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

I grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the shower. After watching Oprah and Dr. Phil , it was time to do something productive. I had been seeing a therapist for nearly three weeks and was getting the sinking feeling that she was no closer to prescribing me medication than when we first met.

When I told her that Vicodin was to me what cocaine and horse tranquilizers were to Amy Winehouse, and that without it I would not be able to continue performing at such a high level, she tried to explain to me that Vicodin was a pain medication and it wasn’t for the depression I was claiming to suffer from.

Not to be outdone, I gently but firmly explained to her that the depression I was suffering from was causing a very large pain in my head . It was back and forth with this woman, and I was exhausted. It didn’t take me long to realize this was money that could be better spent. I grabbed the yellow pages, skipped right past the list of psychiatrists, and started jotting down names of psychics.

At around 6 p.m., Lydia came into my room to say that Jen and Ivory would be meeting us there. “Great!” I exclaimed. “I’m looking forward to it!…Where is this dinner, again?” I asked her.

“Cobras and Matadors, on Beverly.”

“Do they have a full bar?” I asked sternly. I vaguely remembered that Cobras and Matadors only served beer and wine and I am strongly opposed to such limitations. I prefer vodka and I generally like it in mass quantities.

She scrunched up her face. “Sorry.”

I shook my head, brushed by her quickly, and walked into the kitchen. I took my flask out of the cupboard and my Ketel One out of the freezer. Now I would not only have to bring my own lemon juice that I routinely carry with me everywhere to mix with my vodka, but I would also have to supply my own vodka. In addition to being at someone’s birthday party whose last name I didn’t even know, I would also be bartending.

“Do you think they’ll have ice?” I asked Lydia. “Or should we empty a couple of ice trays into a beach cooler?”

“I have to stop by the Gap and get her a present,” Lydia informed me. “They have that sale rack, so I’m sure I can find something cheap.”

We stopped on our way to the restaurant and I waited in the car while Lydia shopped for a total of seven minutes. She came back with two tank tops and a box.

“How much were those?” I asked, wondering how I would feel if I got two tank tops as a thirtieth birthday present.

“Two ninety-nine each.”

“That was nice,” I said.

We walked into Cobras & Matadors and were led to a rectangular table. We were the first ones there, so Lydia sat in the seat directly across from me.

The next person to arrive was her friend I had never heard of. Her name was Six. Like the number. I could tell by her outfit that this girl was going to be trouble. She was wearing a plaid miniskirt with black tights and open-toed, high-heeled, red patent-leather sandals. Her present was in a red gift bag tied together with a black ribbon. These were obviously her theme colors.

“Are these the gifts?” she asked as I finally looked up from her shoes. She was pointing at the present that I had placed in the middle of the table with an unsure look on her face. Her hair was black and in a ponytail that was placed about two inches away from her forehead. Her shirt had nothing to do with the rest of her outfit. It was a pink button-down sweater that belonged on Katie Couric.

Her lipstick was whore red, and outlined with black lip liner, or what could have very well been eyeliner. She didn’t have a stitch of makeup anywhere else on her face and she was wearing black hoop earrings that must have been made out of limestone, because her lobes looked like they were going to detach from the rest of her ear at any moment. In addition to this, she was blowing bubbles with what I could only assume was a giant gumball.

It was obvious that Lydia and I would need to avoid making eye contact with each other for the rest of the evening. Lydia and I have the maturity level of ten-year-old boys when we drink, and Six’s arrival combined with the gifts we were about to give Aubrey was a surefire sign we were bound for one of our laughing fits that usually only results in two things: us looking like complete assholes, or me having to change my underwear.

“So how do you know Aubrey?” I asked Six, trying not to stare at the whale’s spout on top of her head.

“We actually just met a couple of days ago,” Six told me.

“Oh, how unusual,” I said, glaring in Lydia’s direction. “And where did you two meet?”

“It was the funniest thing,” she told me. “We were both in Trader Joe’s looking for a good multivitamin. Can you imagine?”

It was time for a drink. I leaned into my purse and got out my supplies. “Would you like a cocktail?” I asked Six. “They only serve beer and wine here.”

“Oh, um, no, that’s okay, I’ll probably just have some wine, but thank you. Last time I had vodka, I got sick.”

“Last time Lydia had vodka, she had sex,” I said, referring to the previous weekend, when Lydia hooked up with a stranger. She woke up in the morning and scrambled out of bed to find out what part of town she was in, only to discover that the guy she hooked up with lived in our building.

Aubrey walked in next, and Jen and Ivory were soon to follow. I got up to give Aubrey a hug, but only after Lydia kicked me under the table. There were three seats on each side of the table. Ivory and Jen were waiting to see which seat Aubrey was going to take. “I want to be in the middle, it’s my birthday,” she announced as she moved to sit down next to Lydia and motioned for Ivory to sit down on her other side. Jen took the seat next to Six directly across from Ivory. “This is Six,” I said to Jen and Ivory. “She and Aubrey met last week at Trader Joe’s.”

Ivory looked over at Six, looked at me, opened her menu, and then held it up to cover her face. Ivory was more mature than Lydia and me. She would never laugh directly in front of someone’s face; she would wait until they left the room. She also would never judge someone based on their car, job, or drug habit. She is very open-minded and embraces all different cultures. For example, she is close friends with a gray-haired, black drug dealer named Roger, who she will stay up with for entire weekends straight, wandering from one crack-house to another watching him snort cocaine. It doesn’t seem to bother her that Roger is in his fifties or that he carries a revolver.

Jen’s a little more laid-back than Ivory, Lydia, or me. She’s always around, but usually isn’t the one who makes a scene. She’s had the same job for five years as a manager of an art gallery and has never had a serious boyfriend, nor does she have the interest. She’s quite self-sufficient and a little more dignified than the rest of us, except for the one time Ivory and I couldn’t find her at a party, only to discover her on our way out of the parking garage, having sex in a station wagon.

The waitress came over to take our drink orders and tell us about the specials. “It’s my birthday,” Aubrey declared as she stood up and motioned for everyone else to stay seated. Aubrey has a twang not unlike Drew Barrymore when she speaks, but much more condescending. Although she looks nothing like Drew Barrymore, people tell her all the time that she reminds them of Drew Barrymore and she always acts appalled, knowing full well she loves any comparison to a celebrity.

“I want everyone to know that dinner is on me tonight, because I’m about to come into an inheritance. I’m paying for everyone.”

“Absolutely not,” Six chimed in. “Not one of us here is going to let you pay for your own birthday dinner. It’s simply unheard of!”