Drinking and Tweeting (6 page)

3. Throw my tweezers in the garbage and don’t touch my eyebrows until directed.

My then-boyfriend, Joey Monahan, was so thrilled at the prospect that he could soon be dating a “model” that he readily offered to pay for the insanely overpriced, high-end hairstylist the agent recommended, named Ron Pernell. I not-so-humbly accepted. Joey was even okay with the furry caterpillars growing above my eyes and my new, more natural makeup look, although it was far too boring for my taste.

Even then, I knew I would dump Joey. He was crazy hot, five years older than me, and totally obsessed with me. He taught me some valuable lessons that would come in handy for the rest of my life—basically all my favorite bedroom tricks. He was exactly what every seventeen-year-old girl in the nineties wanted: Brandon Walsh. Perhaps that’s too dated for some of you, but unfortunately, I can’t name anyone on a CW show. But I was on to something bigger. I was going to break out of the Sacramento bubble and do something extraordinary with my life. After an intense eyebrow shaping and the successful purging of my eye-shadow kit, my agent
offered me an official modeling contract that would take me overseas immediately. Joey transformed into Mr. Not-So-Supportive when he decided that he didn’t want me traveling, after all. Instead, he thought I should stay in Sacramento and attend a local junior college. Was he fucking nuts? I had the chance of a lifetime, but I was just supposed to retreat back home?

I decided it was time to leave his ass, but only after he gave me a ride to the airport. Actually, it took me two attempts to board an airplane to Paris at San Francisco International Airport. On the first attempt, I purposefully missed my flight after discovering that I had an absolutely paralyzing fear of flying—one that still haunts me and requires a prescription pill. At a “friend’s” suggestion, I headed to San Francisco’s Mission District and bought some pills that would help me pass out. The dealer told me it was the equivalent of taking a Valium. I popped the pill before takeoff and woke up only when the flight attendant started shaking me to see if I wanted food; apparently I had “roofied” myself. Yep, the date-rape drug. After ten hours and a few hallucinations, I woke up on the runway of Charles de Gaulle Airport.

I found myself eight thousand miles away from
everything I had ever known and was now living in a completely foreign city. I didn’t speak the language and soon figured out that I can’t fucking stand French food. (I wish Mexico had a high-fashion scene; I could eat tacos every night.) It was both terrifying and exhilarating. I was ready for this adventure.

I can appreciate now how this opportunity fell into my lap, but I like to think that God front-loaded my life with blessings, knowing that one day I would have to deal with Eddie.

A driver was waiting for me at the airport, a luxury that was completely lost on me at the time. I seriously figured that everybody must have a driver pick him or her up at the airport—maybe it was built into the price of the ticket? I had no frame of reference. The driver was to take me directly to the agency in Paris. I was hoping that after a ten-hour flight and a drug-induced haze that I would at least have a few minutes to freshen up, but no such luck. When you’re seventeen years old, I guess you can never look that bad. Plus, I suppose they figured they would be seeing me during a lot of hazy moments, so they might as well be prepared. They would have been right to think that. #PartyAnimal.

When I arrived at the agency, they told me I would be moving into the “models’ apartment,” with other models from around the world, all of whom were even more stunning than the pictures in their portfolios. And there I was, a girl from the hood of Sacramento with only two test shoots by a little-known San Francisco photographer. I was beyond intimidated, but it couldn’t dampen my excitement—once the drugs had worn off.

Making friends was never difficult for me, and I quickly bonded with the girls. By the end of my first week, I was dancing the night away with my new roomies at Bains Douches, the absolute hottest club in Paris at the time. It was the beginning of six amazing years when I traveled the world, danced with princes, and spent evenings with some of the most interesting people at some of the most lavish parties one could ever imagine.

Not to go all
Eat Pray Love
, but traveling can be wonderfully therapeutic. During those years, I wasn’t necessarily overcoming any particular hardship, but the experiences gifted me a sense of awareness that proved helpful during my breakup and subsequent early midlife crisis. Plus, it afforded me a wonderful life. I made good
money and paid back my parents all they had lent me through the years. Looking back, I cherish the time I spent there and would never change a single minute. I was introduced to so many amazing cultures, languages, and, of course, so much delicious food (besides French).

If you haven’t traveled, I suggest you go immediately to Milan and head to the Duomo, a beautiful church in the center of the city. When you get there, find the little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop and order a mozzarella-and-
pomodoro
sandwich.
Molto molto caldo!
(Very, very hot!) Enjoy. #CarbsRock.

One day, I’m going to take my entire family to Milan . . . and Sardinia and Saint-Tropez. We’ll of course travel by private plane and stay on my überluxurious yacht. Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

While I’ll never regret my decision to move abroad, I did learn firsthand the importance of a college education. I would never force my children into doing anything, but I will encourage them to pursue an advanced degree in whatever field they choose. My oldest son currently wants to be a veterinarian—which requires years of schooling. My younger son wants to be a gangsta rapper, so either I send him to Compton High
School or maybe suggest a dual major in music and theater? I haven’t quite figured that one out yet. Perhaps “bonus mom” can help him with his music career? #GoodForSomething.

Six years after I moved to Europe, I came back to Los Angeles to shoot a Coors Light commercial and ended up at an obnoxious nightclub called Grandville on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. Across the bar, I spotted an insanely attractive Cuban man who just couldn’t keep his eyes off me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him either. It was love at first sight—or, perhaps, lust. Yes, we slept together that first night. I would never endorse sleeping with someone you just met, because half of the fun is the challenge. But, man, was it fucking hot! I used to joke that he “raped” me. Rape jokes are never funny, except when they are. I was saying, “No, no, no,” the entire time, but we all know that despite the adage, sometimes no
does
mean yes.

That was the night I met my future ex-husband. Not long after, we were in a fully committed relationship. Unlike with Joey, when Eddie asked me to stay in Los Angeles, I said yes. He didn’t want me traveling anymore, he wanted me by his side at all times, and I was
more than happy to oblige. I adored how protective he was of me. We moved in together and were crazy in love. #BeyonceSaidItBest. I would have done anything for that man. (I would also like to point out that #BeyonceSaidItBest again when she sang “to the left, to the left.”)

Five years later, we were married at the Ritz Carlton in Laguna Niguel, California, and I decided to forgo traveling for modeling entirely. My husband wanted to start a family pretty quickly after our wedding, and he wanted the little wife at home to raise the kids, clean the house, and cook the meals. He was traditional in that respect (one of his few conservative qualities), so that’s what I did—with the help of a nanny, two in-laws, and a housekeeper. After I got pregnant with our first son, I largely scaled back on modeling, but booked the occasional shoot just as a way to stay social and catch up with friends. He was making a good enough living that we didn’t need the extra income. Plus, I felt that I had already lived a full life, so I was thoroughly content being a kept woman and more than happy to step aside and let my husband enjoy the spotlight.

I had yet to learn that while there’s nothing wrong
with elevating your partner, that should not come at the cost of your own identity. I lost myself in my relationship. It’s an easy thing to do and a mistake I will never make again. No one person is exactly the same as the year before or even a week before, but when we’re blinded by love, we don’t always make the smartest choices for our own best interests. How could I be the best partner, friend, daughter, wife, or mother, if I was sidelining my own identity? The answer is, I couldn’t. I will never take total responsibility for what happened in my divorce, but I will take responsibility for what I allowed to happen to
me
. During my marriage, I lost my voice. Before it, I was always opinionated, outspoken, and filter-free, but that faded over the years. I allowed myself to forget my self-worth.

When my new reality came to light, my life as a soon-to-be divorcée came as an extreme adjustment. I had stopped doing anything for myself. I no longer felt like an individual because for thirteen years, I was one-half of a “we.” My ex-husband clearly didn’t have that same dilemma. #JustSayin.

So when Eddie had left me with a shell of my former lifestyle and virtually no money—despite promising me
that I would always be taken care of—I had no career to fall back on and no education to speak of.

I decided it was time to “do me.” Around the time of my separation, the ghetto girl in me totally identified with a Drake song called “Over (I’m Doin’ Me).” When you split up with someone, music can either save you or totally destroy you. I couldn’t listen to the radio without hearing heartbreaking, sappy love songs that would drive me to tears. They were just everywhere, so I listened to this Drake song over and over: “What am I doin’? Oh, yeah, that’s right, I’m doin’ me!”

My modeling days were behind me, and I was without any other professional skill set. I was desperate to maintain some semblance of my former lifestyle—not for me, but for my children, who had grown accustomed to certain things. So much was already changing in their worlds that I wanted this transition to be as smooth as possible. And I needed a bit of that balance for my own sanity, as well. I knew I needed to make something of myself, but what was I going to do? I was thirty-six and well past my prime modeling years, so I figured that keeping my name in the press would eventually lead to some opportunities down the line. I even hired a publicist
to give me some direction when dealing with the ever-present media and possibly to help develop opportunities to make some money. I knew that staying relevant was going to be important, and I refused to look like a doormat in the press. So when a tabloid reporter called to get a quote about Eddie’s parenting skills, I fired off the first thought that came to my mind—and those who know me well know that’s usually a terrible idea, but they also know that I am being brutally honest.

In a short time, my life had become a comedy of errors—except nothing about it was actually funny. I was incapable of catching any kind of break. A few days later, I was standing in the checkout line with my kids at the Albertsons in Calabasas, and staring back at me was a fresh batch of glossy magazines. I flipped through the pages until I came across an item about Eddie, and my heart sank. My slicing words were in big, bold letters: “Eddie Cibrian Is an Absentee Father.” I was a better person than that, but I was holding on to so much anger. I guess it shouldn’t have come as a huge shocker when my credit card—the only card that I had—was declined moments later. At first, I figured it had to be some kind
of mistake. Maybe the strip was just bare (I had been doing my fair share of retail therapy), so I asked the cashier to call the bank and find out the problem. Apparently, the primary cardholder, Eddie, had canceled my access to the account. I could have died of embarrassment. There I was with a basket full of diapers, kid food, groceries, and sauvignon blanc—about $500 worth of stuff already bagged up—and a growing line of grouchy shoppers behind me waiting to check out.

I did the first thing that came to mind: I burst into tears, grabbed the boys, and headed toward the exit, leaving my cart and my dignity behind.

I knew in that moment that I would never be able to rely on Eddie again—the man who had promised to take care of me for the rest of my life. My spousal support was embarrassingly low, and I didn’t have a job. I guess I shouldn’t have been that surprised, since this was the same man who canceled my health insurance without even giving me the courtesy of a heads-up. (Cut to an expensive ankle injury that I’m still paying off.) Not to mention, I will be paying for the HPV for the rest of my life. Every three months, I am required to see my gynecologist
for a checkup, and I have had two additional loop electrosurgical excision procedures (LEEPs) since my divorce. #TheGiftThatKeepsOnGiving.

I was forced to make some concessions. First things first: I needed a car, but who would lease a car to an unemployed single mother with zero credit? With my tail between my legs, I picked up the phone and called the one man I never wanted to burden but knew I could always depend on: my dad. Without hesitation, my parents agreed to cosign on a car for me: a Range Rover Sport. (Listen, I wasn’t about to forgo all my former luxuries, but the Sport was far more cost-effective than a traditional Range Rover. I considered the downgrade my concession. Baby steps, people.) I was a jobless, homeless mother of two living out of her $1,200-a-month SUV and couch-surfing from one hospitable friend to the next. To add insult to serious injury, I also developed a nervous twitch in my left eye. #NotHot.

One of my closest friends actually suggested that I become an exotic dancer. She couched it by saying that since I might be too old to make a consistent living modeling, I should at least make some money off my great ass. I had already taken a few classes at Sheila Kelley’s
S Factor, so while I wasn’t a professional, I could easily find my way around a pole. Plus, if I found a strip club deep enough in the Valley, no one would ever know. This was coming from one of my most conservative friends, so I thought, “Oh, shit, if she’s suggesting this, I’m in some big-ass trouble.”