About the Author
Brandi Glanville officially joined the cast of Bravo’s The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in season three and quickly became the show’s most outrageous breakout star. She lives with her two sons, Mason and Jake.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Drinking and Tweeting CHAPTER ONE
If He Walks like a Duck and Talks like a Duck . . . Then He’s a Pig
People always say, “Don’t panic.”
Really? Who are these people? I discovered that my husband of eight years was banging every short skirt—and wide back—in Hollywood after seeing it on the cover of a celebrity-gossip magazine, but I’m supposed to stay calm? I’m supposed to eat shit with a fork and a knife and say thank you when I’m done swallowing this crap?
Fuck off. I’m here to tell you that if your husband, wife, boyfriend, or girlfriend is cheating, life, as you know it, is over. It’s the God’s honest truth, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either completely blowing smoke up your ass, a lawyer, or my ex-husband.
It’s actually quite the contrary. It’s time to freak the fuck out, and that’s not just acceptable, it’s obligatory. The rug has just been pulled out from beneath your feet, and everything you thought you knew with absolute certainty has vanished. Absolute hysteria is just the beginning—you’re about to embark on an entire roller coaster of crazy-ass emotions. So I, Brandi Glanville, am here to bestow this simple but valuable piece of information on you: if you discover your partner is cheating, drink like it’s your last party, blame everyone else for your problems, let “binging” be your new favorite hobby, and, by all means, FUCKING PANIC.
It was a cold, sunny morning the day my world fell apart.
Sure. There were signs. Like, what man has baby wipes in the center console of his Porsche? Please, like he ever changed a diaper. It’s not a science, but I’m pretty certain my husband was getting more than his fair share of roadside assistance.
But, as the saying goes, ignorance is bliss: I had a beautiful, six-bedroom home in Calabasas, a full-time nanny, a brand-new Range Rover, an $11,500 boob job, two wonderful little boys, and a gorgeous Cuban husband. And I was the perfect little Hollywood housewife. Yes, the writing was on the wall that my husband was far from perfect, and, yes, every so often my curiosity would rear its head, but I chose to ignore it because life was good—plus, even if I believed it, I couldn’t prove a damn thing—in fact, it was great. So when reports of my husband’s infidelities became national news one fateful March morning, I was the lucky recipient of the world’s biggest gut punch. (Both Sandra Bullock and Elin Nordegren would soon follow my lead—let’s just say Eddie’s lucky his golf clubs weren’t handy.)
It was just your typical Wednesday. Like clockwork, a sleepy-eyed Mason wandered into our bedroom just before five in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have a six-year-old? And just as I did every morning, I gently tugged him into bed and placed him between Eddie and me. With my finger, I would softly trace letters across his tiny shoulders until his eyelids fluttered and he drifted back to sleep. Eddie would, without opening his eyes, smile and toss his strong, muscular arm over us both and pull us to his chest. Wrapped up in each other’s arms, my little family and I would fall away for a few more hours of precious sleep. Oftentimes, I would even lie awake, taking it all in and appreciating how perfect life could be. Not until we heard Jakey’s cries would Mason finally say, “Mom, go get your robe.” I would crawl out of bed and head down the hallway to release Jake from his kiddie corral with Mason trailing behind me.
The sound of Jake’s shrieks would echo through the house until I would finally swing open the door and see my two-year-old sitting behind his baby gate with crocodile tears and a smile from ear to ear. “Faker,” I thought, but still I picked him up and hugged him hard until I could feel his little body relax. I couldn’t resist that face—or those gorgeous dimples. Well advanced for his two short years, Jake Austin Cibrian not only managed to crawl out of his crib nightly, but he’d also figured out how to open the door to his bedroom. Did I mention that he was still in diapers? This kid would be the death of me.
So being the paranoid and nurturing mama bear, I had nightmares of my precious baby waddling about in the middle of the night and tumbling down the grand marble stairway or climbing up the banister and falling to his certain death onto the foyer floor below. I know I was being totally irrational, but I decided to put a lock on the outside of his door, because if he was clever enough to climb out of a crib, the baby gate was going to be zero challenge for him. I was aware that this was in strict violation of a number of fire-department building codes, but I didn’t care. Seriously though, it isn’t as drastic as it sounds, but you try going to Mommy and Me class with a bunch of uptight professional Beverly Hills mothers. Ultimately, if it gave me the peace of mind that he was safe so I could sleep for six uninterrupted hours, then I was willing to do just about anything.
Isn’t that the goal with all parenting? Don’t kill the kids? Shit, isn’t that the goal with every relationship—not killing one another?
When I finally managed to get both of the boys dressed, the three of us headed to the kitchen for our typical morning routine: a breakfast consisting of hardboiled eggs, Honey Bunches of Oats cereal, and Gatorade, followed by the Round Meadow community car pool and a laundry list of errands to run before the trip to Parrot Cay Eddie and I were planning that weekend. My best friend was getting married to the man of her dreams—who just so happened to be Hollywood’s biggest movie star, Bruce Willis—and it was the first time in months that Eddie and I were escaping for a grown-ups vacation. No babies and no BlackBerrys; just my handsome husband and me.
Let’s be clear, Eddie and I had an extremely healthy sex life (so where he got all that extra energy, I’ll never be sure), but every so often we would run away together so we could make love in the middle of the afternoon as loud as we wanted, for as long as we wanted. And he would kiss me the way he did when we had nothing but time. That, coupled with an occasional lesbian make-out, was the recipe for our seemingly successful marriage. I know what you’re thinking: how was it okay for me to hook up with other women, but not my husband? Welcome to La La Land, ladies and gays. If you don’t keep your man satisfied, there is some other hussy who will. I thought keeping things spicy in the bedroom was the only surefire way to keep my man from straying. #LessonLearned. I’m not talking about any below-the-belt action, just some harmless grab-assing and sexy making out. I can definitely appreciate a pretty girl, so on occasion I would hook up with girlfriends, so that my husband could watch. (Sometimes the girl had a boyfriend or husband, too, who also seemed to enjoy the show.) It was harmless and Eddie seemed to appreciate it, because without fail, it would lead to some pretty hot sex afterward. Like I said, I was just an average Hollywood housewife doing whatever I could to keep my husband happy.
After breakfast and midway through an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, I popped a toothbrush in each boy’s mouth and began packing Mason’s lunch. Right on cue, Eddie dropped into the kitchen to give the boys and me our morning-ritual “love bug” kiss (where all of our lips met) before heading off for the gym—already fully showered. (Again, you would think a little alarm would go off, but nothing.) Little did I know that our simple, boring morning encounter would be the last time I would ever see the man I married, my Eddie. He gave me a tap on my booty—his favorite part of my body, which he often referred to as my “upside-down heart”—and flashed me one of his toothy, crooked smiles, complete with those dimples that I loved so much. (Flash forward: Eddie ended up getting Invisalign to straighten his teeth from crooked to perfectly perfect. Now if only he could do the same to his crooked-ass lies.)
Then he disappeared, as he always did, into the garage. I went about my morning in blissful ignorance. After getting my babies dressed, fed, and loaded into the car (no easy task since the nanny was nowhere to be found, but, then again, the house was ten thousand square feet), I finally arrived at the seventh circle of hell: the Round Meadow car-pool drop-off line. In what universe is it normal to wait forty minutes to drop your kids off at school? Welcome to the Valley, ladies and gentlemen, the land of horses and divorces. No wonder everyone who lives here pops more pills than a Celebrity Rehab cast member. Once I finally navigated the drop-off lane, I sent Mason and my carful of grade-schoolers (minus Jake) off to their classes. “Finally,” I thought, as I headed back toward home, a three-minute drive if you’re not waiting in a car-pool line. I needed to get Jakey home to our nanny, who I assumed was awake by now. I just had to find her, before heading to meet my private Pilates trainer of the last six years. (Ladies and gays, if you are thirty-five or older and are looking to change your body, Pilates is the only option. Trust me. I’m forty years old today and I’m feeling as confident as ever.) Just as I hit my ostentatious neighborhood gates, I heard my phone buzz. It was a text message from a “friend”—aka a total fucking hater—and the second wife of one of Eddie’s sleazy-ass friends.
This woman—an incredibly bored woman who broke up her current husband’s previous marriage and resented that I was still close friends with his first wife—was all too eager to alert me to a story on PerezHilton. She texted me that the blog had posted the accusation that my husband was having an affair. Most people would freak the fuck out, right? That’s the only normal, natural response. And that’s my advice. But as you will quickly learn, my darlings, do as I say, not as I do.
When I read the text again, my immediate reaction was to burst into uncontrollable nervous laughter. This had to be a joke, right? Even if there was any truth to it, why would PerezHilton ever care enough to publish a story about my husband? This “friend” seriously expected me to believe that someone put Eddie Cibrian on one of the most popular celebrity websites? Please. He was just a little-known made-for-television-movie actor. He had managed a pretty consistent soap opera career, but my husband was far from a household name, and in no world (other than Playgirl, or perhaps Out) would he be worthy of any magazine cover. Don’t get me wrong, I was always proud of him. I considered Eddie one of the most handsome men alive and appreciated the life his career provided for us, but when it came to his acting, I was under no delusions. Eddie was pretty. Actually, he was fucking gorgeous (and he knew it), but the man is not the most talented actor. I always thought Eddie’s calling should have been professional sports (I mean, he did have more affairs than an NBA player), but he wanted to be an actor. Our boys were blessed with his athletic build, but their coordination . . . question mark. Maybe that wouldn’t have been the case if Eddie had actually been around the first few years of their lives, but the boys have come around and are now great little athletes.
Eddie started acting because he was hot as hell and it came easy for him (much like the abundance of pussy he surrounded himself with). Despite earning an impressive football scholarship to UCLA (he played strong safety), he decided to quit midway through his junior year to join the cast of the TV soap The Young and the Restless. He looked fantastic on camera, but he was never winning any Academy Awards.
I grew up in the modeling world. At seventeen years old, I was plucked out of a mall in Sacramento, California. I was told to change my hair color, forced to abandon my midnight-blue eyeliner, and was strictly forbidden to taking tweezers to my eyebrows. I was told I was a body girl and didn’t have the kind of face for beauty work. I was tormented by some of the most well-known agents and supermodels in the business, so the idea of putting on kid gloves to nurse Eddie’s acting blues was never something I considered. Every so often, I relented and spent a few minutes stroking my husband’s ego. Little did I know that my husband was already getting a fair amount of stroking elsewhere.
Eddie Cibrian was a working television actor with a gorgeous smile that paid our bills and afforded our life. That was all I cared about: Eddie and our children. I didn’t need to be married to Brad Pitt—I just wanted Eddie. He was, but hopefully won’t always be, the love of my life. And love can be blinding. However, when you choose to remove your love goggles, a good prescription pill might be in order.
The text about the PerezHilton post wasn’t the first time rumors had swirled among our group of friends about Eddie’s wandering eye. Every so often, I would pick up on little whispers about my husband’s extracurricular activities, and when I’d confront him, he’d say, “You’re crazy!” He never hesitated to calm my insecurities and convince me how totally insane it was for me to question his total devotion to our family and me. I fell for it every time: hook, line, and sinker. The lies that he could tell were astounding. I mean, could you ever convince your significant other that you caught HPV simply by sharing a lollipop with a colleague? Or then try to argue that you had actually been born with it, and it just didn’t show up for thirty-five years?
Yes, this raises more questions than answers. For example, what grown man sucks on a lollipop? (Clearly, he was sucking on a whole lot of things.) That’s a little weird. And why, if making the decision to be a grown man sucking on a lollipop, would you actually share it with another person besides your wife or children? In the end, I guess he did actually end up sharing it with me.
These are all questions I should have demanded the answers to, before undergoing three surgeries to remove cancerous cells caused by the strand of HPV that was discovered after we had already been married for years. My doctor said it was almost certain I got it from my husband. (Oh, just so you know, you can only catch HPV by having sex with someone else who has the disease or if it was one of the rare cases when it’s passed on during childbirth. And never from a lollipop.) So even if our marriage didn’t last, I will always have a certain “something” to remember him by. Thanks, Eddie. Couldn’t he have contracted something curable, like the clap?
I would confide my concerns to friends, who would say, “B, he adores you. You’re crazy.” I had a perfect life, so I chalked up the rumors to jealousy and decided all of my concerns were crazy. Seriously, when would he even have the time? We were rarely without one another while he wasn’t “working,” and he was equally curious as to my whereabouts. I always figured that occasional jealously kept both of us on our toes and kept our relationship spicy. What husband or wife doesn’t want to think that his or her partner is desirable to other people? It’s all part of the game, because “the challenge” is key for just about any relationship—especially in LA. They don’t call it a trophy spouse for nothing.
I was so certain that this text message was a joke made in the most miserable of tastes that when Eddie called moments later, I was cool and breezy when I answered the phone. “Hey, babe,” I purred.
It didn’t take long after that for my entire life to begin unraveling—and I could do absolutely nothing to hold it all together. “There’s a story in Us Weekly,”...
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