Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me (7 page)

“They ended up picking two guys anyway, so I would never have had a chance.” Brian Dunkleman, who was fired after the first season, was one, and Ryan Seacrest of course. But Peter’s statement was true. When I heard that the show was about people from all over the country auditioning to be the next music star, I just couldn’t see the appeal. I had clearly been wrong about that, so maybe I was wrong about this one, too.

A few days later I had a doctor’s appointment and had to miss an afternoon meeting. When I returned to the office, I asked Fortune what I’d missed and she said, “Oh, we had to work on some more ‘Who Would You Rathers’ and, oh, they said we can submit ideas to be considered to write on the movie Chelsea is starring in.”

“Do they have a title?” I asked.

“Yeah, The Sky Is Crying,” she answered as she continued to IM a friend.

“Do you really think this could be funny?”

“I don’t know, but they are going to choose one writer and it pays seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars is a lot of money. Well, are you going to try to get it?” I asked him. “You probably know a lot more about the space program than I do, given that you’re into Star Wars and everything.”

“I don’t know, but they want to see something in the next two weeks,” she said.

As tempting as a movie was, and as much as I hated to give up any opportunity to make money, I thought I would let Fortune and Sarah Colonna take this one, even though I knew I’d get hell from Peter for not even trying. Then I thought that Chelsea’s character could be a single career woman who could have sex only when heavily intoxicated, because otherwise the sight of a naked penis made her remember her mother’s space shuttle. Meryl Streep would come down from heaven wearing the space shuttle outfit and give her daughter dating advice, eventually helping her overcome her fear of intimacy. Finally, in the end, Chelsea’s character would come full circle and end up with an astronaut.

A few days later, in Chelsea’s dressing room, while I was taking dresses off her rolling rack and holding them up to myself in the mirror, Chelsea said, “Meryl Streep backed out of the film, but they replaced her with Sigourney Weaver.”

“Well, that’s still great. She’s amazing and actually she seems more like a teacher-slash-astronaut type, you know, since she was in all those Alien movies. I can definitely see her in the jumpsuit outfit.”

“Did Guy tell you the studio is taking submissions?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m still thinking about it. What your character might be like growing up without a mother while constantly being reminded of her bravery in the sky.”

“Now it looks like Justin Timberlake may be in it, too,” Chelsea informed me as she applied lotion to her face.

“Justin Timberlake? Who is he going to play?” I asked.

“They don’t know. They just know that they want him, but the good news is he’s a huge outer space fan, so he’ll probably do it.”

“Like Tom Hanks. Tom Hanks was a huge space program fan. That’s why he made that movie about Houston having a problem.”

“I told the studio Justin should play my little brother, and they loved that idea,” Chelsea said as she began to tweeze her eyebrows.

“Chelsea, I don’t know if Justin is old enough to have been alive when the shuttle blew up. But maybe Meryl or now Sigourney Weaver could have had infertility problems after giving birth to you, so she had some embryos frozen, one being Justin Timberlake’s character, and when the shuttle blew up, your dad and you were so heartbroken that he found another woman to carry the embryo and give you a little brother, and you see that surrogate mother as your mother, too. Then you would feel conflicted between talking to your real mother from the dead and the surrogate mother for Justin, even though your real mother is giving you dating advice.”

“That’s good, Heather,” she said.

I was surprised. “Really, I was just rambling, trying to have this thing make sense.”

“I like that she gives me dating advice, and maybe every time my character hears a sonic boom she—”

I cut her off. “She goes into one of many different personalities. That’s how we could make it a comedy. You developed multiple personality disorder after the tragedy, and things about the space program, along with different planets, trigger the different personalities to come out. As an actress, a comedic actress, this could be amazing for you to play,” I told her excitedly.

“That is good. Start putting a beat sheet together and then let Tom and me see it.”

“Okay,” I said as I walked out of her office. As excited as Chelsea was about my ideas, I still thought the whole movie was weird, but at least I was coming up with something. Just as I returned to my desk, my phone rang. I saw Chelsea Handler appear on the phone’s screen and my heart skipped a beat.

“Hi,” I said as I picked it up.

“Hey, I really like your ideas about me having multiple personalities. How soon can you get them to me?”

“Can I have the weekend?” I asked meekly.

“Sure.” And then I heard a click.

When I got home I told Peter how Chelsea loved my ideas for the movie and wanted something by Monday. My son had a game on Saturday, so I planned to write on Sunday. Peter would take the boys golfing so I could have the house to myself.

Sunday morning I got a call from my best friend, who is best friends with Kris Jenner. She told me that our whole family was invited to the Jenner/Kardashian house in Hidden Hills for swimming and a BBQ. You don’t understand what a Kris Jenner party is like. It does not mean bring your own towel and have a hot dog. First of all, a Kris Jenner pool party is the only kind of pool party you want to bring your kids to, because she hires real lifeguards, so you don’t have to worry about your kids drowning while you’re busy impersonating a Real Beverly Hills Housewife with your back to the pool. She has waiters dressed in black, white, and pink, to match her patio furniture, and they walk around with an unlimited amount of Veuve Clicquot. This means you never have to get up off your four-inch heels in your mono-kini to refill your glass yourself. Needless to say, when I got this call I was beyond bummed, knowing I would not be able to attend. Instead, Peter and the kids would go without the matriarch of their family.

Around 4:00 PM I had made pretty good progress and actually had a loose outline for a scene where Justin Timberlake had reason to sing and moonwalk. The ingeniousness of it had me feeling I was up in the clouds, like an astronaut. I was about an hour away from polishing it up and printing it out to show Chelsea the next morning, when, being the procrastinator that I am, I decided to check my e-mail.

The fourth e-mail down was from Eva, Chelsea’s assistant, and the subject matter read “Chelsea’s Playboy Interview.” I opened it and began reading. The interview was to be in question-and-answer format, to be featured toward the back of an upcoming Playboy issue. About halfway through, the interviewer said to Chelsea, “You do a lot of pranks in the office, I hear.” To which Chelsea answered, “Yes. Some are still going on and the person who the prank is on is totally unaware of it. For example, we told one of our writers that I was playing opposite Meryl Streep in a comedy about the Challenger blowing up. Can you imagine? She believes that this movie is actually being made.”

I could not believe it. I read the words several times. I looked up from the computer screen and yelled out to my empty house, “MOTHERFUCKER!”

About ten minutes later Peter opened the door with the kids. Just looking at his sunburned red face and still-wet hair infuriated me. I said, “The whole fucking Sky Is Crying is a lie. I wasted my one day off so I could work on this stupid thing while you got to frolic in a swimming pool.”

“What are you talking about?”

I told him about the Playboy interview. “I told you I didn’t think it was a good idea, but you are so fucking cheap you made me do it because you wanted me to make the money!”

“That’s not true. You were all excited about it when you came home on Friday. So I let you work today and took care of the kids all day.”

“Oh, like you’re some amazing father, because you got to shoot the shit with Bruce Jenner about the 1976 Olympics while inhaling filet mignon and watching Kim Kardashian attempt to do a back flip,” I yelled. “What an amazing sacrifice. You are so selfless. You should win Father of the Year!”

And then the thing that gets me angrier more than anything possible happened. Peter started to laugh.

For the rest of the night I attempted to ignore him, but he kept coming into the room I was in, so then I’d leave and go into another room, and then he’d come in there. Every time he entered the room, I’d yell, “Leave me alone!”

“Why is Mommy being so mean? Oh, are you sad you missed out on the gift bags?” he would say with a giggle.

“What? Who has gift bags for a pool party? Kris Jenner, that’s who! You do know if we got divorced you’d never be invited again!”

“Yes, I do. That’s why I really enjoyed today, because I never know when it’s going to end,” he answered, laughing.

The lost afternoon and the Trina Turk tankini and matching cover-up I would have worn to the pool party haunted me into the wee hours of the night. Peter did bring up several times that the person I should be mad at was Chelsea. But being mad at Chelsea didn’t do anyone any good.

I feel more married to Chelsea than to Peter, like Gayle and Oprah before Gayle got divorced. In the last few years, Chelsea had given me better gifts than Peter, written me more heartfelt letters than Peter, taken me on more romantic and better vacations than Peter, and given me the most important gift of all—the gift of being on television. My relationship with Chelsea was much like a marriage, only better. Yes, like a marriage, it has its ups and downs. You have to take the good with the bad. What am I going to do? Quit Chelsea Lately and go back to selling residential real estate because she lied to me about a ridiculous romantic comedy premise? Of course not. So, instead, I took my anger for Chelsea out on Peter and am proud to say I have not missed a Kardashian/Jenner event since.

The occasional lie or bagel and cream cheese thrown in your face when you’re not looking, solely for Chelsea Joy Handler’s enjoyment, is more than worth it. Plus, cream cheese does come off pretty easily, except when it’s in your hair or in between your ass cheeks.

Heather is retarded. Period.

ROY HANDLER

Chelsea first approached me about writing a chapter for her book one weekday morning on her way out the door to work. It was less of a request than a threat. Chelsea has a way of asking for things in what I refer to as “Al Capone style.” The tone of her voice makes it sound like a question, but the look on her face tells you it’s in your best interest to shut your mouth and agree to whatever she’s requested, then promptly duck for cover.

Personally, I think I’m hilarious. I’ve been writing e-mails to Chelsea and my other siblings for years, but I could not bear the thought of sitting down for days, possibly weeks, and writing a chapter. My attention span has never been and never will be at full capacity. Then she told me what the book would be about: lies that Chelsea told me.

There has to be a minimum of five hundred lies that my sister has told just me. I grew up with her. All the chaos she is causing now was experienced by me and my brethren years ago.

There aren’t a lot of things I do remember about my childhood because of my allegiance to marijuana. My fondest memories are of doing one-hitters in the garage, as it was the only safe place away from my father, who was also like Al Capone but worse. For hours he would sit in a chair half-asleep, then smell pot and follow the trail, which ultimately led to me. After that would come interrogation and screaming. I was always scared, but not scared enough to stop smoking the weed. One day, I was in the garage getting high next to a can of paint when I turned around and saw Chelsea sitting on a tire. I knew she wanted to get high, but in good conscience, I could never do it. Plus, she was only six.

I do remember critical times in the initial development of my retardation and Chelsea’s ascent to the throne, such as one morning I came downstairs to get ready for middle school. My mom was on the couch with Chelsea and I sat down next to them. Chelsea and I spoke baby talk for a few minutes. She would always talk, but we could never make out what she was saying. Her vowels and consonants were not coming together and it sounded as though she were going through a Russian phase.

She looked at me and said, “Oyn oyn oyn.”

I smiled. “Wow, she said my name—or at least she’s trying to say my name.” My mom smiled, too, and I was ecstatic. So as a good mommy and brother, we prodded Chelsea to continue saying my name until she got it right.

“Oyn oyn oyn,” she continued.

“What the fuck, Mom? Can’t she pronounce R? She’s not Asian; she should be able to do that.” I felt comfortable cursing in front of my mom. Chelsea would later follow my lead in that department. My mom didn’t mind if we cursed, as long as it was casual and we didn’t use curse words as verbs or in anger. She told us life could be very disappointing at times, and if we were upset about the outcome of a soccer game or a D-plus on a math test, “Oh, fuck” was a perfectly acceptable way to express ourselves.

“Oyn oyn oyn,” Chelsea continued while looking at me.

Simone, a soon-to-be-litigator, sat down next to us and listened. Of course Simone, the smartest one of the bunch, figured it out. “Roy, listen to her. She’s saying, ‘You’re a moron.’ That’s what she’s saying.”

“No, she wouldn’t say that,” my mom chimed in, shaking her head at Simone. My mom was trying to make me feel better about being insulted by a two-year-old. “I think she’s just saying she’s annoyed,” she assured me.

Insulting us wasn’t the only thing Chelsea learned to do before she could walk. Shortly after she started crawling, she would make her way to one of the bathrooms, untape her diaper, and throw it in the toilet. We just thought she enjoyed being naked, but once she got a better handle on the English language she explained her reasoning: “It’s pretty unsanitary to sit in your own shit.”