Drinking and Dating (2 page)

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I Survived. Now What?

I finally made it!

In Los Angeles, where you live is almost as important as who you know—or who you’re fucking. And my new home is in the ultra-swanky Bel Air neighborhood (you’ll learn more later about who I’ve been fucking).

After all these years, I was finally on the “right” side of Mulholland Drive—the iconic, windy road that sits on the top of the Santa Monica Mountains and separates L.A. proper from—
gasp!
—The Valley. It’s the infamous road where old-time mobsters used to “dispose” of informants, where Charlie Sheen wrecked a car or four, and where I had a few close calls of my own. #NoDrivingAndTweeting.

You may be thinking I sound like a total brat, but I’ve paid my dues in LaLa Land. Don’t be fooled by all the sunshine and pretty people: Hollywood can chew you up and spit you out faster than another new iPhone comes out. It’s a city where people measure you by your appearance, your contacts, and your bank account as opposed to your character. So even if you don’t got it, you
have
to flaunt it—especially when it comes to Hermès bags, zip codes, and fancy cars (which are generally leased). That shit is expensive! #FakeItTillYouMakeIt.

When it comes to domestic life, you can tell a lot by a person based solely on where he or she lives. The impossibly hip twenty-somethings and tormented unemployed actors live in the gritty Los Feliz and Silver Lake areas. The gays, celebrity wannabes, and star-fucking cocktail waitresses rent overpriced studio apartments in the heart of West Hollywood. The not-so-struggling artists reside in the canals of Venice Beach. The incredibly rich and famous stake their claim in Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and Malibu. This is how L.A. slices and dices.

When I first moved to Los Angeles with my friend Michelle in 1995, we rented a studio apartment on Doheny Drive and Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood (yes, we fell into
that
category) with a single full-size bed, a hot plate, and a nearby pay phone we used as a landline. The scene was so unlike what we were used to in Europe, where we used to model, or even San Francisco. All the women seemed to look the same: blond hair, big lips, and even bigger boobs. In the modeling world, your unique traits are celebrated. Los Angeles seemed like a virtual silicone assembly line churning out one Pamela Anderson–inspired look-alike after another. After about a year of “roughing it” in our tiny apartment, our very rich, very Persian male friend—who we used to do some major partying with in San Francisco—offered to contribute half of our rent for a nicer apartment provided that whenever he visited L.A. we would be his token arm candy and help him get into all the cool clubs and events. (He would have never gotten in without being flanked by a couple of models.) #ShahOfSanFran. At twenty-three years old, it sounded like a fantastic idea and not the least bit like a platonic escort service. Let the record show, neither Michelle nor I ever slept with him—in fact, he’s still a close friend of mine today. Like lots of guys, he just wanted to be around a couple of pretty young models and, like most girls, we just wanted our own bedrooms, telephones inside our apartment, and a fancy meal once in a while. #WinWin.

Soon after I met the charming “made for TV” actor who would one day become my philandering ex-husband, he whisked me away from my place on the Westside to his Toluca Lake condo—my first taste of Valley life. Anyone raised in the eighties knows the movie
Valley
Girl
—it’s where the brooding hunk from Hollywood falls for the bubbly popular girl from the wrong side of the hill. There was a certain social stigma attached to the valleys of L.A. Today, it’s actually hip to live in certain areas of The Valley, but it still produces a wrinkled nose from most 90210-ers. When I told my friends I was moving to Toluca Lake, they felt the need to say something consoling like “I’m sure it won’t be forever,” “At least you’ll be close to the Hollywood Bowl,” or “You can get some fabulous shoes with all the money you’re saving.” I mean, I wasn’t moving to fucking Siberia.

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 use 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.