Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [58]
“What the hell did you do that for?” I said.
“Well,” Chelsea said, “two reasons, really. Number one, you didn’t shut the fuck up the entire flight. It’s a red-eye, but thanks to you I didn’t get any sleep. And number two is for accusing me of farting on a flight. Shame on you, Debbie. Shame on you.”
We stepped out of the airport and hailed a taxi. In Oahu, or any tropical destination for that matter, any hotel worth squat is on the beach. I know that now. Back then, however, I thought near the beach was good enough, right? Plus I would save a few bucks. As our taxi started heading away from the beach, Chelsea yelled, “What is happening? We are in Hawaii, I just spent what seemed like four years on a plane, and now the beach is disappearing. Shana! What is going on? Where the hell are we staying?” she screamed.
“Oh… well, I got a great deal at this place in town. It’s just a half mile walk to the beach.”
“Oh, that sounds fabulous,” she mumbled.
We pulled up to the Grand Hotel (not so grand) and I hit the driver with my big tip (not). Later Chelsea lit into me about the standards and practices of tipping. Since she’d joined the service industry as a waitress in LA, tipping had become a very sensitive issue for her. My low tip evidently was unacceptable and not to be repeated. To this day, you are not to argue with Chelsea when she hands you a ridiculous amount of money to give to a waitress, hotel employee, or concierge at a hotel. I’m not rich, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about pocketing some of the money she’s instructed me to hand out to people on islands we will never see again.
After getting a few hours of sleep, I suggested we check out the hotel pool. We headed up to the cement rooftop pool and made a quick U-turn. It was not a pretty picture: a bunch of beer-bellied, bald, leering assholes in the Jacuzzi and a pool of questionable water color. Upon seeing all this, Chelsea decided to take the reins on our daily plans. She told me we were hoofing it to Waikiki Beach and to put on my walking shoes. I wasn’t much for exercise or exerting any kind of physical energy, but I agreed, only after she told me my bathing suit looked a little too snug in the rear. Her exact words were “Your ass looks like Delta Burke trying to crawl through a tennis racket.”
After much complaining on my part and both of us sweating like pigs carrying our crap to the beach in ninety-plus-degree heat, we finally arrived. Chelsea scoped out a decent-looking hotel on the beach with a great pool and a guest population that appeared to be under forty. “Shana, let’s find our spot. Don’t worry, we’ll blend right in,” she assured me.
“I really don’t know about this, Chelsea,” I said.
I grabbed two chaise lounges close to the pool, and we set up shop and caught some rays. We got pretty hungry and figured we should try to order some food. I picked out a few items on the menu, and Chelsea signaled the waiter to give him our order.
He asked for our room number and she blurted out, “Twelve twenty-one.” I, a rotten liar, felt uncomfortable. The waiter looked at the two of us suspiciously but finally walked away.
“Shana, what’s the matter with you? Just go with the flow.”
Our food arrived, and a short time later the waiter came back and said that there must be some mistake with our room number. “I am going to have to see your room key, miss.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, there must be a misunderstanding. Maybe I got the number backward or something.” Chelsea rifled through her bag, as though she were looking for the key. I was shaking in my flip-flops and not being much of a wing woman. Chelsea was going to have to handle this solo. “You know what? I can’t believe it, but I think I lost it swimming at the beach earlier. How about if we just pay in cash?”
“This pool and bar are for hotel guests only, miss,” the waiter said.
“Are