Drinking and Dating (11 page)

It’s hard enough dating at forty years old. It’s even
harder once you’re branded as a scorned “divorcée”—because that immediately implies you’re carrying around some heavy baggage. It might be the entire Louis Vuitton travel collection, but it’s still fucking baggage. If you’re me, you also have a trail of paparazzi and a “reality star” label. But once you add children to the mix, it’s an entirely different beast.

To this day, I still haven’t introduced any man to my children as “my boyfriend.” In fact, only a select few have ever gotten the privilege of meeting them at all—and always under a different label. When I do decide to introduce them to someone as my partner, it’ll be someone who I’m certain will be around for the long haul.

When I started dating the Surfer, he took an immediate interest in meeting my children. (Not the grocery store surfer, another surfer, a professional one.) Most guys freak out at the idea—fearing any additional responsibilities that might come along with such an important introduction. Not this surfer. He was a chill, “hang ten,” salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. We dated for a few months before I finally considered it.

“It can only be as my friend,” I told him. He understood. He always understood. He was a good man, with a good heart and an even better body (which allowed me to overlook his annoying fucking dog).

He was a forty-five-year-old professional surfer-turned-artist who lived with his grandmother in Pacific Palisades. To be fair, he claimed he only stayed at her home to help take care of her and the property. (If he’s forty-five, his grandmother must have been ancient.) It almost felt like his own place . . . almost. He had the entire bottom floor to himself, which included a bedroom, a hot plate, and a freezer that created a pool of condensation on the floor, but he had an amazing view of the Pacific Ocean. Plus, he was an artist, which meant he was amazing with his hands (in more ways than one). There is some unspoken rule about creative types that allows them to get away with shit that normal nine-to-fivers can’t. I was all in. It didn’t hurt it was a multimillion-dollar estate just blocks from the water, and he was a struggling artist who spent most of his days at the beach. His tanned skin was weathered from years in the sun and salt water. He was so handsome and had a killer body kept sculpted by daily surf sessions.

When I finally agreed to let him meet Mason and Jake, I thought for a long time about what I would tell them. The Surfer was the first man I’d be introducing them to who I was in a relationship with, and it made me nervous. Sure, they’d been around my guy friends before—but most of them were gay. I want to raise my children to be very open-minded and accepting of all people, so we’ve had very open conversations about what it means to be gay and straight in this world. It’s not a decision; it’s just who you were born to be. That’s it.

That’s when it dawned on me. I’ll just tell them he’s gay—and remind them that it’s not polite to point out this fact or to ask him any personal questions. (I also have to remind them not to say the words “divorced” or “old” to Mom. Little kids have a way of picking up on your sensitivities.)

The Surfer suggested we all go to dinner and bowling.

“Boys, we’re going to meet Mommy’s friend tonight,” I said.

“Is he your
boy
friend?” Jake asked, with a devilish grin on his face. I hadn’t really discussed dating around my children, but that doesn’t mean they don’t quiz me about it all the time. Jake likes to ruffle my feathers, while Mason is genuinely concerned about me spending time alone.

“Of course, he’s not my boyfriend,” I responded, tickling his stomach. “Actually, he’s gay.” I regretted saying it as soon as it fell from my lips. Like most things, it sounded a lot better in my head. It was clear I had a fear of recommitting even then.

It’s not that I was embarrassed about the Surfer—he was beautiful and wonderful—but I knew he wouldn’t be around forever. Sure, he liked to open car doors and hold my hand in the movie theater, but it just wasn’t love—and at that age, he should really have his own place, let alone be able to afford to go to a fancy dinner once in a while.

We met the Surfer at Islands restaurant in Calabasas for an early dinner. Jake immediately took to him. I could have bottled the testosterone at the table. The boys began calling him “the Silver Surfer” because of the gray-ish silvery strips mixed in with his long, sandy brown hair. Jake loves the ocean and stared at him in awe when the Surfer told them a story about a school of dolphins that swam alongside him while he surfed earlier that week.

By the time we got to the bowling alley, Jake had found his new best friend. Mason was impressed too, but at ten years old, he’s under a lot of pressure to “play it cool.”

“I’m on the Silver Surfer’s team,” Jake announced when we were tying up our bowling shoes. There was something about that moment that warmed my heart. We were complete, we were (big sigh) . . . four. Mason and I would take on Jake and the Silver Surfer. Everyone had a teammate. We spent that night laughing, teasing one another, and doing goofy bowling strike victory dances.

There was a reason my children liked him so much: he was a sixteen-year-old boy trapped in a forty-five-year-old man’s body. I wasn’t looking for a third child; I was looking for someone to actually take care of me on occasion. I had already stayed in one relationship longer than I should have for my children, so I couldn’t do that again.

I started to slow things down with him before finally ending things all together. I wanted to leave things on friendly terms, so that maybe we could still go bowling once in a while with Mommy’s “gay surfer friend.”

Like I said, I haven’t yet met the lucky man who will
be introduced to my children as Mom’s boyfriend. And I’m not quite sure when—or who—that will be. Like with most things, I never think there’s a perfect time, but I do feel that certain stars need to align. Here are the rules I’ve set for myself:

1.
The Boyfriend and I need to be in an exclusive, committed relationship for more than six months. That means his Tuesday night poker games aren’t actually code for banging a cocktail waitress.

2.
He must introduce the idea of meeting my children. I want him to have a genuine interest in meeting the two most important men in my life—and not the other way around. I’m a package deal, and my partner will need to accept that.

3.
We need to have an open conversation about what it means for him to meet my kids. When guys hear buzzwords like “commitment,” “responsibility,” and “long-term,” it usually sends them into a spiral. (This is why I never say them. I will use code words like “mature” and “down the road” to trick them so I don’t send them running toward the door.) Before the meeting, I will need to test the waters. I have to feel confident that he will be a part of their lives for at least the foreseeable future. If he’s incapable of having a simple conversation about what that responsibility means even in non-girlfriend code, how would he actually be able to pull it off if given the chance?

4.
The Boyfriend needs to introduce me to
his
family first, and it has to be his idea. I realize this sounds like a double standard, but unless he has young children, I think it’s a crucial stepping-stone. If a man asks you to meet his parents, siblings, etc., and you accept, it’s sort of a show of good faith that you both intend to keep each other around.

5.
Finally, I need to be in love—real heart-thumping, honest-to-goodness love. I can’t allow my boys to fall in love with a man before I do.

•
9
•

I’m Just Not That into You

Apparently, when you’re learning how to date again,
it’s kind of important that you know how to break up with someone too. Maybe this seems silly, but I’ve never actually broken up with someone. My first attempt was on camera for
Housewives,
and you probably saw how that turned out. #Disaster. Even when it came to calling things off with a close friend, we somehow avoided
actual
conversations until we both felt normal about things again.

I propose that someone develop a “breakup” app. The Internet is riddled with websites to help you
find
a partner, but I really think we could all use a little assistance when kicking his or her ass to the curb. How about no-match.com or ebreakup.com? Instead of Grinder, how about DumpHer? I would totally create one myself if I knew a damn thing about developing a fucking app—or really anything about technology, computers, or smart phones.

The breakup app of my dreams would have recorded voice memos in different fabulous European accents announcing a variety of reasons that you are breaking up with the person. It would include “We need to talk”; “It’s not you, it’s me”; “I’m jealous of whoever you end up with”; and other clichéd one-liners. Maybe you could personalize an avatar so that it looks remotely like you. After that, all you have to do is enter your former love interest’s e-mail address, and boom! Case closed. Nobody today likes to have actual human contact, unless it involves some kind of oral sex.

The website MissNowMrs.com helps newly married women through the tedious process of legally changing their name. #NeverAgain! I didn’t have a website to help guide me, and it was a fucking process. Changing it back was even more of a nightmare. How about a website called AttachedNowSingle.com? It could offer users useful advice about blocking your ex’s phone number so he or she can’t call you—or so you can’t drunk-dial him or her late on a Saturday night. It could walk you through blocking him or her on social media and even track your former partner’s iPhone so you can avoid accidental run-ins at local restaurants. I might be on to something here! #StillNeedMyOwnIsland. (I’d at least like to own a house.)

It’s like that old song says: breaking up really
is
hard to do. Not just because it hurts or because you might miss the other person, but because in today’s world it’s actually difficult to get rid of the douche! Douches are meant to stream into the body to cleanse and make the recipient feel good—but they are also meant to stream out of the body. (Read between the lines, guys: get in and then get the fuck out.)

When I get over a guy, I usually just go radio silent. It’s totally the coward’s way out, but despite what my reality TV alter ego might suggest, I really do hate confrontations of any sort. To be fair, that’s only when I’m backing out of what I call “microrelationships” (not significant enough to be dubbed a boyfriend, but not as meaningless as a simple booty call). The more significant relationships I’ve had should actually have required some sort of breakup conversation—but nope, not me . . . radio silent. Except the Unicorn Chaser (you’ll learn about him in chapter 11). He didn’t even deserve radio silence. True story: my boys downloaded
emojis
onto my iPad (I’m still not 100 percent sure of what they are), and I thought it would be funny to use them to break up via e-mail with this guy who I suspected was using me to gain fucking Twitter followers and for other selfish reasons. Since most respectable publishing houses (like mine) haven’t yet incorporated
emojis
into their printing capabilities (#GetOnBoard!), I will describe said e-mail: Colorful Hand-Holding Couple, Addition Sign, Tiny Lit Bomb, Addition Sign, Broken Pink Heart, Equals Sign, Fabulous Salsa Dancer Girl, and a Thumbs-Up. He e-mailed me back almost immediately, “What the fuck is this?” I’m still an
emoji
novice, so I decided to revert to my tried-and-true method: radio silence. Then I went and got my nails done. It clearly wasn’t love if I was worried more about my stripper nails than his feelings.

I’m a fucking rock star at giving advice (ask any of my friends), but I’m fucking terrible at following it myself. I always know what someone
should
do in a given situation. I just never do it.

In the spirit of “do as I say, not as I do,” here I offer my guide to successfully breaking up with a person you no longer want to see naked.

If you’re the person doing the breaking up:

1. Show some respect.
Unless you live on opposite sides of the country (and if you do, this was never going to work anyway) or it was a casual hookup, you should break up in person. Sure, it’s harder, but your former partner deserves it. It’s the right thing to do. I’ve actually only tried it once myself, and it didn’t go so well. #Hypocrite. #RHOBH. It’s easy to send a text or just evaporate into thin air, but that’s the coward’s way out and it’s not fair to leave the other person wondering, “What the fuck just happened?” #DoAsISay. #NotAsIDo.

2. No ex sex!
The “one more time” theory is great . . . in theory. If you’re breaking up with someone who has legitimate feelings for you, fucking one last time is only going to give him or her false hope. Grow some balls and walk away for real. It’s never right to waste anyone’s time with false hope. You need to let him or her move on. However, if this person was simply a “fuck buddy” to begin with, then by all means keep him or her in the friend box because you never know when you might want a booty call again. (See, I told you. My opinions can change overnight.)

3. Don’t ask to be friends.
At least not right away—especially if it was a lengthy relationship. You need to give your former partner time to move forward—unless of course, he or she has a fancy beach club membership and it’s the middle of summer (which would of course mean that I would be waiting until September to break up with him). Then you should definitely try to remain friendly.

4. Be honest but kind.
Spare this person all the reasons it didn’t work out. Your former partner doesn’t need to hear that he or she was boring in bed or got too clingy or, worse, that you met someone else. In order to cope, he or she is going to create a mental laundry list of all the reasons you were an undeserving asshole—no need to add to it.

5. If you got it, don’t flaunt it.
If you do decide to remain friends on social media, refrain from posting any pictures of you enjoying your new-found singlehood. Even though you may have already found the hottest new thing in town to hook up with, don’t post a picture of the two of you chugging a bottle of expensive champagne. It just makes you look like a douche bag—and may scare away the new love interest. I think there should be a few weeks’ grace period before you post, tweet, or Instagram about someone new. It’s sort of unfair to everyone involved. #DrewCarter. Even if you didn’t just break up with someone, posting a picture like that is still a no-no. Keep everybody guessing. #KeepItSexy.

On the flip side of this coin, there is a way to accept breakups as graciously as possible as an adult. While I like to think I did the best I could during my divorce, there were a few (read: many) moments where I allowed my temper to get the best of me. Learn from my mistakes, so you can have a better chance of walking away from an unhealthy situation with your head held high—making sure your former partner gets a good view of your cute ass when you leave his or her life forever. Getting dumped blows; all you can control is how you react. (Speaking of blowing, you better be doing plenty of it—otherwise that’s probably why your partner is breaking up with you.)

If you’re the person being broken up with:

1. Have a little dignity.
Even if you left your pride on your bedroom floor, you need to fake it till you make it. Most dating experts will tell you it’s natural to cry or lash out. Perhaps you have the great idea to slash a car tire—or four. I’m here to tell you that if you leave without breaking down, the other person will immediately question if he or she made the right decision. If someone is crushing you, the worst thing you can do is show him or her how devastated you are. Don’t throw a pity party. Take it on the fucking chin, go to the nearest mall, buy yourself the hottest pair of heels you can afford, and wear them out to dinner with all your hottest friends (because you’re only as hot as you roll). #Winning.

2. Disappear.
It’s true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, so don’t let this douche bag have any access or insight into your life. You might be tempted to post super-hot pictures of yourself in barely there bikinis to your Facebook or Twitter account, but resist the urge! #BeenThere. #DoneThat. He or she will know why you’re doing it—especially since I outed most of us in my first book,
Drinking and Tweeting.
It sort of defeats the purpose of going away—even if you do look super-sexy. Never, ever “de-friend” this person, because you are better than he or she is. De-friending someone is the equivalent of throwing a temper tantrum because your daddy won’t take you for ice cream. Friending, de-friending, blocking: It’s so fucking lame that this shit is something we even have to worry about nowadays. There’s someone better out there, so fuck the guy or girl who left.

3. Stop the communication.
You may be tempted to drunk-dial him or her after a glass, or in my case a bottle, of white wine. But don’t do it! Just say no to your fourth viewing of
The Notebook
, because you know better. It’s a bad fucking idea. Also, don’t return any texts, e-mails, or calls. This person
broke up
with you—why would you want to talk to him or her? I’ve heard plenty of girls say, “I don’t want him to think I hate him” or “I don’t want to be rude.” Take it from me: be fucking rude. I always say, “Well, he was rude to you the moment he broke your heart and didn’t realize how very special you are.” Otherwise, you look desperate. #NotHot. Plus, the longer you ignore them, the sooner they’ll start clawing to get you back into their lives.

4. Medicate!
Now, this may not be necessary for all breakups, but if you’re truly struggling, you may need to seek some outside assistance. For the life of me, I’ll never understand the stigma associated with therapy, antidepressants, and antianxiety drugs. Seeing a shrink is the best way to talk out your feelings and get some healthy advice on the best way to move the fuck on. At the very least, it allows you one hour where you can speak out loud without being interrupted by “friends” who only want to chime in to unload their own heartbreak stories—which always feels a little like a competition. Most importantly, if they’re licensed psychiatrists, they can also write you a prescription for an antidepressant (my go-to is Lexapro!) or an antianxiety drug to help you move along the therapy train.

5. Get out of the house.
The worst possible thing for you is to sit around and feel sorry for yourself. I know, because I did it myself for two whole years—and it was miserable. Keeping yourself occupied is the best coping mechanism around. Bury yourself in a new hobby, like redecorating your bedroom. You need to cleanse yourself of the past, and this will make enjoying new experiences with new partners that much easier. Ditching the flower photograph you bought at Target that you stared at every time your ex got you off is a must. Buy yourself a brand-new mattress, redesign the layout of your bedroom, paint the walls a different color, and update that wall art, yo. Looking at the same shit every morning and every night that you did when you shared your bed with your former partner is a total mind fuck. After that, start training for a marathon or start fucking the hot guy you met at your local bar. (I said it before: the best way to get over someone is to get it on with super-hot, sexy guys!). If all else fails, think of all the new wrinkles you’ll avoid getting by not crying over someone who was never going to be worth it anyway.