Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [17]
On Wednesday, after we finished taping, Chelsea was walking down the hall outside the writers’ offices yelling, “Who wants to go to Katsuya tonight?”
Chris Franjola rolled his chair out from his cube and shouted, “I’m free, Chelsea.”
“Yes, I want to go,” yelled Sarah Colonna.
“I wouldn’t mind a little tuna tartare,” stated Steve Marmalstein.
I love Katsuya. It’s a super chic sushi spot close to the office. My kids can wait another hour to see me tonight, I thought as I yelled down the hall after Chelsea, “I can go, too!” Then it hit me. Chelsea was pregnant, so she couldn’t eat sushi. The mercury in the fish is said to cause autism. You would think Chelsea would have known this, since she was good friends with Jenny McCarthy. Good thing I was going, so I could remind her to order some chicken teriyaki.
At the restaurant, before we’d even slid into our booth, Chelsea asked the waiter, “May I have a Belvedere on the rocks with just a splash of soda and a wedge of lemon please?”
“Chelsea, you can’t drink. The baby’s head will come out a quarter of the size it is supposed to,” I whispered as we continued to scoot down the bench farther into the booth.
“I’m only going to sip it so the others don’t get suspicious,” she said. “If I don’t order a drink, they’ll know something is up.”
“So you’re definitely keeping it?” I asked with relief.
“Keeping what?” asked Chris.
“My car. I’m going to keep it for another year,” Chelsea said nonchalantly as she winked at me.
Oh, my God, my prayers had been answered. Chelsea really was going to have this baby. I was so happy. I love Katsuya and I love the Westside. Maybe by the time our babies entered kindergarten, we could move from the Valley to the Westside, since Chelsea’s baby was going to want its best friend in the same classroom. Of course I would want to go to St. Martins, the Catholic school in Brentwood, but Chelsea wouldn’t be down with that. Then again, Ted had been raised Catholic. Or we could send both kids to that amazing public elementary school I’d heard about on the morning news, where the parents sleep in tents the week before registration to make sure their kids get in. I would do that. Then my older boys could go to Loyola, an all-boys high school that is too far from our house now.
I was thinking how this was all going to be so great until halfway through the dinner, when Chelsea ordered another Belvedere and soda. So much for sipping her drink. It hadn’t even been twenty minutes. Then she proceeded to eat an entire bowl of steamed clams, a plate of tuna sashimi, and a plate of yellowtail with jalapeños. I kept taking my chopsticks and eating as much of the heavy-mercury-filled uncooked fish as humanly possible, but as soon as a dish was done, Chelsea would order more for the table. At this point I felt full and pissed off. Everyone knows you don’t consume alcohol or eat sushi when you’re pregnant.
When Chelsea got out of the booth to go to the bathroom, I followed her, which annoyed everyone, because I was opposite her at the end of the table, so every single person had to exit the booth. When we got in the bathroom I looked around to make sure we were alone and then said, “Chelsea, seriously, you can’t continue to drink unless it’s after your fifth month of pregnancy, and only if it’s chardonnay. I know because that’s what I did, and both the boys seem to be fine. But you really can’t eat all that seafood. It’s been proven to cause autism, I think. What is your plan? Have you ever eaten gluten-free lasagna? It is not