Chelsea Handler - Are You There, Vodka, It's Me Chelsea

“Chelsea, shut up, do not tell your friends that!” he said as he got of bed and started to run after me.

“That’s right,” I told her, scurrying out of the bedroom. “And he liked it!”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Mohammed’s penis swinging in the wind while he was chasing me down the hall, making that the second time in my life since I was seven that I had been chased by a penis.

“That’s pretty disgusting. I’m feeling a little better about myself now,” was the last thing she said before he grabbed the phone out of my hand, hung it up, and then tackled me to the floor. By this time Daisy had come out of her comatose state and was coming to my aid.

“You better watch your ass,” I yelled at him in between breaths. “Here comes another dog!”

Once we both caught our breaths, he urged me not to divulge this information to any of my other friends.

“You made your bed, now you have to get blown by a dog in it,” I told him. “I just don’t understand why you would do something like that.”

“I thought it was funny, and you do too.”

“You’re mistaken.” There was something very unsettling about what had taken place. Even more unsettling than walking in on my father’s forty-five-year-old black housekeeper cleaning his kitchen in her underwear, with my mother obliviously knitting on a sofa in the living room and my father watching the cleaning lady through binoculars from another sofa twenty feet away.

“Oh, please, I had a cousin whose wife let her dog go down on her,” Mohammed informed me.

“What? What are you talking about?! This isn’t something that happens on a regular basis, Mohammed! Not in the United States, anyway. I mean, things like this happen, but mostly with horses, and mostly in the south. And by the way,” I added, “people go to prison for it. I understand there was no penetration, and maybe this is big in the Middle East, but I would really appreciate it if you took a shower and got dressed. Somehow, I’ve developed an appetite.”

Ivory called me back an hour later and said she was invited to a party in Malibu. “Bring the doggies; it’s outside, and I’d love to see them.” The fact that she had any interest in seeing dogs she had never met made me realize she was really desperate for company.

Later that afternoon Mohammed and I grabbed the dogs, put them in his SUV, and drove out to Malibu. The house was big and beautiful, like most houses in Malibu, and belonged to some actor who I’d never heard of before. I spent most of the time inside, talking to Ivory and Lydia, and then I decided I should go find Mohammed.

I found him lying on a chaise lounge by the pool, with Pepper in his arms and Daisy nowhere in sight. “What are you doing?” Judging from his closed eyes and the smile on his face, I had woken him from a wet dream. “Where’s Daisy?”

“She’s on the beach. I tied her leash to the deck, she’s fine. I can’t let Pepper go; he just keeps attacking my package,” he said through clenched teeth. There were several people around and none of them were talking to Mohammed.

“You look like a molester, sitting out here with that dog in a headlock. Let go of him.”

“Fine,” he said, releasing his grip. “Watch.”

Pepper jumped up, squealed, and then buried his head right between Mohammed’s legs.

“See? He won’t stop! Everybody’s been watching.”

“This is ridiculous.” I was thoroughly annoyed at this point, and walked back inside. Every time I looked outside, it was the same scenario playing out. Mohammed oohing and aahing with Pepper like they were having an affair behind my back. An hour later I had had enough and went and collected my dog whisperer and the two dogs. “Let’s go. I’m hot.”

The rest of the weekend was spent with Pepper following Mohammed around the house like cheap perfume. After two full days of being rebuffed, Pepper finally gave up and put himself in a corner. Not only did he refuse to eat, but when Mohammed went anywhere near him, Pepper would shake violently and growl. He was spurned by his lover and his heart was breaking.

Mohammed and I eventually broke up, but not because of Pepper. A couple of weeks later he took me to meet his parents, who lived in San Clemente, about an hour’s drive away. His father was nice enough, but his mother was not at all what I had expected. Not only was she extremely unpleasant, but she looked exactly like a man. She had an unreasonable amount of facial hair along with what appeared to be a large mole or herpes sore on the corner of her mouth that was sprouting additional facial hair. She had Nick Lachey’s body, a deep voice, very small boobies, and a crew cut. It would have come as no surprise if she had walked into the backyard to compete in a rock-hurling competition after dinner.

I did not like the looks of her and was surprised that Mohammed had made no mention of the fact that he had two dads. Not only did she blow her nose several times during dinner, she barely spoke a word to me, and when she did, it was to ask me to pass her a turkey leg.

“What’s the deal with your mom?” I asked him on the way home.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, don’t you think she’s kind of manly?” I asked him. “Does she lift weights?”

Mohammed hit the roof upon hearing the last sentence and said I was a spoiled brat who was disrespectful and had no sensitivity. I was pretty surprised to see that side of him. He had no sense of humor about it, and was being very defensive and nasty. If we couldn’t laugh at his mother’s appearance, then what kind of future did we have?

“I just asked you a question,” I said, hopping out of the car when he dropped me off without even pulling into the driveway. Without a response, he sped away, leaving me standing in the middle of the street.

A year later I ran into him at a Starbucks. I was at the counter ordering a cappuccino when I saw him through the window, seated outside…with a Peekapoo. I walked outside and stood in front of him face to face. “Well, well, well. It looks like you really found what you were looking for, ya sick fuck.” A girl from inside walked up and stood next to us, glaring at me. It was clear she was with him.

“Is this your dog?” I asked her.

“No, it’s mine,” Mohammed answered.

“I’ll bet it is, ya sicko. I’ll bet it is.”

Then I turned to his new girlfriend and smiled big. “He’s so great with dogs. You can leave the two of them alone and you never have to worry about any hanky panky. I mean, unless you’re gone for more than an hour.”

The look on her face was the perfect revenge. I patted her on the shoulder sympathetically, smiled at Mohammed, and turned on my heels to walk away triumphantly, knowing that I had delivered the perfect innuendo with considerable aplomb.

It became clear as I got in my car that Persians are only really good for two things. Oil and hummus.

My friend Lydia and I had been living together in Santa Monica for two years. I was having a hard time learning the lesson of why it’s not a good idea to live with friends. Along with not drinking and driving, not having sex on the first date, and always carrying a tampon, this was yet another example of me learning my lessons the hard way.

Lydia has the work ethic of Santa Claus: She prefers to take most of the year off. While my work ethic is not much better, at least I can blame my lack of motivation on the fact that Oprah and Dr. Phil now air back-to-back.

Lydia was working freelance for a publicity firm that allowed her to go in for a couple of hours a day, or every other day. She preferred to “work from home,” or what I like to call “work from bed.” She got the job from a publicist friend of hers named Aubrey, who was a complete and utter basket case.