Working at a comedy club in Denver was enjoyable, but there wasn’t a ton of room to move up the ladder. At best I would have become head waitress one day. I was pretty eager to get my career going, so I accepted Chelsea’s offer and quit the club. I began working as her eager—probably overeager—publicist. It was hard work, but it was fun. I was still living in Denver, and she was in Los Angeles, which was fine, since most of the work I needed to do could be done from a phone or computer. We got along really well, which Chelsea says may have had something to do with the long-distance thing. In any case, we developed a pretty close relationship; it was like a sisterhood minus the traveling pants.
Then Chelsea got an offer to host her own show. Since she recognized over the years that I was a hard worker who also happened to have amazing breath, she offered me a full-time job as her assistant. I accepted and moved to Los Angeles. She generously allowed me to move in with her and her boyfriend while I got settled in the city and looked for my own place. She told me to keep an eye out for a place for her as well, because she hated her boyfriend. After a couple of months of living with them, Chelsea told me to get out while I could. She saw no reason that we both needed to suffer through her current living situation.
“I’ll be free soon,” she told me. “See you on the other side.”
I took her advice and settled into my new apartment in a new city and started concentrating on my new job. It was unbelievable: my most likely dead-end job at a comedy club had turned into my dream job with a comedian who was on the verge of huge things. It took only a couple of weeks of working that closely with her for it to become clear to me that Chelsea Handler was, and still is, a huge con artist.
Before I moved to Los Angeles I knew nothing about fashion, television, or celebrity. Now I know a lot about celebrity, but I still wear stretch pants and ill-fitting shirts. However, stand-up comedy was and is still my main area of expertise. That’s where the whole “having no life” thing comes from. When you stay in on weekend nights watching old Steve Martin videos, it’s hard to convince others that you have a ton going on. Any opportunity I had to show off the skills I did have, I took. I was probably a little overzealous with my knowledge. A simple mention of the word comedy by someone, and I would butt in: “Stand-up? What do you want to know about stand-up? I pretty much know everything about every comic ever. Heard of the Denver Comedy Club? I ran it, kind of!”
My reputation as resident comedy expert was really flourishing around the offices of Chelsea Lately. I walked around with my head held high. That was also because Chelsea told me I had horrible posture and had more than once threatened to make me wear a back brace. I felt I had even garnered a lot of respect from the camera crew; from what I could tell, they didn’t respect much, so I felt pretty special—until someone stole the plaque that hung on my office door. I had proudly made it myself, very carefully embossing in gold the words “Eva: Comedy Expert,” and I buffed it daily with a gentle cloth. I was bummed when it was taken, but I refused to make a big deal out of it. Besides, I had a backup over my gas fireplace at home.
There was only one person who didn’t take me seriously. He was Chelsea’s personal appearance agent, and he was never interested in what I had to say. He, whom we shall call Rick because it rhymes with what I used to whisper under my breath every time I saw him, always blatantly disregarded my very valuable insights and understanding of how to market Chelsea’s stand-up career. He never responded to my text messages or e-mails, or confirmed that he had received any of my numerous smoke signals. He never even bothered to call me back to discuss my brilliant idea of selling scratch-’n’-sniff panties with Chelsea’s face on them or life jackets that read “Chelseahandler.com” for her summer appearances. I felt the latter was both useful and promotional, not to mention life-saving. It’s also never been done before. In fact, I’m glad I reminded myself about them, because they still need to be made. Eva: 1, Rick: 0.
No matter what people might think about me, and I’ve heard some pretty awful things, when it comes to Chelsea, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve done more than my fair share to keep myself informed on everything about her. I have spent many a night putting articles, photos, and ticket stubs into scrapbooks. I prefer to complete them monthly, so that at the end of the year she will have twelve lovely books of memories to flip through and help her reflect on what she has accomplished over the months. I like to think she sits down with them on New Year’s Day over a bowl of black-eyed peas, perhaps while listening to the Black Eyed Peas, and congratulates herself on a job well done while compiling a list of all the things she would like to accomplish in the coming year. Unfortunately, Chelsea walked into my office one day during an all-out scrapbooking session. Seeing me sitting on the floor and sweating while surrounded by photos of her, with scissors in one hand and glitter in the other, and wearing a ChelseaHandler.com life vest must have been too much for her to handle.
She said to me, “Eva, this is where I draw the line. I’ve seen Single White Female, and I’m not interested in you putting a stiletto through one of my lover’s eyes. No more fucking scrapbooks.”
“But, Chelsea, this year has been so—”
“Eva, stop. This is what people do when they are children. I never did it because, for the most part, my childhood is something I’d like to forget. If you put together one more of those things, I’m going to cut your hair off at the ponytail.”
Chelsea knew how much I loved a good ponytail, and the idea of no longer being able to wear a side one sent me into the fetal position. I put away my glue stick and double-sided tape and decided to focus on getting Rick to make a nice new poster for Chelsea’s upcoming shows.
You’ll notice that Chelsea is about ten pounds overweight in this photo.
I tried to do everything I could to help Rick help Chelsea succeed, but he ignored me. He consistently sent out old promotional materials for Chelsea’s stand-up performances. You’d think he would use her starring in her own show as a selling point, but instead the posters read: “Chelsea Handler from Girls Behaving Badly Live at Zanies This Weekend!”
Here is a stand-up poster that Rick sent to a Nashville comedy club. Chelsea Lately had already been on the air a full year.
I started to wonder if he knew about Chelsea’s show. Maybe he was like that guy from the movie Memento and he forgot new information within seconds of learning it. So I did everything I could to get Rick to update the information he used to promote Chelsea. This included hourly updated data on how her book was selling, organized breakdowns of her show’s ratings, and bullet point lists of her most impressive credits. I even updated her Web site with new headshots and a short bio, so that all he had to do was send a link to club promoters. I FedEx’d over the scrapbooks I’d made, along with a new one I’d put together in private, after hours, when there was no chance Chelsea could walk in on me. I tried everything I could to help him make himself look like he had his shit together. He still never replied to me.
I was preparing myself for an all-out war with Rick when, out of nowhere, he started paying attention to me. Suddenly he was returning my calls, responding to my e-mails, and getting back to me via text message. This is so great, I thought. He’s finally taking me seriously as a businesswoman! He’s recognizing the contributions I bring to the table and is finally coming around to my ideas! Mom was right. Hard work really does pay off!
The sudden turn of events gave me an extra little skip in my step. The scoliosis that Chelsea had diagnosed me with disappeared, and I walked a little taller during this particular period of recognition.
Sadly, my newfound high came crashing down around me when I discovered that Chelsea had sneaked onto my computer and sent the following from my e-mail account.
From: Eva M.
Date: 6/14/2008
To: Rick
Hey Big Guy,
What are you doing for lunch today? I’m super duper horny and I’m just gonna say it: my clit is burning for you. Can we meet
?
Ready and waiting,
Eva
You see, Chelsea has tricked the world into believing that she is technologically retarded, but that’s a lie. What I and several other victims have discovered is that she likes to sneak into people’s work spaces, get on their computers without their knowledge, and wreak havoc. I don’t know when she had the time to develop the computer skills she possesses. Maybe she takes night classes or is enrolled in online courses. If she is, I wish she’d tell me, because I’d like to frame her diploma when she graduates. Regardless, she’s pretty shifty. She loves to send out random e-mails in your name. It’s a known fact around the office: If you need to go to the bathroom, grab a bagel, or have a desire for a drink on Margarita Thursdays, you’d better remember to lock your computer before you leave. If you have a laptop it’s better to just bring it with you. If you don’t, Chelsea will humiliate you.
What’s worse than the e-mails she sends to other people is the way you find out what she’s done. Suddenly you start getting concerned voice mail messages from friends or family who are worried about your personal safety or your latest case of shingles.
When I found the e-mail that she’d sent to Rick, I was mortified. For the next six months, he insisted on communicating with me. He was suddenly adamant that we have face-to-face meetings. Although I was able to dodge a one-on-one dinner date, it was impossible not to run into him at Chelsea’s stand-up shows. He’d follow me around all night and compliment my walk, while I smiled and nodded and pretended not to want to strangle him. Part of me was flattered; nobody had ever told me that I had a nice walk before, but once I remembered he wouldn’t have been complimenting me if he didn’t think my underwear was on fire for him, I’d get pissed off again. And yet, no matter how irritated I got, I just didn’t have it in me to tell him that the e-mail had not been from me. I assumed he’d be more embarrassed than I was, especially once he recalled all of the times he had “accidentally” bumped into me with what I’m fairly certain was an erection.
Chelsea did nothing to help the situation. She knew that I was too terrified to confront Rick on his newfound creepiness, so she continued to egg him on. She would say things like “I think Eva has a crush on you…” to keep him interested. At one point Rick decided to tell Chelsea about the e-mail. Instead of coming clean, she played dumb.
“I can’t say I’m surprised that she wrote that,” Chelsea lied. “I think she really has it bad for you. She has some real horniness issues. She needs to unwind, and fucking is the only way she can do it.”
To this day Rick and I have not cleared the air on the issue. I never told him the truth, and he never directly asked me about the e-mail. After a while I felt that too much time had passed and it was best to just let it go. I also figured that once he was no longer handling her personal appearances, I didn’t have to worry about him handling anything personal of mine.
As I’m sure you can imagine, many of Chelsea’s friends and family members are on high alert when they receive any e-mail that contains sensitive-sounding material. She’s still able to fool most of us, but a few of the savvier people in her life have caught on to her. Her sister Simone is one of those people.
One afternoon I was searching through my e-mails for something I had sent to a club about one of Chelsea’s upcoming shows when I noticed an e-mail that had been sent to Simone. Knowing that I hadn’t e-mailed her that day, I felt instant panic. Great! What had “I” done this time? I opened the e-mail and read it.
From: Eva Magazine
To: Simone
Subject: Please Help Me
Hey Simone,
I was just wondering if you could talk to Chelsea for me.
She’s been really moody lately. I think she is stressed out about something. I feel weird telling you this, but she slapped me the other day. I don’t know how to approach her, and I’m worried something worse is going on. I’ve never been hit before. I wouldn’t care if it was just once, but obviously I don’t want it to graduate to a punch.
Please don’t tell her I e-mailed you, I have a wedding coming up and I don’t want a black eye.
Eva
Simone is a little more on top of things than Rick. Later that day, I received this response.
From: Simone
To: Eva Magazine
Subject: RE: Please Help Me
Uh, you had me at hello…“graduate to a punch?” Nice try, Chelsea.
Simone
P.S. Chels, it was a very solid effort (Shana was ready to fly out and save Eva)
Even though Simone has become quick enough to know when she is being Chelsea’d, a few others are still learning.
My adopted sisters (i.e., Chelsea’s sisters Shoshonna and Simone) and me. Whether she likes it or not, Chelsea is a sister to me. We care and worry about each other, we will always be there for each other no matter what, and we know how to make each other nuts. I will be with her until we are old ladies, me and my Chelsea Handler–brand hearing aid.
Chelsea has a close friend and work colleague named Kevin. He and his partner, Brian, are two of Chelsea’s longtime friends and by far some of the nicest people I have ever met. They are gracious, caring, giving, and nurturing. They’ve always been so good to me and I adore them. They are the kind of people who don’t deserve to be fucked with. Unfortunately, Chelsea loves all of the people who are close to her equally. That means nobody gets special treatment… and nobody is safe. One afternoon I received this e-mail.
From: Kevin
To: Eva M.
Hi Eva,
Good to hear from you. We’d love to have dinner this week. Can you come to our house on Tuesday around 7:30 PM? Delicious has offered to cook! Not a common occurrence. Ha ha. If not, we’ll find another night.
And don’t worry; you can count on our complete discretion. We’ve both been there and understand how important your privacy is.
Looking forward to it.
I had no idea what Kevin was talking about. I hadn’t written to either of them in a while, so why would he be saying that it was “good to hear from” me? I know. Sometimes it still takes a few minutes for me to process the obvious. Once reality hit me, I went into my Sent folder to find out what kind of e-mail “I” had sent Kevin. My body went slightly numb when I found this.
From: Eva M.
To: Kevin
How are you? I was wondering if you and Brian were free any nights this week to maybe grab dinner at your place, and we could talk over a couple of things. I’ve always admired a couple that can make a same-sex partnership work and would love to get your thoughts and/or advice on that very topic. For now, I’d prefer to keep this confidential, as I feel it is a sensitive and challenging issue for me. I have not acted on any of my sexual impulses yet, but I am desperately yearning to and could really use the insight that the two of you have. Please let me know. Thanks so much!
I knew that Chelsea would be pretty pleased with herself that Kevin had responded to me the way he had, so I didn’t tell her. I also knew that she would never come to me and ask, so I figured I’d just let her sweat it out. It was like putting a piece of steak outside a lion’s cage and watching the lion desperately try to find a way to get to it. This was the only way I could give her any sort of payback.
As the days passed, she was obviously getting impatient because, as I later found out, she took matters into her own hands and decided to probe Kevin for a little information.
From: CH
To: Kevin
I hear there’s a secret lesbian coming over to the two big bears’ house to confess her love of COSLOPI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am dying to know the details. Can I come over and eavesdrop? I could hide in a closet… just like Eva’s been doing for years!
From: Kevin
To: CH
Hello, Chelsea.
Just as I would never divulge any of your confidences or betray your trust, I would appreciate you respecting the fact that I am also not at liberty to discuss anyone’s pe
rsonal life. If somebody wants to talk to you about something, then they will. In the meantime if they choose to talk to me, I must keep that in confidence. I hope you can respect that.
Love,
Kevin
Chelsea was dying. She flew into a fit of laughter and peed her pants at her desk. Yes, she does that often and, yes, it’s disgusting. I cross my fingers that one day she’ll have her bladder checked out. When she finally pulled herself together she decided that she should put an end to the joke. Kevin was obviously taking the whole thing very seriously, and she thought it was time to let him know it was all a big lie. At least that’s what she told me; I think she just needed me to work that weekend and didn’t want to lose me to a fake brunch.
From: CH
To: Kevin
Oh, really, dickhead? You want to respect her privacy? First you need to learn to respect my ability to fuck with you. Who do you think sent the e-mail in the first place?
P.S. Your response to her was nice. You’re truly not a shitty person, but you’re still gay and that will never change.
Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Page 15
