The best Chelsea party ever: Facts of Life reunion sketch. I’m playing Blair’s cousin Geri (who was a stand-up comic with cerebral palsy). Chelsea is Blair, Jen Kirkman is Jo, Loni Love is Tootie, Guy Branum is Natalie, and Brad Wollack is Mrs. Garrett.
One night Chelsea and I were traveling to Boston. She was asleep on the couch area of the chartered seven-seater plane. I had to go to the bathroom with the intention of peeing, but to my surprise a chocolate kiss of a poo came out. As I stared at it, I decided it was so little that it was really hardly noticeable. (I might add here that on these small planes the toilets just don’t flush that well, and my little floater was there to stay.) I walked back and sat down to read more about Mackenzie Phillips having a consensual ten-year fucking relationship with her father. An hour later, Chelsea woke up and went to the bathroom. Within a minute she kicked open the bathroom door with her Louboutins and said, “Who the fuck left that little nugget of a shit in the toilet?” Her brother, Roy, and her assistant, Eva, both turned to me and in unison said, “Heather’s the only one who has used the bathroom.” I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I manned-up to Chelsea and said, “Yes, I did do it. It was a little slippery sucker. I didn’t intend for it to come out, but it did, Chelsea, it just did.” She said to me, “You’re disgusting,” put her nightshades on, and went back to sleep.
The next week I don’t think there was a day when she didn’t bring it up on the round table. She beats a poop like a dead horse.
Almost a month later we were flying from New York to L.A. early in the morning. I enjoyed the fruit platter, coffee, and several delicious bran muffins. Really, Chelsea was asking for it. She could have just served us water. Anyway, I had to go pee again. And to my utter surprise, I simply let a morning shit go. As I heard it plop into the water, I realized its size and density. I thought, What the fuck do I do? Do I wrap it like a Tampax and put it in my purse? Or do I just resign from Chelsea Lately, go on unemployment, and tell my kids they have to go to public school? So I decided the less disgusting thing to do was to put a bunch of toilet paper down and around my belonging and try to cover it as best I could. It was kind of like being in a sequel to Mission Impossible: Poo.
I sprayed the perfumed Lysol that was in the bathroom until I felt nauseated from the fumes, composed myself, and left the bathroom. Everyone was sleeping due to a late night out after performing, so I tiptoed back to my seat to read my book about Carol Brady getting crabs from a onetime mayor of New York. The first person to wake up was Chelsea’s Pilates instructor Tina, aka Tina Pilates. To keep her from going to the bathroom, I warned her that I wasn’t feeling well and I had thrown up in there. Shortly after that, one of the two pilots went in and stayed for a while. Thank God, I thought, I can put the blame on him. If he loses his job over a poo for the rest of the Live Nation tour, well, so be it. My children were going to remain in private school.
I watched Chelsea sleep like a child I had just given birth to. I wanted her to stay asleep as long as possible, or at least until we reached Utah. Chelsea was half Mormon. Weren’t they the forgiving types?
Chelsea in fact only woke up when we landed. I guess when she reads this she’ll be in for quite the surprise. I laid a torpedo while she slept and I’m still working at Chelsea Lately—hopefully.
To this day, she still brings up the Hershey-size poo. Chelsea has a tendency to not let things die. A few years ago I was lucky enough to be one of the 140 people Chelsea chose to go to Cabo, Mexico, to celebrate her birthday. I brought Peter, whom I’ve never been able to figure out whether Chelsea likes or not. Still, he is my husband. On the last day I got drunk at the pool bar while standing in the pool. Local Mexican employees would come around and pour straight tequila down my throat. The only thing I love more than public displays of affection is PDA in a pool. As I got drunker, I had my legs wrapped around Peter and my tongue down his throat, making it hard for him to say, “Heather, stop it. This is a work party.” I said with my hands in the air, “No, it’s not! It’s a vacation.” He replied, “But you work with these people every day.” And I said, “Just let me be me!”
Several staff members felt the need to take pictures of this moment, which maybe lasted much longer than a moment. We returned home the next day, and the following Monday night on the round table I was scared shitless that Chelsea would bring it up as a subject to be discussed. Luckily for me, she dedicated her entire opening monologue to my indiscretions. I would like to point out that I was making out with my husband of ten years. However, nobody brought up that Chris Franjola received a blowjob from a cougar stranger whom he proudly divulged treated him like a baby on a changing table. This all took place three hours into the trip and before the sun even went down—but no, I’m the drunken slut of the group. The photo of the tequila going down my face was featured at least ten times between the round table, opening monologue, and closing joke.
In March 2011, the Chelsea Lately show went to Sydney, Australia, for the second year. When we weren’t filming shows, I had my heart set on a seaplane adventure. I had been hypnotized by them ever since Fantasy Island. I said to Chelsea, “If you book a seaplane, I know the seats are limited, but please let me come. I’ll even pay my way. Then again, if you do something else, please invite me because I just want to hang out with you.” She said, “Yeah, yeah. We’re going to do something fun tomorrow.” I went to sleep in my hotel dreaming of my upcoming fun day. I woke up early and headed to breakfast, where I saw everyone. I was prepared for the day, with my backpack stuffed with sunscreen, a towel, a change of clothes—everything. I wanted to be prepared to go at a moment’s notice. Chelsea was seated with about six people, and I was ecstatic about the day ahead. I put my backpack down on a seat next to them and said, “So what are we all doing today?” to which they replied, “Oh, we don’t know. We’re hungover.” I said, “Well, even if you want to just go to the beach, I’m game. I’m just going to go get some breakfast from the buffet. I’ll be right back.” I was gone no longer than four minutes (which is about how long it took the chef to make my personalized omelet), but when I came back, every single one of them was gone, even though their poached eggs were still steaming. The only person left in the dining room was Chuy. But when I sat next to him, he asked me to get his breakfast because he couldn’t reach the food. I said to him, “Where did they all go?” To which he replied, “Oh, Miss Heather, they went on a boating trip.”
I was so upset. The year before when Chelsea took us on a boat, it was a beautiful yacht with real crystal stemware and the really good buttery Chardonnay, just the way I like it. There were plenty of places to lie out and you could also wear heels and feel comfortable walking around. That’s the kind of boat I prefer. So I was imagining them heading off for a repeat of our last adventure, minus me, and I just didn’t know why. Chris Franjola, who now had joined us said, “Heather, who gives a shit?” I said, “I give a shit, because I asked to be included. Am I the nerd of the third grade who has lice? Because, Chris, I don’t have lice. I mean, I know I have thick, luscious hair, but no one has ever nested in there before.” Chuy said, “Oh, Miss Heather, I had lice in my eyebrow once, but that was back in prison.”
I was hell-bent on the seaplane, and Chris suddenly said, “Chelsea sent me a text saying that a seaplane was available for us and to have fun.” My dream had come true! I told Chuy and he said no, but then I said it was free and he said OK. This was perfect. I now had my own Tattoo from Fantasy Island, who I could make say, “Da plane, da plane.”
I was still kind of pissed about the blow-off and it got in the way of my perfect seaplane experience. It took Chuy’s philosophy about how beautiful life is for me to calm down and have fun. The plane dropped us off at a beach and that is where I made everyone pretend we were stranded like the cast of Gilligan’s Island. I cast Fortune Feimster as the Skipper, Jiffy Wild as Gilligan, Chris Franjola as the Professor, Sarah Colonna as Mary Ann, and I, of course, was the movie star, Ginger. I didn’t cast Chu
y, because he was already a series regular on Fantasy Island playing Tattoo.
Later, Chuy gave me a massage. Feeling my muscles with his little nugget fingers is amazing because he can really get into the knots around my shoulder blades better than a masseuse with regular-size fingers. He said to me, “Oh, Miss Heather, you get too stressed out. You don’t need Chelsea when you have me.” Chuy really does have a decent heart. But a small part of me was still jealous.
When the seaplane came to pick us up and finish our tour, I got to sit in the front next to the pilot, so I pretended I was a contestant on The Bachelor and the pilot was the Bachelor. But I guess something was lost in the American to Australian translation because when we landed he asked me out and I had to explain I was married and just improvising a reality show that had been on for nineteen seasons.
Chelsea and the others returned from their boating adventure and we all hooked up at dinner. It turns out the boat was a gift from the parents of one of Chelsea’s friends, Amy (the stylist for the show) and it was Amy’s choice as to who went along. It was like a little sailboat that you had to sail yourself and couldn’t leave the Sydney marina. Apparently, Chelsea yelled at Josh Wolf (also a writer on Chelsea Lately) because he was supposed to be steering one of those sails where you had to watch your head or you would be decapitated. Even worse, there was no vodka on the boat. That three-hour ride for Chelsea made it the longest time she had ever been on a boat since she was ten without alcohol. I was beginning to see the merits of our adventure, felt bad for theirs, and kept telling them how wonderful the view was of Sydney that you could only see from a seaplane. Chelsea never gets jealous, but when I told her how Chuy and I reenacted the opening credits for Fantasy Island, I could see it was starting to affect her. She really should have been the one playing Mr. Roarke, since she had discovered Chuy after his porno days.
The week before the Super Bowl between the New York Giants and the New England Patriots in February 2012, there had been rumblings about who would be going to Chelsea’s Super Bowl party. Slowly, one by one, I was hearing that all of the other writers were getting invites. Now, if there is one thing I like, it’s a party with commoners and stars, and a halftime show starring Madonna. At Chelsea’s, even if you have to take a bathroom break there’s a television there too. It was a perfect Super Bowl Sunday, or so I thought it would be. Right before I was to go on the round table I saw Dan Maurio, a producer on the show, and I said, “Did you get invited to Chelsea’s party?” And he said, “Yes, but only in passing.” And I said, “Well, she’s passed me seven times today and hasn’t invited me. Does that mean something?” As we went to tape the round table, I finally just blurted it out on TV: “You know, Chelsea, I don’t care about not being invited to your Super Bowl party. I’m going to have a great one with waterslides and a margarita machine, and my children, and even my husband, are welcome.” She said, “I’m glad you have something to do in the Valley.” I then said, “Well, I know sometimes I don’t get invited because I’m a plus-four.” She retorted, “Some people don’t get invited if they’re just one.”
I ended up having a great time at my Super Bowl party, and when Madonna sang “Like a Prayer,” my best friend Liz and I sang our hearts out, which would not have been well received at Chelsea’s. Still, I felt a little hole in my heart when I saw paparazzi photos of Charlize Theron carrying a case of Dogfish Head Ale up the steep driveway toward Chelsea’s house. This was my wasted chance to get into the New York Post’s “Page Six” column.
I later discovered that none of my colleagues even spoke one word to Charlize. It’s very possible that Chelsea thought that after a few Chardonnays I’d ask Charlize to re-create scenes with me from the movie Monster, which I knew by heart. In the movie she played the most notorious lesbian serial killer, and I was hoping to play her lesbian lover who testified against her. Admittedly, my asking Charlize to act out Monster was a sure thing. Of course, I don’t know if Ms. Theron would have been up for it.
A couple weeks later, God intervened. Sarah Colonna pulled all of the writers into her office and shut the door. She said, “Chelsea wants to take all of us to Cabo this weekend. Who can go?” The first hand up was mine. There wouldn’t even be guilt in my going, because I wasn’t going to miss any family events, Little League baseball had ended, and Peter could watch the kids. My fellow writer Jen Kirkman said she couldn’t go because her mother was in town. Chris and Brad had to work until midnight on Friday for Chelsea’s NBC sitcom, where they punch up some of the lines. Sarah gathered the head count and took it to Chelsea. She returned ten minutes later and said, “Chelsea feels bad that Brad and Chris can’t go because they’re working on her show. Now she wants to go to Napa and leave on Saturday morning for wine tastings and a spa. Sarah asked again, “Who’s in?” My hand went up immediately and I said, “Even better, a short flight away and wine.” Thirty minutes later I strolled into Chelsea’s office and said how excited I was. She looked at me and shook her head and said, “The forecast is rain. I really don’t want to go wine tasting in a storm.” I agreed. She said, “Why don’t we go out for a really great dinner on Saturday night with all of us.” Oh great, I thought, I could buy a new dress and there would be paparazzi.
Friday afternoon, I got an e-mail from Chelsea’s assistant saying dinner would now be at Chelsea’s home. I thought, even better, she always has celebrities over, like Jen Aniston and Reese Witherspoon, who really enjoy a more intimate dinner party than being gawked at inside a crowded, noisy restaurant.
Saturday came around and it was rainy. That forced me to go from my new dress for the occasion to skinny jeans and my brand-new Jimmy Choo black knee-high boots, which really felt more Jennifer Aniston–esque than my first outfit. I even thought about spritzing on Jen’s perfume but knew Chelsea would be horrified that I perfume-stalked her. When I got there, I parked down by the security gate and walked up the steep hill. I wanted to leave the spaces free by the front door for all of the celebrity drivers so they could have enough room to park and wait.
I rang the bell and no one answered. I thought, Oh, good, it’s a loud party. This will be fun. The first person I saw was Roy, Chelsea’s brother whom she lives with, wearing shorts and a dirty T-shirt, and he had bare feet. I saw that Chelsea was outside wearing essentially pajamas, sitting under her covered patio as the rain came down. I went outside and she introduced me to Gary, her new puppy. There was also her dog Chunk; her other dog Jax, a boxer; and her friend Hannah, who’d brought her dog. They all came over to greet me, smelling like dogs do when they’re wet but multiplied by four. Chelsea said, “Oh, go grab some dinner. It’s in the cartons from P.F. Chang’s.” So I went to her kitchen and around to her island, where all the containers were opened up. When I touched one it felt lukewarm, so I asked Roy for a microwave-safe plate, and he just pointed to a cabinet. Then I asked for a fork and knife, and he pointed toward a drawer. I got a plate and asked Roy if I could have a glass of wine. He pointed in the direction of a walk-in pantry. I said to him, “Which one am I allowed to have? Some of these look pretty expensive.” He replied, “Oh, Heather, you can figure it out.” I picked out one that I recognized as being about fifteen dollars. Now, since Roy had left, at this point, I had to find the fucking wine opener. Soon I was seated at Chelsea’s long table made from a piece of wood that came over from Venice. Venice, Italy, not Venice, California. It was just me.
Slowly some of the other writers arrived, having come from other events. This was their second or third party. They hadn’t banked their entire evening on Chelsea’s get-together as I had. I tried to talk to Chelsea, but really, you can only have a dog’s wet nose in your crotch for so long without feeling like you’re cheating on your husband. After about two hours, I decided I wanted to go home. I went to give Chelsea a hug good-bye and to thank her for being such a gracious host. The dogs came to lick my boots one final time. I asked for the security number to get out, but Chelsea, being Chelsea, gave me the wrong one. I found myself
in the rain, on an extremely steep incline in my narrow heels, trying not to fall and punching in the wrong code repeatedly. Finally Jiffy Wild called to say they’d given me the wrong code. “It’s actually 3401.”
I got in my car, relieved to go home, but started to smell something pungent. I had stepped in fucking puppy poo, and since it was from a puppy it was more like diarrhea. I had to pull over to a gas station and wipe it off, but it was already on my gas pedals and my car rug.
The next day, Chelsea said to everyone that she had tears in her eyes from laughing so hard when she remembered how I’d sat all by myself eating my heated-up P.F. Chang’s. She later told me, “Wow, that was quite a change of a weekend for you. We went all the way from Cabo to Napa to a fancy restaurant to me in my pajamas at home; you must have been disappointed.” Sure it was shitty, but that could all be wiped away when Peter took the car to get washed.
I hope I am invited again, because I think I displayed a lot of grace in the face of such adversity. And I honestly do think Chelsea’s company is one of the best. Sometimes I wonder if the Hershey’s Kiss I left on the plane left a lasting impression. I certainly hope not.
12
DEATH BECOMES HER
I am obsessed with the CBS News show 48 Hours Mystery, which is sort of like Dateline but all of the stories involve infidelity, killing of a spouse, and disposing of dead bodies. I have to admit I am hypnotized by the stories that feature rich, attractive people. My favorite genre is murder while scuba diving. This always involves the rich husband, or boyfriend, killing his blond wife, or girlfriend. The typical story line goes as follows: the new bride is scared of the notion of scuba diving, but the loving new husband convinces her that it will help them bond as a couple, so she agrees.
My Inappropriate Life Page 9
