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

  But at the time I would have taken a bullet for that man, so I didn’t care. Let me rephrase, I didn’t care enough not to move. In the years that followed, we started moving further and further east down the Hollywood Freeway. We eventually landed in Encino for five years, but the final kiss of death was when he packed up our perfect little family and moved us to the deepest part of The Valley: Cala- fucking-basas. For those of you who have never heard of the town, it’s a ritzy and exclusive enclave for those north of Mulholland. #KrisJenner. There was one grocery store, a single movie theater, and two restaurants—all of which were closed by nine P.M. Our real estate agent told us the town was dubbed “the land of horses and divorces,” because everything for sale in the area was either bare land or the product of yet another failed marriage. Honestly, it’s pretty easy to blame your partner for everything when there’s nothing fucking else to do.

  While it wasn’t my dream come true, we did have a massive house in a gated community with a huge backyard complete with a giant waterslide, a sports court, and a half-acre fruit orchard—amenities that would have cost us at least triple in the 90210. Our home was roughly twenty-five miles from West Hollywood, but with L.A. traffic it was at least an hour drive at any given time of day, so I was trapped in Housewives Hell. Not that it wasn’t pretty and pristine, but there were more bored housewives per square mile there than in a pole-dancing strip class. #GuiltyAsCharged. Every husband was fucking somebody else’s wife, and antidepressants might as well have been popped with a PEZ dispenser. I referred to the gates that enclosed our beautiful community as my own personal Truman Show (including the fake husband) or, if you prefer, Groundhog Day. Either way, I quickly became my own version of a Stepford wife.

  My ex-husband frequented the other side of the hill several times a week for auditions, golf, “meetings,” and poker (translation: poke her) games. He rarely invited me to go with him. And it’s clear now that he just didn’t want to risk me running into any of his girlfriends or former one-night stands—but you got enough of that in the first book, and the idea of rehashing it all only makes me want to fucking scream.

  After my divorce, the boys and I bounced around from rental to rental in Encino because it was close enough to my friends on the Westside and I could still get to Calabasas in a decent amount of time. For the sake of my kids I decided to keep the boys at the same school they had been attending prior to our divorce, but it was just too unhealthy for me to stay there, because every bored housewife knew my pathetic cheating husband story. I was the talk of every nail salon and Pilates class for nearly two years—and now, thanks to Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, a frequent subject even today. But my kids have always and will always come first. They had already dealt with enough change, so keeping them with their friends was important to me. Living in Encino was my own personal compromise.

  After two years in my second Encino rental, a quarter mile north of Mulholland (#StillTheValley), I had finally saved up enough money to find a nicer place where we could each have our own room—and I could get the fuck out of the 818 area code. My life had finally come full circle.

  My real estate agent and I pulled into the driveway of this seventies-esque four-bedroom home, and I could feel my heartbeat quicken. It was elegant, spacious, and, most importantly, one block south of Mulholland. #BelAir. It meant my friends couldn’t use “The Valley is just so far” as an excuse not to visit anymore.

  We walked through the large, wooden double doors into a marble foyer with high ceilings, and it immediately felt like home. The walls were painted a soft shade of yellow that made me smile. I wandered from room to room before locking eyes on two French doors that opened to a yard with a bright blue sparkling swimming pool. My youngest son is a fish (#WatchOutPhelps), and I knew he would be over the moon that his mom’s house would have a pool just like his dad’s house. (I’m still working on getting them that movie theater.) For me, the real selling point was the master bedroom. It had not one, but two walk-in closets, plus a third bonus closet. Most women would chew off their right arm for three closets. It doesn’t even matter if you have enough shit to fill them. I thought I had stepped into heaven. When I walked into the master bath, I gasped. It had my holy grail . . . a steam shower! Holy fuck, I thought, I made it! I had steam showers at both of the homes I shared with Eddie and became quickly addicted to them. My earlier rentals over the years barely had enough hot water for a ten-minute shower, let alone any kind of steam. In an odd way I felt like my life had finally moved forward, all because of this silly bathroom! Not to mention, the bedroom area was large enough for my stripper pole, which my kids think is a super-cool fireman pole. (It was an anniversary gift from my ex-husband that I’m all too happy to use without him.) I had to have this house.

  My Bel Air dream home was spitting distance from my previous rental, but it felt like it was a thousand miles away. Maybe I’m imagining it, but the sun shines a little brighter and birds sing a little sweeter on the south side of Mulholland. I know this all sounds insanely superficial, and it is, but it was a huge personal victory for me that I never thought I would have again. All the hard work of these last five painful years was finally paying off. It symbolized my independence. My ex-husband banished me to a faraway land deep in The Valley to lock me up like Rapunzel, but now I was free to decide where the fuck I wanted to live and what the fuck I wanted to do with my life. In some ways, it was like cutting his final leash of ownership over me. It wasn’t a mansion by any stretch of the imagination—but I fucking loved it.

  My best friend Jennifer Giminez came to help me unpack the day we moved in. When I saw her walking up the driveway, I ran outside to greet her and screamed, “This is it! I got it back!” We started jumping up and down and dancing around like twelve-year-old girls. I felt whole again. After years of stumbling, crawling, and barely getting by (including one nasty stiletto injury), I was finally pulling my shit together—and this house was proof that I had weathered a very rocky storm.

  Rebuilding my life wasn’t easy. While I was going through the darkest days of our divorce, many of my friends were getting married and starting families. “I’ll have another glass” became my signature phrase at weddings and baby showers. When I was no longer included in “couples dinners,” which still happens by the way (because God forbid I arrive without a partner), I’d spend lonely nights where I’d relapse so bad into my skin-picking addiction that I’d wake up the next morning with my face looking like a pepperoni pizza.

  But with the help of real friends, a whole lot of white and rosé wine, some antidepressants, and the occasional chemical peel, I’ve been able to shed my old skin and begin again. I’ve said it before: I don’t completely believe that we’re meant to be with the same partner for the rest of our lives. I know that sounds cynical, and it’s not to say it can’t be done, but at this point in my life marriage just isn’t for me. (I’d like to retain the option to change my mind. #HalleBerry.) From what I’ve seen, ten years is about as long as it lasts. In Los Angeles, being committed for ten years should earn you a purple fucking heart in addition to half of everything. It turns out that being married for eight years doesn’t entitle you to that much, so stick it out. #HindsightIs20-20. Regardless of who you are or where you live, once the honeymoon is over, long-term relationships are usually an uphill battle (but hey, at least you’ll have great leg and ass definition!).

  Seriously, though, show me the “perfect relationship” and I’ll show you a relationship you don’t know anything about. You have to do what works for you, whether it’s threesomes, dress-up, or something else. Don’t be judge-y assholes, people!

  Sure, I had achieved major milestones as a single, independent woman, but when it comes to men, I’m still extremely insecure, and being vulnerable again scares the shit out of me. The idea of tying myself to one person after finally freeing myself of my ex-husband’s restraint makes me want to vomit. Why would I run the risk of going all the way back to square one? I attempted to us
e each milestone—like a fancy new house—as proof that I didn’t need a partner.

  Here’s why:

  It’s pretty much common knowledge that women tend to be more capable of monogamous relationships than men. Why else would some guy’s “commitment issues” be a plot point for countless TV shows and movies? Women are preconditioned to believe that a man’s greatest fear is being trapped into commitment and that a woman’s mission is to trap him. (Ladies, never tell a man that your “clock is ticking.” #NotHot.) Given my relationship history, I wasn’t sure I could jump on that roller-coaster ride again.

  Welcome to the Birdcage Theory.

  People often joke that marriage is like being in a prison, but I disagree (even though many of my friends refer to their husbands as the Warden). There aren’t any windows in a prison cell, and for the most part, you’re living in your own personal hell. I prefer to think of marriage as being in a birdcage—with a locked door. You have a 360-degree view of everything going on in the world around you, but when you’re married, you’re no longer able to participate in it as you did before. When you’re in a relationship, but opt not to marry, the door is always open and you know the option is there but generally choose not to leave. Once that cage door shuts and locks, you become restless. Soon, you feel the bars closing in around you—even if your particular cage has a fancy birdbath, a four-car garage, and a beautiful canary to share it with. You panic and decide that God gave you wings for a fucking reason, so it’s time to break the fuck out.

  Fuck the clank of the cage door slamming shut! Never again did I want to be anyone’s captured little birdie. I have wings and I want to use them. I convinced myself that I didn’t need a fucking man to tie me down. But one looming question remained: Now that I survived, where would my wings take me?

  Figuring that out has been terrifying, but incredibly gratifying. I was lucky. When I needed it most, the chance of a lifetime came along that would change me (or at least my bank account) for the better—an opportunity I would never have had if it hadn’t been for my messy public divorce, which was splashed across the pages of magazines for the world to see. I figured, why would I need to date anyone when I could have a reality-TV marriage to Bravo?

  In 2012, I became a full-fledged Housewife on Bravo’s hit series The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Being cast on one of television’s most popular reality shows was an opportunity to show people that I wasn’t some crazy-ass bitch (okay, maybe a little bit of a crazy bitch). Hobbling into that cougar den—on one stiletto and crutches—was a walk in the park compared to what I had already gone through in my real life. Seriously, I’d already lived a tabloid scandal, so a few bitchy Housewives couldn’t scare me away. Until this show came along, I was labeled nothing more than a scorned ex-wife. Let’s face it, we’re a dime a dozen and that label is not hot. This television series gave me the chance to show people who I really am—the good, the bad, and the occasionally ugly. For better or worse, I’m basically who you see on TV. I’m the first one to tell you that I’m not perfect, and even though you’re reading this book, I’m probably not the best person to be doling out relationship advice. Everybody knows I run my mouth way too much and sometimes I’m right—but not always. #SorryKimRichards. I hope that’s why people who watch the show can relate to me. I believe on some level that everybody is a little fucked up. Finally, I had a chance to put an end to the “divorce scandal” that once defined me.

  Instead, I went from one new controversy to the next—one after the other. People were really paying me to open my big, fat mouth? Seriously? We all know about the “meth” accusation heard around the reality world and the absolute “horror” when my youngest son, Jake, dropped his pants to pee on the lawn at a pool party. (Side note: Jake’s bathroom habits haven’t evolved that much. He stills sneaks in a grass watering whenever he can. #BoysWillBeBoys.) When I returned to RHOBH in season three, there was no shortage of drama. First, I was labeled as a “whore” because I made out with a hot guy in the bathroom at a party at one A.M. Go ahead and sue me! I freely admit that this totally happened. Were we having sex? Absolutely not. My fellow Housewife Lisa Vanderpump stopped us before we even had the chance! That’s not to say we wouldn’t have—it was late and we were drinking—but it was as innocent as it could have been. I didn’t realize that two grown-ass adults kissing in a private room would be such an issue for these women. I guess I should have known better with a group of ladies who feign repulsion when little boys pee in a bush or when they hear the word fuck. Come on, we’ll all say it! (Side note: That guy I made out with in the bathroom? We ended up dating.)

  Last year, I was accused of breaking up a “made for TV” marriage. That’s something I don’t take too lightly. While I don’t 100 percent believe in marriage for myself at this point, I still have the utmost respect for what it means and the extreme commitment it involves. My parents have been married for more than forty-five years, and I hope that if my boys choose to marry one day (but not for a really, really, really long time), it will be just as successful. By my own admission, I shared something private about my former cast mate that I shouldn’t have with a group of women—most of whom already knew—that eventually trickled into the press, but I won’t repeat it again. I was wrong. I know all too well the pit I get in my stomach when I hear that people have been gossiping about my family. In my defense, it was the worst-kept secret in Beverly Hills. If it wasn’t, how the hell would I have known about it? After all, I was from The Valley.

  The demise of this marriage was a sad fucking story line for three seasons of Real Housewives, so how was it my fucking fault? If one person’s words have the power to completely destroy a relationship, wasn’t it doomed anyway? From where I stand, it looks like both parties have moved way the fuck on. (Maybe they need a little guidance on being newly single in LaLa Land. Perhaps I’ll send them a copy of this book. #WhyNot?)

  Divorce is as common in Beverly Hills as Botox, Black Cards, and Bentleys. (Have I mentioned that everyone in this town loves to fuck everyone else? Just as long as it’s not the person they’re married to.) So it wasn’t really a surprise that my experience became a large part of the conversation among my newest TV friends. It turned out that one of the many women who had slept with my husband was an employee at Villa Blanca—a restaurant owned by one of my cast mates. I had no intention of ever speaking with this person. Besides sharing the same dick for a few years, we had absolutely nothing in common and nothing to talk about. Even calling any kind of attention to her in this book makes me cringe, but it’s something people ask me about a lot. How was I able to sit down with this person? How could I look her in the eye? She knew he was married. She knew he had children. But she kept fucking him anyway. Three reasons. First, I had already done it with my ex’s new wife. My close friend had asked me to so that it could help her with her new spin-off reality show, and I’m actually a very reasonable person and a generous friend. Second, while I don’t feel sorry for that silly fucking cocktail waitress, I know my ex-husband fucked her over too. She went through her own heartbreak (which she deserved), and for the rest of her life when someone googles her name, she’ll be identified as the girl who sleeps with married men—and John Mayer—and who sold all the tawdry details to the press. We’ll never be friends, but I had moved on, so if some random cocktail waitress needed closure from me because she fucked my ex-husband, I would give her that. And third, of all the women who fucked my husband while we were together (and there were many), she was the only one to apologize. That doesn’t make seeing the bitch at every Lisa Vanderpump event any less shitty. Apparently, she’s getting married now (although that didn’t stop her from flirting with my date all night long at a recent dinner party—on camera). I only hope she never has to experience firsthand what I endured.

  All the drama aside, this show helped me build a new life, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without it. I also credit it for helping me eventually see that I want and deserve a partner of my own (see
chapter 2), partly because of all those parties where I had someone’s husband screaming in my face. I have zero problem standing up for myself, but I would have welcomed having a teammate in those particular instances.

  As a result of most of the shit I’ve been through, I have discovered that I can handle just about anything—because, like the saying goes, “time heals all wounds.”

  But time can also be a really nasty bitch.

  Everyone knows that fuck is one of my favorite words: Fuck me, fuck you, fuck off, and fuck it. It really does make every sentence or phrase sound better. #TrustMe. Some people think it’s crass or vulgar, but I know a much dirtier “F” word: forty. I mean, motherfucking forty!

  Getting older is inevitable, but I still think aging can suck a fat dick. People who say, “Forty is the new thirty,” can suck it. Just look at our knees. Forty-year-old knees are not the new thirty. I never had armpits that looked like vaginal labia when I was thirty. I never needed to get fillers in my hands when I was thirty. And if I’m being truly honest with myself, maybe some of my reluctance to date again was because of my age. In this superficial city, hot young guys want to fuck cougars—they don’t want to commit to them. Even sixty-year-old men want the hot thirty-somethings or even the twenty-somethings. Had I already reached my expiration date? Would I be resigned to picking up my future partner at a bunco tournament before heading to his granddaughter’s bat mitzvah? I seriously don’t want to be a “bonus” grandma just yet. I’m sure you think I’m being totally irrational, but when have I ever let common sense get in the way?