“Well, this will make an interesting story,” I said aloud to myself. I remembered a dinner party at Shmelly Shmazoff’s house not long ago where a bunch of famous people went around the table telling their worst shit and diarrhea stories. By the time it came around to me, my friend Shmarlize Shmeron looked at me and said, “Well, Chelsea, we saved the best for last. Let it rip.”
“I know you may all find this hard to believe,” I announced to the table, “but I can honestly say I have never shit my pants. I know you probably think that’s something I would do, but sorry to disappoint. I am not a pig from HELL. I know it’s a hard pill to swallow, but I haven’t done it and I can’t say that I ever will.”
“Oh, come, on!” Shmarlize groaned. “Like any of us believe that.”
“Listen up, girls! I have not shit my pants. I have peed in my pants several times due to excessive laughter, and I have dated several men who have shit their pants in my presence—once even in the bed while we were sleeping, and I’m willing to tell you that story—but I will not make up a ‘shit in my pants’ story in order to make friends with famous people.”
As I swam back to the house, I reflected on the irony of that night and looked forward to the next dinner party where I would be able to add more to the conversation. Then the thunderbolt hit me again; my asshole wasn’t done with me. I had to go again and this time it wasn’t going to be nearly as graceful. I ran out of the water and managed enough wiggle room to make it all the way back to the beach club.
“Hello????” I wailed. “Someone!… Anyone! . . Sargeant!”
There were four small, tented buildings and I hobbled to each one but everything was closed as it was before 7 a.m. Where the hell did that onesie guy go when I needed him?
I had to make another executive decision. The dunes were too far behind me now, and the closest objects were three kayaks and two water tires.
I reached around and felt the back of my bathing suit bottoms, which were rapidly filling up with my own entrails. They had essentially turned into a diaper. Africa was coming out of me, and I could not stop it
“Oh my god. This is the worst. You are the worst,” I told myself as the culprits slid down my good leg.
I headed toward the kayak, leapt in just as my bikini bottoms were about to give, and emptied the rest into the kayak. I had never felt so defeated; I had no choice but to give up and let everything come out that was supposed to. “Good-bye, Africa,” I declared to the sea.
Simultaneously, I spotted the same yacht from a few minutes before, and my anxiety kicked back into full gear. In an effort to deflect attention from what I was actually doing, I picked up the oar that lay next to the kayak, and started rowing—in the sand.
By this juncture, I had lost at least a gallon of water in sweat and was basically urinating out of my asshole. I won’t deny that as humiliated as I felt, I couldn’t wonder how much weight I had lost. I had to consider what my next move would be and how I would get this mess cleaned up without anyone seeing anything. I also knew that another bomb could drop at any moment. I couldn’t bear to look down. I’ve seen photos of Hiroshima, and I was not interested in revisiting the site.
There is a reason diapers are held together by tape, I thought to myself.
I got up out of the kayak and saw that my lower body was a disaster. I threw myself into the sand and rolled around in it like I had just been thrown from a burning building. Minutes later I was camouflaged well enough to make the trek into the water. My leg was throbbing, as this was the most activity it had seen in months. I hopped as quickly as I could to the ocean and then dove headfirst into a half a foot of water.
My bikini bottoms came off and I rinsed them. Then I scrubbed my whole body with sand, sea, and whatever fish were swimming by. Once I was able to comport myself with some degree of dignity, I made my way out of the water and back over to the kayak to clean up my mess.
I dragged the kayak over to the dunes about twenty-five yards away, where I had given birth to my first child. Once there, I sat down to take a break. Not only was I in a tremendous spiral of shame, I was also in a tremendous amount of pain, but the fighter in me was not going to give up until justice was served.
When I caught my breath again, I turned the kayak upside down and emptied whatever I could into the dunes. I shook it repeatedly and slammed it into the grassy sand until I got everything out. After covering my abomination with more sand, which I had to transport from the beach below using my hands as a pail, I dragged the kayak into the ocean to finish the job. Once in the ocean, I flipped it over and used the sea water to wash out any remaining debris.
Once I was satisfied on that front, I dragged the kayak back to the beach and placed it somewhere near where I found it in the first place. I looked at the two water tires, grateful that I hadn’t made the wrong decision and chosen one of them.
It was time to go back home. “Do I swim or walk? That is the question.”
I rinsed myself in the ocean one last time and then decided to walk back very closely to the dune line. My bad leg had become swollen and I needed to ice it. What I thought would be an innocent walk/swim had turned into a full-blown Ironman.
I told myself it could’ve been worse, but I knew it couldn’t have been. I focused on the weight loss. I wouldn’t be able to get a proper look at my stomach until I got in front of a mirror. I got excited at the prospect of sharing my news with everyone. Once the house was in view, I attempted to actually skip, but stopped myself when my knee buckled.
I got back to the house, walked upstairs to my room, took my bikini bottoms off, wrapped them in toilet paper, walked downstairs, and threw them in the kitchen trash. I grabbed my traveling ice pack out of the freezer and headed back upstairs to Lesbian Shelly’s room.
Just then I heard the sound of something pulling into the driveway. I ran back down, looked out the window, and saw that it was my boyfriend, Sargeant.
Well, I thought, if there’s one way to get this loser off my tail, it’s to show him my body in its current condition. I made a bold decision and opened the front door.
“Good morning, Sargeant!” I exclaimed, covered in sand, sweat, and whatever else had managed not to come off in the ocean.
“Well, good morning, Chelsea,” he replied, as he slowly took my body in. “I didn’t expect you to be up this early.”
“Oh, I just went for a little jog on the beach. I’m actually glad you caught me before I showered. I want you to know this is what my body looks like in a bikini. You’re probably used to much more well-proportioned women,” I declared, jutting my bad leg out front and center.
“Not at all.” He smiled and started walking toward me. “Every woman’s body is different. I’ve been around enough to know that.”
This guy was even more annoying in the light of day.
“I’m going to run up and shower,” I informed him. “Hopefully, we’ll get to spend the day together, as usual.”
He nodded. “I’d love that.”
I closed the door inside and headed upstairs into Lesbian Shelly’s room.
“It’s time to rise and shine! Have I got a story for you.” She lifted her eyeshades and looked at her watch, and then regarded me groggily.
“Well, your hair is wet, and I know that’s not from a shower, so I take it you’ve been swimming?”
“That’s right,” I told her. “Not to sound conceited, but this is probably one of my top ten.”
“Well, I guess so,” Shelly said. “Because you’re not wearing any underwear.”
I looked down at myself and realized I had never replaced my bikini bottoms. “Whoopsie,” I declared, then shut her door and walked back to my own room and put on a cape.
Later that morning, I waited until everyone had gathered around the kitchen table with full breakfast plates, and regaled the family with my morning’s activities. One of the other houseguests staying with us that weekend became so disgusted halfway through my description, he got up, excused hims
elf from the table, and went outside to smoke a joint. Men like that have never understood women like me, and quite frankly, I don’t blame them.
Later that day, Sargeant drove us to the boat in his golf cart so I could head back to LA to start shooting After Lately. I casually mentioned that I left him something special in the yellow kayak on the beach. The next time I heard from him was a couple of weeks later via e-mail. Shmirving had been kind enough to give Sargeant all my e-mail info.
Me on a boat later that day contemplating what had taken place.
Later that day, Lesbian Shelly and I toasting to seeing our first black person.
As per usual, these e-mails have not been modified or exaggerated for effect. This is the kind of thing that happens in my life on a more-than-regular basis. You could say that I invite this behavior, and you would be absolutely right.
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject: RE: Hey!!!
Date: Fri, 20 Jul 2012 5:29 a.m.
Hey there!! There have been a lot of sweet thought about you as well since you guy were here. Instant attraction in so many different ways. My sign is Scorpio… all I know is what I hear… stubborn and a passionate lover! Irving and Glen have invited me (and “another”… namely you) to join them in Las Vegas for the Eagle show which falls on my birthday, Nov 17. I would love for you to join. We must! It is weird when you meet someone for such a short time, in such a place as this… you put a smile on my face!! Butterflies like a 12 year old passing a note asking “will you go with me… check yes, no, maybe”
As far as urination, I did answer the question “Yes” when you asked… The story goes, I was minding my own business back in 1981, listening to a shitty version of “Uncle John’s Band” and sipping on my grandfather’s stolen rye whiskey while sunbathing on a rock off the coast of Maine when my older cousin decided, for no apparent reason, to relieve himself on my chest… It was quick, painless, wrm and over within 6 seconds… kind of like getting laid for the first time when I was 14, another great story!! Have a wonderful day, knock ‘em dead and “if it comes easy… take it twice”… Please let’s stay in touch… If I could wake up everyday with a “handy fix,” life would be even better”
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject: Re: Hey YOU!!!
Date: Fri, 20 Jul 2012 10:05 p.m.
Fuck! The 17th is the day I am getting my vaginal rejuvenation. If you’re serious about starting to date, then I can move it up, but there is a 2 week recovery period. (No sexy time).
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject: Re: Hey YOU!!!
Date: Sat, 21 Jul 2012 6:46 a.m.
I think you move it up… I think we would have a blast… I can take care of the rejuvenation! I am totally serious about the trip… a “peaceful, easy feelin’… and I know you won’t let me down”
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject: Hey YOU!!!
Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2012
Hey major—I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. Just hoping I didn’t scare you off. Are we still good for the 17th and do you like blowjobs?
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject: Re: Hey YOU!!!
Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2012
Hey there ya sexy beast!!! Answers: no you didn’t… yes we are… Absolutely..100 percent… I am driving outside of Atlanta… One hand on the wheel… and now, one hand on my Johnson! A recipe for highway disaster!!! I will email with all the horny details when I get situated.
(This was when I started blind-copying half the people on my e-mail list. “One hand on my Johnson” is by far the most compelling quote I’ve read since The Autobiography of Thomas Jefferson by Thomas Jefferson.)
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject:
Date: Thu, 26 Jul 2012 11:34 p.m.
Here you go!
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:
Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2012 12:32 a.m.
Phenomenal!!! Please more… I would return the favor except I just got out of a cold shower and my big Johnson is more like ’lil jack… I need to let “jack and the twins” warm up a bit… To be continued!! Love ya
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 1:59 pm
Are you fucking with me, Sargeant? Why won’t you send me a photo? What gives?
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 2:01 p.m.
I would never fuck with you!!! I have been on the road for 3 days… Expect photos by days end!!! Love ya
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 2:04 p.m.
If I don’t get those photos, the 17th is off the calendar.
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 4:13 p.m.
Your such a hard ass . . Thanks for yours… They left a lot for the imagination!!
The man I one day hope to marry.
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 4:20 p.m.
Sargeant—I deleted in my excitement. Pls resend
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:
Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 1:24 p.m.
Are you joking??? I deleted on my end too.… have to wait until the next shower this eve… I’ll hook you up!!! How’s everything going… what’s new in your world?? Was just down at “your house” here on the Island, wishin we were poolside!
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:. . . . .so, you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling…
Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2012 7:59 a.m.
Hey… what’s goin’ on… did you forget about me?? I sent you another pic. . . . . . . it’s very sad… miss ya
From: Chelsea
To: Sargeant
Subject:. . . . . so, you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling…
Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2012 11:00 a.m.
Sorry. At the Olympics!
From: Sargeant
To: Chelsea
Subject:. . . . . so, you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling…
Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2012 11:07 a.m.
Don’t forget those who admire you most!! Have fun
The next and last time I ran into Sargeant was at a Lakers game. I was with the same lover I had taken to see Neil Young, and again, courtesy of the Shmazoffs. Sargeant came to say hello, and I introduced said lover to him. “Timing is everything, Sargeant, and I think we may have missed our window. We were close, but not close enough.”
“I’m not someone who easily forgets, Chelsea.”
Shmirving leaned in and whispered to my boyfriend, “This is the kind of shit she stirs up when you’re not in the picture.” Then he turned to me in front of Sargeant and couldn’t get through his own joke without spitting bits of popcorn into my open mouth. “Where’s a kayak when you need one?”
CHAPTER 7
MOUNT A NEGRO
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.
—Mark Twain
It’s never a good idea to travel to a city whose name you don’t have a full handle on. For one to think that a city was named purely after the idea of mounting Negroes, you’d have to be playing with the same deck of cards I am: short one ace, three queens, and the entire suit of clubs.
I know this may be hard for some people to believe, but I actually try not to be a bitch in public. One of the main issues I’ve come to face-to-face with is that I’ve always been publicly inappropriate, a
nd have actually had to learn to dial it backward. I used to get away with it because no one knew who I was; now I’m only able to get away with murder on television, and then I have to try to keep it together when I’m in actual public.
I am extracognizant of looking people in the eye, being gracious when people recognize me or ask for a picture, and leaving very generous tips to anyone in the service industry even when the service I’m being rendered doesn’t require one. A lot of people don’t tip someone at a newsstand. I do. I do this so that this person tells five of his friends what a nice person I am, and those five people each tell another five people, and so on and so on.
I’m well aware of the game “Telephone” and how quickly word travels when a celebrity is a bitch. J.Lo isn’t considered a nightmare because she’s Puerto Rican; anyone who wears headscarves along with hoop earrings, and is constantly photographed on yachts in Miami without ever being seen wet, is what constitutes trouble.
On this particular day, I was in a fantastic mood. I had just spoken at the hand, foot, and mouth disease ceremony at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. Shmandy Shmullock hated the idea of being honored and asked me if there was any way I could speak at the event and make the whole thing about me. I told her that wouldn’t be a problem.
Shmandy’s hands and feet would be firmly planted in the cement by noon, allowing me to make my 2 p.m. flight to Montenegro. I was meeting my then boyfriend for what he claimed was his “close” friend’s birthday party.
As stated previously, an eleven-hour journey would normally make my heart sing. The prospect of such a long, uninterrupted slumber is a savory image, but when I arrived at the airport to check in and handed the clerk my license, it didn’t take more than a look between the two of us to realize that what was required of me was not a license, but a passport. Whoopsie.