My Inappropriate Life

by Heather McDonald

  We were at a table of ten at the reception, and while we were having a conversation with a couple beside us, a man from across our table, who had been listening to us and whom we had never met said, “Wait a minute. Is your name Peter? I recognize you from photos. I think I was engaged to Patsy after you were.”

  As it turns out, Peter had been engaged to a woman named Patsy about a year before he met me. The most recently scorned ex told the table, “Did you know that you were number four and I was number five?” Jeez, I thought, how does one woman get a man to kneel down with a ring five times? It wasn’t like she was Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. I also decided that a woman like that must really know her way around a penis. She’s also the kind of selfish woman who would never share those dick tricks with another woman.

  For the rest of the night Peter and this guy compared war stories as I danced with the groom’s roadie compadres. Roy and Mindy would eventually have two kids within two years and then he’d leave her for another woman.

  I had to ask myself, Are Peter and I bad luck as wedding guests? Sure, everyone complains about our hour-and-a-half-long Catholic wedding ceremony, but we’re still here. My fantasy is to renew our vows outside in our backyard with our Bellagio-esque water fountains playing to Andrea Bocelli’s music. I would have a three-gown wedding (all made by Vera Wang): one for the ceremony, one for the dinner, and then a short slutty one for the dancing. Chuy would be the ringbearer and I’d have Chelsea, Sarah Colonna, Jen Kirkman, and Fortune Feimster as my bridesmaids (and Liz as the maid of honor). They would all be in navy, because in my opinion my boss looks the best and thinnest in navy. Of course, it would all be televised on an E! “Celebrity Renewal Wedding” special. A separate deal would be made with In Touch magazine for the photo rights.

  17

  THE SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD INTERN

  Working with Chelsea Lately doesn’t come without a certain amount of risk. For example, we typically have college interns helping us with production. They tend to be guys who claim to be straight but act very effeminate. Though, some do flirt with me and say that they have a thing for cougars. I am of course honored, but I mostly needle them to embrace their gayness. I mean, there’s a reason you’re a twenty-year-old college guy whose favorite show is Chelsea Lately.

  There was one intern, however, who did take special interest in me. He was a very special intern—as in “afterschool special.” He was a sixty-five-year-old man whom we called “The Sixty-Five-Year-Old Intern” because we are genius comedians. Chelsea was dating Ted Harbert, who was president of E! at the time. The Sixty-Five-Year-Old Intern, whose real name was George, happened to be Ted’s good friend. Chelsea came to the writers’ meeting and told us, “Hey, Ted’s really good friend who used to run all of the top sitcoms in the 1980s and ’90s is basically retired but his third wife just left him. He’s very depressed and Ted thought being exposed to comedy writers again would really help him. None of your jobs are threatened; this is just temporary.”

  George would just sit in the morning writers’ meeting taking notes and soaking in our weird ambiance. Then one day he piped up, “What about doing a parody of Sgt. Bilko?” To which we all said, “Interesting. Who is that?” George replied, “You’re kidding. It was a hit sitcom that ran on CBS from 1955 to 1959.” We politely laughed, as in addition to being genius comics we are smart enough to know not to piss on the friend of the network’s president.

  Early on, George asked if he could come to my office and watch me work on my jokes for the show. Again, recognizing that I like my paycheck, I said “Sure. That’ll be fun.” My office is small, so he had to sit on my big yoga ball, which he had trouble balancing on because he’d just had hip-replacement surgery. Halfway through writing the jokes, a production assistant delivered my Chinese chicken salad that I have every day and that I pay for. George said to the PA, “Oh, I’ll have one of those too.” She said, “They’re nine dollars,” and he just said, “Oh, never mind.” Knowing that seniors should eat every few hours, I offered half of my salad to him, which he happily accepted. As is typical for me, we got right into his personal life. His first wife he cheated on, his second wife cheated on him, and his third wife’s career as a doctor specialist/TV personality was just starting to take off and she tired of him.

  By the third day of sharing my nine-dollar lunch with him, which he never offered me $4.50 for, he said that the house he owns now was Kate Hudson’s childhood home. With my knowledge of real estate, I calculated that it was definitely worth more than $5 million when he told me what part of L.A. it was located in. I looked down at my half salad and thought, Heather, why are you sharing your meal with a multimillionaire?

  My office was becoming stuffy, and I figured out that I was the only one dealing with him. The woman I was sharing my office with was going away for a week, so George said, “Great, then I’ll just set up shop here for the week.” He added, “I love being on a diet with you and only eating a half Chinese chicken salad. I’ve already lost a couple of pounds. But next time, can you order half the amount of wonton crunchies?”

  Later, I was in Chelsea’s office, and I said, “Do you know that George plans on spending the entire week in my office while Lisa’s gone?” Chelsea was excited. She said, “Oh that’s great. I’m so glad you two are getting along. I’ll have to tell Ted.” And I said, “No, Chelsea, besides him taking half my lunch, I provide therapy for him, not only for his last wife but for his thirty-year-old son who he had a rift with regarding a property in Vermont that he had put a lien against. Technically, at thirty, he thought his son should be responsible enough to handle these matters. And to tell you the truth, I agree with George.” Chelsea seemed bored with what I was talking about. She said, “Let me talk to Ted.”

  The next day, our executive producer came to our meeting and said, “The Sixty-Five-Year-old Intern will no longer be returning, being that he is not currently enrolled in a four-year university.” I thought, Great, I can eat again, but part of me missed him. I actually shared the Sergent Bilko jokes with my eighty-year-old father; I had never seen him laugh so hard. But he isn’t exactly our ideal demographic.

  Another occupational hazard that comes with working for Chelsea Handler is that your personal life can suffer, and sometimes you aren’t even aware that it is suffering. This was the case when I experienced a very bizarre weekend at home. That Saturday morning I was at my son’s T-ball game alone with all three of my kids because on Saturday mornings Peter goes golfing. This was when one of the single mothers who religiously watches Chelsea Lately sat down next to me. Her name was Katy, and she asked me, “How is everything going?”

  “Oh fine . . . Brandon, don’t climb the chain-link fence!” I yelled at my three-year-old, who was edging toward the top of the batting cage.

  “It’s hard doing everything by yourself. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m so much happier now,” she said.

  “That’s great and very brave of you. It’s important to be happy. You can’t be a good mother if you’re miserable in your relationship,” I said, reassuring her.

  “You’re brave too,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  At this point I thought she was referring to the previous night’s sketch where I once again appeared in a one-piece bathing suit.

  “Hey, a few of my divorced girlfriends, we call ourselves the Double D’s for Divorced Divas—get it? You can use that in your act if you want. We’re going to the Sagebrush Cantina in Calabasas tonight at seven o’clock for men and margaritas, which we call M&M’s, get it? You can use that in your act too if you want. Do you think you can get your mom to watch the kids so you can join us?” she asked.

  Sagebrush has been a major cheesy Valley scene for the past two decades, but I hadn’t been there since Chelsea Lately started to air and figured a few people may recognize me from the show, so I decided to go. I knew I would get a lot more attention if I could somehow convince Chelsea to join me, but the only thing that
irritates Chelsea more than drunk Valley cougars are drunk and married Valley cougars. So before I agreed to join them, I made it clear that my blond star was out of town performing that weekend, which Katy seemed to accept without disappointment.

  “Actually, Peter can watch the kids,” I said.

  “Wow, that’s great. It’s really important to keep the lines of communication open, especially when it comes to the kids,” she said.

  I thought that was kind of an odd comment to make about someone’s marriage whom you’ve just met but I said, “Yes, always. I’ll see you there.” Then I uncurled Brandon’s fingers off the chain-link fence.

  When I arrived at the Sagebrush Cantina that night, I quickly found Katy and the other Double D’s. They all told me I could use them in my act several slurred times, along with how they all believed Chelsea and them were so much alike that they would be best friends. One of the women, Sue, though heterosexual her entire forty-one years on this earth, was now seeing a woman romantically for the first time. I always find it interesting that a woman can be married and leave her husband for another woman and then go back to men, just like Melissa Etheridge’s first wife, Julie, left Lou Diamond Phillips for her. Being that I am a fan of lesbianism, I began to ask a million questions. Why do lesbians use strap-ons? If they are truly lesbians, shouldn’t they be able to get off with the parts God gave them? You never hear about gay guys strapping on breasts when they have sex with each other. I wasn’t comfortable asking that out loud, but I did ask “How did it happen? . . . Do you take turns or can you get away with just receiving? . . . Do you take a lot of baths together like when Kim Cattrall was a lesbian for two episodes in season five of Sex and the City?” I was then interrupted by Katy, who said, “Heather, shouldn’t you know these things?”

  “I guess at this point in my life and career I should,” I joked.

  Then Sue stood up and took my hand and declared, “We’re dancing!”

  I agreed and headed to the dance floor. Besides, I thought, people would be more likely to recognize me on the dance floor than tucked away in a booth. Sue started really dancing with me, squatting down before me, then running her hands up my legs while coming back up, all the while keeping eye contact. It was your typical “Let’s pretend we’re lesbians dancing so we get more attention from the guys” dance. But I was feeling a little uncomfortable. Thank God that during the ’90s, when I was hitting the clubs with my friends, we weren’t expected to make out with each other just for a free round of drinks. By the end of the song I’d had enough of Sue rubbing her ass up against my vagina and flipping her blond hair extensions in my face, so I did the universal sign language for “I’m getting another drink,” and headed back to our table.

  As the women got even more intoxicated and no one was approaching our table except to take our order, I decided to call it a night. I surmised the Valley wasn’t watching E! Maybe they all had to cancel their cable due to the recession. I figured, Why should I sit here and waste any more calories on chips and salsa?

  The next morning was Sunday, and I took the kids to our Catholic church for Mass. It can be a challenge, especially when Drake whines that Mass takes too long, to which I calmly respond, “Oh really? Well, Jesus Christ was nailed to a cross for three hours in the blazing-hot sun and died there for your sins, so the least you can do in return is sit an air-conditioned room for one hour.” But because my three-year-old boy likes to climb on the statues of the saints at each station of the cross, we have to go into the small room to the right of the altar with soundproof glass off the main church. It has been dubbed the Crying Room for good reason: the kids and the parents are crying when they’re in it. There I saw my good friend Anna, whose son is Drake’s best friend. I smiled at her and she smiled back with very sad eyes. When Mass ended, we headed out to the auditorium, where the doughnuts were sold. There is nothing like using a baked good with roughly twenty-nine grams of sugar to bribe your kid to put his palms together and pray. As Brandon was touching all twelve doughnuts in the box before deciding on the chocolate with rainbow sprinkles, Anna approached me.

  “Heather, how are you?” she said as she hugged me and rocked me back and forth.

  “I’m fine. How are you?” I asked.

  “So can you still come with the boys to our cabin next weekend or won’t you have them?” she asked as she touched her diamond crucifix on her neck.

  “Yes, we’re coming, but with traffic on Friday night Peter thought it would be better if we came up early on Saturday morning instead,” I said.

  “You’re coming together, both you and Peter, are you sure?” she said as she tilted her head to one side.

  “Yes, he can skip golf one Saturday morning. Of course he is coming. Why are you acting so weird?” I asked.

  “Because your Facebook status says you’re single, and even though I’m a Catholic Republican, I don’t care if you are gay or confused or feel you need to find yourself in the arms of another woman. My God loves everyone, and it won’t change our friendship.”

  In that split second it hit me. The moment when I left my desk on Friday to get Chelsea another blended margarita, I had left her alone in my office for approximately four minutes—just enough time for her to change my Facebook status.

  “Oh my God, Chelsea got on my computer and changed my Facebook status. Peter and I are fine,” I said.

  “So if you and Peter are still together, what about you being bisexual? How does Peter feel about that?” she asked.

  “I’m not bisexual, Anna!” I yelled, then quickly remembered we were on parish property, so I lowered my voice. “Anna, Chelsea must have changed my sexual preference too.”

  It all made perfect sense—everything including Katy and horny Sue thinking I was single and bi-curious.

  When I got home I immediately logged on and went to my profile page and changed my relationship status, and who I was interested in, back to Married, and Friends. Then I discovered the most horrifying part. My birth date now read June 14, 1964. That bitch didn’t just make me a cougar; she made me a gray panther! As if I needed to be any older than I already am. I started reading the messages and wall postings from the previous two days. One was from my friend’s ex-boyfriend asking if I wanted to talk; one from a friend’s current husband; and one was from Alecia Powell, who was in my class at my all-girl high school but came as Alex Powell to the ten-year reunion. Then there were some posts that were so vulgar from creepy male fans that I had to defriend them.

  So the valuable lesson learned from all of this is to always press Control, Alt, Delete on your computer when Chelsea Handler is in the building.

  18

  CRAIGSLISTING FOR FAMILY POOL PARTIES

  We bought the ranch house next door to my parents in 2005. I knew we were ready to move from our old place when I was at Toys “R” Us looking at play kitchens to buy Mackenzie and they were nicer and more up-to-date than our kitchen at home. L.A. real estate is very expensive, which can be frustrating when I’d be watching Oprah about a family who was in terrible debt and only made $14,000 a year, yet when they showed their kitchen it was three times the size of mine and had a huge island and new appliances. We were able to afford the house next to my parents because it was in terrible shape, but had a lot of land so we could add on and remodel it. It was also very convenient because my parents’ house had a big, beautiful pool and Jacuzzi, and our house didn’t come with either. Sure, it can be a little awkward when we have pool parties and don’t invite my parents, but they seem very content watching us frolic away in the water from their living-room window.

  On one particularly hot July day, my husband had invited Tom, a guy he met golfing, and his family, thinking we would really hit it off because his wife, Nancy, and I had gone to the same high school, but a few years apart, so we didn’t know each other.

  When they arrived, the first surprise was that there were five of them, and not four. Peter had golfed with this guy several times, spending hours with him,
but told me they only had two children. Oh, guys and details, what’s a third kid? The children quickly got into my parents’ pool as Peter and I did. But Nancy and Tom just sat there sweating in the blazing sun fully clothed. Peter asked, “Don’t you want to come in?” Tom replied with great surprise, “We’ve never been to a pool party where the parents swim too, so we didn’t bring our suits.”

  I said to Nancy, “Would you like to borrow one of my bikinis?” But she gave me a horrified look like I was a swinger and she could catch a venereal disease from my suit. She said, “No, that’s all right,” and drove all the way home to get her suit and Tom’s. By the time she came back I was already on my second lemonade and vodka, which is simply the best drink to have because on a really hot day when you’re swimming-pool drinking, you need an alcoholic beverage with ice to keep it cold.

  Nancy and I were not hitting it off. She bragged that every night all three of her children were asleep by six thirty p.m. I couldn’t fathom it. The only way I could get my children to sleep at that hour was if I put Ambien in their ice cream, which I have never done because I don’t have a prescription for Ambien.

  Luckily, the kids were getting along in the pool. As I got up to get another drink, Nancy said, “My, you’re having another?” I replied, “Well, it’s not as though the kids can’t swim. Besides, Peter’s here and he was actually a lifeguard in San Diego.” We continued on and had a cookout while my parents, Bob and Pam, looked out their bay window, waving. By six, I was feeling rather buzzed but I figured Tom and Nancy would be leaving because the kids had to hit the hay by six thirty. But Tom was having such a good time that every time Nancy encouraged him to leave, he waved her away and continued to drink beers with Peter.

  Nancy decided to pick up the conversation a bit, so she told me how she loved to scrapbook. (The only photos of my children are on my iPhone.) She explained how she was an independent distributor for Creative Memories, selling photo-safe scrapbook albums. As she went on and on about being a memory manager, my eyeballs started to slope downward and I kept having to electric shock myself awake. I would say, “Now, explain this better. How I can cut photos into perfectly shaped hearts with the custom cutting system?” Then I could count on Nancy for a good ten-minute wrap-up.