Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [78]
Chelsea flourished at the Alternative School because absolutely nothing was expected of the students there. Self-study was the prescribed teaching plan; this entailed reading books of your own choice and talking about them later whenever the hell you felt like it. Homework didn’t exist, teacher interaction was like camp counselor interaction, and attendance was not viewed as an indicator of achievement. Lunch was served, but only after most students got high together. There were only a small number of students at the Alternative School, and the student-teacher-asshole ratio was nil. My mother often asked Chelsea how her day at school was. “Reeeally good” was Chelsea’s general reply, which was proof-positive that nothing educational was happening. Chelsea continued to have minor flare-ups and meltdowns during her last two years at Happy High School, mostly mild bouts of teenage girl clinical insanity, but they were relatively benign compared to her much more turbulent early teen years.
The longer-term concern, though understated, was what the hell would happen with Chelsea when she was finished with Happy High School. The other five siblings had mysteriously found random professions—mechanical engineer, culinary chef, CPA, lawyer, and registered nurse—but somehow a profession didn’t quite seem plausible or logical for Chelsea. She clearly didn’t belong in college—or high school, for that matter. Neither my family nor I had any idea what would become of her. She was clearly entertaining to be with, but how was that going to translate into supporting herself, given her exasperating, volatile, and unpredictable daily behavior? Maybe she’d turn out fine, but she might just as easily spiral violently out of control. Because of her penchant for an off-the-charts lifestyle, I was impressed that she was even alive and had avoided a fatal accident, the mental ward, and spontaneous personal combustion.
After high school, she attended a semester and a half at the local county college, but everyone knew it was a charade, like putting a tomato in the microwave and expecting a nice glass of tomato juice to jump out after two minutes on high. After dropping out of college, she waited tables and drank her way around New Jersey for another year or two before getting bored. At that point, I used some frequent flyer miles and brought nineteen-year-old Chelsea to Los Angeles to visit our aunt, uncle, and nine cousins.
Before the return trip to the airport, I said, “Chelsea, let’s go to LAX. We have to fly back to New Jersey.”
She faked a polite “have a good flight” to me and stayed in Los Angeles for good. That was the beginning of Chelsea’s brand-new foundation of fresh lies to be shared with a brand-new audience of unsuspecting Angelinos.
When I returned to New Jersey, my parents, in a rare act of parenting, asked, “Where’s Chelsea, Glen?”
“Don’t worry, Mom, Dad. I donated her to Los Angeles.”
My brother Glen thinks that he is the funniest and smartest person in the family. He is funny, but I don’t find him hilarious. They all had to put up with a lot of my chicanery and wild ways, and the truth is, they’ve all been rewarded tenfold for it.
—Chelsea
Exhibit A: The five of us in Anguilla this past Christmas. Shabbat shalom.
The following is an example of a typical birthday note Glen sends me each year. I’m convinced that he’s convinced himself