Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea
By Chelsea Handler
Product Description
THE EAGERLY AWAITED COLLECTION OF PERSONAL ESSAYS FROM THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF MY HORIZONTAL LIFEWhen Chelsea Handler needs to get a few things off her chest, she appeals to a higher power — vodka. You would too if you found out that your boyfriend was having an affair with a Peekapoo or if you had to pretend to be honeymooning with your father in order to upgrade to first class. Welcome to Chelsea’s world — a place where absurdity reigns supreme and a quick wit is the best line of defense.
In this hilarious, deliciously skewed collection, Chelsea mines her past for stories about her family, relationships, and career that are at once singular and ridiculous. Whether she’s convincing her third-grade class that she has been tapped to play Goldie Hawn’s daughter in the sequel to Private Benjamin, deciding to be more egalitarian by dating a redhead, or looking out for a foulmouthed, rum-swilling little person who looks just like her…only smaller, Chelsea has a knack for getting herself into the most outrageous situations. Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea showcases the candor and irresistible turns of phrase that have made her one of the freshest voices in comedy today.
Product Details
- Amazon Sales Rank: #29 in Books
- Published on: 2008-04-22
- Number of items: 1
- Binding: Hardcover
- 272 pages
Editorial Reviews
Review
“Chelsea Handler writes like Judy Blume, if Judy Blume were into vodka, Ecstasy, and sleeping with midgets and nineteen-year-olds.”
— Jennifer Weiner, bestselling author of In Her Shoes
“Ms. Handler’s style is a friendlier, more workaday version of the haughty self-abasement practiced by Sarah Silverman, leavened by the everywoman spirit of Kathy Griffin…She seems like a cruel queen bee from an expensive college: There’s something suspiciously sophisticated about how her jokes line up that suggests the moral austerity of a comic not of [Joan] Rivers’s bad-girl school: Tina Fey.”
— New York Times
“Where have I been all of Chelsea Handler’s life? I had no idea how funny, how brilliant she is. She is too clever for words.”
— Liz Smith, New York Post
“Chelsea Handler is a terrific comedian and a hilarious writer.”
— Jay Leno
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONEBlacklisted
I was nine years old and walking myself to school one morning when I heard the unfamiliar sound of a prepubescent boy calling my name. I had heard my name spoken out loud by males before, but it was most often by one of my brothers, my father, or a teacher, and it was usually followed up with a shot to the side of the head.
I turned around and spotted Jason Safirstein. Jason was an adorable fifth-grader with an amazing lower body who lived down the street from me. I had never walked to school, had a conversation with, or even so much as made eye contact with Jason before. After lifting up one of my earmuffs to make sure I had heard him correctly, I nervously attempted to release my wedgie while waiting for him to catch up. (A futile effort, as it turned out, when wearing two mittens the size of car batteries.)
“I heard you were going to be in a movie with Goldie Hawn,” he said to me, out of breath.
Shit. I had worried something like this was going to happen. The day before, I had forgotten my language arts homework, and when the teacher singled me out in front of the entire class to find out where it was, I told her that I had been in three straight nights of meetings with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, negotiating my contract to play Goldie Hawn’s daughter in the sequel to Private Benjamin.
The fact that no sequel to Private Benjamin was in the works, or that a third-grader wouldn’t be negotiating her own contract with the star of the movie and her live-in lover, hadn’t dawned on me.
“Yeah, well, that was kind of a lie,” I mumbled, recovering my left mitten from in between my butt cheeks.
“What?” he asked, astounded. “You lied? Everyone has been talking about it. Everyone thinks it’s so cool.”
“Really?” I asked, quickly changing my tune, realizing the magnitude of what had happened. It occurred to me that this was the perfect opportunity to get some of the respect I believed had been denied me, due to my father dropping me off in front of the school in a 1967 banana yellow Yugo. It was 1984, and my father had no idea of or interest in how damaging his 1967 Yugo had been to my social status. He had driven me to school on a couple of really cold days, and even after I had pleaded with him to drop me off down the street, he was adamant about me not catching a cold.
“Dad,” I would tell him over and over again, “the weather has nothing to do with catching a cold. It has to do with your immune system. Please let me walk. Please!”
“Don’t be stupid,” he would tell me. “That’s child abuse.”
I wanted my father to know that child abuse was embarrassing your daughter on a regular basis with no clue at all as to the repercussions. Word had spread like wildfire throughout the school about what kind of car my father drove, and before I knew it, the older girls in fifth grade would follow me through the hallways calling me “poor” and “ugly.” After a couple of months they upped it from “ugly” to “a dog,” and would bark at me anytime they saw me in the hallway.
Our family certainly wasn’t poor, but we lived in a town where trust funds, sleepaway camps, and European vacations were abundant, along with Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMWs — a far cry from my world filled with flat tires, missing windshield wipers, and cars with perpetually lit CHECK ENGINE lights.
The idea that showing up at school in a piece of shit jalopy led to me looking like a dog didn’t make much sense in my mind. It really irked me that I had to be punished because my father thought he was a used car dealer and insisted on driving us around in the cars that he couldn’t sell. I wanted to tell my classmates that I didn’t like his cars either, and I certainly didn’t like being called a dog. I hadn’t had a low opinion of myself before then, but after being called the same nickname for six months straight, you start to look in the mirror and see resemblances between yourself and a German shepherd.
If it had been mild teasing, I think I probably could have handled it. But it was incessant, and started from the moment I got to school until the moment I left. After a while, most of my friends in the third grade would avoid being seen with me in the hallways because they didn’t want to be blacklisted too. My best friend, Jodi Sapperman, was the only one who would walk with me to every class and defend me when the fifth-grade girls would come over to our table in the cafeteria and ask if I was eating Alpo for lunch.
“Well, I shouldn’t have said ‘lie.’ That’s the wrong word,” I told Jason. “I’m having trouble getting the trailer size I want. Goldie’s being pretty cool, but Kurt is so mercurial. He doesn’t understand why a nine-year-old needs a Jacuzzi and a personal chef,” I said nonchalantly, with a wave of my mitten. “These types of things always take time.”
“You get your own trailer?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know, your own little house when you’re on set. Every actor gets one. There’s sooo much downtime in movies, you really need a place to unwind. In my opinion, it’s not nearly large enough to live in for three months, but it’s my first major role, so I’m willing to settle for a little less than the crème de la crème.”
My vast knowledge of movie-making at the age of nine came from spending every free minute watching television, movies, and reading any book about the filming of The Breakfast Club I could get my hands on. I think when you grow up in a house surrounded by cars from the previous two decades and parents who insist that ten dollars for a pair of jeans in 1984 is excessive, you have no choice but to immerse yourself in a world where money is no object.
“I didn’t even know you were an actress,” Jason said. “How did you get the part?”
“It’s ‘actor’,” I said, correcting him. “The thing is, I was in a little Off-Broadway production with Meryl Streep.” I took a long pause, allowing him to interrupt.
“Meryl Streep?” he asked. “The one from Sophie’s Choice?”
“Is there another?” I asked, rolling my eyes at his naivete. “Anyway, she and I really clicked. She recommended me to the director of this movie. That’s how Hollywood works — one thing leads to another, blah, blah, blah. But they’re having a ton of creative issues, so who knows if it will even go.”
“Go where?” he asked.
“If the movie will even be made.”
“Oh.”
I could tell Jason was disappointed and I didn’t want to lose his attention, so I hurried to keep him interested. I had always dreamed of becoming romantically involved with an older man and thought Jason not only had the makings of a wonderful lover, but also of a dedicated father to the two black twins I had planned on adopting from Ethiopia. “I mean, it will go, but it could take months. Maybe you can visit me on set.”
“Really?” he asked, his eyes ready to pop out of their sockets.
I had to think of something quick to recant my offer after realizing I would never be able to pull it off, so I quickly added, “Well, I mean if your parents will let you fly to the Galapagos Islands.”
“Who?”
“The Galapagos,” I said, trying to come up with a reason they would be shooting the sequel to Private Benjamin surrounded by turtles. “They have a ton of rare animals there, so the movie’s going to be more of her roughing it in the water with jellyfish and sea horses. It’s basically a cross between Splash and Private Benjamin.”
“I loved Splash!” Jason screamed. “This is so cool!”
“Darryl’s a complete mess,” I told him, shaking my head.
“Darryl Hannah?”
“Don’t even get me started,” I snorted.
Once we arrived at school, I played it cool and left Jason with his mouth agape, as I told him I’d talk to him later and went on my way. It felt great to get attention from him. Even if our star signs didn’t end up being sexually compatible, he was cute and popular, and it would definitely not hurt to have him as a friend. He could be the perfect ally to help get the evil fifth-grade girls to show me a little respect.
By lunch, almost every person at school had asked me about the movie. Not only did the fifth-grade girls skip their daily harassment, one of them even said “hi” as she walked by. Not one person had made fun of me or barked at me all day. Before Jodi and I could even sit down to eat lunch, kids were scrambling to come up to my table.
“What’s Goldie Hawn like?” one of the other boys in fifth grade asked me.
“Tiny,” I told him. “We’re practically the same size.”
“Really? She seems so much taller in the movies.”
“She’s like a mom to me. We totally get each other.”
Once we had a minute to ourselves, Jodi finally confronted me and said she knew for a fact I hadn’t been in a play with Meryl Streep, never mind the Off-Broadway version of Sesame Street, which by lunchtime I had cleverly renamed Sesame Streep.
“I know, Jodi, but look at it this way: This is the first day in months that I haven’t been called a dog or ugly by the fifth-graders, and I’ll be honest with you, it feels pretty sweet.”
“I know,” she said, “but what are you gonna do when they find out you’re lying?”
“They’ll forget about it,” I said, loving the attention. “I’ll just tell them it shoots over the summer, and by the time everyone gets back next year, they’ll have forgotten. Plus, all the fifth-graders will have gone to middle school by then, so they can suck it.”
“Yeah, but what about everybody else?” she asked. “Isn’t there a way you could actually get to meet Goldie Hawn and at least get a picture with her?”
“That’s a great idea,” I told her as I unbuckled my Ms. Pac-Man lunchbox to find a peanut-butter-and-cream-cheese sandwich. “What the hell is this?” I asked, unwrapping it and then slamming it down on the table. “My parents are the worst.”
Jodi and I had been friends since kindergarten, so she was used to this kind of mix-up. As sweet and loving as my mother was, she had the organizational skills of a sea lion and could never remember to make me lunch. So every morning I had to tell my father to make it for me. He, in turn, had the culinary skills of a sea lion, and no matter how many times I repeate…
Customer Reviews
Airhead Reading
This material is pure puff; nothing gets treated as serious or meaningful in all of her observations. She is funny at times, but when I finished this book (in a couple of hours) I almost felt like I had just gotten caught reading Cosmo on line at the check out stand. She has all the depth of a sophomore sorority girl.
maybe it’s just me…
Maybe it’s just me, but while I found parts of this book amusing, overall, I found it profoundly depressing. That a smart, funny, beautiful and multi talented young woman chooses to spend her life in bad jobs, one night stands, and the bottom of various bottles of alcohol does not make me laugh, it makes me sad. I did, however, very much enjoy the parts where she writes about her family. Good writer, bad material.
Laugh outloud funny!
Chelsea Handler is one of the funniest women in Hollywood. And these two books of hers prove just how hilarious she is. I laughed outloud while reading these at home by myself. I laughed outloud on the airplane I was reading them on, people may have looked however I was so enthralled with the story I didn’t notice nor did I care! I have since lent out both books to every friend that has seen me reading these and they agree, Chelsea Handler may be the funniest woman we “know”.
arpijikii
IN THE BOOKS 
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