Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance Page 9

  It really is a whole new level of grossness.

  Are you guys so fucking lazy that you need an app to help you choose between a collection of “casual” women within your current three-mile radius to screw? I just don’t get it. Half the fun of sex—and dating, for that matter—is the chase and the challenge. So I don’t see the fun in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. I’d rather stick with a drawer full of kitty toys and ask one of my guy friends to take me to dinner.

  Truth be told, I’m no longer interested in just booty calls. Spending a few hours banging someone who I see no future with is taking me off the market. Maybe I’m maturing or evolving, but casual sex isn’t that appealing to me anymore. The new Brandi wants to focus on staying open to having a committed and long-lasting relationship. I’m ready to forever forgo the concept of the booty call. #NewWoman.

  But ask me about it again tomorrow.

  • 7 •

  The Friend Box

  FRIEND BOX (NOUN)

  1. The mental compartment where you place someone you have no interest in pursuing romantically but would like to keep in your life for friendship and other perks.

  2. A place with high walls, strict rules, and a no reentry policy. #PunIntended.

  Example: While the celebrity chef was mediocre in the bedroom, he was a wizard in the kitchen, and so I decided to place him in my friend box.

  My journey toward “happily ever after” was not going as well as I had hoped—and there were only so many days I could casually hang around the Beverly Hills Whole Foods looking for single, attractive men. Were there options I wasn’t already exploring? Besides leaving the city entirely, I wasn’t sure what else to do to ramp up my search.

  A close girlfriend pointed out the fact that I already had a wonderful group of men in my life and suggested that maybe I was overlooking some of the prospects in my own backyard.

  Let’s not fool ourselves; men and women can very rarely be friends without at least one party imagining what it would be like to fuck the other—or at least have one awkward drunken moment at a pool party where there’s a bit of wishful thinking. . . . It’s completely normal. #Right? When you get along so well, you can’t help but consider the what-ifs. And like many other women before me, I too had dabbled in my friend box.

  MY OTHER EX-HUSBAND

  I married my best friend New Year’s Day in Las Vegas. I was proving a point, so it sounded like a really great idea at the time. Like I always say, I am known for offering the best relationship advice. #DoAsISayNotAsIDo.

  Honestly, it was a joke. We didn’t get a marriage license and never planned to; we were just being single and silly. Darin had joined my three girlfriends and me in Vegas for the holiday. During a boozy dinner at Nobu inside the Hard Rock Hotel, we joked about all the different insane things we could do to ring in 2012—my first New Year’s Eve as an officially single lady (translation: divorce finalized!). Skydiving? Fuck no. I have trouble even getting on an airplane; you will never catch me jumping out of one. Tattoo? Never! This MILF doesn’t do body ink. Steal Mike Tyson’s tiger? Already been done.

  “How hilarious would it be if we got married?” Darin suggested. Everyone laughed, but the conversation continued snowballing.

  “You never follow through with shit, Darin,” I said. That put an end to the conversation for the night, and I rang in the new year as a single lady and kissed my girlfriends as the clock struck midnight.

  The next day, we were nursing our mutual hangovers and decided to catch a showing of the newest Mission: Impossible. I was popping Junior Mints in my mouth, chilling in my comfy workout clothes, and waiting for the previews to start when Darin brought it up again.

  “We should totally get married,” he said, smirking.

  “Okay,” I deadpanned, looking straight at him.

  Two hours later, we were pulling up in a cab outside the Wedding Chapel on Las Vegas Boulevard, and I married my best friend in black stretch pants, a white long-sleeved Izod shirt, no makeup, and a pair of Puma tennis shoes. I never could have imagined what a big deal it would become. At the time, I was still navigating the world of social media and was still relatively new to the public eye, so I thought it was a hilarious idea to tweet out a picture of our “wedding” to all my “tweeples.” Honestly, who spends their wedding night in the VIP room of the Spearmint Rhino strip club? The next morning, we woke up in our “marital” bed—still fully dressed, mind you—to hundreds of texts, e-mails, and phone calls. Our fake wedding had become one of 2012’s first big news stories. My friends told me that it was the number one trending story on the Internet. (I still don’t know what the fuck that means, but apparently it was a big deal.) We immediately started damage control, but I can tell you this, even with all the media attention, my second divorce was much easier than my first.

  Moral of the story: what happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas. #BrandiBlunder. Social media ruined that for everyone. Las Vegas needs to get a new slogan. (Side note: While I’ve always respected the institution of marriage, I realize now that it was an insensitive thing to do, as many of the people I love most in my life were, at the time, still fighting for their right to be married.)

  Darin and I have a complicated relationship. He’s been one of the few men in my life who I’ve been able to count on for better or worse, through sickness and health, and I know it will be only death that could tear us apart. We didn’t need to sign any papers or have a fancy party to commit our lives to one another. We just did. He’s even better than a real husband, because he doesn’t have to be there. He wants and chooses to be there.

  He’s my best friend—and nothing more (like 95 percent of the time). Our close friends often encourage us to be together romantically, saying that we’re perfect for each other. They’re right. We are perfect for each other, but there are a few pretty big roadblocks on our journey to “happily ever after”: we fight like brother and sister, we have zero sexual attraction, and I think I remind him a little too much of his ex-wife. While I’ve heard many sad, sad stories about sexless marriages, I never intend to be in one.

  Let me backtrack just a bit for you. Darin went through his divorce a few years before my ex-husband and I. His divorce was contentious and dirty, so both he and his ex-wife knew what I was up against. Darin and I initially met through his ex-wife, who had been a close friend of mine. She stood by my side during the height of the tabloid scandal—which meant neighboring lounge chairs at a posh Beverly Hills hotel, all courtesy of my ex-husband’s credit card. It was hardly a rough gig. But when I found myself going down a destructive path with her, I realized I needed to purge the negative influences in my life. You can interpret that however you like.

  That’s when Darin reentered my life. He and his ex-wife were on friendly terms at the time (and continue to be) and share custody of their son, who just so happens to be Mason’s best friend. Those two lovable knuckleheads are joined at the hip, and since his ex-wife and I no longer could coordinate play dates, Darin and I started spending time together again. We quickly came to rely on each other when it came to the kids, and it was a huge relief.

  Regardless of what means you have at your disposal (and Darin has a lot, ladies!), being a single parent is tough. It’s been great having him help with last-minute soccer practice, pick up a sick kid at school, or even take me and the kids to dinner when my license was suspended (no, not for the DUI; I hadn’t mailed in my registration on time, and I was not going to risk driving and get into any more run-ins with the Beverly Hills Police Department). And on the flip side, when Darin had a last-minute hot date or needed to head to Vegas with a client, my home was always open to his son for a sleepover. I was happy to oblige. In a strange way, since we haven’t had much luck coparenting with our ex-spouses, we rely on each other to help. He also fills the “dude” role in my life. When my beloved dog of twelve years Jesse was attacked by coyotes in my backyard (something that still breaks my heart every day and made the loss of Chica so much wors
e), it was Darin who came over to take care of the situation because I was inconsolable and physically unable to handle it myself. If my electricity shut down in the middle of the night, it was Darin who came over to fix it. Sure, he would complain a little and joke that I owe him a blow job, but don’t all fake husbands? As a single mom, we all need a man sometimes—after all, who else are you going to call when you need help hanging your new flat-screen television? (I used to call him to help me kill spiders, but after a few years of living in the hills I’ve learned how to take them out myself! #Progress!)

  He’s a catch. I’ve always known this and have even tried setting him up with every one of my single girlfriends. I’d be lying if I said we never slept together. It happened once after a Memorial Day BBQ and never again. I’m a lot of things, but a liar is not one of them. Sure, it got weird for a day or two, but we managed to move forward. We love each other. In many ways, he’s my soul mate, but we’re just not meant to share our lives together in a romantic way. Plus, when it comes to the sex stuff, we just don’t click. I’ve always been the most attracted to assholes, and Darin just isn’t one. #BrandiProblems.

  But most importantly, the risk of it not working out and having to remove him from my life would be like divorce all over again and is simply not worth it—to either of us. When he does finally meet the perfect woman for him, I hope she can understand and appreciate our friendship. When I find my partner, he’ll have to deal with it too.

  So while we married in Las Vegas and it was never really legal, my second husband will always be my favorite husband. And I don’t need a piece of paper to know that he’ll always be loyal to me.

  THE BOY WONDER

  He was like a real-life version of “Eloise at the Plaza.”

  At twenty-eight years old, Asher was an accomplished filmmaker who resided in one of the most exclusive and luxurious hotels in Los Angeles. Yes, he actually lived in a hotel. He was a rare breed of native-born Angeleno who was raised alongside the rich and powerful of Beverly Hills—his classmates were the sons and daughters of billionaires, Oscar-winning actors, and media moguls. Growing up, Asher was waited on hand and foot, so when it came time to move out, the idea of fending for himself—albeit in a multimillion-dollar apartment in L.A.’s prestigious Wilshire Corridor with a full-time staff—was still a little unsettling. Instead, he decided to move into a hotel where life would be just a bit more civilized. This didn’t seem like a huge stretch, since he spent many years as a child living at the Beverly Hills Hotel. For Asher, this was a normal kind of lifestyle.

  Each morning, his signature breakfast was just a phone call and fifteen minutes away. Upon its arrival, the staff would use the opportunity to whisk away Asher’s laundry from the day before in order to return it each night fluffed and folded during turndown service. As soon as he exited the property for the day, the housekeeping staff would buzz about his suite, restocking fluffy white towels, organizing his bathroom, making the bed, and freshening up the floral arrangements.

  All of that aside, he was an exceptionally down-to-earth guy—relatively speaking. Despite the success he had already found, Asher was still a little boy in so many ways. He’d arrive for dinner in a Polo shirt with the oversized Ralph Lauren brand logo, jeans, sneakers, and a mop of messy brown hair on top of his head. He could make conversation with just about anyone and, most importantly, had a heart of gold. I credit that to a fantastic upbringing. Sure, he was spoiled rotten, but he had two loving parents and a really close-knit family.

  We were introduced when a mutual friend tried to set us up on a blind date. Apparently, Asher had a “thing for cougars.” After a few weeks of texting back and forth, the conversation began to fizzle. I wasn’t too eager to attempt another blind date—even though I could google him if I wanted to, I was never interested enough to do the work. And, truth be told, he wasn’t too aggressive in pursuing me either. I chalked it up to timing and didn’t think twice about it.

  It wasn’t until months later that I actually met him at the Polo Lounge (my home away from home).

  “I know you,” I joked. “We were supposed to go on a date, and then you went MIA.” He apologized profusely and explained to me that his dog had passed away. Apparently he took it pretty hard, as anyone would, so he had a difficult few months. That’s Asher for you: a sensitive little rich boy with a bleeding heart.

  Regardless of the awkward introduction, we hit it off immediately. We spent hours that night just getting to know each other, but there was nothing romantic about it. It felt like I was having an evening on the town with an old friend. I joked that we were like the Golden Girls (I was Blanche, and he was Dorothy), which was a red flag that anything intimate would never really work. If I didn’t want to fuck him from the moment I met him (and I didn’t), I would never develop the kind of passion I was looking for in a partner.

  Hollywood loves to make those romantic comedies about two friends who live side by side for years only to discover, after years of heartbreak and disappointment with other partners, that they were soul mates all along.

  It just doesn’t work like that in real life. Sure, you could grow to want to fuck someone over time, but if that fire isn’t there from square one, it will eventually fizzle again. Asher was dependable, successful, kind, and generous—all the things that were great on paper—but we had zero sexual chemistry. He was still in his twenties—there’s no way a man in his twenties could fuck me the way I needed it. Plus, his best friend played a dorky, suspender-sporting geek on a popular nineties television show. Literally. How could I ever take a guy seriously who wanted to double-date with that guy?

  Even though I still considered him a kid, I came to rely on him for advice and guidance, although I do blame him for missing that “epic” Brendan Fraser party (see chapter 3). On that particular evening, I actually went back to Asher’s hotel room and slept next to him in bed, but he never made a move.

  Therefore, I immediately concluded that he must be gay. That sounds pretty egotistical, but that’s not how I mean it. When you take a girl back to your hotel room after a night of drinking, it’s almost obligatory that you at least try to make a move—as long as she’s reasonably lucid. At two A.M. in the dark, everyone sort of looks the same and sex is fun, but he didn’t touch a hair on my head.

  It wasn’t until after my dog Chica went missing more than a year after we met that we finally slept together. He had offered to stay with me for a few days after it happened, because supposedly someone had broken into my house and I was terrified to stay there alone until my new, high- tech security system was installed. We spent the evening drinking and gossiping like old women do (#GoldenGirls, #ImStillBlanche)—until something changed in his eyes. He was hungry for me.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have refused his advances. His friendship had become so important to me that I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that, but I was so emotional after losing my puppy that I was in a highly vulnerable and semi-intoxicated state. I knew that spending an hour fooling around might take my mind off of what had happened, so I went with it.

  For the sake of our friendship, I’m going to opt for a rare moment of discretion when talking about sex with Asher. I actually couldn’t tell you much about it if I wanted to. I barely remember it, except for the fact that he never even took off his shirt.

  The next morning, I thought it would be funny to tell him that I had thought he was gay.

  “Why would you think that?” he asked.

  “That night after the art show with the felon, I slept in your bed topless, and you didn’t make a move,” I explained, pouring myself a cup of coffee. It was unusually normal between us the next morning—like he immediately went back to being my best friend.

  “That’s because I was disgusted by you,” he said nonchalantly. “You were sitting in the back of the car on a date with a coked-up criminal.”

  After he burst my bubble, I realized he made a valid point.

  We started casually dating
—and it was nice. Despite being more than ten years younger than me, he treated me how a grown-ass man should treat a woman, and it was easy to fall under his spell. He sent town cars to pick me up for our dates, he always picked up the check at dinner, and he had fresh flowers sent to my house every few days. He even offered the services of his assistant when I was booking travel or in need of an extra pair of hands. #LAProblems.

  But I knew our relationship was destined for failure. Besides the fact that I needed to get drunk to actually have sex with him (#BadFuckingSign), the kid would constantly flirt with my girlfriends. Come on, dude. That’s like the first rule of being a good boyfriend. He would sit next to me, rub my leg, and make subtly veiled sexual references to other women—and not just any women, my fucking friends. I know a lot of people say they’re just “natural flirts,” but when you have a relationship history as colored as mine, you become a little more sensitive to that kind of shit. And seriously, he just needed to learn how it works. I actually have a theory that the biggest cheats are the guys who won’t take their eyes off of you all night, but as soon as you’re out of sight, they have a pussy posse at their beck and call.

  When it came to game play, Asher was still pitching in the minors. I needed a seasoned major league veteran, like the boyfriend equivalent of Derek Jeter. (Wait, is Derek Jeter single? Maybe I should just date him.) After a few weeks of dating, I told Asher that we should just keep things platonic. He’s too important to me to ever risk losing him, but he’s not mature enough to know how to fuck me. However, he does know how to make me laugh—and that’s a really good thing.

  Almost every guy I’ve placed in the friend box has at one point or another tried to get inside my real box. If you’re both single and enjoy spending time together, why wouldn’t you think about the possibility of being together? So you do what every normal, red-blooded American should do: you don’t officially date, but you make him or her your fallback plan on Saturday nights because friends, even ones who eventually sleep together, don’t have to break up when it doesn’t work out. After you realize the romantic aspect of the relationship isn’t working for one reason or the other, this doesn’t mean you should just toss him aside!