for the Latino. For someone who didn’t want the spotlight, he always managed to make himself available whenever I was shooting something for the show.

  “Right, Brandi,” he spat. “And if I’m not there, some other guy is there.”

  That was his fall-back dagger to hurl my way—my dating other people. I couldn’t help if photographers snap pictures of me on dates, I couldn’t stop blogs from publishing them, and I sure as hell couldn’t stop the Latino from constantly stalking me online. It’s not like I was purposefully pushing it down his throat (not always), but we weren’t exclusive.

  Our fake foliage argument led to yet another break for the Latino and me. In some way the fact that he couldn’t even invest in a real fucking plant at forty-five years old was proof to me that I was just wasting my time. And good God, we’d go at each other like rabid dogs—and we always went for the jugular.

  Before our epic divorce, I never fought like this with my ex-husband. Sure, there were occasional tiffs about the house or boys and perhaps a few bouts of jealousy, but those were the healthy arguments that allow you to grow as a couple. We strolled through our days like fucking Disney characters—and rolled around at night like porn stars. Was love different the second time around? Or maybe I was the one who was different? Or worse, maybe it just wasn’t love.

  When I met my ex-husband, we had our entire future in front of us, and nothing but time. Now, I’m both blessed and cursed with the wisdom that comes with a failed marriage. I’m no longer that doe-eyed twenty-three-year-old girl (let’s be clear, I’ve always had sort of Asian-y almond-shaped eyes). I wanted the butterflies and the fairy tale that I believed I had before, but maybe that wasn’t real. Maybe it was all part of the fantasy. Now, I also wanted a loyal man who could share his life with me and my boys. Was I being unreasonable?

  The day my beloved Chica went missing, I was in Palm Springs. My assistant told me frantically that someone had broken into the house. (I always found this suspicious because besides the broken screen in my bathroom, nothing suggested I had been burglarized. The only thing missing was my little brown pup.) Sugar was locked in the office, but Chica was nowhere to be found. I felt paralyzed. I was 250 miles from my house and in the middle of filming for Housewives. Was my puppy roaming the streets by herself, or did someone steal her? What if she was sitting in a shelter? She had a weak bladder and couldn’t sit in a cage that long. I was having a full-blown panic attack, so I did the first thing that came to mind: I called the Latino. We hadn’t spoken since the Battle of the Fake Plant, but I knew he would help me. Even though he couldn’t stand that I had potty pads in my family room or that my puppies had to sleep in bed with me, he knew how much I loved this dog—and, more importantly, how much Chica loved him.

  “I’ll go over there,” he said. “Calm down, Brandi. I’ll go look for her. I promise.”

  And he did. He told me if I wanted to stay in Palm Springs, he would do whatever he could to find my baby. I was of course already in a car back to Los Angeles, but I appreciated the gest
ure. The Latino was always there when I needed him most. He spent hours walking around my neighborhood looking for her. He talked to the volunteers at a nearby church and waved down every security guard patrolling the area to give them Chica’s description. He traipsed up and down the canyon hiking trails for any sign of my baby. Even though I was freaking the fuck out, I felt just a little better knowing he was looking for her. When day turned into night, he sat in my office calling local shelters and refreshing Craigslist to see if any new postings were put up—and he was still there when my car pulled into the driveway hours later.

  He stayed with me that night and held me close, both of us fully clothed, as I cried myself to sleep—and there weren’t even any cameras around.

  Right before I was set to leave for a trip to Puerto Rico for Housewives, the Latino announced that he just needed to talk to me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Call me.”

  Minutes later my phone rang.

  “Hello,” I said, slightly annoyed. I had a lot of shit to do before my trip! My prescriptions don’t fill themselves.

  “I think I’m in love with you,” he announced.

  You could have knocked me over with a fucking feather. Of course we cared for each other and I knew he loved me, but I wasn’t expecting this kind of declaration.

  I was in shock.

  “Come to Puerto Rico with me,” I blurted out. It was the only response I could muster. I needed time to process all of this.

  The last man I said “I love you” to is currently living in a Calabasas mansion with his new wife. Love fucked me over pretty good the last time around, and I’ve been running from it for five years now. To be honest, I’ve always been a little rough on the Latino for not being the perfect man. I punished him for not falling for me immediately, for laughing too hard at his own jokes, and for being a forty-five-year-old only child who couldn’t even invest in a real fucking plant. After more than a year of “caring about” each other, he suddenly decided he was “in love” with me? #WTF! Also, maybe I was becoming super-paranoid (I now constantly keep my curtains closed), but I couldn’t help but suspect the timing of his huge proclamation. Just a few days earlier, the gossip websites and magazines had started picking up on rumors that I was dating a former NFL player. Was the Latino jealous? Was he just trying to mark me as his territory? Listen, I’m kinky in the bedroom, but nobody is allowed to piss on me. No “golden showers”—except for maybe in the shower. #Shhh.

  “I really can’t afford the trip right now, Brandi,” he said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but he couldn’t possibly think I was going to say “I love you” back.

  “It’s all expenses paid,” I chirped, hoping this would persuade him. The line was silent, so I tried a joke: “We’re filming it for the show, so you can show off that beach body of yours.”

  “Honestly, I have a ton of work to do,” he finally replied.

  What was his fucking problem? If you’re in love with a girl and she invites you on a free, tropical getaway, you go, right? But catching up on work is more important? He insisted that he was so backed up with paperwork that taking even three days off would force him way behind where he needed to be before “the end of the quarter.” #Whatever.

  We talked every day leading up to my trip, and I kept pouting because he wouldn’t come. Of course I wanted him there, but I also didn’t want yet again to be the single girl on a “romantic” trip with these ladies and their husbands.

  I found it odd that I didn’t hear from him the day I left for Puerto Rico. By the time I landed on this beautiful island, I was starting to really miss him. Sure, I had been on a few dates with the NFL player, but it wasn’t anything serious. The Latino was my real boyfriend; we just never talked about being exclusive—and definitely never said the “L” word. Do you even have those conversations at forty? What do you say, “Will you be my girlfriend?” and hand some chick your varsity jacket?

  On my second night there I got a three-page text message from the Latino explaining that he just needed to get out of Los Angeles for a while, so he booked a last-minute trip to Italy by himself. Was I losing my mind? Didn’t he just tell me he couldn’t come with me to Puerto Rico because he couldn’t afford it (even though it was free) and he had too much work to do? Fuck me, I thought. I was being punished. Fucking liar, I thought.

  I couldn’t figure out if I was actually in love with the Latino or if I just wanted him to love me. Was I so scarred by my past that I sabotaged anything that could be real?

  I spent half the trip just stewing over this. The more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. A guy who plans out his weekly wardrobe every Sunday night doesn’t just hop a fucking plane to Italy. And it’s Italy! It’s my favorite place on the planet, and he was going there . . . without me. He had to be lying to me. That’s why he said no to Puerto Rico. This trip had been planned all along. But then . . . why did he tell me he was in love with me? I was so confused.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a flight attendant. “Can I get a glass of wine?” I began mentally rehearsing the verbal beating he would get later.

  The Latino finally called two days later from Rome. He was in great spirits, so I considered it my duty to ruin his day—just a little bit. After all, I had been obsessing over this for the past forty-eight hours. I accused him of lying to me, manipulating me, and generally annoying the fuck out of me. In my head, I was convinced he was having a torrid European love affair, but I knew I was just being crazy. Wasn’t I?

  “You know these phone calls cost five dollars a minute,” I said. “For someone who can’t afford to take a trip, it’s awfully expensive.”

  He didn’t call again.

  When he finally returned to Los Angeles, he began texting me again. I had spent the last week telling myself I didn’t care if I heard from him, because I’m spending time with a super-hot NFL player.

  Only now, his messages were different. It wasn’t the same as when he left. They were dismissive and rude. I started to panic. Did I go too far? Was he regretting telling me he loved me? So, I did what any irrational girl would do . . . I decided we needed to talk face-to-face and raced to his apartment without an invite. We hadn’t seen each other in ten days—apparently, he extended his weeklong vacation. In my heart, I already knew why . . . but I thought maybe if he just saw me again, he’d remember that it was me he was in love with.

  He answered the door in his “casual” clothes. His skin was sun-kissed, and he looked well rested and relaxed. It pissed me off. I started gunning in on him, giving him the third degree about the trip and every single Facebook status he posted. #MyOwnWorstEnemy. Immediately, his jaw clenched and he became extremely defensive.

  “I feel like you met someone else,” I yelled. It was the “crazy girl” coming out of me, but his body language and attitude suggested something was off.

  “I did,” he responded, almost nonchalantly.

  I felt the rage bubbling up inside me. My Latino had met someone else.

  “Did you sleep with her?” I spat the words at him.

  “Yes,” he replied, looking directly at me. I felt the tears pooling in my eyes but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Of course he was free to have sex with whomever he wanted, but that didn’t mean I wanted to actually know about it.

  Calmly, I asked if he would tell me what happened.

  While in Rome the very first night, he thought it would be fun to crash a nearby wedding. (Seriously, though, what grown-ass man crashes a wedding? Life isn’t a fucking Vince Vaughn movie.) He met a thirty-five-year-old brunette woman who had come in from Spain for the nuptials, and they instantly had a connection, he said. Was it necessary to tell me her age? #Asshole. She traveled with my Latino for the next nine days up and down the Italian coast.

  “Do you have feelings for her?” I asked, numb from this new revelation. I already knew the answer.

  “Yes.” He looked down at his hands. I knew he didn’t want to hurt me.


  Looking at him in that moment, I realized something: I was in love with him too just a little bit.

  In seven short days, he had fallen in love with another woman. He was so exhausted from our epic tug-of-war that he finally had had enough. It was different from what happened with my ex-husband. In the Latino’s eyes, he had opened the door for me to love him back—and I had shut it in his face. He was recovering the only way he knew how—and what we’d been doing for a year and a half. I realized that maybe it was too late for us. I went home and spent that evening crying and pondering love.

  I decided to propose to my Latino (kind of).

  I drove to his apartment with a huge white orchid in the backseat of my car—it was ridiculous and inconvenient, but all of a sudden the thought of him consumed my every minute. Pulling onto his street, I recognized a strange sensation in my stomach: I had butterflies. But I couldn’t chicken out now; I had an important question to ask him: “Would you please be my ‘in case of emergency’ contact?”

  Looking back, I wonder if nowadays I mistake hurt for love. Could it be that the scars of my past have caused me to confuse the two emotions? Why did he deserve my love now after a weeklong fling with someone else? I was torturing myself, but for so long I’ve been hurting for the men I’ve loved.

  It begs the question: Do I really love this man? I’ll keep you posted.

  Mom’s Epilogue

  The Real Brandi