Drinking and Tweeting (2 page)

 You don’t need a job to go on a $20,000 shopping spree at Neiman Marcus; you just need an
ex-husband, his American Express card, and a chip on your shoulder.

 It’s okay to talk about your breast implants; it’s not okay to talk about vaginal rejuvenation. Even if you get vaginal rejuvenation. Shh!

 Do not be ashamed of taking antidepressants; basically everybody does. Be ashamed if you’re not talking about it.

 Your friends will always be your friends . . . as long as your husband doesn’t marry someone with more money, paparazzi on speed dial, and a mansion in Nashville.

So get your Kindle, e-reader, iPad, or even good old-fashioned printed book ready and hunker down with your favorite blanket, because this girl’s guide—complete with hate sex, plastic surgery, and lesbian make-outs—makes
Fifty Shades of Grey
’s “red room” seem like a nursery rhyme.

CHAPTER ONE

If He Walks like a Duck and Talks like a Duck . . . Then He’s a Pig

P
eople always say, “Don’t panic.”

Really? Who are these people? I discovered that my husband of eight years was banging every short skirt—and wide back—in Hollywood after seeing it on the cover of a celebrity-gossip magazine, but I’m supposed to stay calm? I’m supposed to eat shit with a fork and a knife and say thank you when I’m done swallowing this crap?

Fuck off. I’m here to tell you that if your husband, wife, boyfriend, or girlfriend is cheating, life, as you
know it, is over. It’s the God’s honest truth, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either completely blowing smoke up your ass, a lawyer, or my ex-husband.

It’s actually quite the contrary. It’s time to freak the fuck out, and that’s not just acceptable, it’s obligatory. The rug has just been pulled out from beneath your feet, and everything you thought you knew with absolute certainty has vanished. Absolute hysteria is just the beginning—you’re about to embark on an entire roller coaster of crazy-ass emotions. So I, Brandi Glanville, am here to bestow this simple but valuable piece of information on you: if you discover your partner is cheating, drink like it’s your last party, blame everyone else for your problems, let “binging” be your new favorite hobby, and, by all means, FUCKING PANIC.

I
t was a cold, sunny morning the day my world fell apart.

Sure. There were signs. Like, what man has baby wipes in the center console of his Porsche? Please, like he ever changed a diaper. It’s not a science, but I’m pretty certain my husband was getting more than his fair share of roadside assistance.

But, as the saying goes, ignorance is bliss: I had a beautiful, six-bedroom home in Calabasas, a full-time nanny, a brand-new Range Rover, an $11,500 boob job, two wonderful little boys, and a gorgeous Cuban husband. And I was the perfect little Hollywood housewife. Yes, the writing was on the wall that my husband was far from perfect, and, yes, every so often my curiosity would rear its head, but I chose to ignore it because life was good—plus, even if I believed it, I couldn’t prove a damn thing—in fact, it was great. So when reports of my husband’s infidelities became national news one fateful March morning, I was the lucky recipient of the world’s biggest gut punch. (Both Sandra Bullock and Elin Nordegren would soon follow my lead—let’s just say Eddie’s lucky his golf clubs weren’t handy.)

It was just your typical Wednesday. Like clockwork, a sleepy-eyed Mason wandered into our bedroom just before five in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have a six-year-old? And just as I did every morning, I gently tugged him into bed and placed him between Eddie and me. With my finger, I would softly trace letters across his tiny shoulders until his eyelids fluttered and he drifted back to sleep. Eddie would, without
opening his eyes, smile and toss his strong, muscular arm over us both and pull us to his chest. Wrapped up in each other’s arms, my little family and I would fall away for a few more hours of precious sleep. Oftentimes, I would even lie awake, taking it all in and appreciating how perfect life could be. Not until we heard Jakey’s cries would Mason finally say, “Mom, go get your robe.” I would crawl out of bed and head down the hallway to release Jake from his kiddie corral with Mason trailing behind me.

The sound of Jake’s shrieks would echo through the house until I would finally swing open the door and see my two-year-old sitting behind his baby gate with crocodile tears and a smile from ear to ear. “Faker,” I thought, but still I picked him up and hugged him hard until I could feel his little body relax. I couldn’t resist that face—or those gorgeous dimples. Well advanced for his two short years, Jake Austin Cibrian not only managed to crawl out of his crib nightly, but he’d also figured out how to open the door to his bedroom. Did I mention that he was still in diapers? This kid would be the death of me.

So being the paranoid and nurturing mama bear,
I had nightmares of my precious baby waddling about in the middle of the night and tumbling down the grand marble stairway or climbing up the banister and falling to his certain death onto the foyer floor below. I know I was being totally irrational, but I decided to put a lock on the outside of his door, because if he was clever enough to climb out of a crib, the baby gate was going to be zero challenge for him. I was aware that this was in strict violation of a number of fire-department building codes, but I didn’t care. Seriously though, it isn’t as drastic as it sounds, but you try going to Mommy and Me class with a bunch of uptight professional Beverly Hills mothers. Ultimately, if it gave me the peace of mind that he was safe so I could sleep for six uninterrupted hours, then I was willing to do just about anything.

Isn’t that the goal with all parenting? Don’t kill the kids? Shit, isn’t that the goal with every relationship—not killing one another?

When I finally managed to get both of the boys dressed, the three of us headed to the kitchen for our typical morning routine: a breakfast consisting of hardboiled eggs, Honey Bunches of Oats cereal, and Gatorade, followed by the Round Meadow community car
pool and a laundry list of errands to run before the trip to Parrot Cay Eddie and I were planning that weekend. My best friend was getting married to the man of her dreams—who just so happened to be Hollywood’s biggest movie star, Bruce Willis—and it was the first time in months that Eddie and I were escaping for a grown-ups vacation. No babies and no BlackBerrys; just my handsome husband and me.

Let’s be clear, Eddie and I had an extremely healthy sex life (so where he got all that extra energy, I’ll never be sure), but every so often we would run away together so we could make love in the middle of the afternoon as loud as we wanted, for as long as we wanted. And he would kiss me the way he did when we had nothing but time. That, coupled with an occasional lesbian make-out, was the recipe for our seemingly successful marriage. I know what you’re thinking: how was it okay for
me
to hook up with other women, but not my husband? Welcome to La La Land, ladies and gays. If you don’t keep your man satisfied, there is some other hussy who will. I thought keeping things spicy in the bedroom was the only surefire way to keep my man from straying. #LessonLearned. I’m not talking about any
below-the-belt action, just some harmless grab-assing and sexy making out. I can definitely appreciate a pretty girl, so on occasion I would hook up with girlfriends, so that my husband could watch. (Sometimes the girl had a boyfriend or husband, too, who also seemed to enjoy the show.) It was harmless and Eddie seemed to appreciate it, because without fail, it would lead to some pretty hot sex afterward. Like I said, I was just an average Hollywood housewife doing whatever I could to keep my husband happy.

After breakfast and midway through an episode of
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse
, I popped a toothbrush in each boy’s mouth and began packing Mason’s lunch. Right on cue, Eddie dropped into the kitchen to give the boys and me our morning-ritual “love bug” kiss (where all of our lips met) before heading off for the gym—already fully showered. (Again, you would think a little alarm would go off, but nothing.) Little did I know that our simple, boring morning encounter would be the last time I would ever see the man I married, my Eddie. He gave me a tap on my booty—his favorite part of my body, which he often referred to as my “upside-down heart”—and flashed me one of his toothy, crooked smiles, complete
with those dimples that I loved so much. (Flash forward: Eddie ended up getting Invisalign to straighten his teeth from crooked to perfectly perfect. Now if only he could do the same to his crooked-ass lies.)

Then he disappeared, as he always did, into the garage. I went about my morning in blissful ignorance. After getting my babies dressed, fed, and loaded into the car (no easy task since the nanny was nowhere to be found, but, then again, the house was ten thousand square feet), I finally arrived at the seventh circle of hell: the Round Meadow car-pool drop-off line. In what universe is it normal to wait forty minutes to drop your kids off at school? Welcome to the Valley, ladies and gentlemen, the land of horses and divorces. No wonder everyone who lives here pops more pills than a
Celebrity Rehab
cast member. Once I finally navigated the drop-off lane, I sent Mason and my carful of grade-schoolers (minus Jake) off to their classes. “Finally,” I thought, as I headed back toward home, a three-minute drive if you’re not waiting in a car-pool line. I needed to get Jakey home to our nanny, who I assumed was awake by now. I just had to find her, before heading to meet my private Pilates trainer of the last six years. (Ladies and gays, if you are
thirty-five or older and are looking to change your body, Pilates is the only option. Trust me. I’m forty years old today and I’m feeling as confident as ever.) Just as I hit my ostentatious neighborhood gates, I heard my phone buzz. It was a text message from a “friend”—aka a total fucking hater—and the second wife of one of Eddie’s sleazy-ass friends.

This woman—an incredibly bored woman who broke up her current husband’s previous marriage and resented that I was still close friends with his first wife—was all too eager to alert me to a story on
PerezHilton
. She texted me that the blog had posted the accusation that my husband was having an affair. Most people would freak the fuck out, right? That’s the only normal, natural response. And that’s my advice. But as you will quickly learn, my darlings, do as I say, not as I do.