Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (6 page)

“I wouldn’t mind a little tuna tartare,” stated Steve Marmalstein.

I love Katsuya. It’s a super chic sushi spot close to the office. My kids can wait another hour to see me tonight, I thought as I yelled down the hall after Chelsea, “I can go, too!” Then it hit me. Chelsea was pregnant, so she couldn’t eat sushi. The mercury in the fish is said to cause autism. You would think Chelsea would have known this, since she was good friends with Jenny McCarthy. Good thing I was going, so I could remind her to order some chicken teriyaki.

At the restaurant, before we’d even slid into our booth, Chelsea asked the waiter, “May I have a Belvedere on the rocks with just a splash of soda and a wedge of lemon please?”

“Chelsea, you can’t drink. The baby’s head will come out a quarter of the size it is supposed to,” I whispered as we continued to scoot down the bench farther into the booth.

“I’m only going to sip it so the others don’t get suspicious,” she said. “If I don’t order a drink, they’ll know something is up.”

“So you’re definitely keeping it?” I asked with relief.

“Keeping what?” asked Chris.

“My car. I’m going to keep it for another year,” Chelsea said nonchalantly as she winked at me.

Oh, my God, my prayers had been answered. Chelsea really was going to have this baby. I was so happy. I love Katsuya and I love the Westside. Maybe by the time our babies entered kindergarten, we could move from the Valley to the Westside, since Chelsea’s baby was going to want its best friend in the same classroom. Of course I would want to go to St. Martins, the Catholic school in Brentwood, but Chelsea wouldn’t be down with that. Then again, Ted had been raised Catholic. Or we could send both kids to that amazing public elementary school I’d heard about on the morning news, where the parents sleep in tents the week before registration to make sure their kids get in. I would do that. Then my older boys could go to Loyola, an all-boys high school that is too far from our house now.

I was thinking how this was all going to be so great until halfway through the dinner, when Chelsea ordered another Belvedere and soda. So much for sipping her drink. It hadn’t even been twenty minutes. Then she proceeded to eat an entire bowl of steamed clams, a plate of tuna sashimi, and a plate of yellowtail with jalapeños. I kept taking my chopsticks and eating as much of the heavy-mercury-filled uncooked fish as humanly possible, but as soon as a dish was done, Chelsea would order more for the table. At this point I felt full and pissed off. Everyone knows you don’t consume alcohol or eat sushi when you’re pregnant.

When Chelsea got out of the booth to go to the bathroom, I followed her, which annoyed everyone, because I was opposite her at the end of the table, so every single person had to exit the booth. When we got in the bathroom I looked around to make sure we were alone and then said, “Chelsea, seriously, you can’t continue to drink unless it’s after your fifth month of pregnancy, and only if it’s chardonnay. I know because that’s what I did, and both the boys seem to be fine. But you really can’t eat all that seafood. It’s been proven to cause autism, I think. What is your plan? Have you ever eaten gluten-free lasagna? It is not good. Come on, Chelsea, this isn’t fair to Ted. It’s his baby, too! You’re already dealing with older sperm. How hard do you want to roll the dice with your offspring?” I was referring to a syndrome that started with a D and ended with own.

“Heather, I’m not pregnant,” she said as she washed her hands.

“The blood test came back negative after you took a positive EPT test? EPT tests are the best. They’re like seventeen dollars each.” I was totally perplexed.

“Oh, my God, Heather. I didn’t take any pregnancy test. I thought it would be funny to make you think I was pregnant, but now it’s just getting annoying. Look at yourself.”

“You really aren’t pregnant? I’m so bummed.”

“Well, I’m sorry. Come on, me pregnant would be the worst. If you think I can be a bitch now, imagine if I were fat and couldn’t drink,” she said as she pulled open the door and exited the bathroom.

And that was it for Chelsea. She never thought about that lie again or what a toll it took on my life for six days. As I washed my hands, I watched the soapy water slide down the drain along with my dreams of the in-office daycare, lightly used designer maternity and baby clothes, family vacations on yachts, and prestigious Westside preschools. I looked in the mirror feeling a little bloated from all the sushi and then suddenly remembered I hadn’t taken my birth control pill that day. I immediately pulled it from the inside pocket of my purse, popped it into my mouth, and swallowed it dry.

One of my lifelong career goals, besides securing a hair product endorsement deal, is one day to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars. I work The Secret, and Fortune and I have a vision board in our office of things we want to accomplish. On the poster is a photo of Justin Bieber from J-14, a Pantene ad with that woman from What Not to Wear, and a photo of me dressed up in a Dancing with the Stars costume complete with sequins and a hot pink feather boa. Unlike other people in the office, I am honest about my desire to be on TV and believe that being on Dancing with the Stars would really help my career. I’m sorry, but I dance with my sons in my bedroom while watching the show, and the waltz does not look that difficult. Let’s just say I’m not afraid to look to the side and walk backward. Besides, how cute would my kids look all dressed up and cheering me on in the audience?

So one day, in our usual morning meeting, Chelsea, who is very ADD but has never been diagnosed and therefore does not take Adderall, all of a sudden turned to Tom, our executive producer, and said, “And we need to get back to the casting director from Dancing with the Stars about who we think would be good on the show,” and then shoved another forklift of arugula and hummus into her mouth.

“You don’t want to do it?” I asked Chelsea.

“No, that show is a nightmare, besides the fact that I’m a horrible dancer.”

Then Brad piped in: “Well, the obvious choice is Chuy.”

“We already pitched him, but they can’t take a little person because there are too many dances he couldn’t really perform with a regular-size dancer,” Tom said.

“There has got to be another little person professional ballroom dancer whom they could hire who could be his partner,” Brad argued.

At that point I wanted to scream out, “Chuy complains about walking from the kitchen back to his office. He is not going to be able to properly dance the cha-cha for three minutes straight!” But I didn’t. I also didn’t say I wanted to do it, because anytime I pitch anything involving myself, the other writers say things like “And let’s take a wild guess, you’re going to play Sarah Palin.”

Then Chelsea said, “No, they know that both Chuy and I are out, so they’ll consider someone from the round table.”

Oh, thank God. Of course it still didn’t mean I’d get it, because chances were they were also talking to the Daily Show correspondents, but there was a chance.

Then Brad uttered the unthinkable: “Fortune should do it. That would be hilarious.”

“Fortune, you really are a good dancer,” Chelsea said. “We all saw you at the Christmas party. You get a little too sweaty, but you have rhythm.”

“Thank you. My mother put me in jazz dance classes when I was seven. I guess it really paid off,” Fortune replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“It would be fantastic,” Brad said enthusiastically. “Think how much weight you’d lose, Fortune. It would be a total transformation.”

“I bet they’d put you in Life & Style magazine and write about how you got your Dancing with the Stars body,” Tom said.

At this point, jealousy was boiling over in me. I had started to shake a little when Chelsea said, “Okay, great. So, Tom, you’ll talk to them?”

When Fortune and I returned to the office, she looked at me and said, “Heather, I know how much you want this.”

“Fortune, don’t be ridiculous. If they want you, you have to do it. Don’t worry about it. But, honestly, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Totally understandable.” Fortune put in her ear buds and began typing.

The rest of the day was very difficult. For a while things would be fine and then I’d remember Dancing with the Stars and get a major hollowed-out feeling in the pit of my stomach. When I got home that night and told Peter what had transpired, he said, “Look, Fortune is going to sprain her ankle or blow out her ACLU or something. This season alone they’ve lost like five contestants to injury. Fortune is bound to get hurt, and then they will replace her with you like they did when little Bow Wow got replaced with his dad, Big Wow Wow.”

“I don’t think his dad’s name is Big Wow Wow. I think it’s Master D or something. Anyway, maybe you’re right. But then again, Fortune is pretty flexible, and being gay helps. Lance Bass went really far in the competition.”

The next day in our meeting, the show came up again and when Chelsea said, “Tom, the people at Dancing with the Stars want to see tape on Fortune, so have Johnny film her dancing to something.”

I started to tremble. Speak, Heather! I screamed inside my head. I wanted to say, Well, can you put me on tape, too, so we can both be considered? But I was afraid the other writers would jump on me and say I was awful for trying to take something away from Fortune, so I kept my lips sealed.

“Sure,” Tom said. “We can shoot it after today’s taping in Studio Two. Fortune, you ready to put your twinkle toes to work?” Tom winked at Fortune.

“Absolutely. Thank you,” Fortune said and began to blush.

Thoughts tumbled through my head, everything from the fact that envy was a sin and it wasn’t very Christian of me to wish Fortune bodily harm when she attempted the jive, to the principle in The Secret that there is no such thing as competition because there is enough room in the universe for everyone to be successful. I kept very quiet for the rest of the meeting.

Later that day Chelsea called me into her office and said, “Heather, I know you’re upset about Fortune getting chosen over you for Dancing with the Stars, but she is really excited about it right now. It’s her time to shine. You know how I feel about everyone being equal around here, and you’ve gotten to do a lot.”

“I know. I’m happy for her.” What I wanted to say was, Equal? Then if everything is equal Chelsea Lately is Communist North Korea and you’re Kim Jong-il. Just give Fortune one of my dates where I open for you or a Cheescake Factory gift certificate. I’m willing to give all that up to be considered for Dancing with the Stars. But instead I just left her office with a fake smile.

When I returned to our office to write our jokes for the daily topics, I could feel my lip tremble. Please, Heather, do not start crying, I told myself. I realized my period was two days away and there was no stopping the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

Fortune, who had begun talking about Monster Trucks, turned her head and noticed me crying. “Heather, oh, my God,” she said as she jumped up and shut our office door.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m getting my period,” I said as I wiped my eyes.

“No, Heather, it’s a joke. Dancing with the Stars is not looking to cast one of us. Chelsea asked me to go along with it. Heather, you know there is only one star in this office,” she said, referring to me.

I wiped my eyes dry and felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Fortune is the best lesbo/officemate I could ever ask for.

The best and longest-running lie that Chelsea told me was that she was going to star opposite Meryl Streep in a movie about the Challenger space shuttle blowing up. It began with me in Chelsea’s office before a show one day. I was doing my usual thing, which involved me smelling all of Chelsea’s never-been-worn designer shoes. There is something about taking a Christian Louboutin up to the nose when that red sole is devoid of even the slightest scratch. Chelsea, who was used to this ritual of mine, was on her BlackBerry, barely paying attention to me, when she said to her makeup artist, “I guess I’m going to play Meryl Streep’s daughter in this movie.”

“What?! You are? That’s amazing,” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “You do kind of look like her, with your blonde hair and blue eyes. What is it about?”

“Meryl is the schoolteacher who went up in the space shuttle Challenger and—”

I cut her off. “The one that blew up with the whole world watching?”

“Yes, but it’s a comedy. Meryl talks to me from heaven.”

“A comedy? That is so weird. I mean, I vividly remember my teacher rolling the television set into our classroom so we could watch the launch, and then seeing it explode right before our eyes. We started saying the rosary and praying that somehow there’d been survivors. How can it be a comedy?”

“Well, that’s why they want me. They also said I could add my own dialogue and scenes. I should have you guys help me write it. The studio will pay for outside writers,” she said as she continued to surf the Web.

“Really? I just don’t see how they could make that funny. A daughter losing her mother at such a young age while the whole world watched. I mean, I’m sure your character watched it blow up in her classroom as well.”

“Well, let me know if you want to work on it,” Chelsea said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied as I put the royal blue peep-toe pump back in its box.

As I left Chelsea’s office I was very confused. I didn’t ever want to miss out on an opportunity, especially one that involved writing on a major motion picture for Meryl Streep, but how could they make this funny? Then I thought about all the times I had auditioned for things and read breakdowns (a synopsis of the TV show, film, or role) and thought it would never make it, and then saw it go on to be a big hit. Maybe I shouldn’t dismiss this space shuttle comedy so quickly. If Meryl Streep agreed to be in it, it had to be good.

That night I filled Peter in, and of course he thought I should go for it, because it meant making money, and not just any money. This was Writers Guild money and credit. When I tried to explain to him that I didn’t think America would find making fun of the Challenger disaster entertaining, he snapped back with “Oh, the same way you blew off your audition to host American Idol because you thought it sounded like a corny show.”