Drinking and Tweeting Read Online Free PDF Page A

it.
    For obvious reasons, a breakup is much easier if you’re (a) not married and (b) don’t have kids. But the division of assets (and friends!) is always challenging.
    If you are married and making the command decision to get a divorce, the first thing you do is lawyer up. It’s probably the hardest move to make, because you’re actually admitting to yourself that you’re getting divorced. No more what-if scenarios or “maybe I’ll wake up from this nightmare” pipe dreams. It’s about to happen, and it’s harder and longer than childbirth—without an epidural. Eddie handled everything in our relationship, so I had no idea where to start. Computers were (and still sort of are) foreign objects to me, and I was just starting to learn how to use one, but the concept of “googling” divorce attorneys was not an option. Instead, I went with word of mouth. I got a laundry list of suggestions of amazing lawyers with stellar reputations, but when it finally came to making the calls, I had a rude awakening. I was told—one after the other—that representing me would be a conflict of interest. How could itbe that every good lawyer in Los Angeles was representing my husband? It took me a bit to learn this valuable divorce lesson (so listen close): whichever party contacts a lawyer first, that attorney, by law, cannot represent the other party. I quickly figured out that my soon-to-be ex-husband—most likely at the suggestion of his fancy lawyer—had had the foresight to call every decent lawyer in the area for a meeting before I did. It was his way of legally crippling me. Not only was this going to be ugly, but I was also going to get fucked—and not in the good way.
    One of my best girlfriends had just gone through a divorce and suggested her lawyer. Nothing fancy, but she was apparently totally fair and kept her legal fees to a minimum. Ironically, this is the same best friend who now vacations with LeAnn and Eddie. #JustSayin. I met with this lawyer and hired her on the spot. She was a bit of a ballbuster, and I figured that would come in handy if Eddie decided to play hardball. She also told me I wouldn’t have to fork over a dime up front, because her entire fee would come out of the settlement. I felt good about my decision. I was being rational, reasonable, and not working from a place of emotions.And, let’s be honest, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together.
    My ex-husband, on the other hand, went out and hired the most high-profile celebrity-divorce attorney in Los Angeles, Neal Hersh—with Eddie not realizing that he wasn’t actually a high-profile celebrity himself . . . and neither was his girlfriend, for that matter. He went out and hired a total bulldog to nail my ass to a wall. I never stood a chance.
    In spite of everything, that’s the one thing I never understood. After thirteen years and two children, this man was intent on ruining me. And why? Because I discovered that he fucked half of Hollywood? Because I wasn’t going to be a doormat anymore and finally stood up for myself in the media? How is that my fault? But that was just another piece in this painful puzzle. I had no idea who he was anymore, and I was beginning to realize I never did.
    Like I said, Eddie handled everything having to do with bills, loans, insurance, etc. I handled the kids. I think up until that point, Eddie had never spent one night alone with the boys. But raising his children,I discovered, offered me zero insurance when it came to divorce. In all of our years of marriage, I did not have my name on a single document—not for any of the homes we purchased, not one of the cars or motorcycles. Every credit card, every power bill, every medical statement was in my husband’s name. Even the vintage Bronco my father had given us to refurbish was in Eddie’s name. In thirteen years, I had built precisely zero credit. I had zero savings. And now, I was about to become a single mom.
    Someone told me that I should