Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [57]
For many weeks following the snake incident I had rocks, dirt, or sand under my own pillow to welcome me each night.
Once Chelsea was a full-fledged teenager, our relationship hit new lows. She thought I was a band geek pansy and about as exciting as a sixty-year-old librarian. I thought she was a possessed and troubled degenerate on the fast track to trouble. We had absolutely nothing in common. I was very easily embarrassed, so she would yell “Bertha” at me in public and make everyone stop and look at us. It was horrifying, and basically the only time she spoke to me aside from swearing at me. She thought it was hysterical, and loved to see me squirm. We just couldn’t stand each other, and we even went through a couple of years when we didn’t speak to each other at all. She also raised hell with my parents.
The completion of her bat mitzvah was a miracle in itself. My brothers all had wagers with one another on whether it was actually going to take place. Most kids prepare for a couple of years. Chelsea regularly skipped her sessions with the cantor and rabbi. They had never in all their years at the temple worked with a child like her before. She regularly swore at them, she was always defiant, never prepared, and repeatedly said she wasn’t going to practice until a week before the ceremony. At one point, she slammed down the Torah and exclaimed that all this was practically child abuse, because she wasn’t ready to commit to having a bat mitzvah and wasn’t even sure she wanted to be a Jew. It wasn’t pretty, but in the end she somehow managed to pull it off without making any mistakes. This, of course, drove me insane, as I was silently hoping she would embarrass herself the way she had embarrassed me so many times, but on a bigger scale. Pure schadenfreude. Google it.
It wasn’t until I was twenty-four that I became determined to repair my relationship with Chelsea. I was single, living on my own in Seattle, and working as a registered nurse. I really wanted to take a trip to Hawaii, and I wanted Chelsea to come with me. Admittedly, I was a bit of a late bloomer, but I was finally ready to sow my wild oats. I thought maybe this trip would be a fresh start for Chelsea and me. We would rebuild our sisterly foundation on a big adventure—just the two of us.
I very excitedly called her up. “Chelsea!” I said, bursting at the seams. “Let’s go to Hawaii for a few days. I will pay for everything. It’ll be a blast, and I am sure you could use a few days off.” At the time, Chelsea was living in LA with our aunt and uncle, nine cousins, and six animals in a three-bedroom bungalow. She was waiting tables and auditioning in Hollywood.
My proposition was met with a long silence on the other end of the line. “Can I think about it and call you back?” she asked.
“Chelsea, really? You won’t go with me on vacation to Hawaii?”
“Shana, no offense, but you are not my idea of a good time.”
“I know, but I’m more fun now, and I promise we won’t fight. I’ll even promise to drink with you.” I had never been a big drinker, and Chelsea considered nondrinkers very untrustworthy.
Finally, she said, “Well, as much as going on a trip with you seems like watching paint dry, I could really use a break. Hawaii sounds pretty good actually. But you’d better cool it, Shana. Your enthusiasm is a little alarming. We are not planning a honeymoon here or going on a bunch of gay tours. I just want to chill out and relax. And drink.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. Chelsea probably had no intention of doing anything other than getting a borderline amazing tan and hooking up with a semi-hot Samoan dude, but I would try to wear her down. “Chelsea, we can’t go all the way to Hawaii and not even go to a luau. It would be sacrilegious.” I reminded her: “The drinks will be free-flowing, it’s only a couple of hours, and don’t forget, I’m picking up the tab for the whole trip.”
About six weeks later we took a red-eye flight to Hawaii. On the way, I made friends with my seatmate; she