Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [16]
“Heather, if you tell anyone I swear I will—”
“Of course I would never say anything, Chelsea. I won’t tell a soul, but I think it’s really great. I mean just think about all the…” As I continued to speak, Chelsea just turned her back to me and walked out of the kitchen in the middle of my sentence, which is something she does to me a lot, so I don’t take it personally, but what I was going to say was “just think of all the free high-end maternity clothes you are going to get!”
More important, Chelsea and I are roughly the same size. Well, her hips are smaller, but they wouldn’t be after she had a baby. My mind started wandering with thoughts of convincing my husband, Peter, to have just one more baby, based on the fact that I could get all of Chelsea’s hand-me-downs, both maternity and post-baby wardrobe. Once her hips expanded a little I’d be able to fit into all her designer dresses and not just her tops. Also, Chelsea’s shoe size is eight and a half, and mine is nine, but many women’s feet grow when they get pregnant and never go back to their original size, so I could benefit on that end, too! I left the kitchen shaking. I was actually more excited about the new office baby than I was about my delicious toasted cheese and jalapeño scooped-out bagel.
When I returned to my desk, I looked over at Fortune Feimster, my lesbian/officemate. I was just dying to tell her my juicy secret. She loves babies almost as much as I do, but I refrained, and instead went to my keyboard and typed in “Pea in a Pod” in the search engine. I started browsing all the new maternity clothes, which were so much more flattering than when I was pregnant three years earlier and cuter than ever. If it took a few months for me to get pregnant, my baby would be six months behind Chelsea’s, and if, God willing, they were the same sex, could you imagine the baby’s duds I’d get from her? Chelsea is obsessed with morbidly obese babies; she’d be overfeeding hers like crazy, so the little fat ass would probably wear each onesie only once, maybe twice, before my normal-proportioned baby got it.
That night, before Peter had even poured my first glass of buttery chardonnay, I told him about Chelsea’s pregnancy. He interrupted me with a “Will you just calm down? First of all, we’re not going to have another baby just because Chelsea is having one, and she has said a million times she doesn’t want kids, so she’ll probably abort.”
“Peter! Shhh!” I hissed as I looked around to see if either of our boys was within earshot. “Don’t talk like that.” Then I got back on track. “She just has to get used to the idea of how cute the maternity clothes can be. Maybe E! will build a daycare center in our building. Ted would do anything for Chelsea. That would be so convenient.”
I imagined being able to use the carpool lane on the 405 Freeway every day from the Valley to the Westside legally. I currently keep a toddler dummy in my youngest’s car seat, and if I’m really running late I’ll actually take one of the children with me and have Peter pick him up later. With a real infant, I wouldn’t have to constantly be looking in my rearview window for a cop while planning my excuse. I know if I got pulled over, I would ask the cop if his girlfriend, wife, or boyfriend was a Chelsea Lately fan, and God willing, they would be, in which case I would offer up Chuy popping out of a cake for their next birthday party in exchange for being let off.
The following few days I was so distracted thinking about Chelsea’s and my pregnancies. This could be the glue that would hold us together for life. There was no way she would have more than one kid. She wouldn’t let a mistake like this happen to her again, so her child would need a friend who understood the trials and tribulations of having a parent in show business. My older son already has two best friends who are both only children. Their parents invite us to USC games and to stay at their ski house and lake cabin, all to appease