Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea

  “Why are you letting her in the bed? Those sheets are clean; they’re gonna get all smelly.”

  “It’s a he, and apparently he’s gay,” Mohammed declared, still laughing.

  “Oh, really?” I asked him. “When did you start speaking Peekapoo?”

  “Right after he licked my huge penis.”

  “I really hope you’re kidding,” I said, hanging my dry cleaning in the closet.

  “No, actually.”

  I turned around and walked back into the room. “You let Pepper lick your penis?”

  “He just did it. I didn’t whip it out. I was lying here watching Dr. Phil, who, by the way, has some anger management issues. Doesn’t his wife Robin look like she’s been hypnotized? I feel like he goes home and beats her. The guy’s an egomaniac, and he’s not doing a very job of covering it up by pretending to be interested in other people’s problems.”

  “Can we get back to you and Pepper, please?”

  “I was lying here and he jumped up and came right for me. I picked him up and threw him on the floor, but he came back again, and, to be honest, it didn’t feel so bad.”

  There was a long silence while I stared at Mohammed, who for some reason thought this was hilarious and couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t find it amusing…. Maybe a little, but I wasn’t about to let him know that until I found out exactly how far they had gone.

  “Are you telling me that you hooked up with a Peekapoo?”

  “I wouldn’t call it hooking up, but yes, I would say there was a line that was crossed, and I blame Pepper.”

  “Mohammed, that is disgusting and foul. Did you climax?”

  “No!” he said. Now he was laughing so hard he was crying. All the while, Pepper was nuzzling up against his neck in a postcoital embrace.

  “If a grown man is going to hook up with a dog, you’d think he’d at least pick a respectable-size one,” I said, looking at Daisy, who was lying on the floor hiding her head shamefully. “And can you please get him away from your neck? That is really creeping me out.”

  “I didn’t initiate it, Pepper did. And besides, it was for two seconds. It’s not like he gave me a blow job.”

  “Well, it sounds like a blow job to me,” I told him.

  “Well, maybe it ‘sounds like a blow job’ to you, because that’s what you think one is.”

  “Oh, that is low. That is really low.”

  “I’m kidding!” he yelled.

  “No, you’re not. You’re not kidding. You’re not the first person to mention my lack of enthusiasm for blow jobbing, and I’ll be perfectly honest with you, maybe it’s not my specialty, but making me feel bad about it sure isn’t going to help me blow job better.”

  “I wouldn’t actually call what you do a blow job, Chelsea. It’s more of a kiss job.”

  “Oh, that’s just great. What kind of person lets a dog lick his penis? That’s bestiality.”

  “No, Chelsea, bestiality is having sex with an animal.” Then Pepper jumped up and ran down to his groin, obviously wanting more. This sent Mohammed into a huge eruption of hysterics.

  “You have some serious problems and you should really think about talking to someone. Possibly a vet. And I’m not talking about the ones from Vietnam,” I told him.

  “It’s not like I was walking around swinging my dick in the air, taunting him. It was an accident!”

  “How someone lets a dog lick his penis accidentally is about as believable as me accidentally joining a flag-football team.”

  “I would believe that. I think you’ve proven once again today that your hand-eye coordination is tantamount only to Oksana Baiul and Tiger Woods.”

  “This isn’t funny. I leave for an hour and you hook up with a dog? You obviously can’t be trusted,” I declared, shrugging my shoulders.

  “Well, at least I stopped him when he went around to lick my ass.”

  “Okay,” I said as I walked over, picked Pepper up, and tossed him in his cage. “How many times did he lick it?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Your ass or your penis?”

  “My penis three or four; my ass, I stopped him before a full lick. I thought that was going too far.”

  “And did you do anything to Pepper?”

  “Chelsea, please.”

  “Chelsea, please? Please what? I think these are reasonable questions to ask someone who’s been intimate with a canine.”

  “No! I did NOT DO ANYTHING TO PEPPER…” Then, after a significant pause…“A little smack on the ass.”

  “That’s lovely.” For dramatic effect, I crossed my arms and moved my head in a circular motion like a seagull. “How do you feel about yourself?”

  “I feel great,” he said, changing the channel. “The problem is, Pepper liked it a lot, and he obviously has feelings for me. It’s not going to be easy to wean him.” Now Pepper was whining in his crate, staring at Mohammed, beckoning for him to come to his rescue. “It’s okay, little buddy, we’ll let you out again, once Chelsea calms herself down,” Mohammed told him in some sort of gross Persian baby talk.

  “Please stop talking to the dog like that.”

  “Does it make you jealous?” he asked.

  “No, it makes me nauseous.”

  My cell phone rang and I walked over to my purse to get it, all the while keeping my eyes on Mohammed and Pepper. The big dog was holding her head in both of her paws, still not ready to face the situation.

  “Yello?” I answered as I picked up the phone.

  “I am a real loser,” was the first thing Ivory said.

  “Why?” I asked, unmoved, as this was not an uncommon way for her to begin a conversation.

  “I just woke up alone in my bed with my pants around my ankles, my vibrator in between my legs, and my glasses on.”

  “You just woke up?” I asked, looking at the clock. “It’s five o’clock!”

  “That’s not really the point.”

  “Well, don’t feel too bad about yourself,” I said, returning to the death stare I was giving Mohammed. “Mohammed hooked up with a dog.”

  “Chelsea!” he hissed as he tossed a pillow at me.

  “What kind of dog?” Ivory asked.

  “A Peekapoo.”

  “Ew.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Chelsea, shut up, do not tell your friends that!” he said as he got of bed and started to run after me.

  “That’s right,” I told her, scurrying out of the bedroom. “And he liked it!”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Mohammed’s penis swinging in the wind while he was chasing me down the hall, making that the second time in my life since I was seven that I had been chased by a penis.

  “That’s pretty disgusting. I’m feeling a little better about myself now,” was the last thing she said before he grabbed the phone out of my hand, hung it up, and then tackled me to the floor. By this time Daisy had come out of her comatose state and was coming to my aid.

  “You better watch your ass,” I yelled at him in between breaths. “Here comes another dog!”

  Once we both caught our breaths, he urged me not to divulge this information to any of my other friends.

  “You made your bed, now you have to get blown by a dog in it,” I told him. “I just don’t understand why you would do something like that.”

  “I thought it was funny, and you do too.”

  “You’re mistaken.” There was something very unsettling about what had taken place. Even more unsettling than walking in on my father’s forty-five-year-old black housekeeper cleaning his kitchen in her underwear, with my mother obliviously knitting on a sofa in the living room and my father watching the cleaning lady through binoculars from another sofa twenty feet away.

  “Oh, please, I had a cousin whose wife let her dog go down on her,” Mohammed informed me.

  “What? What are you talking about?! This isn’t something that happens on a regular basis, Mohammed! Not in the United States, anyway. I mean, things like
this happen, but mostly with horses, and mostly in the south. And by the way,” I added, “people go to prison for it. I understand there was no penetration, and maybe this is big in the Middle East, but I would really appreciate it if you took a shower and got dressed. Somehow, I’ve developed an appetite.”

  Ivory called me back an hour later and said she was invited to a party in Malibu. “Bring the doggies; it’s outside, and I’d love to see them.” The fact that she had any interest in seeing dogs she had never met made me realize she was really desperate for company.

  Later that afternoon Mohammed and I grabbed the dogs, put them in his SUV, and drove out to Malibu. The house was big and beautiful, like most houses in Malibu, and belonged to some actor who I’d never heard of before. I spent most of the time inside, talking to Ivory and Lydia, and then I decided I should go find Mohammed.

  I found him lying on a chaise lounge by the pool, with Pepper in his arms and Daisy nowhere in sight. “What are you doing?” Judging from his closed eyes and the smile on his face, I had woken him from a wet dream. “Where’s Daisy?”

  “She’s on the beach. I tied her leash to the deck, she’s fine. I can’t let Pepper go; he just keeps attacking my package,” he said through clenched teeth. There were several people around and none of them were talking to Mohammed.

  “You look like a molester, sitting out here with that dog in a headlock. Let go of him.”

  “Fine,” he said, releasing his grip. “Watch.”

  Pepper jumped up, squealed, and then buried his head right between Mohammed’s legs.

  “See? He won’t stop! Everybody’s been watching.”

  “This is ridiculous.” I was thoroughly annoyed at this point, and walked back inside. Every time I looked outside, it was the same scenario playing out. Mohammed oohing and aahing with Pepper like they were having an affair behind my back. An hour later I had had enough and went and collected my dog whisperer and the two dogs. “Let’s go. I’m hot.”

  The rest of the weekend was spent with Pepper following Mohammed around the house like cheap perfume. After two full days of being rebuffed, Pepper finally gave up and put himself in a corner. Not only did he refuse to eat, but when Mohammed went anywhere near him, Pepper would shake violently and growl. He was spurned by his lover and his heart was breaking.

  Mohammed and I eventually broke up, but not because of Pepper. A couple of weeks later he took me to meet his parents, who lived in San Clemente, about an hour’s drive away. His father was nice enough, but his mother was not at all what I had expected. Not only was she extremely unpleasant, but she looked exactly like a man. She had an unreasonable amount of facial hair along with what appeared to be a large mole or herpes sore on the corner of her mouth that was sprouting additional facial hair. She had Nick Lachey’s body, a deep voice, very small boobies, and a crew cut. It would have come as no surprise if she had walked into the backyard to compete in a rock-hurling competition after dinner.

  I did not like the looks of her and was surprised that Mohammed had made no mention of the fact that he had two dads. Not only did she blow her nose several times during dinner, she barely spoke a word to me, and when she did, it was to ask me to pass her a turkey leg.

  “What’s the deal with your mom?” I asked him on the way home.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, don’t you think she’s kind of manly?” I asked him. “Does she lift weights?”

  Mohammed hit the roof upon hearing the last sentence and said I was a spoiled brat who was disrespectful and had no sensitivity. I was pretty surprised to see that side of him. He had no sense of humor about it, and was being very defensive and nasty. If we couldn’t laugh at his mother’s appearance, then what kind of future did we have?

  “I just asked you a question,” I said, hopping out of the car when he dropped me off without even pulling into the driveway. Without a response, he sped away, leaving me standing in the middle of the street.

  A year later I ran into him at a Starbucks. I was at the counter ordering a cappuccino when I saw him through the window, seated outside…with a Peekapoo. I walked outside and stood in front of him face to face. “Well, well, well. It looks like you really found what you were looking for, ya sick fuck.” A girl from inside walked up and stood next to us, glaring at me. It was clear she was with him.

  “Is this your dog?” I asked her.

  “No, it’s mine,” Mohammed answered.

  “I’ll bet it is, ya sicko. I’ll bet it is.”

  Then I turned to his new girlfriend and smiled big. “He’s so great with dogs. You can leave the two of them alone and you never have to worry about any hanky panky. I mean, unless you’re gone for more than an hour.”

  The look on her face was the perfect revenge. I patted her on the shoulder sympathetically, smiled at Mohammed, and turned on my heels to walk away triumphantly, knowing that I had delivered the perfect innuendo with considerable aplomb.

  It became clear as I got in my car that Persians are only really good for two things. Oil and hummus.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Re-Gift

  My friend Lydia and I had been living together in Santa Monica for two years. I was having a hard time learning the lesson of why it’s not a good idea to live with friends. Along with not drinking and driving, not having sex on the first date, and always carrying a tampon, this was yet another example of me learning my lessons the hard way.

  Lydia has the work ethic of Santa Claus: She prefers to take most of the year off. While my work ethic is not much better, at least I can blame my lack of motivation on the fact that Oprah and Dr. Phil now air back-to-back.

  Lydia was working freelance for a publicity firm that allowed her to go in for a couple of hours a day, or every other day. She preferred to “work from home,” or what I like to call “work from bed.” She got the job from a publicist friend of hers named Aubrey, who was a complete and utter basket case.

  At around noon on a Wednesday I got an e-mail from Lydia inviting me to Aubrey’s birthday dinner that very night. The e-mail was in the form of an Evite and was sent to Ivory, Ivory’s roommate Jen, and me. There was one other person on the list—someone I had never heard of but whose name I didn’t like the sound of. The number of invitees for her “thirtieth birthday bonanza” totaled five. And the heading read, “Aubrey wants to be with her closest friends for her birthday tonight. Can’t wait to see everyone!” Ivory’s roommate Jen had met Aubrey once.

  Aubrey is the type of girl who insists on telling unbearably long-winded stories that go absolutely nowhere with no point and no punch line. Not only does she present them as if she’s doing a one-woman show on Broadway, she takes painfully long pauses, leaving the listener wondering if the story has ended or if she is just making up details as she goes along. The most ridiculous part is that she tells these tales with the same gusto Richard Simmons would use to gear up for a back handspring. She’ll build up momentum tantamount to a downhill slalom, only to reveal after a laborious forty-five minute monologue that Mariah Carey likes to take baths with her dog. In between these painfully long diatribes she somehow also manages to insult the listener.

  “Chelsea,” she said upon meeting me for the first time, “I have to be honest, normally I don’t love dark roots on blondes, but it’s weird how they kind of frame your face. You’re so angular!”

  The backhanded compliments are not nearly as annoying as her stories, or the complete and utter disappointment you experience after getting sucked in to one of these tales expecting a pot of gold, only to get a pile of shit. Ignoring her is the obvious option, but it doesn’t work. The problem with this tactic is that if you look away or appear disinterested, she’ll simply turn up the volume. She’ll speak louder and louder until you are paying attention, and if you try to change the subject, she will interrupt you. The simple act of listening becomes exhausting. “Land the fucking plane!” you want to scream at her.

  Another unappealing quality about Aubrey is
that she is always telling you the kind of person she is. “I’m a very loyal friend,” she’ll tell you in the middle of one of her stories, with the emphasis on I’m. “I’m one of those people who will give someone the shirt off my back,” she’ll stand up to say, as if she was a rabbi giving a sermon.

  It’s been my experience that people who make proclamations about themselves are usually the opposite of what they claim to be. If someone truly is a loyal friend, then they wouldn’t need to broadcast it; eventually, people will figure it out. Who talks about themselves like that? I have a lot of good friends and not one of them ever introduced themselves by saying, “I’m a very good friend.”

  The more time I spent around Aubrey, the more I realized that she was simply born in the wrong decade and would have been better off doing vaudeville in the twenties. I made it very clear to Lydia that she wasn’t allowed to bring Aubrey around anymore.

  Unfortunately, Lydia is not a good listener.

  I promptly responded no to the Evite, wrote something about having diarrhea later that night, and headed back to bed to rub one out with my vibrator. A full minute hadn’t gone by before the phone rang, which I ignored. Then my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw Lydia’s cell phone number. “This is Chelsea,” I said upon answering the phone.

  “Chelsea!”

  “What?”

  “Listen, I don’t want to go to this fucking dinner either, but she is really upset about turning thirty and she’s not speaking to anyone in her family, and she really needs us there.”

  “What are you talking about, ‘needs us there’? I’m not even friends with her, and I don’t appreciate getting seven hours’ notice for someone’s birthday dinner,” I told her. “And by the way, the fact that she’s not speaking to anyone in her family is a pretty good indicator that she is the problem.”

  “I know, but she had no plans and I feel terrible. It won’t be bad if we all go.”

  “I have pinkeye.”

  “No, you do not.”

  “Yes, I do, my eyes are all red.”

  “That’s because you’re hungover.”