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

“How do you know it’s not just two hundred years old?”

“You can tell by looking at the base of the tree. The width of the base, Chelsea! That tree is coming up on its three hundredth birthday, goddammit!” You’d think I’d asked him if a vagina could be used as a pencil sharpener. “Go ahead, take a picture, for crying out loud,” he ordered as I emptied coffee grounds into the coffee maker.

“In a minute,” I said, gesturing that both my hands were occupied.

“I’ve got a question for you, Chels,” he said, lowering himself into an armchair. “Have you ever thought of getting some lowlights?”

Day #2

“The ocean is like a symphony” is Dad’s new catchprase, along with “surfer’s paradise”-and coming in third is still his old standby, “Arabs are the scum of the earth.”

After I made him coffee, he said he was going swimming and had plans for lunch. We’ve been here for less than twenty hours and he already has lunch plans with the female Italian landscaper. He said it’s good to brush up on his languages. I was tempted to ask the landscaper how to say “shut the fuck up” in Italian.

There are several dogs on the grounds who are all following Dad around. “Dogs love me, even these half-breeds. Keep ’em away from Shoniqua and that mother of hers, though. These dogs do not like blacks.”

Shoniqua’s mother used the n word after four forty-ounce Coronas last night, and Dad, who was appalled, said, “Black Magic Mama, please don’t use language like that. I prefer schvartzeah.”

If any of you want to come here, everything is paid for.

Once my dad returned from lunch, he passed out in his bedroom and didn’t wake up for four hours. Going for a swim earlier had completely exhausted him. And it occurred to me that in order for me to get any writing done, it would be necessary to get him swimming every day to completely wipe him out. It seemed to me that caring for a seventy-five-year-old wasn’t much different than caring for a toddler. Once they go down for a nap, it’s important to get as much done as possible.

At around seven my father walked into Shoniqua’s villa, where I was having a cocktail with the girls, and proclaimed, “It’s time to eat.”

“Hi, Papa Handler!” Shoniqua exclaimed, running over to give him a kiss.

Latifa slurped down the remains of her forty-ounce Corona, grabbed another, and the four of us walked over to our new favorite restaurant. The same waitress from the night before came over, and before she had a chance to even say “hello,” Bitch Tits announced, “I’d like some swordfish.”

“Dad, we haven’t even ordered drinks yet and no one has even looked at the menu. Will you please take it down a notch?”

“I’m sorry,” the waitress said. “We don’t have swordfish.”

“Margaritas,” my father said, staring at the table. Apologizing for my father had become part of my daily routine early on in life, as he makes a point of having no social skills whatsoever. This is a man who can give you the meaning of any word in the dictionary, the history of any war that has ever taken place, the geographical location of any city in the world, but has never in his life learned the words “please” or “thank you.”

“You look good in red, Papa Handler,” Shoniqua said, admiring the shirt he had put on for dinner.

“Do you think so?” he asked, turning his head and looking at her sideways. “Chelsea and my wife always liked me in red. Red, yellow, and chartreuse. You know, my wife was many things,” he said, apparently picking up in the middle of a conversation no one else was having. “She was an artist, a painter, a carpenter, an engineer; she could sew, she was a mechanic, a cook, a baker, a lover, a painter, a gardener, a landscaper, a mother, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, an uncle, a volunteer…”

“Okay, Dad, she wasn’t an uncle.”

“Chelsea,” he said. “You really need to relax. You seem very stressed out.”

“I’m gonna get me some filet mignon,” Mama Latifa announced. “You’re paying, right, Chelsea?”

“Of course she’s paying,” my father replied.

“Dad, do you want to split a salad as an appetizer?” I asked him.

“I’ll take my own salad, and then I’ll take the ribs,” he replied as a mango fell off the roof of the restaurant and split open on the ground.

“They’re not going to have ribs, Dad.”

“Of course they will. What restaurant doesn’t have ribs?”

The waitress came over with the menu, which was written on a chalkboard and was different each day and, of course, did not include ribs.

“Goddamn bugs are eating me alive,” Mama Latifa said, smacking herself in the arm.

“I know,” the waitress responded. “It’s awful right now with the bugs; it’s actually the worst time of year. My legs are in terrible shape.”

We all looked at her exposed legs, which looked like she had gotten caught in a minefield. More than once. Both her legs were covered in awful, blistering sores.

“Jesus Christ!” my father yelled, looking down at them. “You better take a seat.”

She smiled and went on to tell us that her skin is extra-sensitive to the bites, and that there was a fatal reaction she could have if the bites got any worse.

“Well, you better pack your bags and get the fuck out of Costa Rica!” Shoniqua said.

“I know, I should totally leave for the off-season, but I just love it here.”

“Well, you’re not gonna love it if your ass is dead,” Mama Latifa added.

The notion that this girl could potentially die from mosquito bites, and was only mildly concerned about it, made me think she was probably one of those girls who wouldn’t put up a fight against a rapist. I always thought that if I were ever to get raped, I would try and get along with my rapist. Maybe ask him what kind of music he likes, would he like a cocktail, that sort of thing. Just to try and make it as civilized as possible. And then right before we started to make love, I would just tell him I have herpes, AIDS, and/or gonorrhea.

“Listen, Hilary,” my father said to the waitress. “You’re what my daughter refers to as a ‘hot mess.’ What you need is vinegar for those bug bites. I’ve got some at the house if you don’t have any here.”

“Vinegar? Really?” She asked confused. “Balsamic?”

“No,” my father replied, losing all patience. “Not balsamic, for crying out loud, you’re not a salad. White vinegar. If you don’t have it, Chels will go back to the villa and get mine. I’ll administer it.”

More great news. I grabbed a flashlight and limped back through the woods to get vinegar. When I came back, covered in sweat from the humidity, my father was, of course, talking about what a ravenous sex drive my mother had. Mama Latifa was sitting up at the table, sleeping with her mouth open. Two seconds later, her head jerked forward and her eyes popped open. Then she reached into her mouth, removed her top teeth, and put them on the table. “Nothing like a man who loved a woman, Melvin,” she slurred. “Nothing like it.” Then it started pouring.

Day #3

Last night there was a torrential downpour at dinner, so we had to navigate our way through the woods in pouring rain with Dad traveling at his fastest gait (1 1/2 mph) and me holding Latifa’s teeth. All of us hung out in Shoniqua’s villa listening to hip-hop for an hour before Dad said, “I’d like to hear some Shakira.”

Shoniqua’s mother was dancing around Dad, shaking her ass, and he, of course, thinks she has a crush on him. I told them I was going to the bathroom around ten, and instead came back to our villa to pass out.

I heard doors slamming when Dad came home and I looked at the clock. It was 1:30 a.m. Today he said he’s “hungover.”