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

  In my defense, it did sound like total bullshit at first. Seriously, who really has to be admitted into a treatment facility for exhaustion or stress therapy because they can’t stop refreshing their Twitter feed? Apparently, a lot of people do.

  I’m not sure if actual twee-hab centers already exist, but they absolutely should. If not, I’ll be the genius to open the very first one—and become a fucking billionaire!

  I firmly believe that it’s the newest form of cutting for bored suburban housewives and singles. Regardless of who or what you’re obsessing over, it can quickly become all-consuming and totally self-indulgent. Some people post “selfies” of their new haircut so their followers can agree that their game-time decision to cut their bangs was a good one. Some parents obsessively post pictures of their kids in the bathtub, with captions like “Jenny loves bubble beards!” I’m a mom, so I understand that you think your children are the cutest ones in the world and that you want to share that cuteness with everyone on Facebook. What I don’t understand is the kiddy porn. These lines should not be crossed, people! Put your son or daughter in some chonies or a bathing suit. There are perverts in the world! When it comes to Twitter, twit-aholics are just obsessed with what everyone else is talking about—or if other people care about what they are talking about. If that weren’t true, then why else would people tweet?

  My social media addiction escalated from casually scrolling through my news feed a few times a day or searching for people I had met around town to a full-fledged dependency. I think a Twittervention may have been and still may be in order.

  Twitter was my gateway drug to an alternate reality—which included Facebook and now Instagram (although tweeting still remains my favorite high). The more I engaged with my followers and the people I was following—both positively and negatively—the more I needed it. #BlockTheHaters. It’s like a parallel universe where you can meet new people, live vicariously through the fabulous and famous, connect with old friends, and obsess over those who are no longer in your life. Between my smart phone, my iPad, and my laptop, I had access to social media 24/7.

  In my first book, I was candid about using social media—and Google alerts—to obsess over my ex-husband and his new life. Sure, I was “addicted,” but I rationalized that Twitter-stalking was the only way to find out what my children were doing since he and I communicated solely through his assistant. When my eldest son went to the hospital with an injury after a sleepover, I only found out once his bonus mom sent out a Tweet. It seemed insane that I wouldn’t even be notified that my baby was in the hospital, but that was the reality also known as my life.

  Our coparenting hasn’t really improved much, but Mason has a new cell phone, which I pay for so that I actually have a shot at reaching my kids when they’re not with me (but it’s not like a ten-year-old remembers to charge the damn thing or where it is). Nowadays, I’m no longer interested in my ex-husband’s life with his new wife—other than how it relates to my boys—so religiously checking her news feed no longer interests me. Plus, her passive-aggressive tweets are kind of lame.

  My online addiction evolved into a three-pronged obsession (and I only participate in the three core social media platforms: Twitter, Facebook, and now Instagram). I can’t even begin to wrap my head around Vine, Foursquare, Klout, or Tumblr. First, it was a way for me to connect with my supporters and fans of the television show . . . and even the shit talkers. Reading words of encouragement helped brighten some of my gloomiest days. It also gave me a place to respond to all the cowards who hide behind “egg-shaped” icons and create accounts purely to talk trash. These people are cowards and losers.

  Next I had a constant need to see what people were talking about in cyberspace (#TheRoyalBaby, #NorthWest, #BreakingBad, and, of course, what’s going on in my own life).

  Finally, given my new commitment to be open to love again, I used Twitter and Facebook to begin investigating just about every guy I considered dating and to keep tabs on the ones I’d long since kicked to the curb. It’s essentially Stalking for Dummies and, therefore, the most dangerous tool in the modern dating world.

  Gone are the days when the “three-day rule” actually applied. #Totally90s. Between texts, tweets, and Facebook messages, there are no excuses.

  Let’s just start with simple cell phones: technology makes it virtually impossible to pretend you didn’t get the voice mail or see the text message. I don’t know any normal person who goes more than a day without checking his or her cell, so either fucking respond or go away. On certain phones, you can even see if your message has been delivered and read. If you have time to read it, you have time to send a reply—unless someone sends you an out-of-the-blue text that says “Hey” or “Sup,” in which case he doesn’t want to date you, he just wants to make sure you’re still interested in case he ever wants to fuck you again.

  When a day or two passes and you still don’t get a response, your mind starts to wander. Is he playing games with me? Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore? Did he find someone else he’s more interested in? If you’re like me, you realize you’re being a fucking lunatic and tell yourself to calm down. I’m sure he’s just really busy. Or is he? #MindFuck.

  Welcome to the curse of social media. After a glass or two of your favorite wine, you may decide to check his Twitter feed or her Facebook page and see that person has more than enough time to retweet a story about the Knicks or post some lame e-card (whatever that is) about hating Mondays. He or she has time for that, but no time to respond to a fucking message? Or, worse, he says, “I’m staying in tonight,” but posts a picture on Instagram from the bar at the Sunset Tower. #Idiot. I fucking hate liars.

  Like I said, it’s easy to obsess. But be warned, it’s just as easy for him or her to find out what you’re doing, so use this to your advantage! Let the games begin.

  After nine months of back and forth, my Latin boyfriend and I were “on” again—at least for the night anyway. The boys were with their dad, and I was sitting home alone, feeling in need of a little TLC and slightly sorry for myself, so I sent him a text: “Sup.” (I too am guilty of using this. Just like the people who have used it on me, it’s a safe bet. That way, if he doesn’t respond, you didn’t really put yourself out there.) He quickly replied back with an eager “Hi. How are you? You’ve been on my mind.” #Sucker.

  We engaged in a little “small text.” He asked if I had the boys that evening—it was his way of gauging how available I was and if he had a chance of getting laid that night, and the answer was, yes, he did.

  “No, and I feel like cooking Stroganoff,” I responded after a few minutes (always leave them hanging, just a little bit). Like my mom always says, the way to any man’s heart is with a home-cooked meal. And like I always say, a braless tank top should take care of the rest. He arrived around seven P.M. with a bottle of wine and a smile. I felt relieved. He seemed to be in a good mood, so I thought I would dodge any drawn-out chats about why we were on yet another break, a conversation he seemed to want to have repeatedly. (He was seriously more sensitive than any woman I’ve ever met.)

  He poured himself a glass of wine (not me), plopped himself down on a bar stool at my kitchen counter as I chopped vegetables, and immediately pulled out his iPhone. We spent the next two hours dissecting my every tweet and Facebook status update (even though I’ve told him that I rarely use Facebook anymore). I’ve repeatedly told him that I never talk about my love interests on social media (although I totally do), hoping that it would save me from having this exact conversation. He began reciting things I posted during our “breakup” and demanding explanations. Really, dude? “I saw the ‘men are babies’ post,” he said, as he sat across from me and sipped his wine (or should I say “whine”). “What was that about?”

  I wasn’t prepared for the third degree. Was he going to usher me into an interrogation room and force me under a glaring light? Did he want to handcuff me and rough me up? I might have been into that, actually, but
without the interrogation.

  “I have two sons,” I said, standing over the stove and focusing on sautéing the peppers. “And truth be told, all men are babies.”

  Of course that was true, but the post was actually about a full-blown freak-out my Unicorn Chaser had when I said in an interview that I had a New York boyfriend, but it didn’t matter because my L.A. boyfriend seemed to be buying it.

  “What about the ‘just say no to actors’ tweet?” he asked. Finally, I relented and poured myself a glass of wine. Didn’t he know what he was here for? I wasn’t trying to get back together. I wanted to use him for sex! I finally know what men feel like. I had a stage 5 clinger! He was going to use this opportunity to torture me. This was going to be a long night . . . and not in a fun way.

  “My ex-husband was an actor,” I shrugged, before adding with a flirty smile: “I feel like I should warn people.” This explanation didn’t seem to go over as smoothly. “Fine,” I relented. “An actor recently asked me out and I turned him down.” It was 100 percent true, and I figured he might feel a little vindicated by this.

  However, the post he was referring to was about a gorgeous African American actor I dated for a few months long before I ever met the Latino, who had recently hit me up again. #Sup. (See chapter 4.)

  Before I continue I have to reveal that I’m a terrible liar. These half-truths were the only way I could tap-dance around his accusations. I didn’t want to lie to him. I pride myself on being honest. I’ve learned the hard way that lying gets you nowhere, but on this particular night I just needed him to stop. I was willing to fudge the truth a little so we could get it on.

  It’s not like we were in a committed relationship anyway! He knew I was dating other people and I knew he was dating other people, but for my own sanity, I chose not to stalk his Facebook wall. So why was he torturing himself? And more importantly, why was he torturing me? I tried to remember if the sex was even good enough for me to subject myself to this. (It was.)

  By this time, dinner was ready and we sat on opposite ends of my glass table. The wine was kicking in, and I was calming down. Honestly, I was hoping that the bickering and jealousy might have turned him on. We could pretend that it would be our “last time” (even though we both knew it wouldn’t be), because it would make the sex that much more intense and passionate.

  But my Latino just kept his eyes fixated on his phone, as if he were conjuring up more questions to hurl at me. Come on, I thought. I just wanted to eat, then get fucked. I mean, I wasn’t asking for much. And seriously, what hot-blooded American man turns down a home-cooked meal followed by hot, steamy sex?

  I understood torturing yourself with jealousy can be a super-sexy form of foreplay, but this shit was getting ridiculous—and seriously fucking annoying.

  “Remember that night you cancelled our dinner at Craig’s because you weren’t feeling well?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, why did you post later that you were going to ‘stay up and out all night’? ”

  That was the final straw. “Enough!” I shouted, slamming my wineglass a little too ferociously on the counter. (I didn’t want to waste perfectly good wine.) He wasn’t even right at this point. Those were two completely different evenings.

  “Were you seriously just sitting at home and checking my Twitter all night, every night?” I demanded.

  “No!” he shouted. “My friend sent it to me the next day. He knew we were supposed to go out, so he wanted to know what we did.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. Yep, I was calling it. He was trying to make me feel guilty for something I didn’t actually do. I knew 100 percent that I did stay in that night.

  Calmly, I explained that sometimes I just type things into my little phone for fun—like when I go to bed at nine P.M. with my little men and want people (specifically future boyfriends) to think that I’m out and about at the most fabulous, exclusive party that none of them got invites to (because it wasn’t fucking real).

  It’s true. When I’m feeling boring or particularly lame, I occasionally post shit so I sound more fabulous than I am. I don’t do it often, but it makes other people happy and, oddly, me too. I don’t consider it a “lie” because I’m not telling anyone in particular. But on that specific night I was fast asleep after two glasses of Whispering Angel and some NyQuil.

  His interrogation continued well through dinner, but I hoped that by calling him a “cyberstalker” that I had shamed him enough so he would stop checking up on me . . . or at least not bother me about it if he did. By the time the dishes were done, I told him I had a headache and was going to crash. And yes, after three hours of this badgering, I did actually have a headache. He playfully asked if I wanted company. Oh, I thought, of course now he’s in the mood to get frisky.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Call me crazy, but I’m not really in the mood anymore.”

  As soon as his car pulled out of the driveway, I took to my Twitter.

  “Headed to Polo Lounge with my #BFFs!”

  It was one of those rare nights when I turned off my phone and shut down my iPad. I curled up on my couch with the rest of the wine and watched Pretty Woman before falling asleep.

  Here are my rules for being a responsible social media citizen, version 2.0:

  1. If an anonymous person who hides behind a fake account and a default profile picture is trashing you, do yourself a favor and click “Block.” This will save you hours of useless agonizing and help you avoid becoming embroiled in a #TwitterWar.

  2. Cyberbullying is an actual epidemic that is scary and very real. If you’re a middle-aged woman receiving a barrage of nasty comments from some assholes, you’re not being bullied. You’re just dealing with assholes.

  3. Limit yourself to uploading only one photo of your child per day. I know that your son was the first child to ever get his face painted at the fair, but please try to control yourself. And never under any circumstances post a sonogram photo. That shit’s just weird. #SorryButISaidIt.

  4. If you’re going to post a “selfie,” do so with caution. Always tilt the camera slightly downward and, please, flip the fucking phone around. Seeing the flash reflect in the bathroom mirror and your toilet in the background is not hot. #LearnFromMyMistakes.

  5. Also, enough with posting pictures of the food you’re eating and meticulously describing each ingredient. It just makes me hungry, and that makes me not like you. #FoodPorn.

  6. Restrain yourself from oversharing about a bad breakup. That’s a surefire way to send any future dating prospects running in the opposite direction—and your friends get tired of hearing about it. Trust me, I know. #GuiltyAsCharged.

  7. Stop “checking in” at the gym on Facebook or Foursquare. (But really, who still uses Foursquare?) If you have a bangin’ body, I’m sure you’ve posted enough bathing suit pictures for everyone to know.

  8. Getting a public figure to respond to your shitty comments on Twitter doesn’t make you look cool. It just makes you look like you don’t have a life.

  9. Regardless of privacy settings, remember that all social media is essentially public. Any of your followers can screen-grab your photos, updates, and direct messages. If you want to share something you wouldn’t want your mother to see, it’s probably not a good idea to post it. My mom, actually, does not participate in social media. #ThankGod.

  10. And finally, an oldie but a goodie: above all, don’t drink and tweet. #StillAHypocrite.

  • 11 •

  The Unicorn Chaser

  UNICORN (NOUN)

  1. A mythical female creature without flaw; the perfect ten.

  2. A figment of the male imagination.

  Example: The Wall Street financier wanted a unicorn: a girl with all-natural bouncy blond hair; a perfect bikini bod; a Harvard education; an in-depth knowledge of MLB, NFL, NHL, and NBA; an endless trust fund; a mouth like a sailor; and a perfect pink pussy. Oh, and she can cook too.

  He was attractive, just not my particular brand of attractive.

  N
ot long after my fresh start in the dating world, my best friend Amy wanted to set me up with this guy she knew. He was a successful New York television producer in his midthirties and was renting a summerhouse in Malibu with some friends—a group of committed bachelors. (This should have been my first warning sign, but I was a sucker for beachfront real estate.) I had been on a handful of blind dates and I wasn’t really itching to go on another one, but Amy was persistent. Plus, I hadn’t been having the best luck on my own (my picker was off, for sure), so I finally conceded, but I wasn’t going to make it easy. I half hoped I might dissuade him altogether.

  The sun was still shining when I forced him to pick me up at my rental in The Valley—about an hour’s drive for anyone coming from the coast. To be clear, I rarely let a guy pick me up on the first date (after all, it’s only a few steps from the driveway to the bedroom), but I already decided that this wasn’t going anywhere. I even warned him that my babysitter could only stay a short time, so I had a strict eight P.M. curfew. (The boys were actually with their dad. #BigFatLie.) I suggested we go to a sushi restaurant near my house, which just so happened to be in a strip mall. I was so over the date entirely that I threw on jeans and a T-shirt—I mean, they were definitely fitted jeans and there might have been a little nipple action under the shirt, but it was still jeans and a T-shirt. I even wore flats. I haven’t worn flats on a date since . . . well, ever.

  Needless to say, this wasn’t the makings of a super- sexy first date. It was just another stepping-stone, I told myself.

  He pulled up in a black SUV that he borrowed from a friend—which made me wonder if he was moonlighting as an Uber driver. The one-mile car ride to the strip mall sushi joint was already uncomfortable. I quickly realized we had nothing in common besides our mutual friends and the fact that we both worked in television. Was this essentially a glorified business meeting? I wasn’t sure.