Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [12]
While I was busy being enamored of all things breathing, and imagining a world made of unicorns and gumdrops, Chelsea was being a solid Marine who wouldn’t leave a man behind. Later, at nine the next morning, she broke into Chuck’s apartment through the kitchen window and dragged me out. After we got to her place, she sat me down and played a video she had taken when we were all at Chuck’s apartment. She had left me there for the night when it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere that didn’t involve penis, but made sure to be there bright and early the next morning.
“This is what you did last night. Are you proud of yourself?” she queried, then continued when I found I couldn’t speak. “Under no circumstances is it okay to do naked cartwheels in front of anyone,” she firmly stated. “I don’t care how much Ecstasy you took. And Chuck? Really? He has the complexion of a rhinoceros’s ass.”
“But I had fun, right?” I asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“It sort of is—”
“Look at yourself. You look like you belong in a women’s shelter.”
She directed me to the full mirror in her bedroom, which was covered with Post-its filled with obscure words she’d copied from the dictionary in an attempt to expand her vocabulary. Damn, that girl was always trying to better herself. Between gelid and myocardial infarction, I saw myself.
“Oh, my God!” I shouted. Apparently sometime before or after participating in my own rendition of Cirque du Offensive, I had slept with Chuck, who did have the skin of a rhino’s ass, which had apparently been rubbed all over my body. All night.
She shook her head, disgusted as she applied antibiotic ointment to the myriad wounds covering me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Be sorry for yourself. If you were still in your twenties, maybe this would be acceptable.”
I considered this as she put a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid on my chin, the only kind of Band-Aid Chelsea uses. “You’re right, CJ. Thanks.”
“No problem, honey bunny. Now put on a bra. We’re going running.”
“I was thinking maybe I’d journal or something.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone with your thoughts right now.” She sized me up then grabbed two bras from a drawer and threw them at me. “Jesus, when did your boobs get so big?”
As we ran that morning she grilled me about my career and love life, which were at that point both turning up big fat goose eggs. Even though she was doing what she always did, trying to cheer me up and help me pull my head out of my ass, it didn’t work. The downward spiral continued, with a lot of partying, which led to a general lack of productivity. Chelsea was unimpressed with my lack of progress reports and suggested one of her vacations, which anyone with a pulse would enjoy, to help get me out of my funk.
“That sounds amazing!” I exclaimed, then proceeded to ask her who was bringing the drugs, specifically the Ecstasy.
“Really, Stephanie? After everything we talked about?”
“It’s vacation! Come on, people are going to love it!”
Chelsea stared at me for a moment then let out one of those guttural sighs signifying supreme annoyance. She said, “I’ll take care of it,” and walked away.
On the day we were leaving, as I was about to enter the Santa Monica hangar where Chelsea had chartered the flight, she approached me with a very delicate matter.
“What are you saying? You want me to be your drug mule or something?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she calmly replied.
“But I thought you said you—”
“If you want them, bring them.”
“I’m willing to do that,” I quickly responded.
“Here’s a bunch. Now stick ’em up in there,” she said, handing me a Ziploc bag filled with little blue pills and directing me toward the women’s room.
“Wait, what if I get caught?”
“I’ll bail you out and hire you a good lawyer. Simone. Simone’s an excellent attorney.”
I knew her sister was a lawyer and assumed she was a good one, as I’d met her and she had seemed smart. “Doesn’t she do patents or something?