I walked back down the driveway and back to the corner I had been assaulted on to survey Gina’s future paramours. The men responding weren’t exactly winners, and every one of them had facial hair and was holding a fish. I thought it was impressive that in the time I had created Gina’s profile, these guys had managed to go and catch a striped bass. They were seriously trying to impress her, and even I had to have compassion for them.
My phone rang again, and this time it was Molly. “Is she there yet?”
“No. She’s been saying she’s coming for three hours.”
As we were talking a red SUV turned on my street, zipped past me, and then turned around and headed back in my direction. Once in front of me, the car stopped and the driver turned the engine off. “Oh, shit.” Someone was going to shoot me right here on the streets of Bel-Air. I froze. I couldn’t believe I was going to get shot right on the corner of my street while innocently reviewing a dating site. I put my hands in the air and waited to be shot in the face.
A woman got out of the car, and a nine-year-old got out of the passenger seat. A family shooting spree.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said, as she closed her car door. “I really hate to bother you, but we live up the street and I promised myself I would never do this, but my daughter’s a huge fan. I would never normally do this. Would you mind if I got a picture of the two of you?”
I asked her daughter what her name was. She told me her name and then asked me what mine was. I glared at the mother as I took my glasses off and fake-smiled. This woman had just used her innocent daughter in a ploy to get a photograph with someone on the E! network, and she wasn’t even Armenian.
Once our photo shoot had concluded, I lifted the phone back up to my ear.
“Are you on the street?” Molly asked me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“OK, I’m on my way,” she told me. “Go back to your house.”
“I’m going to end my friendship with Shmitney when she gets here,” I told Molly as I followed her instructions and headed back toward my house.
The next text from Shmitney sent was this: “I have Ramona in the car. Can she stay at the house with your dogs?” Ramona was Shmitney’s new pit bull puppy and—a nightmare. What white person gets a pit bull? On top of that, she had taken the dog to a vet earlier in the week and found out that Ramona was possibly half Great Dane. Only I would have that luck, so I didn’t believe her when she told me that, either. This fell right in line with her tall tales of being a drug-addled teenager in recovery.
Her bringing Ramona over meant that I would be walking down my driveway once again. My driveway is like a miniature version of the stairs at Machu Picchu.
This is how I was sitting moments later when Shmitney pulled up, laughing riotously:
“How do you drive this beast?” she yelled out my car window, trying to pull up my driveway, lurching the car forward and backward as she waited for the gate to open.
“That’s not really the point,” I told her, punching in the gate code. “The point is, it’s Sunday, and every Sunday, I go to Hotel Bel-Air for brunch and have my margarita there. Today is Sunday, and I don’t want that dog in my house.”
“And how is it possible that you don’t know how to make a margarita?” Shmitney yelled.
The half Great Dane/half pit bull dog jumped out of my car and onto my driveway, and lunged toward me. I couldn’t run from the dog fast enough because of the steepness of my driveway, so I ended up falling into the embankment between my driveway and my gate. This was exactly where I had seen the snake in my driveway a year earlier. Shmitney was filming all of this on her iPhone while hysterically laughing.
Ramona wouldn’t stop licking me while also gnawing on my hand that was trying to push her away from me. Shmitney’s dog was just as much of a lunatic as she was. I hate that dog.
Shmitney had put the car in Park, and she stood at the side of my driveway filming me at close range. I finally was able to get myself back up on my feet with no help from her. I pushed her out of the way, got back in my car, and drove it up my driveway, since driving up my driveway happens to be one of the few things I excel at. I went inside to my backyard and closed all of the doors I normally keep open for my dogs when I’m not home. My dogs will easily attack an intruder—as long as they’re not sleeping.
I told her I didn’t think her dog would survive in my backyard and that I didn’t trust pit bulls.
Then Ramona peed on my boot. I didn’t change this time.
We met my cousins Molly and Kerry at lunch at Hotel Bel-Air, where Shmitney and I proceeded to argue about what had taken place that morning and whose version of events were accurate.
“You have no idea what I was dealing with,” she told my cousins, explaining that her friend she had taken to Spin class was in AA, and apparently freaked out when she heard she’d be having brunch with me.
“I’ve got one alcoholic who’s in recovery and one who needs a margarita,” Shmitney told them, holding her hands to her head. “I felt like I was on the set of Sophie’s Choice.”
“My mom’s going on a road trip,” Molly announced, taking off her sunglasses.
“And she asked us to get her a gun for protection,” Kerry interjected.
“Wait, what?” Shmitney asked.
“Oh, dear.” I took a sip of my margarita. “What’s her problem now?”
“Well, she says she’s out of money. She’s sold all of her furniture, and the lease to her apartment is up,” Molly informed me.
“She says she’s excited about moving, but we don’t believe her,” Kerry added.
“We’re wondering if you can just ask her to stay at your house as kind of like a groundskeeper while we try and get her a new apartment. All the kids are chipping in and we can afford something, but we don’t want her to leave in the first place, because we’re worried she may not come back, especially since she’s asking for a gun.”
For the record, my aunt is exactly the type of person who would drive off into the woods and shoot herself. She is not even sixty, but has nine children, three grandchildren, and a pain in the ass of a husband whom she can’t afford to divorce—so they just live apart and don’t speak. She is my mother’s sister, and she told me when I moved to LA that if I wanted to make it in show business, I was going to have to drop some weight. She also let me live with her for a year until I could afford my own apartment.
“Well, we can’t let her do that,” I told my cousins. “She may never come back.”
“We already suggested that she be your groundskeeper, but she said she doesn’t want any more handouts from you. She feels like a loser.”
“But what if we make it a job?”
“She said she will not move in with you. She claims she really wants to go on this road trip.”
I picked up my phone and called my Realtor, Anne. I told her we needed a house in the Valley, and being that it was Sunday there would be plenty of open houses.
“We’re going house hunting!” I exclaimed in delight, hanging up the phone. Finally, the tides were turning.
“Well, we don’t really need you to buy her a house,” Molly said, exchanging nervous glances with Kerry.
“No, Chelsea. That’s a little ridiculous. We are happy to pay for an apartment,” Kerry agreed.
“No, I’m in the mood to house-hunt. Let’s do it.”
“This is perfect. Chelsea has two margaritas and wants to go house hunting. I’m not going to miss this for the world,” Shmitney announced.
“You want to make a bet?” I said. “You are on probation! You are not coming anywhere with us, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure our friendship is strong enough to survive this.”
“Well, then, I guess now’s a good time to tell you that I had the key the entire time, but I didn’t want you to freak out.”
Molly jumped up and pinned my arms to my side while Kerry and Shmitney sat hys
terically laughing.
If I wasn’t at the Hotel Bel-Air in plain public view, I would have choked her, but instead took my iPhone and smacked it into the side of my own head.
“You are infuriating,” I said, as menacingly as I could with Molly sitting on top of me.
I ordered some margaritas to go, paid the bill, and Molly, Kerry, and I drove to the valley.
This is the house we found that day, and my aunt moved in thirty-five days later. She never went on that road trip, and we never gave her a gun.
Later that night while I was online responding to some of Gina’s suitors, I got a video from Shmitney of her urinating in my driveway the night of the Emmy party when she came back to my locked house and stole my car.
SHMITNEY’S VERSION OF EVENTS
So I get to Chelsea’s house at like 2 a.m. Her door is locked and my key is inside. I decide not to knock because Chelsea sleeps in a white ’80s Cross Your Heart bra, and I’m too tired to process that right now. I also just really want to get out of there because Chelsea’s house is a hazard. She has two-ish dogs: Chunk, who’s become a complete asshole since he got a million Twitter followers; and Jacks, who just had surgery and has a cone on his head… and sometimes another one who looks like Falcor on crack. When they run to the door it’s like the zombies from the Thriller video are coming at you. Other possible dangers include Chelsea’s lesbian roommate, who is very strong (I learned that the hard way) and snakes in her driveway… some real and some imagined by Chelsea.
Basically, I just want to get the fuck away from this house of cards that Chelsea calls a home.
My car is blocking in her other cars, and the only car that could be liberated from this mess is the Bentley. On an optimistic whim I check to see if it’s unlocked. Not only is it unlocked, but the key is in it. This is either a trap or a miracle.…
So I took it. I’m from Washington, D.C. Where I come from, if you want someone else’s car, you take it.
I wake up Sunday morning with three missed calls from Chelsea, two of them FaceTime invites because she has no idea how to work her iPhone. When we finally connect, she yells, “I’m trapped in my house and I need a margarita!”
First of all, it’s noon. And second of all, we know Chelsea is a Luddite, but to not be able to make her own margarita is just pathetic. The only thing sadder than needing a margarita at noon is not being able to make one yourself. Especially considering the fact that her fridge is stocked with Skinny girl Margaritas. She can’t even make a premade margarita.
The problem is that Chelsea has been infantilized by having assistants for so long. Everything is done for her, so she doesn’t know how to do anything herself anymore.
For example, in her fridge she has clear Tupperware containers of cut-up fruit and vegetables, and they’re labled with little signs that say PINEAPPLE and WATERMELON, etc. I started getting really worried about her when I realized that she can’t even figure out what pineapple looks like.
So I tell her I’m on my way over, because honestly, I’m worried about her safety. If you think Chelsea is a danger to herself drunk, you should see her sober. I rush over to her place to find her, middle finger blazing, waiting outside of her house, angry and moist. It becomes abundantly clear that this is the longest Chelsea has waited for anything in years. She was reading the newspaper, yet another sign that she can’t do anything herself. She thinks people still get the news from newspapers. In the past forty-five minutes she had been humiliated by getting splashed with mud, being asked for a photo by someone who didn’t even know who she was, and—to honor the comedy “rule of threes”—my puppy got out of her car and instantly peed on her foot. Which Chelsea probably thought was pineapple.
She also claimed to buy someone a home that day, but knowing Chelsea, she accidentally went to the Valley, got drunker, and bought a house so she wouldn’t have to drive back. By the way, Chelsea still has an AOL account.
A week later, Kerry, Molly, and I surprised my aunt with her new house—one of the best days of my life. My aunt was in tears when she asked me if this meant she now had to be nice to me.
“No!” I said, jumping up and down, bawling. “You never have to speak to me again.”
With that chapter over, it was time to focus on Gina’s love life. I received several responses to Gina’s profile on her new dating site. It became a bit annoying when my phone would go off every time someone “winked” at her. The problem was the men who were responding. All the responses I had gotten regarding Gina’s new online profile revealed a common theme. Every guy was on a boat, some with handlebar mustaches, some without, but all holding large fish on fishing poles.
I sat there for a week trying to convince Gina that all these men were going out of their way to catch fish just to woo her because that was in her profile, but she didn’t budge.
“I’m not going out with a man who has a handlebar mustache. Why do they all have facial hair? Did you write that I wanted that?”
It was a fair question, especially since many of them were actually bald. So in an honest attempt to double-check my work, I logged back on to her profile to see if I accidentally put “bald” under Likes. I then discovered that I had signed Gina up on a fisherman’s website: Seacaptaindate.com. Whoopsie.
I revealed this news to Gina as delicately as I could, while also admitting that I didn’t have the emotional capacity to enlist her on another dating website. I had invested a week of my time and energy into carefully eliminating all red flags and potential rapists. “I just don’t have it in me,” I confessed. “Every time one of these losers winks at you my phone beeps, and I have no idea how to disable that feature. If you want, I’m happy to buy you that horse you’ve been riding. And whatever happens behind closed doors is your business.”
Gina ended up getting her horse after all, and since then they have been in a monogamous relationship.
My sister Shana and me on our front lawn. Happier times. 1979.
Martha’s Vineyard with my two lesbian sisters
This is a picture of me, age three, that I took with me when I was nineteen and left New Jersey for California. I put it in one of those cheap little plastic picture frames that have magnets on the back, and have stuck it on every refrigerator in every apartment or house I’ve lived in since. About a year ago, it fell off the refrigerator when I was looking for some chicken wings, and I noticed my mother’s handwriting on the back. The right hand corner was dated July 4, 1978, and it said:
The face of an angel, the mind of a devil, and a heart of gold.
Your mother will always love you.
Love, Mommy
HOT TRAVEL TIPS
Contrary to popular belief, it is not necessary to be topless for emergency dental work when abroad.
It is possible to chip your tooth while eating gummy bears when a plane is landing.
Dolphin rape is a very real thing.
There are certain countries (France) that have microwaves that actually air-condition the food instead of heating it. Be aware of this when handling quiche or pizza. There is nothing more frustrating than taking a bite of what you think is going to be a warm piece of quiche and then chipping your tooth.
Mixing Metamucil with vodka will be successful in helping you go to the bathroom, but your timing should be strategic if staying with a friend. Once you clog someone’s toilet, they have a hard time remembering anything about you other than you clogging their toilet.
If you don’t already know how to surf, don’t try to learn. It’s humiliating.
Kobe beef is not named after Kobe Bryant. Do not make this mistake.
When going through security, always pretend you are innocent and frail, even if the person perusing your passport or boarding pass has an afro and a ponytail.
If you are a drinker, always use a pseudonym when booking hotels. None of us ever really know what kind of mess we’re going to leave behind, and there’s no sense in getting banned from a resort you respect.
It??
?s safest not to travel during a leap year.
The saying that money doesn’t buy you happiness is true. But it sure as fuck helps.
When hooking up abroad, be aware: any man who tries to convince you that most guys have one ball will most likely have only one ball himself. One ball is as likely as a blind robber—a gay one.
And last but not least, go for it. Go wherever you can afford to go with whomever you can get to go with you.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Michael Broussard, Beth de Guzman (my very patient Asian editor), Lionel Richie, Shelly Youree, Sue Murphy, Simoney Baloney, Molly Burke, and Hannah Banana Kampf. Chunk. And to my dear lover-girl Mary McCormack for my favorite quote of the century. When her four-year-old daughter asked to go in the ocean when they were strolling down the Santa Monica Pier, she said “The ocean is broken.”
Other Books Starring Chelsea Handler
Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me
Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang
My Horizontal Life
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Most Frequently Asked Traveler’s Questions
1. Out of Afrika
2. Into the Bush
3. Camp Dumbo
4. Rejection in Botswana