Drinking and Tweeting (8 page)

And she was . . . for a price.

When I decided to check into the Beverly Hills Hotel
(after discovering Eddie’s second affair), she immediately packed a bag and came along with me. And why wouldn’t she? She knew I was hitting rock-bottom and that I needed her. I assumed that since she had already been down this path, she would be the rock to help me figure out this new life and repay the kindness I had shown her. I’m sure it had nothing to do with a free stay at one of the most luxurious hotels in Los Angeles or the chance to see a former trophy wife fall from her pedestal. She sat there, wiped away my tears, and told me how much better off I would be without him. She also ordered an insanely expensive bottle of tequila and put it on my room tab.

She wasn’t perfect, but she was there. What I did discover was that having a recent divorcée as a “friend” meant that I also had a round-the-clock drinking partner, if I needed one. Like me, she was single, unattached, and seriously enjoying her freedom for the first time in years—something I found attractive in friends at the time. After her divorce, she slept around and was always eager to drown her sorrows on my dime. However, that was the extent of what she could offer. It was a oneway street, and if I wasn’t going in the same direction,
I needed to get out of the fucking lane. Otherwise, she would run my ass over.

She quickly grew tired of listening to my problems and rarely had the time to listen to me vent or cry. She was always down for a good time, but never a sad time. After all the meals I had picked up, she never offered to pick up a tab or even give me the courtesy of a halfhearted wallet reach—despite knowing the severity of my financial crisis. Although, at a Sunday BBQ in the Valley, she did once offer me the opportunity to be in a threesome with a really gorgeous firefighter she was dating. Unfortunately, I already had other plans.

I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I figured that her inability to listen to my problems was just self-preservation. Maybe it was hard for her to witness my divorce? Maybe it was, in a strange way, forcing her to relive her own heartbreak (although she also confided in me that she married for money and not for love)? I started to back off our friendship, because I didn’t need to get trapped in her downward spiral. I wasn’t trying to abandon her; I was just trying to protect myself. Much as I was with Eddie, I was completely blindsided when the floor fell out from underneath me.

It turns out I should have listened to my gut: she was a selfish asshole and extremely unhealthy for me to be around. About two years later, she sold a completely false and insanely hurtful story about me to a tabloid, to make some extra cash. Times were not that tough for her, so she chose to be cruel purely for the sake of hurting me. #JustSayin.

Once you realize that a friend is only looking out for himself or herself, you need to be able to cut your losses and walk away. A tiger doesn’t change its stripes. If you’re going through a breakup, the idea of saying goodbye to a friend isn’t the greatest feeling, but it’s for the best in the long run. There’s already so much negativity in the world, why keep the door open for more? Like they say: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, go fuck yourself. Or maybe that’s just me who says that.

During the divorce of yet another close friend, I was by her side for the entire roller coaster and, again, moved her into my guest room. (I should have started renting that place out by the night.) Unlike my stylist friend, this was a girl I grew up with. We met in Europe as teenagers and traveled the world together—we even had our first threesome together! We were as close as any two
friends could be. Eventually, we both moved back to LA and met our future husbands—who also became great friends. We were bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and spent most weekends together. It couldn’t have worked out better if we had planned it, except that we both married fucking douche bags.

When I was having dark moments, she tried to be there for me the best she could, but she was still struggling herself. One night she tried to take me to Shamrock on Sunset Boulevard to get my first tattoo, telling me it would be the first step on the road to self-discovery. I considered getting just a little heart someplace private. I’d never considered it before, so I got two steps inside the tattoo parlor before my better judgment kicked in: MILFs don’t have ink.

She was my sister in a lot of ways, but I could sense a growing distance between us over time. Months went by, and she became increasingly unavailable—to talk, to work out, and even to party (which was a rarity for my group of girlfriends). I was totally baffled, but she promised me nothing was wrong.

Shortly after, it all made sense.

One afternoon, a mutual friend sent me an e-mail with a link to paparazzi photos. I opened the link and got my breath knocked out of me. Staring back at me from the computer screen was my best friend of more than fifteen years walking down the street and laughing with my husband’s new wife. I leaned in closer to the screen, certain I wasn’t seeing this correctly.

Why would my friend for nearly half my life be hanging out with my ex-husband’s new wife? The woman who sat by my side during some of my darkest hours was now parading around town with the same woman who caused me all that pain. With shaky hands, I fumbled through my purse for my cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed her number. There was no answer. She had to have known I would figure all of this out eventually, even though these photographs were “oh so candid.”

When we finally spoke, she had an excuse for everything. She had been a bit distant because she was trying to work things out with her ex-husband. She assumed that would be difficult for me to deal with, seeing as I was still struggling with my own divorce. As for LeAnn, well, my friend’s ex-husband and Eddie
remained friends after both of our divorces and were hanging out a lot (translation: hitting on cocktail waitresses). Her ex had asked her to spend time with LeAnn as a part of their reconciliation, so my friend agreed. She swore to me that she only did it to pacify her ex-husband, and “it didn’t mean anything.”

“Hmm, I’ve already heard that line from Eddie,” I thought, not interested in the bullshit she was trying to sell me. Even if you were pointing a gun at my head, you could never force me to sit in the same room with my best friend’s homewrecker, and I sure as hell wasn’t going for fucking iced lattes and shopping sprees with her.

How could my friend do that to me? I was absolutely beside myself that she was willing to throw away our decades-long friendship just for the opportunity to be the background girl in all of LeAnn’s paparazzi shots. Was having your photo taken that important? I knew that in the back of her head she had always thought that she should be famous, but, really? I guess friends really are a dime a dozen.

As much as I hold my friend accountable for the
demise of our relationship, in the back of my head I knew this was somehow LeAnn’s doing. She had everything else in my life, so why wouldn’t she want all my friends? It’s not like she ever had any of her own—child stars rarely do. By this point, most of the magazines and blogs were referring to her as a “Brandi clone,” so I guess it makes sense that she wanted to completely inhabit my world. I wonder when she’ll ask everyone to start calling her B and start trying to come to Sacramento for holidays. #StalkerMuch?

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the only one of my “friends” to be lured over to the dark side. It was mostly the wives and girlfriends of Eddie’s buddies whom I had developed close relationships with. Eventually, I spotted most of them somewhere on the blogosphere—at one time or another—walking along the sand in Laguna Beach or snowsuit shopping in Aspen with my husband’s new wife.

While I have an arsenal of terrible names I could call LeAnn,
stupid
isn’t one of them. This country-music singer was clever. To make Eddie’s transition as smooth as possible from wife number one to wife number two,
she totally inhabited his world—or at least what he wanted his world to be. She must have figured that befriending these women would be the easiest way to keep Eddie comfortable. (Plus, she can’t stand it when anyone dislikes her. I guess she’ll have to get used to that.) She wooed them with an all-expense-paid vacation to Cabo San Lucas—complete with private planes, private beaches, and private chefs—and the unspoken promise that their own stars might rise if they stood next to her long enough. After all, there’s a photographer lurking around every corner, right? (Usually because she’s called them.)

L
osing these women was a blessing in disguise. Their absence allowed me to fully appreciate the handful of extremely loyal friends who have stuck by my side throughout this journey. These are the men and women who understand me better than I sometimes understand myself. They knew when I needed them nearby, they knew when I needed space, and they knew to lift me out of the hole I was digging for myself when I started losing control.

However, even my best friends didn’t know how to deal with the overwhelming amount of media surrounding my divorce. I didn’t, either. It was unlike any breakup any of us had experienced. For months, the coverage was incessant. Then it would die down until something happened to reignite the fire: Eddie and LeAnn’s moving in together, my DUI charge, Eddie and LeAnn’s wedding, my new role on
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
. The constant reminders of the affair that ultimately led to Eddie’s and my divorce made moving on more challenging than it would be for the average divorcée, and my friends were unsure of how to handle it when they came across something on the Internet or in a magazine.

It was the million-dollar question for today’s world of tabloid-celebrity breakups: What do you do when you see paparazzi photos of your friend’s ex with his or her new partner? It’s the same predicament people nowadays encounter through social media. Do you tell your friend when you see photos of her ex-husband walking along the beach with his new wife and the kids? Do you send them to her? She probably doesn’t want to see, but you’d rather she learn about it from you than be blindsided
later. Or do you ignore it? It’s never fun being the bearer of bad news, so perhaps you just let someone else spill the beans?

During the early, obsessive days of my divorce, I was desperate for any information I could get on Eddie and LeAnn. When a friend would send me a Twitter photo of bonus mom cuddling with my kids, I would stare at it for hours. I was hungry for any information I could get my hands on, but those were my virtual-cutting days. Today, I’d rather not know about it. (I believe that’s what my therapist calls “progress.”) I don’t need a friend to send me a photo of my ex-husband’s replacement wife in a bikini, even if only to point out her stretch marks. I know my friends are just trying to make me laugh or prove how loyal they are to me, but all it does is remind me that he chose her—stretch marks and all. Despite my offering him a second chance and all his promises of fidelity, he wouldn’t let go of LeAnn, and our family was destroyed because of it.

I understand that my life has forever been changed by their decisions and, for better or for worse, they will be a chapter in my life—one that I will occasionally need to relive, whether it’s in writing this book, discussing it
with friends or viewers of
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
going through difficult times, or in the conversations I will one day need to have with my sons and whomever I choose to share my life with.

However, I no longer have Google alerts set to notify me when Eddie and LeAnn stage another paparazzi shoot at my son’s soccer game, and I don’t need to be reminded that they will soon be celebrating their second wedding anniversary. (Really, they had to get married in fucking Malibu? #BlowMe) And I no longer need the daily updates from my friends. I know they think an “update” is what I prefer, but it’s not. Not anymore.

So, unless it’s something that is essential for your friend to know, spare him or her the details. While those friends might be angry when they first find out you withheld information, eventually they will understand that you did it with their best interests at heart.

Rest assured that if your friend wants to vent about some obnoxious article or Facebook post, or if he or she is teary-eyed and needs a shoulder, he or she will reach out.

As the divorcée or subject of the breakup, depending on your friends is absolutely crucial, but know your limits! Friends can quickly grow tired of feeling sorry
for you—unless you’re always picking up the check, in which case their sympathies (and wineglasses) are bottomless.

People, hopefully, have their own lives to live and their own problems to worry about. It’s easy to become completely self-involved when you’re faced with hardships, but it’s important to remember to be there for your friends, too. You have to be able to read the signs. When they no longer pick up on the first ring (and perhaps not at all) or when their responses and advice become less sympathetic, it’s time to reevaluate how much you’re leaning on a particular person. It’s not because these people don’t love you, it’s because they have their own shit going on (or they’ve been abducted by LeAnn Rimes). While sometimes we all need to climb out of our own fog to realize that we’re far from perfect, what I can say with total confidence is that I’ve always been a good friend.

It may seem obvious, but when you’re going through any difficult period, spending time with those who know and love you can be tremendously healing. It’s not always about curling up on the couch with a box of Kleenex and a pint of ice cream. Being around your friends provides a great opportunity to get back to being you. While we
may feel this overwhelming urge to flee, we know running isn’t going to help. Wherever you go, your problems will follow, because it’s impossible to check your brain or your heart at the border. They will follow you anywhere you go.

I chose to surround myself with either people who made me laugh or those I could drown my sorrows with. Laughter can cure just about anything—except a wretched hangover. For that, I suggest EBOOST.