Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (21 page)

I was horrified. “We are not going to have him say, ‘Fuck the Jews,’ Chelsea, are we?”

She was now searching through her underwear drawer while holding her vagina, looking for a fresh pair to replace the ones she had clearly soiled.

“Chelsea, are we really going to have him say that?”

“No! Amy! No, we aren’t doing any of this,” she said, rolling around on the floor with her legs in the air. “Do you think the network would ever let us dress him as a bloody Jesus and yell, ‘Fuck the…’ ” She couldn’t get it out. Her laughter had turned silent; she wasn’t making a noise, but her shoulders were shaking. “I have to say,” she managed to get out after a few moments, “you did an amazing job on that outfit.” Then she stood up, with fresh panties in hand, wiped the tears from her face, and headed to the bathroom. “He looks amazing. But, seriously, take it off. We have a show to do.”

Let me clarify. I’m not stupid, but Handy gets me time and time again. In exchange for my hard work, Chelsea had allowed me to swaddle Chuy and place him in a manger. Later that day, she left an envelope with a thousand dollars in cash on my desk, with a note that said, “I appreciate your dedication to your craft, even though you’re very stupid.”

As her stylist, I see Chelsea naked on a regular basis. That’s pretty intimate, so I try to maintain a professional atmosphere during fittings. “What-the-fuck-ever” is usually what I’m met with.

While getting her dressed—which, I might add is my job—all of the following things have happened to me. (Please keep in mind that I was working during these experiences.)

• She smacked me in the face with her tits.
  

• Burping in my face? Done.
  

• Once, while standing in front of the mirror butt-ass naked, she said, “Hey, Amy, look at this piece of leftover toilet paper.” I had already turned my head and looked at what she was pointing at before I realized what she was saying.
  

• When I first started working with her, I wore dresses and skirts all the time. Because she likes to expose her staff’s genitalia, I now wear underwear and pants.
  

• I was introduced as her big lesbian stylist in person and on national television.
  

• Peeing in front of me? Those were the days.
  

• She has trimmed her fifteen pubic hairs in my presence. At this point in our relationship, I think some mystery could be a good thing.
  

One of the perks of my fabulous and fun job is that I get to travel with Chelsea. My responsibilities on the road are a cross between those of butler and camp counselor. I pack her, unpack her, lay out her clothes, and make sure the group gets where we are going on time and that no one is left behind when we are drunk. The upside to catering to Chelsea’s every need is that I get to travel all over the world with my friends while laughing my ass off. And we always get to stay at fabulous hotels. The downside is the following:

Every night before bed, Chelsea orders a movie. Sometimes the films she chooses are great. Usually they are not. She inevitably falls asleep within the first fifteen minutes of the flick. Sometimes I do, too. Which is why we have watched Eat Pray Love three times. We have yet to experience “Love.” Sometimes the shitty movies get me hooked and I can’t fall asleep until Tom Cruise has saved someone.

Like Chelsea, I am a Pisces, which makes for a sensitive and empathetic person. I can’t watch movies in which people have fucked-up lives or have fucked up their lives. I can’t watch scary or traumatic movies, either. After one Saturday night of partying, Chelsea made Johnny Kansas and me get into bed with her and we ordered Precious. We both protested her choice. She insisted there were some very funny scenes with Mariah Carey, and that the movie was actually a dark comedy. We gave in. Handy fell asleep within minutes, while Johnny and I both had nightmares for weeks.

Chelsea loves to say really inappropriate things to people. She does this with a smile on her face and in a very sweet voice that is low enough to hear but that makes you think you may have heard wrong. This practice of hers never fails to mortify me. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. Here are some real-life examples:

An African American bellhop walked into our hotel room to collect our bags. Chelsea walked out of the bathroom and smiled at him. He smiled back and said, “Good morning, Miss Handler. I hope you’re enjoying your stay with us.” She replied, “Yes, I am. Thank you.” As he turned his back to place our bags on the luggage cart, she said in a sweet, soft voice intended only for my ears, “Wanna show me your big black cock?” Halfway through the word cock, I exclaimed in a loud and authoritative voice, “And these bags need to go, too, sir. What a beautiful day it is here in sunny Baltimore!” I did not shut up until he’d walked out the door with a fifty-dollar tip.

After MTV’s Video Music Awards, Chelsea took Gina (hair and makeup), all the writers, and me to Cabo to thank us for doing both the VMA and Chelsea Lately simultaneously. Chelsea wanted all of us to really relax, so she had her assistant set up a day at the spa for us. What a sweet boss. We get to the spa, check in, and our host takes us girls to the women’s locker room for a tour. Obviously Spanish was this woman’s first language, but she was speaking English, so I assumed she could understand it. As she was showing us the showers, Chelsea smiled and sweetly said, “Thanks. Do you take it up the tushie? My girlfriend here loves it in the anal cavity.” Our host showed us the steam room, and Chelsea responded with “Great. I’ll bet you have a very hairy pussy.” Next we were shown where to place our robes and dirty towels. Chelsea asked, “Wanna show me your pretty pussy?” The woman smiled through all of this, but I swear she was looking at us like we were nuts. Needless to say, I separated from the group as fast as possible. All of us are horrified when Chelsea does stuff like this, but the amazing thing is no one ever really seems to hear her except us. Her sisters have told me she has been pulling the under-her-breath shit for years, and that as long as she does it with a big smile on her face, the victim can never quite accept what he’s heard.

Once, Chelsea shot a movie in Vancouver with Reese Witherspoon (cool, chic, smart, funny: we adore her). One day we wrapped early. We decided to head back to our room, order room service, watch movies, and take a Lunesta so we could fall asleep at 9:30 PM. Dream evening! What a treat! Then the room service guy arrived. We had ordered a ton of shit and wanted to eat in bed. It’s the Four Seasons. The service is always impeccable, and this evening was no exception. Our server laid place mats on our bed, arranging our five-star dining experience.

Here is a sample of what came from Chelsea’s mouth while he was doing so: “Hi, sir, do you want to have a little fucky time with me? How big is your penis? I adore getting my pussy licked.” As she was saying all of these things, I scrambled out of the bed and shuffled him into the living room to place our food there. I had to tell him where to place everything, in an attempt to shut out Chelsea’s voice. When he placed a plate of French fries in front of her, she said in a loud voice, “Thank you, sir. That is very funny-looking spaghetti.” I looked at her and grabbed her face, and my eyes were saying, “Shut the fuck up” as my mouth said in a loud and slow voice, “No, Chelsea, these are French fries!” Then I signed the check, and that guy got the fuck out of our room as fast as he could move. Once the door shut, Chelsea jumped out of the bed laughing and holding her vagina so she wouldn’t pee in her underwear. For three days she would reenact my saying “No, Chelsea, these are French fries!” like I was Forrest Gump, and then laugh uncontrollably. The girl loves to laugh, especially when no one else is laughing with her.

Everyone in Chelsea’s life is there for two reasons: she loves them, and they are willing to be humiliated.

Chelsea did a stand-up show in Tampa with Jo Koy. After they performed, everyone in Handy’s entourage—her agent; her assistant, Eva; her brother Roy; her tour manager, Michelle; and I—retreated to our suite to kick it. When room service arrived, Chelsea asked our server if she wanted to “show us her pussy.” The server looked up from the tray of food and said, “I don’t think so, Chelsea. I’m familiar with your program.” Game over.

This is a formal apology to everyone we have encountered and to those we are yet to meet. I apologize. Chelsea is a really good person, but she is sick and can’t help herself.

Once, on a Monday (TRUE FUCKING STORY) I picked up an Excedrin bottle, took two pills, put them in my mouth, and swallowed. I had a horrible headache. Chelsea had a really busy day: a show taping, followed by a post-tape interview, followed by a meeting in Tom’s office with her agents, followed by a fitting to get her dressed so she could dash out the door and go to a red carpet event. No room for fuck-ups. Period.

An hour before I dressed Chelsea for the show, I started to feel weird. Waves of nausea began to roll through me. I was unable to focus on the type on my computer screen. Something was seriously wrong with me. A chemical reaction was occurring in my body. I decided that I must be diabetic and was headed for a diabetic coma. It also crossed my mind that this was karma for dressing up the guys from the show as the Jonas Brothers for a skit where we talked about Kevin Jonas having diabetes: type 2.

I told my assistant, Linda, that after the last fitting, she was going to have to take me to the emergency room. In the meantime she was not allowed to leave my side. Linda was not amused. She was looking at me as if I were crazy. I was. Instead of a chair at my desk, I have one of those large workout balls. For an hour I sat on it bouncing and shopping for shoes on the Barneys Web site, while telling Linda and the production assistants that I hoped I wasn’t dying. Chelsea walked by and asked if we had some sexy dresses for an event. I said, “Totally!” After she was gone I turned to Linda and said, “What are we going to do?” She replied, “Dress her, Amy. Like we do every day?” and looked at me as if I were bat-shit crazy.

Let’s take a second to discuss Linda, my amazing Vietnamese American assistant. She is the consummate professional. I am the creative force of our department, but she helps legitimize my professional existence. Linda stands at about five feet, two inches tall, and she has a perfectly round, beautiful Vietnamese face. When she started working on our show, she was a little on the thick side. Chelsea nicknamed her Paccy, as in Ms Pac Man. Anytime Linda walked into Chelsea’s office, Chelsea would say, “Wocca wocca wocca!” Everyone in our office still calls her Paccy, except me. I call her Shorty.

Chelsea still texts Linda from time to time to ask how many ghosts she caught over the weekend, and what her high score is. She will also ask her, in complete seriousness, if it’s hard for her to get down the stairs with no legs. After I informed Chelsea that Linda had hired a trainer and lost twenty pounds because of her nickname, Chelsea was appalled at her own behavior. She had no idea that nicknaming her Paccy would have any sort of negative impact on Pacc. Instead of apologizing, Chelsea bought Paccy her very own Ms Pac Man machine and had it delivered to Linda’s parents’ house, where she will reside until marriage. The note read, “This is for all the nights you are stuck at home living with your parents in the seventeenth century, while you could be out wocca wocca-ing your coslopus. P.S. I liked you better with a little meat on you.”

Dressing Chelsea is fun, but it is not always easy. Never mind the distraction of e-mails and Twitters she constantly gets from fans informing her that her stylist must hate her. She does not like to try on clothes. There are better things she could be doing with her time. Bitch is busy. With her, you get one or two shots. Precision is key, and when it is hard to focus on objects in front of you, as it was for me that Monday when I took the Excedrin, precise you are not. If it were not for my assistant I’m not sure Chelsea would have been dressed that day.

Chelsea asked me what pants she needed to wear with the top I handed her. My reply: “What do you feel like, slacks or jeans?” She looked at me like I was crazy.

“Really, Amy? Slacks? Is this an episode of Mad Men?”

There are three words Chelsea never likes to hear: moist, hose, and slacks.

Linda, who is an angel, handed me a pair of slacks and said, “These are the pants you picked out to go with that top, and here are the red heels you wanted.”

Handy was reading her show notes while we put the finishing touches on her, so she did not notice that I was melting down in my own personal universe.

Linda and I went back to the wardrobe room, and I told her I would not be able to leave. Paccy would have to be on set. Something really bad was happening to me. Possibly death. This was not the time to discuss the budget with Gary, the line producer, and there was no way I was going to have a conversation with Chelsea. She may not be a genius, but she was too fucking smart to talk to my retarded ass at that point. Let’s just say that I was barely holding it together.

By the grace of God, and the comedy of Chelsea, we got her through the first episode, then the post-tape interview, and then she was off to her meeting. By now a few other people in the office had noticed that something was wrong with me. Turkey, an intern Chelsea had nicknamed due to her body type, turned to the makeup girl and said, “Amy is acting like she is on mushrooms.”

While I was racing to put out all the jewelry, shoes, and clothes for the last fitting, I was totally freaking out. Linda was getting really annoyed with me at this point, but I didn’t care. This was life and death. My only hope was that this fitting would go well so I could get to the hospital before going into a diabetic coma. Linda and I went over our top-five dress choices and which shoes would go with which bags.

Chelsea breezed into her office, looked through the rack of dresses, and picked her favorite. My mouth was shut as I, holding my breath, zipped her in. It fit like a glove. She loved it. The shoes Linda placed on her feet were met with approval. She checked herself out in the mirror and told us, “Well, for once, I don’t look ridiculous,” and then turned on her heel and ran to the editing bay to watch a field piece before heading out the door.