Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [47]
The trip back was another long day of traveling. I kept thinking about the poor fools back at the hotel who would fall prey to Chelsea’s voodoo. All in all, Zoughi and I made it through the trip relatively unscathed.
When we walked in the door to our apartment, there were about a dozen flower arrangements scattered throughout the living room. I had no idea what they were for.
I started to read the cards: “Congrats you guys!” “So happy for you.” “You deserve it.”
Most of them were from family members and close friends, so I figured they were for our engagement—until I came across a card that read, “Can’t wait to be an auntie!”
“Auntie? Maybe these are for the wrong apartment.”
The doorbell rang. Another delivery.
“Hi, this is for a Zoo-wa—”
“Zoughi,” I interjected.
“Yeah, can you sign here?”
This one read, “Zoughi, hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.”
I didn’t get it. Sympathy and congratulations?
I turned on my BlackBerry, and text messages started pouring in. Clearly I had to Sherlock Holmes this situation. There was a series of texts from Zoughi’s brother, Farshad. I called him.
“Oh, my God,” he said upon hearing my voice. “Are you okay? How are you feeling? How’s my brother doing?”
“Good, we just got home.”
“Cool. Have you told anyone in the family yet?”
“No, we literally just got in. Feel free to spread the word.”
“Does my brother know?”
“Know what?”
“About the e-mail you sent earlier.”
Farshad then forwarded me an e-mail that I had supposedly written to my soon-to-be brother-in-law. It read:
I JUST TOOK A PREGNANCY TEST. I’M PREGNANT AND I’M NOT KIDDING. I’M ON MY WAY HOME.
Just then, it all made sense. Chelsea was continuing to fuck with me. From three thousand miles away. Impressive.
“Oh, my god, Zoughi, where is my iPad?”
“I don’t know. You packed it.”
I texted Chelsea. “Hey, did I leave my iPad there?”
No response for a few minutes. Then: “You’re a hot mess.”
And there was my answer. I had left my iPad in Chelsea’s room in the Bahamas and she had randomly e-mailed a bunch of people from my address book. Since Chelsea is electronically challenged, I was surprised she’d figured out how to use the iPad to begin with.
She’d created a real shit storm in my conservative, Catholic family, who now thought the reason I was getting married was because I was pregnant. For weeks everyone was talking about my shotgun wedding and how I needed to buy a new wedding dress that would flatter a pregnant belly. This, of course, was hilarious to Chelsea.
It wasn’t until everyone came back from the Bahamas that the sympathy cards for Zoughi started to make sense as well.
When I was at dinner with Ivory one night, she asked, “So how’s Zoughi doing?”
“He’s good. Back to work.”
“Well, that’s good. Does he need surgery?”
“For what?”
“His knee!”
Ivory could see by the look on my face that I had no idea what she was talking about. “Chelsea told us what happened,” she said, giggling.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what happened, since apparently I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Chelsea said that when he fell, he busted his knee.”
“He didn’t fall!”
“She said that night you left early, you and Zoughi had taken peyote and you guys were rolling—”
“Peyote?”
“Yeah. I thought it was weird, but she said there had been a resurgence in Middle Easterners using peyote.”
“Uh-huh.” I couldn’t wait to hear what line of bullshit was coming next.
“And that you guys had crazy sex and Zoughi fell off the bed and broke his knee.”
“From the peyote?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Ivory, peyote is for Native American Indians. Zoughi is fucking Persian. How do you think we would even get peyote in the Bahamas?”
“She said that Zoughi always travels with it. Like a ritual. Oh, my God, I can’t believe I am so stupid. What is wrong with all of us? Chelsea begged me not to