Chelsea Handler - Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

"No, the whole point of you going to Hawaii without me was that you were being so irrational about buying the dolphin."

He groaned. "Enough already. We cannot get a dolphin. I have looked into it, and a single-family house is not big enough to have a dolphin. You were on the speaker-phone when we talked to the Humane Society, Chelsea. And if you remember correctly, their suggestion was that you don't get any pets, period."

I decided to ignore this comment and pressed forward. "Why can't we just get a baby dolphin and I'll smoke a bunch of pot around it so it doesn't grow?"

"Is this conversation over, or are we still talking?"

"No one in the building has to know. We can bring it up through the balcony outside."

"Chelsea, we can't get a dolphin. This isn't an aquarium, and there is no way to hide transporting a dolphin through our balcony. This isn't a private residence. It's a condominium. There are people everywhere. If you know a dolphin dealer who can get a little-person dolphin, then I will do everything in my power to get you one, but my fear is that it will continually just head-butt itself into the front of the fish tank. There is a limit to how big the fish tank can be, and condo living is no life for a dolphin. I told you I can get you a tiger shark. That's legal."

"Fine, you want to get that shark, we'll get that shark. Oh, I'm going to get that shark all right. I'm going to sit in front of the fish tank and give it the finger all day long while I watch it head-butt itself."

I threw my BlackBerry against the wall.

"This is what Ted had intended all along," I said to one of the knives lying on the counter. "To render me completely useless. To have me be dependent on him for everything, so if I ever broke free, I would be forced to return if I wanted to watch TV or preheat an oven again."

What a sham. I looked at the sun desperately trying to creep in from outside, and I felt awful. Why couldn't it just start raining so I would stop feeling so guilty about lying around in my bra and underwear in an environment that would surely be awarded an F by the Health Department?

While I was pouring myself a vodka and Clamato juice, I briefly considered going for a run, and instead I went into my bathroom to get a Vicodin I had left over from the batch I was given after my vaginal-rejuvenation surgery. Before long I drifted into a very relaxing siesta.

When you roll over in bed in the morning and hit a plate with the side of your head, you know things have gotten carried away. When you toss that plate on the floor, roll back over, and fall asleep again, you've hit another dimension. When you look at the clock and realize it's not morning but still the day before, you're either in Australia or you've gone into another dimension that isn't easy to get out of. It takes a discipline that is common only among Cheesecake Factory managers and people who maintain a weight over 350 pounds.

Our landline rang again, and this time I pressed "talk."

"Caller, go ahead."

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

"Did you go for a run?"

"Yes."

"Are you writing?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Ted."

"Caller, who are you calling for?"

"The building Realtor wants to show our place tomorrow."

"Negative."

"Because you don't want to clean it or because you want to just lie around all day in your bra?"

"I don't want to clean and I want to lie around in my bra, plus I've sustained an injury. Tomorrow's Sunday. Who knows when I'll wake up? It could be noon, it could be four."

"Okay, I can cancel the showing, but then they'll want to come Monday. So should I have Maria come Monday morning, or do you think you'll be able to clean up yourself?"

"I think you should call Maria."

After we hung up, I looked at the clock. Eight P.M. Perfect movie starting time. I scrolled down and saw Sex and the City starting again at eight. I could have climaxed right there and then. I walked into my bathroom and saw a soup spoon on the scale and, next to a box of tissues, a cheeseburger ball half on a plate and half on the countertop. I couldn't believe that a tiny little cheeseburger was big enough to split into two on two different surfaces. Those Lean Pockets are full of scientific surprises. I didn't know what was happening to me, but I couldn't fight it. I had to go with my creator.

The fact that Sex and the City: The Movie had come out a year before and I'd had less than no desire to see it yet was about to buckle myself in for a second showing in less than twelve hours meant that all proverbial ducks were not in a row. They weren't even ducks. They were seagulls. Dirty seagulls.

I hated Big. I hated everything about him and this story line. First of all, it didn't make any sense that he was getting out of the car to tell her he would marry her and never once said that when she's throwing the flowers at him. I wanted Big dead. I wanted to take the fork that was sitting in my bathroom and stab him in the eyes, right where he has those big puffy circles under them. Stupid-ass shitstain motherfucker. Then Carrie wastes all of her energy being mad at Miranda when the real problem was and always will be Charlotte. Forget what Miranda told Big about getting married. How about being mad at Charlotte for being so stupid? The only decent thing Charlotte's ever done on the show or in the movie is shit her pants, and that does not make up for years of Type 1 retardation.

My friend Sarah called me at around seven-thirty to ask me what time I wanted to go to our friend's barbecue. "Not happening," I told her. "Shit's really hit the fan over here big-time."

"Are you crying?"

"Yes. Have you seen Sex and the City?"

"Really, Chelsea?"

"Yes! Really! You were left at the altar, Sarah. Hello! Have some compassion for Sarah Jessica Parker." (See Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea.)

"So you're going to stay in bed on a Saturday night crying? Is that your game plan?"

"That's my plan, but it ain't no game, girl."

"Have fun. Call me tomorrow if we're all doing happy hour."

"I'll be there for happy hour." I hung up the phone.

My Bloody Mary from earlier had evaporated, so I went to make myself another one and was glad to see the sun had gone down. "Thank God."

As I was stirring my drink, I asked the Clamato juice container, "What is Clamato juice exactly? It sounds like a yeast infection."

After reviewing the label and coming upon the words "clam juice," then spitting out my drink, I moved on to my next drink of choice when resting. A scotch neat with a splash of Crystal Light Hawaiian Punch.

Back in the bedroom, I pressed "play" on the remote, and in doing so felt like I was finally taking control of the situation. Now the girls were in Mexico, and Sarah Jessica Parker was listless and slept and didn't eat. Conversely, I was in Marina del Rey, in my bed, crying into my scotch. I wished Sarah Jessica Parker and I could be in bed together so I could roll over, brush her cheek, and assure her that everything would be okay. Then I remembered that having a guest visit would require me to tidy up. And I was back to being okay without company.

I fell asleep again toward the end of the movie, so I've now seen the movie twice and never seen the ending. I know that Sarah Jessica Parker and Big get back together, but I don't approve of it, and I won't endorse it. The more interesting news is that I woke up the next morning, got out of bed, took a look around my condo, and got right back into bed.

Another sunrise, another movie marathon. The next morning I worked my way up to Lifetime, but after two commercial breaks I was back to the Starz networks. There's nothing more annoying than infomercials when you can't find your wallet.

After viewing Reservation Road, Revolutionary Road, and one episode of Real Housewives of Orange County, I went online to shop for a handgun with the letter R on the barrel.