Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang (4 page)

I nearly jumped out of my skin when my landline rang. I had heard it ring before but was unsure who was calling or how to answer the phone. I looked at it, looked at my BlackBerry, then decided to go to the kitchen and see if the phone in there was any more user-friendly.

I ran out of the bedroom, but in my path was a fork that I vaguely remember hearing fall from one of my plates earlier. In order to avoid stepping directly onto its tines, I maneuvered myself to land directly into the wall. I fall on a pretty regular basis, so I was able to recover quickly enough to yell, "Chelsea, what the fuck is wrong with you? Get your shit together!" Then I got up to make myself a Bloody Mary. My BlackBerry started ringing, and I could see on the screen that it was Ted calling.

"Chunk?" I asked when he answered the phone.

"What's wrong, Chunk?" he asked.

"I just fell and hit my head."

"Are you okay?"

"Not really. I'm watching
Sex and the City: The Movie
!" I sobbed into the phone.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I'm so upset," I managed to get out between wails. "P-p-please t-t-t-tell me y-y-you would never leave me at the altar if we got married."

"But you don't even want to get married," he reminded me.

"Who?"

"When?"

"I said, p-promise me-e-e-e-e-e that you will never humiliate me in public, and you'll n-n-n-ever do anything that will make me break up with you."

"I would never do that to you. You'll probably do it to me, but I would never do it to you."

"That's sweet, Chunk. Thank you. I have to go now."

"Honey, maybe you should get up and go for a run or go out. You sound awful. You can't just watch movies all day. Is it nice out?"

"No. There are forty-mile-an-hour winds and it's hailing, Ted."

"Well, it can't be
hailing.
"

"You don't know what's going on here. This isn't some walk in the park like Hawaii, okay? I am deep in the trenches of Southern California."

"Okay, well, why don't you call Hannah or Sarah and go see one of your girlfriends. Are you getting any writing done?"

"I have to go," I said. "I need to learn how to answer the phone."

"You just have to push 'talk.' We've been through this several times. You know this. The whole point of you not coming to Hawaii was so that you would write your book. Please get some work done."

"No, the whole point of you going to Hawaii without me was that you were being so irrational about buying the dolphin."

He groaned. "Enough already. We cannot get a dolphin. I have looked into it, and a single-family house is not big enough to have a dolphin. You were on the speaker-phone when we talked to the Humane Society, Chelsea. And if you remember correctly, their suggestion was that you don't get any pets, period."

I decided to ignore this comment and pressed forward. "Why can't we just get a baby dolphin and I'll smoke a bunch of pot around it so it doesn't grow?"

"Is this conversation over, or are we still talking?"

"No one in the building has to know. We can bring it up through the balcony outside."

"Chelsea, we can't get a dolphin. This isn't an aquarium, and there is no way to hide transporting a dolphin through our balcony. This isn't a private residence. It's a condominium. There are people everywhere. If you know a dolphin dealer who can get a little-person dolphin, then I will do everything in my power to get you one, but my fear is that it will continually just head-butt itself into the front of the fish tank. There is a limit to how big the fish tank can be, and condo living is no life for a dolphin. I told you I can get you a tiger shark. That's legal."

"Fine, you want to get that shark, we'll get that shark. Oh, I'm going to get that shark all right. I'm going to sit in front of the fish tank and give it the finger all day long while I watch it head-butt itself."

I threw my BlackBerry against the wall.

"This is what Ted had intended all along," I said to one of the knives lying on the counter. "To render me completely useless. To have me be dependent on him for everything, so if I ever broke free, I would be forced to return if I wanted to watch TV or preheat an oven again."

What a sham. I looked at the sun desperately trying to creep in from outside, and I felt awful. Why couldn't it just start raining so I would stop feeling so guilty about lying around in my bra and underwear in an environment that would surely be awarded an F by the Health Department?

While I was pouring myself a vodka and Clamato juice, I briefly considered going for a run, and instead I went into my bathroom to get a Vicodin I had left over from the batch I was given after my vaginal-rejuvenation surgery. Before long I drifted into a very relaxing siesta.

When you roll over in bed in the morning and hit a plate with the side of your head, you know things have gotten carried away. When you toss that plate on the floor, roll back over, and fall asleep again, you've hit another dimension. When you look at the clock and realize it's not morning but still the day before, you're either in Australia or you've gone into another dimension that isn't easy to get out of. It takes a discipline that is common only among Cheesecake Factory managers and people who maintain a weight over 350 pounds.

Our landline rang again, and this time I pressed "talk."

"Caller, go ahead."

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

"Did you go for a run?"

"Yes."

"Are you writing?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Ted."

"Caller, who are you calling for?"

"The building Realtor wants to show our place tomorrow."

"Negative."

"Because you don't want to clean it or because you want to just lie around all day in your bra?"

"I don't want to clean
and
I want to lie around in my bra, plus I've sustained an injury. Tomorrow's Sunday. Who knows when I'll wake up? It could be noon, it could be four."

"Okay, I can cancel the showing, but then they'll want to come Monday. So should I have Maria come Monday morning, or do you think you'll be able to clean up yourself?"

"I think you should call Maria."

After we hung up, I looked at the clock. Eight P.M. Perfect movie starting time. I scrolled down and saw
Sex and the City
starting again at eight. I could have climaxed right there and then. I walked into my bathroom and saw a soup spoon on the scale and, next to a box of tissues, a cheeseburger ball half on a plate and half on the countertop. I couldn't believe that a tiny little cheeseburger was big enough to split into two on two different surfaces. Those Lean Pockets are full of scientific surprises. I didn't know what was happening to me, but I couldn't fight it. I had to go with my creator.

The fact that
Sex and the City: The Movie
had come out a year before and I'd had less than no desire to see it yet was about to buckle myself in for a second showing in less than twelve hours meant that all proverbial ducks were not in a row. They weren't even ducks. They were seagulls. Dirty seagulls.

I hated Big. I hated everything about him and this story line. First of all, it didn't make any sense that he was getting out of the car to tell her he would marry her and never once said that when she's throwing the flowers at him. I wanted Big dead. I wanted to take the fork that was sitting in my bathroom and stab him in the eyes, right where he has those big puffy circles under them. Stupid-ass shitstain motherfucker. Then Carrie wastes all of her energy being mad at Miranda when the real problem was and always will be Charlotte. Forget what Miranda told Big about getting married. How about being mad at Charlotte for being so stupid? The only decent thing Charlotte's ever done on the show or in the movie is shit her pants, and that does not make up for years of Type 1 retardation.

My friend Sarah called me at around seven-thirty to ask me what time I wanted to go to our friend's barbecue. "Not happening," I told her. "Shit's really hit the fan over here big-time."

"Are you crying?"

"Yes. Have you seen
Sex and the City
?"

"Really, Chelsea?"

"Yes! Really! You were left at the altar, Sarah. Hello! Have some compassion for Sarah Jessica Parker." (See
Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea.
)

"So you're going to stay in bed on a Saturday night crying? Is that your game plan?"

"That's my plan, but it ain't no game, girl."

"Have fun. Call me tomorrow if we're all doing happy hour."

"I'll be there for happy hour." I hung up the phone.

My Bloody Mary from earlier had evaporated, so I went to make myself another one and was glad to see the sun had gone down. "Thank God."

As I was stirring my drink, I asked the Clamato juice container, "What is Clamato juice exactly? It sounds like a yeast infection."

After reviewing the label and coming upon the words "clam juice," then spitting out my drink, I moved on to my next drink of choice when resting. A scotch neat with a splash of Crystal Light Hawaiian Punch.

Back in the bedroom, I pressed "play" on the remote, and in doing so felt like I was finally taking control of the situation. Now the girls were in Mexico, and Sarah Jessica Parker was listless and slept and didn't eat. Conversely, I was in Marina del Rey, in my bed, crying into my scotch. I wished Sarah Jessica Parker and I could be in bed together so I could roll over, brush her cheek, and assure her that everything would be okay. Then I remembered that having a guest visit would require me to tidy up. And I was back to being okay without company.

I fell asleep again toward the end of the movie, so I've now seen the movie twice and never seen the ending. I know that Sarah Jessica Parker and Big get back together, but I don't approve of it, and I won't endorse it. The more interesting news is that I woke up the next morning, got out of bed, took a look around my condo, and got right back into bed.

Another sunrise, another movie marathon. The next morning I worked my way up to Lifetime, but after two commercial breaks I was back to the Starz networks. There's nothing more annoying than infomercials when you can't find your wallet.

After viewing
Reservation Road
,
Revolutionary Road
, and one episode of
Real Housewives of Orange County
, I went online to shop for a handgun with the letter
R
on the barrel.

Sarah called me at around 3:00 P.M. on Sunday, and I burst into tears.

"Chelsea," she said, "you sound like a real asshole. Get your ass out of bed and get in the shower."

"I know! I want to, but I can't. You should see this place. I don't even know how to begin cleaning."

"Don't clean anything. You don't even know how to clean. You're a hot mess."

"I can't go out.
Grey Gardens
is on later, and I need to hear Drew Barrymore's accent."

"Chelsea, you are
Grey Gardens
!"

It dawned on me that she was indeed correct. "Too soon, Sarah. Too soon."

"Just TiVo it."

"What do you think, I live inside a Best Buy?"

"Well, I blame Ted for that. You're practically crippled. I'm surprised you can even answer the phone."

"That's what I keep saying!"

"To Ted?"

"No, to myself."

"Exactly."

"You are supposed to be a grown-up. You have your own television show."

"But it's on E!"

"I know, but you still have a whole staff that is depending on you."

"To go to happy hour?"

"To stay somewhat sane."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you."

"Yeah, so get your shit together. Your shit is
not
together."

"Okay."

"Do you even know how to use the shower?"

"Sometimes." I hung up, took off my bra and underwear, threw them both in the garbage, and got my shit together. I then gave myself a full-body examination, to eliminate the threat of adult-onset bedsores. "All clear!"

After my shower I felt like I had a new lease on life. I knew if I really stayed focused and applied myself, I could actually TiVo
Grey Gardens
later that night. I walked to my car with a little extra bounce in my step and also a little limp, glad I was able to handle some sort of electronics without anyone else's assistance. I now have a season pass to
Grey's Anatomy
.

Chapter Four

Dudley

E
very once in a while, I like to send out an all-staff e-mail to find out who the dumbest people working on my show are. The e-mail below is something I asked my assistant to devise based on the fact that we still had a doctor's table for a skit we did on the show called "Dr. Lately." Since production had paid to rent the table and we still had it for a few days, I thought it made perfect sense to get our money's worth and see how many people would believe that a gynecologist was coming in to perform a couple of Pap smears. Here is what Eva sent out to the staff:

Hi there,

Dr. Clara, MD, will be here on
Tuesday, April 14th from 4:30-6:30pm
. She is available for individual concentration and will be setting up 20-30 minute appointments on stage 2. Dr. Clara is dedicated to providing outstanding care for patients needing pap smears, adolescent medicine, gynecology, infertility, high-risk obstetrics, STD testing and questions relating to male/female health overall. Space is limited so please email me if you would like to schedule an appointment. She will also be providing the appropriate garments for any examinations. Prices and co-pay vary depending on insurance and for more information on Dr. Clara, MD, and her practice, visit: West Los Angeles Women's
Care.com
.

Thanks!!

I had Eva CC my boyfriend, Ted, on the e-mail so that he could be aware of how I was spending my day, especially since he also happens to be the CEO of the network that my show is on. Ted's office is in a different building from ours, so we are essentially unsupervised and generally unproductive. Ted, instead of realizing that this was obviously a joke, responded with this e-mail to Eva:

Don't say anything yet to CH but having outside Dr in is a problem as outlined below. I'm going to try to help here but at the very least, the dr is going to have to sign a letter indemnifying us.

Generally speaking, this is something we would suggest we avoid and not do on our premises... but it also seems as if the wheels have already been put in motion so we need to consider how to handle that as well...

Below is the e-mail Ted received from his legal team later that day, which he forwarded to Eva:

Here are two preliminary concerns. There may be an expressed or implied endorsement of this particular physician by us taking such an active role in setting her appointments and allowing her to conduct those appointments on premises, most specifically, pap smears. If the company is perceived as endorsing this physician, do we take on the liability for anything this physician does (including a misdiagnosis?). Second concern is that if there is any medical treatment actually taking place on our premises, are we covered for that from an insurance perspective.

I am checking on these specifically with outside counsel and will get back to you soon. I can tell you most definitely, that any fertility treatments raise a red flag.

As soon as I finished reading the e-mail, I picked up the phone and called Ted. "Do you really think that I'm going to have girls in our office go down to Stage 2 on their lunch break for a quick vagina assessment?"

"Chelsea."

"Ted."

"Chelsea."

"Ted."

"Jesus, Chelsea."

He put his phone down and yelled, "It's a joke. There's no gynecologist. It's Chelsea being an asshole. Again."

"Ted," I said, "did you even read that e-mail that Eva sent? It said the doctor would be available for male/female health-related questions. What gynecologist services men? Either you're a gynecologist or you aren't. You're not a man doctor for women."

"How would I know that?"

"Because you're a man! Have
you
ever been to a gynecologist?"

"I can't believe I fall for this shit."

"I thought I was being nice by including you in the joke, and now the joke is on you. Not the two girls on staff who have already booked their appointments."

"Oh, my God."

"I know."

"Are you going to film it?"

"I hadn't gotten that far, because there was a little bump in the road named Ted."

"Chelsea, I don't have time for this shit. Now I have to go clear this up."

"Ted, the e-mail also said 'individual
concentration
.' It's 'consultation.' What the hell is an individual concentration?"

"Well, I don't know what you girls do in your appointments, Chelsea. That cost us money. You're paying the legal fees. We had to hire outside counsel."

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm calling. I assumed you would know that I wouldn't be doling out fertility treatments on a fake doctor's table at the studio."

"That
is
something you would do!"

"Really?"

"Yes, you're fucking crazy, and you
would
do something like that, and you're paying the legal bills."

"I'll be happy to."

"Good, we'll send you the bill."

"Good. I'd like to frame it and put it in my office."

In true Ted form, he was not in on the joke, which is basically the foundation of our relationship. No matter how much time goes by, I am still able to make him believe stories that no one who has completed high school would believe. On separate occasions I've convinced him that I paid sixteen thousand dollars for a pair of sunglasses, that I donated ten thousand dollars to a charity that helps prevent pit bulls from being forced to wear rhinestone collars, and that a pair of my shoes came with two Swiss Army knives under the soles. The jokes are never well-thought-out plans, more like happy accidents that just pop into my head when I look out the window. That is exactly what happened a few weeks later when Dudley came into our life.

My agents at the time wanted to throw a little congratulatory party celebrating a new deal I had signed. One of them was named John, and he was a rather unusually muscular gay man who lived with an even more unusually muscular gayer man and shared with him an English bulldog named Dudley.

Their house was in the Hollywood Hills and was decorated the exact way you would expect a couple of gay bear millionaires living in the Hollywood Hills to decorate: very masculine, very expensive, and a lot of lubrication.

The house was filled with beautiful art and had a very modern but luxuriously comfy feel. Like a resort. A resort with a prison shower the size of a mosh pit and enough waterfalls for a stranger to slip into another stranger's asshole without a moment's notice. In other words, the kind of spa two gay bears from the Hollywood Hills would like to run.

There were only about nine of us at the little soiree: Ted, two of my agents (John, Claire), my attorney (Jake), my partner (Tom) and his wife (Beth), and Eva, my assistant. I planted myself on the sofa and was talking to Beth and Eva when Dudley sauntered over with his ass in the air, the way only an English bulldog can do.

Dudley was a dick from the word go. He was sniffing around the hors d'oeuvres while simultaneously licking my uncovered leg, so I immediately gave him a fried ravioli. The setback occurred when Dudley thought the fried ravioli was accompanied by the black cocktail napkin it was on, both of which he demolished with little or no struggle from me.

I did make a moderate attempt to save the napkin, but after one overly aggressive tug from Dudley I decided it would make less of a scene if I just gave the napkin to him rather than get down on my knees and wrestle a bulldog. I felt I had maybe made the wrong decision when I looked at Eva, who was staring at the dog, horrified, as the last corner of the napkin disappeared.

"I think we should tell them that their dog just swallowed a napkin," she said, getting up.

I pulled her down to her seat. "No. It's fine. I give napkins to dogs all the time."

Ted walked over to us just as Dudley was ready for more, and I told him what happened. "Oh, he'll be fine," he said. "It's just a napkin."

"It was a four-ply napkin," Eva told him.

"Okay, cool it," I told her, glaring. "It's fine. I didn't know I had hired a vet," I mumbled loudly enough for her to hear.

"Those dogs can eat anything," Ted said, dragging me by my arm. "Come on, Chelsea. I found another waterfall."

Dudley, of course, was hot on my tail from then on, knowing he had found an ally. "I hope the dog doesn't throw up. At least while we're here," I told Ted as he pulled me outside into a scene out of a Costa Rican bathhouse, but classier.

"We have to get the name of their designer," he exclaimed with a little too much excitement. "This guy is a genius. You can put waterfalls wherever you want."

"Ted, we live in a condo. This compound is more along the lines of an anal jungle. We can't just rip out our roof and stare at the moon. I can find out where we can get those little glow-in-the-dark stars and glue them to the ceiling. Then you can go off."

"Well, we can think of something. This is amazing! What is that smell?"

"It's Dudley," I lied. "It's the napkin."

Actually I had farted, but I sensed an opening in my path, and, not yet knowing in which direction it was headed, I had to leave all options open.

"Is it okay to give a dog shellfish?" I asked.

"Is that what you gave him?"

"Yeah. That crab thing they were passing around."

"I don't know, but don't give him any more. I don't think dogs can eat crab," he said, grimacing at Dudley. "Come to the bathroom. I want to show you this bidet I want us to get."

"I've seen three bidets in fifteen minutes. I'm good."

"God, it reeks. What the hell kind of napkin was that?"

"The crab was wrapped in butter lettuce. Maybe that's it."

"Oooh, that sounds good. I'm gonna go grab one."

On the way home that night, I mentioned Dudley once more in the car and then let it go. I had to figure out my game plan of where I was going to take this little doozy of a story.

"I can still smell Dudley's farts," Ted declared as we descended a hill so steep that the only safe form of transportation would have been a rickshaw.

"It's not Dudley anymore. It's me."

"Was it you the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Maybe
you're
allergic to shellfish."

In the car on the way to work the next morning, I heard my phone ring and saw that it was Ted. I picked up and started wailing. "John's assistant just called. The dog died after we left last night."

"No!"

"Yes!" I heaved into my steering wheel, which I mistakenly believed held my speaker.

"Oh, my God, you're kidding me, right?"

"Do I sound like I'm kidding, Ted? I haven't spoken to him yet, but Eva just called me and told me his assistant called. She's calling everyone at the party."

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Do you think it was the napkin?"

"It had to have been. Or the shellfish," I reminded him.

"Oh, my God! Do not tell anyone that you gave him the napkin
or
the shellfish. Who else was there when you gave it to him?" he demanded.

"It was just Eva and Beth."

"Okay, just don't tell anyone else that was there. Do not tell anyone, Chelsea. Do you understand me?"

"I don't feel comfortable asking Eva to lie for me if I killed a dog."

"Did she sign her confidentiality agreement?"

"Yes, but she didn't see what I fed Dudley. She just saw the tail end of him eating the napkin. I'll say it was one of those raviolis."

"Okay."

I felt a new wave of fake tears ready to make their way through the phone just in time for me to explode, "I'm a murderer, Ted! I'm a murderer. A dog murderer! I'm just like Phil Spector minus the music career."

"No, Chelsea, you need to get ahold of yourself. You are not a murderer! This was an accidental dog homicide!"

"What if they find out?"

"No one's going to find out anything. Let me make a few calls. I'll call John to give my condolences and feel around to find out if he suspects anything. Stay strong. You did nothing wrong. This was an accident. Chelsea.... I love you."

"Thanks," I muttered as meekly as possible, and then added, "His assistant said they were doing an autopsy."

"What?!"

"An autopsy."

"The dog is fucking ten years old! They said last night they gave him open-heart surgery two months ago."

"I know. That means they think something fishy happened last night. They're going to find out. I can't believe I killed someone's dog." We hung up the phone, and I spent the rest of my ride into work craning my head around trying to find out where exactly the speakerphone in my car was located. Ted's voice had sounded like it was coming straight out of the sky.

I had an extra bounce in my step walking into the office that day and headed straight into Tom's office, where he was sitting with Brad, one of the writers on my show.

"What did you think about that dog Dudley last night?" I asked Tom as I sat down on the sofa opposite Brad.

"I'll tell you what I thought of Dudley," Tom said, placing his morning coffee on his desk. "I believe Dudley is what two bears can produce when they fall madly, deeply in love under a waterfall. A cub in the shape of a bulldog that goes by the name of Dudley."

"I thought that dog looked like he could take a punch in the face. And I wanted to punch him, because he didn't stop farting all night."

"That was you, and you're a fool if you think everybody at that party didn't know it."

"That may be true, but that's not what I'm here to discuss. Let me tell you a little story about Dudley. Last night I fed him a ravioli, and he ate the whole napkin with it. For Ted's benefit I later changed the ravioli to one of those crab appetizers. I spoke to Ted earlier this morning and told him that Dudley passed away last night and they're doing an autopsy today at three."