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

  On the contrary, you just need to compartmentalize him. Every woman needs a handful of men to keep in the friend box. I mean maybe they’re good with computers or they offer to watch your dogs or they have floor tickets to the Lakers or they hang out with cool people like Dr. Dre—all of these are acceptable reasons to keep men around. However, it’s time to “friend”-label them—or place them back in the appropriate box. Sex just confuses things, and I already have trouble with that. #DontGetItTwisted. #GetItStraight.

  Here I offer my guide on when to “friend” your man.

  1. When he flirts with your friends. This one is a no-brainer. If he’s brazen enough to flirt with other people right in front of you, what is he capable of when your back is turned?

  2. When you require at least three drinks to sleep with him and he only wants to have sex in the bed. #FriendBoxNotMyBox.

  3. When you care if he has bad breath. Sure, you never want to make out with someone who tastes like garlic or tobacco, but would you stop in the middle to tell him to hit up the Scope because you’re so grossed out that he’s breathing all over your $400 Jennifer Adams sheet set? Or are you so into the moment that you just couldn’t care less? If it’s the former, it’s time to put him in the friend box.

  4. When he is more concerned with other people’s opinions than yours.

  5. If he is more than ten years younger than you, do yourself a favor and stop now. It’s never going to work. You might be the hot older woman now, but what happens in ten or twenty years? What happens when he’s at his physical and sexual peak and you’re on the slow descent? Let Demi Moore learn that lesson for all of us.

  • 8 •

  Dating and Parenting

  COPARENTING (NOUN . . . MYTH)

  1. The act of two individuals sharing legal and physical custody of a child or children.

  2. When two grown-ass people attempt to put personal differences aside so they can do what’s best for the children they share.

  Example: Although coparenting, both were still acting like children themselves. #Immature.

  Mason and Jake aren’t allowed to bring their “nice” clothes to Mom’s house.

  That basically sums up our coparenting or, as I call it, “no-parenting.” The boys have every video game imaginable (not to mention the iPods, iPads, iRobots, and M-Macs), while I still struggle with my fucking BlackBerry. They have a closet full of designer clothes at Dad’s Hidden Hills estate in Calabasas. (My ex-husband keeps his new wife deep in The Valley too.) Sadly, when it’s time to come to my house, they are forced to change into the exact same clothes I sent them over to Dad’s house in two days earlier. Apparently, they each have a “Brandi” pile in their room—not even a “Mom”pile—of the things they are allowed to bring with them for their time at my house. It’s like my ex-husband’s worried I’ll ruin Mason’s laptop computer on purpose or “accidentally” throw out the outrageously expensive jeans they bought Jake.

  I didn’t even flinch (okay, maybe a little) when I heard news that my ex-husband was finally able to move into his dream home in Hidden Hills. Good for him. He deserves it. Right? According to the boys, the house has a giant pool, a tree house, a zip line, a tricked-out movie theater, a custom trampoline, and—wait for it—a rock-climbing wall. I mean, how can you expect children to ever be happy without a ridiculous structure they use ten times before getting bored? Essentially, they have a fucking theme park in their backyard. I can’t compete with that, and I gave up trying long ago. Still, it isn’t easy.

  My ex-husband and I continue to discuss the well-being of our children via our assistants. (Full disclosure: my assistant only works part-time and only while I’m filming. #CheaperThanANanny.) I have a phone number for their house now, although it’s a line that never actually works. However, I’m still blocked from calling his cell phone. My ex-husband had a yearlong affair with this woman (and many, many others) through his cell phone, so I guess I can understand her paranoia. Funnily enough, I’m the last woman she ever has to worry about sleeping with her husband. #HadItFirst. Despite what the gossip websites report about heated run-ins and “Twitter wars,” things have gotten a lot better between us. Yes, my ex-husband’s new wife sent me a bouquet of beautiful flowers on Mother’s Day—it was a nice gesture, but about four years too late. #Progress. Their father and I mainly communicate via e-mail. (Although I rarely get a reply unless I copy my assistant on it. He wouldn’t want anyone else to know what a narcissistic asshole he is, plus my assistants are cute young girls and he’s a flirt. #JustSayin.) It’s the best way to keep our conversations civil and focused on our boys, because every phone conversation ends up getting so heated that one of us hangs up on the other and nothing gets resolved. Especially when he’s not working. #JustSayNoToActors.

  Unfortunately, he still doesn’t consult me when making larger decisions about the boys that two parents should discuss. For example, I wasn’t asked my opinion when he decided to take our ten-year-old son to see an R-rated movie. He’s still a baby in so many ways, and I don’t think it’s appropriate. Call me old-fashioned. (Seriously. I rarely get to be called that.) Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled when both of my sons were given BB gun assault rifles for Christmas. I may sound like the mother in A Christmas Story, but for real, they’ll shoot their eyes out! They’re ten and six. Guns, of any kind, are not an appropriate gift for little boys—or for any of us, for that matter. Don’t even get me started on their fully operational motorized dirt bikes intended for grown-ass people. I’m a nervous Nellie when it comes to my children. Couldn’t he just teach them how to play basketball or tennis? Something that requires a little one-on-one time? News flash: kids crave the actual attention of their parents. My boys are all I have, and I want to shield them and protect them for as long as I can. Also, don’t you think giving their mother a heads-up on such important purchases is in order? The truth is, I have no control over what my ex-husband chooses to do during his time with our children. That’s not to say I don’t get royally pissed off, but all I can do is scream into a pillow and take deep breaths. The boys love their fancy toys—what little kids wouldn’t—and as I said in my first book, I had to stop competing. I couldn’t keep up with the lavish life they led half the week. I had come to depend on these boys as the men in my life—and I don’t like sharing. Over in Calabasas, they have a big house and expensive toys, but what hurts the most is that they have a complete family.

  In my heart, I know that Mason and Jake have everything they could ever want when they’re with me. But I can’t help but wonder, do they still feel my home is somehow incomplete? #CarrieBradshawInspired.

  “You don’t need a boyfriend,” Mason told me. He was just six years old when his father and I decided to separate amid a tabloid-fueled affair, but Mason was ready to assume the role as “the man” in my life. For a while, he did fill those shoes and the empty space next to me on my mattress. This little man offered me the kind of unconditional love that I needed in order to heal. As fucked up as it may sound, I felt safe with my little boys—safer than I would with any grown-ass cheating man. For that, I’m forever grateful to them both.

  Like all children, my boys are growing up. At ten years old, Mason is now a full-fledged tween. Holding mom’s hand at the grocery store is no longer socially acceptable. And saying, “I love you” in front of his friends? Forget it. Instead, Mason and I developed a secret handshake involving three firm squeezes, to relay the message to one another in public. But behind closed doors, I can always depend on my firstborn to cuddle up next to me during a movie and ask me to write on his back before bedtime. I’m not trying to damage his street cred by any means, but he’s the best sort of sensitive I’ve ever met.

  Jake is now six years old, the same age Mason was during the split, but he’s a little more gangster. He tests me regularly before flashing me the brightest smile you can imagine, with dimples that would make Mario Lopez jealous.

  “Jakey,” I told him one summer afternoon. “Just
because you smile at me doesn’t make smearing marshmallow goo all over my table okay.”

  “It works with everyone else,” he responded with a shrug and went back to his Lego fortress. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, which of course prompted my little troublemaker to look up and flash me yet another big smile to show off those adorable dimples.

  Watch out, ladies. He’s going to be a heartbreaker. You heard it here first.

  Despite their differences as kids, they both agree on one thing: It’s now time for Mommy to get a boyfriend. Jake is all of a sudden requesting a “bonus dad,” and while the term makes my skin crawl, I can’t help but appreciate the sentiment. Nowadays, any man who comes to our front door—the UPS guy, the landscaper, or the electrician—they see as a potential suitor for me. When one of my gay friends or friends’ husbands comes to the house, Mason and Jake are all over him like white on rice.

  “Can you throw me in the pool?” is one of Jake’s first and favorite questions. They’re boys—they want to wrestle, throw a football, and play video games. I try to fill that role as much as I can, but they’re hungry for masculine attention. And it breaks my heart that this is the one thing I can’t give them.

  “Mom, I think it’s time for you to get married again,” Mason recently announced. WTF? When did this change in him happen?

  One afternoon, the boys and I were shopping at our neighborhood grocery store, Gelson’s. (Yes, I know it’s overly expensive, but it’s close to my house and sometimes convenience overshadows price. I make up for it with frequent 99 Cent Store and Walmart visits.) We were standing in line at the register when a very cute, very tan, very young guy asked me if I surfed. I may look like a beach bunny in paparazzi pictures, but I am not a surfer girl.

  “I’d be happy to give your kids some free surf lessons,” he offered. He was covered in tattoos and was wearing one of those trucker hats tilted to the side. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

  Immediately, I saw their eyes light up. Of course they wanted to surf with this seemingly super-cool young guy. He looked like the sort of dude you’d see on TV during those extreme BMX competitions.

  “That’s so nice of you, but no thank you,” I said. “I really don’t want my kids to get eaten by sharks.” No one’s ever accused me of being rational. He smiled at me, flashing the kind of pearly whites you see in a gum commercial, and walked out of the store. After we checked out, the surfer boy ran up to me in the parking lot and handed me his phone number scribbled on the back of a receipt.

  “Thanks,” I said through a laugh. His persistence made me smile.

  After we loaded the trunk, Mason looked at me and said, “Mom, he seems like a good guy. Why don’t you marry him?”

  That’s when I realized two very important things: (1) I would need to have a conversation with Mason about what constitutes a relationship. If he runs off proposing to his first girlfriend, I’m screwed. (2) It was time to turn up the heat on my search for Mr. Right—and no longer Mr. Right Now. It was a decision I had already made, but I’d been dragging my feet, largely because of Mason and Jake. If I began seriously dating again, I would run the risk of finding someone I would fall in love with . . . and might one day have to introduce to my kids. Making another person a part of my children’s world is a really big fucking decision—and I’m not the type of person who takes that lightly.

  During the height of my divorce, Mason would get so mad when a man looked at me sideways. He used to say, “We have a daddy. We don’t need another one,” but now, he’s trying to give me away to a guy I exchanged ten words with at the grocery store! Talk about a 180! I guess it no longer mattered if I was ready . . . because they were.

  In their young eyes, Mommy getting married equals Jake and Mason getting a new live-in playmate.

  “Mason, what do you think it means if Mommy gets married again?” I asked him. Even though I don’t foresee myself getting married again, I wasn’t prepared to explain the concept of “domestic partnership” to my ten-year-old son.

  “I don’t know,” he said, barely looking up from his handheld Nintendo DS. I asked him to put the video game down and answer me again. He thought about it for a moment before saying, “It means that you have someone to hang out with when we’re at Dad’s and someone to go on vacation with. I don’t want you to ever be lonely.”

  Tears filled my eyes. It was the simple definition of a child, sure, but it was pretty fucking spot on. #SmartBoys. I did want someone to spend my days with when I was missing my boys like crazy. While my boys are now used to fancy vacations every few weeks, he was right, traveling was such an important part of my life before I met my ex-husband and I’d like to spend more time showing my family the world.

  “I think it means we’ll have someone to take us to Disneyland and no one will have to sit alone on the rides!” Jake shouted.

  “I’m sure if I got married we’d go to Disneyland once in a while, but not every day,” I explained. “Being married means having that person with us all of the time. It means that Mommy will have another person she needs to spend time with too. You guys will have to share me.”

  I paused, waiting to see how they would react to this. When my boys are with me, they get 100 percent of my attention. Sharing the spotlight with a new guy might not be the easiest transition for them. But the boys were quickly losing interest in the conversation, so I decided this would be a good place to end it for now. We could take up the concept of Mommy “kissing” someone new at a later time or perhaps when I actually met someone special. #BabySteps.

  I’ll admit, it is hard being just three sometimes. It’s a hard number. It’s always two against one whenever we play board games. And at dinner, one of us is always sitting alone on the other side of the booth. Instead of playing with my boys, I end up refereeing. I long for the days when we were four—not because I miss my marriage, but because it was easier—and look forward to the days when we will be an even number again.

  Mason and Jake have very privileged little lives in so many ways. They have a mom and dad who love them to the moon and back, and they always have food in their bellies and fun getaways on their calendar and not to mention enough toys to fill a Dumpster! But it hasn’t been a normal upbringing (although, neither was mine). Photographers follow them in cars whenever they leave the house—whether they’re with Mommy or Daddy. They’re on airplanes more often than most businessmen and have spent countless nights sleeping on bunk beds driving across the country in a tour bus. You know what? They love every minute of it. Despite the opulence in their world, I hope to instill in them practical life lessons: always say “please” and “thank you,” treat others the way you want to be treated, there’s no substitute for hard work, and every decision you make has consequences. They’re happy, well-rounded boys who managed to come out of a terrible divorce relatively unscathed and not needing therapy. I must give their dad and me kudos for that.

  I like to think that, in their eyes, I handled myself properly and made them proud. Of course I’m aware that one day they’ll read these books and be able to google every detail of what happened between their father, their “bonus mom,” and myself, but for now they’re protected from all of that. They’ll never be able to remember me speaking ill of their father or his new wife, because I never have (at least not in front of them, which given the circumstances is a huge fucking accomplishment). I’m doing my very best to shape them into good little men with a conscience and manners—despite the occasional potty word (but, come on, all kids do it!). I mean, even I got it from somewhere. #ThanksDad.

  It’s hard enough dating at forty years old. It’s even harder once you’re branded as a scorned “divorcée”—because that immediately implies you’re carrying around some heavy baggage. It might be the entire Louis Vuitton travel collection, but it’s still fucking baggage. If you’re me, you also have a trail of paparazzi and a “reality star” label. But once you add children to the mix, it’s an entirely different beast.


  To this day, I still haven’t introduced any man to my children as “my boyfriend.” In fact, only a select few have ever gotten the privilege of meeting them at all—and always under a different label. When I do decide to introduce them to someone as my partner, it’ll be someone who I’m certain will be around for the long haul.

  When I started dating the Surfer, he took an immediate interest in meeting my children. (Not the grocery store surfer, another surfer, a professional one.) Most guys freak out at the idea—fearing any additional responsibilities that might come along with such an important introduction. Not this surfer. He was a chill, “hang ten,” salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. We dated for a few months before I finally considered it.

  “It can only be as my friend,” I told him. He understood. He always understood. He was a good man, with a good heart and an even better body (which allowed me to overlook his annoying fucking dog).

  He was a forty-five-year-old professional surfer-turned-artist who lived with his grandmother in Pacific Palisades. To be fair, he claimed he only stayed at her home to help take care of her and the property. (If he’s forty-five, his grandmother must have been ancient.) It almost felt like his own place . . . almost. He had the entire bottom floor to himself, which included a bedroom, a hot plate, and a freezer that created a pool of condensation on the floor, but he had an amazing view of the Pacific Ocean. Plus, he was an artist, which meant he was amazing with his hands (in more ways than one). There is some unspoken rule about creative types that allows them to get away with shit that normal nine-to-fivers can’t. I was all in. It didn’t hurt it was a multimillion-dollar estate just blocks from the water, and he was a struggling artist who spent most of his days at the beach. His tanned skin was weathered from years in the sun and salt water. He was so handsome and had a killer body kept sculpted by daily surf sessions.