Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Part 13

One by one, the remaining six of us were forced to arm-wrestle again and again. It wasn't Tanya's strength that I found intimidating; it was the starry, r.e.t.a.r.ded way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to feed. I didn't even try to put up a fight the first few times, but the celebratory high-fiving and hooting, combined with half a gummy bear's torso still stuck to my eardrum, were reason to grow delirious.

"Fine, you f.u.c.ker, let's go!" I yelled, getting into position on the floor while my friend Shannon video-recorded what would inevitably turn into a violent episode of The L Word. The L Word. I hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge. Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering wasn't the worst part; after she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our heads, crus.h.i.+ng our faces into the carpeting, and then spank us. It was beyond embarra.s.sing. I hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge. Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering wasn't the worst part; after she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our heads, crus.h.i.+ng our faces into the carpeting, and then spank us. It was beyond embarra.s.sing.

The next morning was pretty painful for everyone, and our ride to the airport was quiet. Once we boarded the plane, however, a surge of energy overtook the girls and the conversation quickly turned to Sarah's honeymoon on safari and whether she was planning on letting her fiance fertilize her first egg in the African bush. All the rest of us went through our timelines for children, and inevitably, even though I had put on my eyeshades and was trying to avoid partic.i.p.ating in any conversation, I was the last one left to hara.s.s.

"I don't want kids," I said without taking off my eyeshades. "That's why I take the morning-after pill every morning, whether I've had s.e.x the night before or not. I also take calcium to keep my bones strong, and Ted and I take Ensure just to stay active." I didn't have the energy or interest in a real conversation and was secretly hoping that Tanya wouldn't order a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary when the sky waitress approached. "Has anyone here tried Boniva?" I asked the group.

"You should so so have a baby," Tanya advised me. have a baby," Tanya advised me.

"Of course she should," Sarah agreed. "She acts like she hates kids, but it's not true. Just look at how she was last night, like a camp counselor. Hiding the phone from us. You're going to change your mind, Chelsea. You'll probably end up with more kids than any of us. Just wait."

I would rather sit next to a transgender person and discuss why every single one I've met smells like a bar in the daytime than listen to people tell me why I want to have children and that I just don't know it yet. I do know, because I'm me and my feelings are the ones in my head. I don't want to have kids, and it's not a device to get attention or have conversations about it. I simply find children incredibly immature and, more often than not, dumb.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Tanya wailed. "Look at this poor dog!" She handed me her BlackBerry so I could look at the picture of the canine. "He's redlined, so they're going to kill him on Monday in San Diego unless you rescue him." I pushed up my eyeshades to see who she was talking to and realized it was me. "He's so sweet. He's beautiful," she persisted.

"Then you get him," I said.

"I just rescued Lucifer three months ago, and he's really skittish still. I have four, and my husband says we're at our limit."

"What about Sarah?" I asked.

"I live in an apartment," Sarah replied, opening a magazine to signal that this wasn't a conversation she was interested in pursuing. Then, for good measure, she snickered and added, "Chelsea, you've been trying to rescue a dog for months."

I didn't have the energy to turn around and punch Sarah in the coslopus. I wanted Tanya to stop talking. I wanted to stop hearing about kids and dogs and even Beyonce if she were to come up. I was weak from the wrestling and from the detox cleanse that Ivory, Sarah, Tanya, and I decided to start that morning. The three of us had committed to do it together in antic.i.p.ation of Sarah's wedding and were excited at the prospect of losing ten to forty-seven pounds in six days. I had already ordered a thermal track suit to a.s.sist in shedding any additional bloat. Like every other time I've tried to deprive myself of food, my head was slowly spinning and a wave of nausea was throwing my equilibrium off course.

I looked at the picture, looked at the tarmac that hadn't started moving yet, and felt feverish. I wondered how long it would take me to get my hands on some Excedrin once the plane landed, and then I wondered how cavemen dealt with hangovers without access to Excedrin. I looked at Tanya, who was staring me down from the seat next to me, and thought that she would have made a good caveman. If getting a dog was what it was going to take to end the conversation so I could sleep, then that's what it was going to take. "Fine. I'll have Eva pick him up tomorrow."

"Who's Eva?" Tanya demanded.

"My a.s.sistant."

"You can't have your a.s.sistant pick him up, Chelsea. You need to bond with him," she advised me, gripping my wrist very aggressively. I pulled my hand away with a buoyed confidence; we were in public, and she was less likely to harm me with so many witnesses. I was fed up with Tanya and wanted her off my jock.

"I hate to break it to you, but I have a job that requires me to actually be there during the day. I once saw a special on rescuing dogs, and the interview process is more complicated than the one for buying a cleft-palated Vietnamese adolescent. I don't really have time to head to the L.A. pound for a cool four and a half hours during my lunch break. I said I'd get the dog, okay? Can we just press on to something else, like when you're going to confront the fact that you're most likely a lesbian who wants to work as a night guard at a women's detention center?"

Sarah shot me a look, and I changed my tune quickly.

The last occasion when I'd spent time with Sarah's friends from childhood was when her previous wedding was called off and we all gathered at Tanya's mom's house in Brentwood for moral support. For reasons still unknown to me, I took the breakup harder than anyone else, including Sarah. After three days of me sleeping over at Sarah's apartment with the two of us in her bed and me waking up each morning in tears, Sarah basically told me she needed a break.

"I think we need some time apart," she informed me while I was folding her laundry one afternoon and watching Another World Another World. "I've been dumped, I have a wedding to cancel, and I need you to accept it and move on. You need to get your life going in the right direction. It's not healthy for me to be sitting around here every day watching daytime television while you're in a housedress."

I was was bringing her down. I had felt so blindsided by the breakup that I didn't know if I would ever be able to date again. bringing her down. I had felt so blindsided by the breakup that I didn't know if I would ever be able to date again.

After that it took a while for any of her friends to accept the fact that I wasn't deranged, and I didn't want to cause any more rumblings now. I wanted them to know that I was normal and healthy and could take on responsibilities without s.h.i.+tting my pants.

"I'll get the dog myself," I told Tanya. "I promise."

I did intend to get the dog, but I had zero intention of actually picking it up from the pound. Largely because the words "Los Angeles" came before the word "pound," and the words "Los Angeles" at the beginning of any establishment's name imply to me large, smelly, disorganized rooms filled with large, smelly, disorganized people. My last experience with a circus tent of that caliber was with the L.A. County Women's Prison. L.A. Free Clinic, L.A. Animal Shelter, LAPD-you name it, they all sound appalling. "Los Angeles" came to have the same negative connotation as the word "adult" before something: adult braces, adult diapers, adult acne-all incredibly discouraging.

The day after we returned from the bachelorette weekend, I woke up hallucinating in a pool of my own detoxification sweat. Twenty-four hours of not eating any real food and chugging three thirty-eight-ounce concoctions of something brown had taken their toll on my pituitary gland. By 8:00 A.M. A.M. I had vomited three times and made the executive decision that my body had too many toxins to release. Ted looked at me with my head inside the toilet and gently reminded me that starting a cleanse after a weekend of drinking wasn't the smartest life choice for me or my vessel. I had vomited three times and made the executive decision that my body had too many toxins to release. Ted looked at me with my head inside the toilet and gently reminded me that starting a cleanse after a weekend of drinking wasn't the smartest life choice for me or my vessel.

"I was trying to do it in solidarity with Sarah for the wedding," I whimpered, with one hand on the side of the cold toilet and the other hand making a chignon out of the hair I was trying to keep from falling in.

"Cleanses are stupid, honey," he said, shaking his head. "Can I get you some ginger ale, or water, or oatmeal?"

"Yes, Ted. Oatmeal sounds fabulous right now. Do we have enough for three bowls?"

Instead I stopped by Del Taco on my way in to work. I ordered a breakfast burrito, and when the drive-through attendant asked if I wanted hash browns or french fries, I yelled, "BOTH, b.i.t.c.h!" Then I took a picture of the drive-through window on my camera phone and e-mailed it to Ivory and Sarah with a heading attached that read "Breakfast." I didn't e-mail Tanya for obvious reasons.

Eva confirmed that she received my e-mail about the dog but wanted to verify that I was serious about getting it before she headed to the pound. "What if he's a bad dog or something's really wrong with him when I get there?" she asked me. "Do you want me to just make a judgment call, or should I bring him back no matter what?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. Whatever you think."

"Okay, got it," she told me. "Let me just finish alphabetizing your makeup, and I'll try and get back to the office before lunch. And what about Ted? Does he know about this?"

"Yes," I lied.

Eva and Ted were in cahoots, and if you wanted to keep something from one of them, it was best to lie to both.

I was sitting in my partner Tom's office getting ready to tape the show when Eva walked in with the dog. "Here he is!" she said, panting. "They said at the pound that they think he's half chow, half German shepherd, and he's a really good dog. He knows how to sit and give a paw, and his paperwork says his name is Guinness, but his tag says Princess Leia."

"Is he a cross-dresser?" I asked her.

She frowned. "I don't know, but he really is is good. I kind of can't believe it." Normally Eva can't be trusted for a real opinion, because she refuses to say anything negative-not my favorite quality in a person-but from what I could deduce, she seemed to be right about the dog. good. I kind of can't believe it." Normally Eva can't be trusted for a real opinion, because she refuses to say anything negative-not my favorite quality in a person-but from what I could deduce, she seemed to be right about the dog.

He was wagging his tail and gently sniffing my coslopus. I stood up in order for the dog to get ahold of himself and a.s.sessed the situation. He looked like the dog I grew up with, Whitefoot.

"Are you Whitefoot?" I asked the dog, and waited patiently for a response. "Whitefoot? Is that you?" He wasn't responding to that name, and after I got out my pocket calculator and tapped some b.u.t.tons, I gave up hope when I realized that Whitefoot would be 247 years old had he faked his own death.

"Chunk" is the nickname I give to anyone I love who I also want to squeeze. I called my mom "Chunk," and she called me "Chunky" when we would snuggle in bed together and I would squeeze her one b.o.o.b. She had a mastectomy when I was nine and never bothered to get reconstructive surgery, so on one side she had a rice pack that she put in her bra every morning, and on the other side was a giant b.o.o.by. I call Chuy "Chunk," and I call Ted "Chunk," and of course Sylvan is my "Chocolate Chunk."

My mother, Chunk "His name will be Chunk," I announced, and then we kissed. After that he followed me everywhere I went. I had to go downstairs to do the show, and when I came back up thirty minutes later, he was standing in the same exact position right outside the elevator. When I went into the bathroom, he followed me in there, and when I closed the stall door for some adult privacy, he slid his body underneath the door and sat directly in front of me while I peed. We had a connection, and, most important, Chunk didn't talk or bark. When he did open his mouth to say something, I said in a very authoritative voice, "NO TALKING!" and he shut it again. After work that day, he hopped right into my car, and he sat in the backseat with his nose on my console. I lowered the windows so he could feel the moist marina wind blow through his snout. "You will eventually need goggles," I informed him.

We got home that night, and I took him for a walk while I braced myself to clean up a giant doggy shadoobie. My childhood experiences involving dog feces had never begun or ended well, and I knew that this was what had held me back from getting a dog earlier in my adult life. Vomit and feces are two reasons I have decided not to procreate. That and the fact that I never want to see the inside of Disney World or a Chuck E. Cheese again. Even as a toddler, I found both establishments insulting. I grabbed the plastic bag available outside the dog run and knew I was at a crossroads, not unlike Beyonce in Dreamgirls Dreamgirls. I was turning a corner, and that corner involved a dog's bowel movement.

Right away Chunk and I understood each other. He couldn't do it. He squatted to drop his deuce, then looked at me, then stood back up and ran over to me. I even let him off his leash to allow extra relaxation, but as long as he could smell me, he refused to shadoobie.

The most amazing part was that he was free to escape me permanently but would keep running back to me. I had never had a dog in my life that didn't try to escape when presented with the opportunity, although, in complete fairness, I would have left our family, too, had I had the financial capabilities. Anytime Mutley or Whitefoot, the dogs from my childhood, got loose, we'd have to get into the car and drive around the neighborhood, leaning on the horn, trying to trick the dog into coming back. "Come on, Whitefoot, let's go for a ride," my dad would yell through a megaphone he stole from my softball practice. "Get in the G.o.dd.a.m.ned car!"

When Ted arrived home that night, I said, "Chunk, this is Chunk." Then I turned to Ted and said, "Chunk, meet Chunk."

"What is that?" Ted asked.

"It's a cat."

"Whose is it?" is it?"

"He's ours now."

"Very funny. Whose dog is it?"

"He is our our dog. I captured him. They were going to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, Ted. He was going to be put in the electric chair. He's a rescue, like Chuy." dog. I captured him. They were going to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, Ted. He was going to be put in the electric chair. He's a rescue, like Chuy."

"Chelsea, can you cut the s.h.i.+t, please? We've already had one dog escapade this year. I'm not really in the mood to deal with Dudley Part Deux. You don't even like dogs."

"There is no s.h.i.+t to cut. This was a moment of weakness born out of a moment of detoxification. I like this dog. He seems to understand me and the pickle I've found myself in."

"What pickle is that?"

I eyed Ted and c.o.c.ked my head to the side. "Wanting someone to snuggle with who doesn't speak."

"Did it ever occur to you to maybe ask me if I wanted to weigh in on the decision, since I live here, too?"

"Not really."

"Chelsea, a dog is a big decision, and we both travel all the time. Who do you think is going to take care of it?"

"Ray is moving here in three days. He loves dogs. It will be his welcoming gift, just like my father's frozen calamari for the renters on the Vineyard. My brother loves dogs."

Ted darted his eyes back and forth between the dog and me, not knowing what to believe. "I'm not stupid. You obviously borrowed the dog from someone."

"Who would I borrow a dog from? You don't borrow dogs from people. You either steal them or find them. Since when are there loaner dogs available?"

"Chelsea, please stop. I've had a long day, and I'm really just not in the mood. This is like that mini-horse you said you were buying for your sister." The mini-horse he was referencing was not a joke at all, and if it was, the joke ended up being on me.

Chuy and I had to take our annual Christmas photo, and one of my producers suggested bringing in a mini-horse he knew about that maybe Chuy could ride. The horse was about three feet tall, and upon sight I made an offer to his trainer, Bruce, to purchase him. Bruce was a giant d.i.c.k and feigned surprise bordering on disgust when I asked him how much he wanted for the horse.

"This little fella's not for sale," he informed me. "They take a lot of work, a lot of attention," he said with a snicker. Then he added, "And they don't like vodka vodka."

I wanted to kick Bruce in the taint. No one is just one thing. Many things contribute to the whole of a person, and just because vodka accounts for 50 percent of my body weight, that doesn't mean I walk around with a vodka drip, forcing every plant, person, or animal to imbibe. I've always had a disliking for animal trainers, and this guy cemented my theory that people who chaperone animals for a living have never had a girl sit on their face.

I went upstairs after my little incident with the Bruce photo and Googled "mini-horse." There turned out to be several Web sites and several mini-horses available for purchase, and I didn't need some animal trainer to approve the purchase. I learned that, just as with dwarfs, there was some sort of chromosomal deficiency that made these horses so small. I felt an instant connection to these miniature horses because of my work with Chuy, and I needed to have full access to one as soon as possible.

After more research I discovered that it is legal to have a mini-horse as a house pet, as long as you have a backyard that meets certain measurements. Not only did my sister Sloane's yard meet the requirements, but she also had a little girl named Charley, along with a newborn named Russell, whose head Charley liked to squeeze on a semiregular basis. This would be the perfect outlet for her to take her frustrations out on, allowing Sloane more time to figure out why all her babies were born with flat heads.

I called Sloane and gave her the news. "Charley can ride it all day long, and the only thing you have to do is get a fence in your backyard."

She went online to check out the horse and was ecstatic. "Oh, my G.o.d! They're so adorable! Why don't you get one?"

"Because, Sloane, I live in a building. I have no yard. They need to be ridden."

"But what about Buddy?"

Buddy was my sister's cat who had been missing for two years. "Sloane, Buddy is gone, and he's not coming back. He could be halfway to Arkansas by now."

"Well, he'd be way past Arkansas by now."

"You don't know that. You don't know what that cat's dreams were. He could have settled in the Midwest. What do you have against Middle America, Sloane?"

"First of all, he's on the Vineyard, because that's where we lost him, so unless he took the ferryboat across to the mainland, he's on the island. Mike and I are going to look again this summer."

"Well, good luck with that plan. In the meantime I see a mini-horse in your future."

Sloane and Mike losing their cat was as predictable in my view as Donny and Marie Osmond making love. They took the cat from a friend who was divorcing and moving into an apartment building that didn't allow animals. I liked the cat because he was significantly overweight and orange, my favorite color for cats, but it was still a cat and basically might as well have been an iguana. Charley terrorized the poor thing, always pulling on its tail and chasing it. The cat's new life sucked. I knew it, Sloane knew it, even my father knew it. "That cat's gonna head for the hills the minute he sees an opportunity. Don't take that cat to the Vineyard if you want to keep him. The very instant he sees the view from our house, he's going to want to live at the beach." The fact that cats hate water and the beach, and could therefore give two s.h.i.+ts about an ocean view escaped him-another example of my father believing that anyone who set foot on his land would most surely want to take up full-time residence there.

"What if Buddy does come back, though, and the horse eats him?" Sloane asked me.

"Horses do not eat cats. Coyotes eat cats, and snakes eat cats. Snakes eat people, too, but we're losing focus-we're not getting you a snake. I'll get you the horse, we'll get a big fence to encompa.s.s your yard, and I think they just eat gra.s.s and hay, right? You'll have to clean up his dumps, which according to my research shouldn't be that ma.s.sive, but that sounds like a job for Mike."

We agreed I would move forward with the purchase of the mini-horse and have it sent to New Jersey. It was impossible to choose one because they were all so amazing, but I finally selected a little brown nugget horse whose name was Simon. I was hoping to come across one named Bruce, but there was no such luck. I called everyone I knew to tell them about the Web site. Ted, of course, thought the whole thing was a dumb idea. "They're going to get sick of that horse in a week, and Charley will poke it in the eye. The horse will be miserable, and so will Sloane. You don't get something just because it's cute, Chelsea. You have to think things through. This is why I'm never taking you to Africa."

Sloane called me the next day and told me Mike had said no to the horse, and she was starting to think it wasn't such a smart idea either.

"What are you talking about, Sloane? This horse is going to improve your quality of life! Charley will be busy every day riding him like a little cowgirl. You won't have to worry about her pulling Russell's ear off or trying to shove dinner rolls in his a.s.s crack."

"I can't do it, Chelsea. I'm sorry. It just doesn't make any sense."

I didn't talk to Sloane for a few days, and for weeks afterward, every time I saw a horse or a cat, or a horse that looked like a cat, I was an emotional wreck.

I looked at Chunk, who was staring at the leftover hamburger meat in the Ziploc bag in my hand. "He's got an erection," I told Ted.

"Gross."

"Don't shame him! He has to know this is an open household where you can express yourself."

"Can you please tell me whose dog this is Chelsea?" he said, covering his eyes.

"I'm telling you, he's ours. He is part of our family now. It could be worse. What if I decided I wanted a baby? Then you'd really be f.u.c.ked."

It took Ted a little while, but he finally realized Chunk was no joke and went over to pet him. "Well, what's his name?"

"Red Rocket," I said, staring straight at the dog's b.o.n.e.r.

"Chelsea, what is his real name, please?"

"Chunk."

"I thought I was Chunk?" Ted asked. "That's going to confuse both of us. How am I going to know which one of us you're talking to?"

"From now on, Ted," I said, taking a seat at the kitchen table, "I will always be talking to the dog."

"That's great, Chelsea. Has he eaten?" he asked, eyeing the dog.

"Yes, I just made him some hamburger meat and steamed clams. He'll be fine until tomorrow. Eva is picking up some real dog food tomorrow."

"No, Chelsea! You cannot feed a dog clams! In the sh.e.l.l?"