Drinking and Tweeting (4 page)

I finally turned my phone back on and realized that not only did I have an obscene number of text messages, but my voice-mail box was full, too. Sure, I had a ton of family and friends, but this was ridiculous. When Eddie turned on his phone and started scrolling through his messages, it looked as if he had seen a ghost. I knew right then that I wasn’t actually crazy. Something else had happened.

The many, many messages had a common theme: there was video.
Us Weekly
had posted surveillance footage from the restaurant where Eddie and LeAnn had dinner. The video even captured intimate moments of my husband with this other woman: kissing one another, licking and sucking on one another’s fingers. If that wasn’t enough, it was available for the world to see. Couldn’t it at least have been Cindy Crawford? If that were the case, I might have asked to join the party. But, no, it was a has-been country-music singer.

Eddie had absolutely nothing to say. What could he say at that point? He just looked at me with pain in his eyes. I don’t think Eddie regrets much in his life, but in that moment, I knew he regretted the pain he was causing me. But more important, he regretted getting caught—and it couldn’t get much more red-handed than this. Thank God I never actually walked in on him with another woman; I would have killed them both. Eddie’s eyes were clearly no longer on the prize. Or, maybe, I just wasn’t the prize anymore.

So there we were. Eddie was catching a flight to DC to shoot a television pilot, and I was heading back to Los Angeles to see our boys. We were parting ways there in the middle of an airport. It remains one of the most defining moments of my life: sitting in a crappy, plastic airport chair watching my husband, the love of my life, walk away from me—and from us. Doesn’t that moment at least deserve a La-Z-Boy? A gliding rocking chair perhaps? Or how about a hospital bed with a morphine drip? In any event, I quickly found the nearest bar stool. It wasn’t going to be an easy journey, and there would be plenty of setbacks, but I wasn’t going to be the victim. It was time for me to put my big-girl panties on and
reclaim my life. When life hands you lemons, grab the nearest bottle of vodka and make yourself a cocktail.

The moral of the story couldn’t be clearer: you already know if your partner is fucking around behind your back, you just need to decide if you’re done being a doormat. You need to wake up one morning and decide that those rose-colored glasses are so last fucking season.

Always remember that you are a beautiful, strong woman or gay, and that plenty of wonderful men (and, perhaps, women) want to bend you over a kitchen table . . . or couch. I’m an equal-opportunity furniture molester.

Once you’ve decided to regain control of your life, the next step is to catch him in the act. Or, hypothetically, tape a phone conversation between the two of you in which he admits to fucking you on the staircase of your formerly shared home just a few days earlier, despite already living with his mistress; in which he admits that she is unattractive, that he doesn’t actually love her and would never marry her; and then asks you to come meet him at the McDonald’s he is at with the kids, because he wants you to take him back. After it’s all recorded, send her ass the tape . . . hypothetically.

If at all possible, don’t get married in California. That “no-fault state” business can be a real shit show, because despite the insane levels of douchebaggery, your alimony check won’t go up, and all you have to lose is the only thing you have left: your dignity.

If you still have questions about your partner’s fidelity, here are my top five signs that he is cheating:

1. He has two cell phones and no job.

2. He showers
before
going to the gym.

3. Your partner all of sudden requires a lot more “me” time. Especially if your partner is Eddie Cibrian—that man had more “me” time than most single guys.

4. Local business meetings never require an overnight stay. Never.

5. His credit card bills and cell phone bills go to his parents’ house.

If you are able to check off any of these, it’s time to reevaluate your relationship. If you can check off three or more, you’re fucked. Number five may not actually be a
barometer of his cheating, but it’s douchey either way—especially at thirty-five.

And while this is by no means a definitive list, I’d like to think it’s a pretty good temperature read. But it’s not brain science or rocket surgery. If the ground is wet and the sky is gray, it’s probably raining (or you woke up in a VIP room full of strippers at the Spearmint Rhino in Vegas).

brandi’s babble

Before you judge the girl with the broken ankle, walk a mile in her stiletto.

CHAPTER TWO

It’s a Breakup, Not Cancer

T
he most surprising thing about breaking up is that you already know how to do it. Everything you need to know, you learned in kindergarten.

 Yours should always be better than his (especially when it comes to lawyers).

 Sharing sucks.

 A nice glass of grape juice can cure just about anything.

 Always wait to be called on before speaking (in both mediations and the courtroom).

 And finally, always remember that the other person started it.

For obvious reasons, a breakup is much easier if you’re (a) not married and (b) don’t have kids. But the division of assets (and friends!) is always challenging.

If you are married and making the command decision to get a divorce, the first thing you do is lawyer up. It’s probably the hardest move to make, because you’re actually admitting to yourself that you’re getting divorced. No more what-if scenarios or “maybe I’ll wake up from this nightmare” pipe dreams. It’s about to happen, and it’s harder and longer than childbirth—without an epidural. Eddie handled everything in our relationship, so I had no idea where to start. Computers were (and still sort of are) foreign objects to me, and I was just starting to learn how to use one, but the concept of “googling” divorce attorneys was not an option. Instead, I went with word of mouth. I got a laundry list of suggestions of amazing lawyers with stellar reputations, but when it finally came to making the calls, I had a rude awakening. I was told—one after the other—that representing me would be a conflict of interest. How could it
be that every good lawyer in Los Angeles was representing my husband? It took me a bit to learn this valuable divorce lesson (so listen close): whichever party contacts a lawyer first, that attorney, by law, cannot represent the other party. I quickly figured out that my soon-to-be ex-husband—most likely at the suggestion of his fancy lawyer—had had the foresight to call every decent lawyer in the area for a meeting before I did. It was his way of legally crippling me. Not only was this going to be ugly, but I was also going to get fucked—and not in the good way.

One of my best girlfriends had just gone through a divorce and suggested her lawyer. Nothing fancy, but she was apparently totally fair and kept her legal fees to a minimum. Ironically, this is the same best friend who now vacations with LeAnn and Eddie. #JustSayin. I met with this lawyer and hired her on the spot. She was a bit of a ballbuster, and I figured that would come in handy if Eddie decided to play hardball. She also told me I wouldn’t have to fork over a dime up front, because her entire fee would come out of the settlement. I felt good about my decision. I was being rational, reasonable, and not working from a place of emotions.
And, let’s be honest, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

My ex-husband, on the other hand, went out and hired the most high-profile celebrity-divorce attorney in Los Angeles, Neal Hersh—with Eddie not realizing that he wasn’t actually a high-profile celebrity himself . . . and neither was his girlfriend, for that matter. He went out and hired a total bulldog to nail my ass to a wall. I never stood a chance.

In spite of everything, that’s the one thing I never understood. After thirteen years and two children, this man was intent on ruining me. And why? Because I discovered that he fucked half of Hollywood? Because I wasn’t going to be a doormat anymore and finally stood up for myself in the media? How is that my fault? But that was just another piece in this painful puzzle. I had no idea who he was anymore, and I was beginning to realize I never did.

Like I said, Eddie handled everything having to do with bills, loans, insurance, etc. I handled the kids. I think up until that point, Eddie had never spent one night alone with the boys. But raising his children,
I discovered, offered me zero insurance when it came to divorce. In all of our years of marriage, I did not have my name on a single document—not for any of the homes we purchased, not one of the cars or motorcycles. Every credit card, every power bill, every medical statement was in my husband’s name. Even the vintage Bronco my father had given us to refurbish was in Eddie’s name. In thirteen years, I had built precisely zero credit. I had zero savings. And now, I was about to become a single mom.