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

The girls apparently convinced him last night that he is part black due to his “negrolike” features-his “nigger lips” and his wide nose. When I asked dad not to use the n word, he told me, “They said it, not me! They said the n word. I would never use a word like that.” Then he spent the rest of this morning talking about how he thinks that’s a huge compliment, coming from two colored girls.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I said, handing my dad a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of half and half with a splash of coffee. He was seated in his usual spot in one of the Adirondack chairs, with the three dogs that follow him around lying at his feet.

“Good morning, love,” he said, taking the plate and coffee from me as if it was completely normal for me to be making him breakfast. “I’ll tell you, those girls are something. Black Magic and her mother. That mother can talk a blue streak. You know what these eggs are missing, Chels? Paprika.”

I looked at my father, wondering how my mother could have listened to this for forty-seven years. I couldn’t believe that I had defended him so many times to her. I just knew my mother was sitting up in heaven watching my father order me around like a slave and laughing her ass off.

“They don’t have that here, Dad. How about nothing?”

“You know, black people have a whole race issue going on among themselves. They don’t like the ones that are too dark. The lighter the skin, the more beautiful they are considered.”

“That’s exactly right, Dad-especially if you’re a racist.”

“No, Shoniqua told me last night. Chocolate brown and lighter are the most desirable shades… It’s a little late for them to be sleeping, don’t you think?”

“Well, you didn’t come home until one thirty. It’s only nine. They sleep late.”

“I don’t care if they sleep all day. That’s their prerogative,” he said while shoving forkful after forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You think you’re pretty sneaky, don’t you, Chels?”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, bringing Mama Latifa here on vacation with us. I am not looking for a steady girlfriend,” he said, banging one fist on the arm of his chair. “I am not equipped to perform in that capacity anymore. She’s only fifty-two, and women that age are still in their prime and looking for penetration. She obviously has a crush on me.”

“Dad, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but I don’t think Latifa is interested in being penetrated by you.” Once again, I found myself having a conversation about sex with my father.

“Listen to me, Chelsea. Women are all the same. JLo, Britney Spears, Missy Elliot. These women all expect a lot of physical performance.”

“I’m going swimming,” I said.

“Look at that body! Hot stuff tonight!” he yelled as I walked toward the water. Two surfers on the beach turned to see who was yelling obscenities at me while I hung my head low and avoided any eye contact.

I was in the water for three minutes when I heard three short abrupt whistles, followed by two longer ones that sounded like a foghorn. I looked back toward Bitch Tits and saw him waving for me to come ashore. I got out of the water and walked the fifty feet to where my father was perched.

“Where did you get a whistle?” I asked him.

“Stay where I can see you,” he said, holding the whistle that was now covered in scrambled eggs. Then he got to his feet, shuffled over to where I was standing, and turned away from me. “Give me a scratch on the back.”

“No thanks,” I responded.

“Chelsea, it’s Father’s Day.”

Scratching my father’s back isn’t something I take immense pleasure in doing. The most vile part of this procedure is that he pulls up his shirt so that I can make direct contact with his skin. My father’s body and skin, along with the entire cast of The Golden Girls , is definitely something that should be kept under wraps at all times.

The back-scratching combined with my father yelling “Hot stuff tonight!” and “Look at that body” every time I walked by him in a bikini would lead anyone to believe that we were dating. I kept making sure to say the word “dad” loudly whenever one of the gardeners walked by, even when my father was nowhere in sight.

One of the dogs got up and followed my father to where he was standing.

“This one follows me everywhere I go. He probably smells Whitefoot.” Our dog, Whitefoot, had died four months earlier, the day after my mother passed away. People say that pets can sense when one of their owners is dead, and I definitely believe that to be true. However, my father has convinced himself that Whitefoot died of a broken heart, when, in fact, I believe it was a suicide. Had we not found him lying dead next to an empty bottle of Tylenol PM and what appeared to be the beginning stages of a suicide note, I would also have believed he died from sadness. I couldn’t blame Whitefoot. The thought of spending the rest of my life alone with my father would drive me to take my own life too.

DAY #4/FATHER’S DAY

Somehow Dad managed to get ahold of a whistle. He uses it primarily for lifeguarding, and also to get the attention of anyone he wishes to have a conversation with. Today we were lying on the beach and I noticed that Dad can only balance his head midair while lying on his side. He was lying in that position for well over an hour. I asked, “Is that comfortable?” and he said, “It’s perfectly fine.” His head cannot touch the ground due to his inflamed abdomen. It just floats there, airborne.

Afterward, he said, “You are preternaturally genetically gifted, Chelsea. But, as far as your abs go, you could make some improvements.” I wanted to ask him where his abs have been for the past forty years.

I’m really going to need some backup-all expenses paid.

Because it was Father’s Day, I decided to change it up for dinner. Instead of going to our usual place, the four of us walked a quarter of a mile down the beach to another hotel and had dinner there.

We were seated next to a family with a six-year-old son who ran over to us and started dancing. Normally this would have been endearing, but this boy had an unusually large cranium and “crazy eyes.” His pupils were extremely dilated and were two different sizes, not to mention they were each looking in completely opposite directions. As he hopped from one foot to the other, he jerked his head back and forth while making very disturbing grunting and hissing sounds. I couldn’t make out where he was from; he wasn’t using any actual words or a language, but his parents looked foreign. It was quite obvious that without severe behavioral modification, this boy would grow up to be a serial killer.

“Get that little fucker away from me,” Shoniqua said, looking at him sideways.

My father took his eyes off the menu to look at the boy and lowered his reading glasses. “Boy’s got dementia.” Then, just as quickly, he returned to reading the menu.

The parents didn’t seem to mind that their six-year-old was harassing another table, or think for a second we might not want to be entertained by their demon son.

The boy, let’s call him Hitler, had a balloon in his hand and kept smacking it against his head while dancing. Luckily, Hitler had a crew cut that protected him from the static charge that this kind of action can create. I was not as lucky. It’s not easy to discipline a child who is not related to you, so when he started rubbing the balloon against my head, I just sat there and let him do it, while my hair flew out in fifteen different directions.

“I’ll have a margarita on the rocks, no salt,” I said as Hitler continued to attack the side of my head with the balloon. The waitress, who looked apologetically at me but didn’t speak much English, offered no support. Once my father ordered a margarita in Spanish, he put his menu down and finally noticed the kid accosting me. Shoniqua and Mama Latifa had noticed earlier and had been staring at the little boy with their mouths open.