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didn’t cry. I didn’t even tell any of my friends or family—not because I was hiding it, but because it didn’t even register to me that it was something I ought to share. It was a nonevent in my eyes. My marriage had been over for quite some time. I was in a new relationship, and Eddie was already living with LeAnn and would soon be married again, so I didn’t see the point in announcing, “I’m officially divorced, peeps!” Instead, I went on with my day. My day. I no longer was the dutiful wife. My life, however messy and dysfunctional, was now mine.
brandi’s babble
Next time, do yourself a favor and get a prenup.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Third Kind of Job
    T o this point in my life, the only jobs I’d ever had to worry about were boob jobs and blow jobs—anything beyond that was simply not in my wheelhouse.
    During my senior year of high school, a modeling agent from San Francisco had approached me while I was wandering around the local mall looking for something fab from Contempo Casuals for the weekend ahead. I know what you’re thinking: Aren’t these the kind of scams that trick idealistic teenage girls into doing soft-core porn? Yep, but mine was totally legit, I swear. The following week, my boyfriend drove me into San Francisco to meet with Al, an agent at Look Models, to discuss my opportunities. Even as graduationquickly approached, I didn’t put much thought into what I would do next. I figured I would move to San Francisco (or “the city,” as us Sacramento folk called it), get a high-paying serving job at some hip restaurant that only catered to the coolest of people, and spend the next few years partying. Hey, it seemed plausible at the time.
    I never had dreams of going to college, joining a sorority, and earning some degree in psychology, social science, or medicine—that all sounded as about appealing to me as virgin sex.
    So when this modeling agent expressed interest in me, I just figured modeling was what I was meant to be doing. We sat in his office on O’Farrell Street near Union Square, the heart of the city’s fashion district, where he gave me a punch list of self-improvements to make over the next few months. He told me to come back to see him only if they were all satisfied. I consider it my first-ever job training.
1. Immediately color my hair a less offensive shade of blond.
2. Break up with my longest relationship to date: an eye-shadow set of shimmery pink and light blue.
3. Throw my tweezers in the garbage and don’t touch my eyebrows until directed.
    My then-boyfriend, Joey Monahan, was so thrilled at the prospect that he could soon be dating a “model” that he readily offered to pay for the insanely overpriced, high-end hairstylist the agent recommended, named Ron Pernell. I not-so-humbly accepted. Joey was even okay with the furry caterpillars growing above my eyes and my new, more natural makeup look, although it was far too boring for my taste.
    Even then, I knew I would dump Joey. He was crazy hot, five years older than me, and totally obsessed with me. He taught me some valuable lessons that would come in handy for the rest of my life—basically all my favorite bedroom tricks. He was exactly what every seventeen-year-old girl in the nineties wanted: Brandon Walsh. Perhaps that’s too dated for some of you, but unfortunately, I can’t name anyone on a CW show. But I was on to something bigger. I was going to break out of the Sacramento bubble and do something extraordinary with my life. After an intense eyebrow shaping and the successful purging of my eye-shadow kit, my agentoffered me an official modeling contract that would take me overseas immediately. Joey transformed into Mr. Not-So-Supportive when he decided that he didn’t want me traveling, after all. Instead, he thought I should stay in Sacramento and attend a local junior college. Was he fucking nuts? I had the chance of a lifetime, but I was just supposed to retreat back home?
    I decided it was