Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 11

I drove up to Trent's house in the Hollywood Hills; he buzzed me in at the gate and told me that he was in the back by the pool. As I was walking around the house all I could think was how I'd dug my own grave on this one. I never spoke up and because of that I was out $15K. I also decided that, to save my own a.s.s, I would never tell Beth about the joke. Ever Ever. That was the one good thing. She felt she had to make it up to me because she was the one who'd f.u.c.ked up.

Nothing in the world could've prepared me for what I saw when I turned the corner and entered Trent's backyard. It was Chelsea and Beth. Sitting on chairs by the pool.

"What's up, a.s.shole?" Chelsea said.

I was too stunned to speak.

They had set me up from the beginning. As soon as I had told Beth that Chelsea was a big-time gambler, Chelsea pulled the ol' switcheroo. That tricky b.i.t.c.h.

Who knows? Maybe I am adopted.

Josh should be ashamed of himself. His wife is the sweetest person I have ever met, and it's unfortunate he found himself in such a jam. I believe I am singlehandedly responsible for saving their marriage. G.o.dspeed. Josh should be ashamed of himself. His wife is the sweetest person I have ever met, and it's unfortunate he found himself in such a jam. I believe I am singlehandedly responsible for saving their marriage. G.o.dspeed.-Chelsea

This is Josh with my sisters. Everyone has a crush on Josh except for me-because we almost went down that road ten years ago until both of us made sharp turns in opposite directions. This is Josh with my sisters. Everyone has a crush on Josh except for me-because we almost went down that road ten years ago until both of us made sharp turns in opposite directions.

Chapter Eight.

Sisterly Love SHOSHONNA HANDLER.

Chelsea and me on our front lawn in New Jersey. This was before our relations.h.i.+p went south. Chelsea and me on our front lawn in New Jersey. This was before our relations.h.i.+p went south.

My name is Shoshonna and I am Chelsea's older sister. My parents told me that before Chelsea was born I was a cute, good-natured, happy-go-lucky kid. Then came 1975 and my blissful little five-year-old world was turned upside down. I had been the baby of our large and dysfunctional family for five years and had loved every minute of it. I didn't know what to make of the new addition to our family, or why they would have named her Chelsea. Every time I heard her name, it reminded me of seafood stew. I cried all the time.

Chelsea had an all-consuming presence. It felt like being hit by a train. My father has told us all many times over that when she was born, she came out with such a strong cry that the nurse said to him, "You'd better watch out for this one." Over the years, I became more quiet and pensive as Chelsea's boisterous personality took center stage. She was full of p.i.s.s and vinegar from day one, and could throw a tantrum that would put any toddler to shame. This kid was a force to be reckoned with, and my parents were already exhausted with their other five kids. They were in no way prepared to handle raising this particular child, and their feeble efforts were of little consequence. Besides, our mom was always napping, knitting, or cooking, and was too soft-spoken to really stand up to Chelsea.

By the time Chelsea was three, she had the street smarts of a nine-year-old, and I may as well have been born yesterday. We were complete opposites, like oil and water, and never agreed on anything. If I was watching a TV show she didn't like, she would say something like "A package just came for you at the door, Shana," or "Mom just took some brownies out of the oven," and then take over the television. I fell for it every time. I would come back in the room and wage war in the form of a wrestling match. Ultimately I would be the one to get yelled at or sent to my room because I was "older" and "should know better." We fought constantly and wanted to rip each other's throats out for most of our childhood. Physically I had the upper hand, but verbally I was no match for her. By the time she was eight, she had the debating skills of a seasoned politician, and I am being completely serious.

For many years we shared a bedroom, and we agreed to place masking tape down the middle and not cross territories. This was pretty much a joke, unless we were both in the room. Raids occurred when the other person was not there. Chelsea would regularly steal my clothes when I was in high school. (Yes, it's true, she's five years younger, and we were clearly different sizes, but this did not deter her. She would just knot the s.h.i.+rts at the waist or cut them in half.) At one point I installed latches to hold a combination lock on my closet door. A week later I came home from school to find her wearing the brand-new clothes I had just purchased with my first paycheck from my new afterschool job at the mall. I went nuts and ran upstairs to find that she had taken a screwdriver to the latches. And because she was so angry I wouldn't share with her, she decided to tie-dye all my underwear.

Years later, when Chelsea was about fifteen and I was twenty and home from college, it was with great joy that I picked up the phone and heard a police officer tell me that they had Chelsea down at the station for shoplifting underwear at Sears with a friend. Underwear has always been a big theme in our family. Not wearing any can and has has resulted in humiliation, in the form of photographs, e-mails, and/or having you and your genitalia chased around the house with salad tongs. resulted in humiliation, in the form of photographs, e-mails, and/or having you and your genitalia chased around the house with salad tongs.

My parents weren't home the day I got the call, and if I went and picked Chelsea up and kept it under wraps, she would owe me big time. I drove very slowly down to the police station with a big old grin on my face. I had had a good time at college, but this would definitely be the highlight of my life since graduating from high school. I was still smiling when I got to the police station and Chelsea got in the car.

It didn't take her long to p.r.o.nounce, "I know what you're thinking, and I'd rather tell Mom and Dad the truth than be beholden to you for anything. So if you think you're going to pull something over on me, you're mistaken. I would rather lose my virginity to Craig Sla.s.s than owe you a favor." Craig Sla.s.s was our next-door neighbor, who would easily have had s.e.x with any one of us, if we had permitted it. He spat when he talked, was always drooling, and had what Chelsea referred to as a "woman's a.s.s."

Our parents had a modest second home on Martha's Vineyard, and every summer, as soon as school let out, our mom would head up there with all of us six kids and whatever dog we had at the time, in our awful van with blue vinyl bench seats. We would spend the entire summer there each year. Our father would come up every ten days or so and stay four or five days and then return to his bustling used-car business in New Jersey.

One summer on the Vineyard, I told Chelsea we were setting up a lemonade stand at the end of our dirt road so we could make a little extra spending money. I was twelve and she was seven. Things at the stand were hopping for an hour or so, and then sales fell flat. Chelsea, clearly bored, thought we should spice things up with a big sign for a raffle to meet Carly Simon, who lived on the Vineyard, too, but whom we did not know.

"It will get things moving around here," she said.

"But that would be a lie, Chels..."

"So what? No one is going to actually win the raffle, r.e.t.a.r.d."

"But what if the police come around? I don't know about this." I was always a big worrier.

She looked at me with disgust. "The Martha's Vineyard Police are not concerned with the two of us, Shoshonna. They have bigger problems than a twelve- and a seven-year-old selling lemonade and fake raffle tickets. Why are you such a Debbie Downer?" This was what Chelsea called me, and still calls me to this day when I bring up a point she doesn't think is necessary to discuss.

Things did pick up a little with the raffle sign prominently displayed. We found ourselves fielding a lot of questions about Carly Simon, but Chelsea was always fast on her feet and had an answer for everything. I let her handle it. Of course, some of her answers were ridiculous, but who was going to challenge a seven-year-old?

At one point, a lady on a bike stopped and bought a lemonade and a raffle ticket and asked us if we thought Carly might sing for her if she won the raffle. Chelsea replied, "Not too many people know this, but Carly has very bad stage fright. You have to catch her on the right day. Some days she'll sing and some days she won't. It depends which way the wind blows."

Chelsea and me at our lemonade stand. Chelsea and me at our lemonade stand.

Another woman asked when she would be able to meet Carly Simon, since she was on Martha's Vineyard for only a few weeks. "It's not a problem," Chelsea a.s.sured her. "Carly and I are very tight. She's on tour right now, but I am in constant contact with her manager, and I am sure we can set something up." The look on this woman's face was priceless.

After another hour went by, things were dead again. It was then that Chelsea "accidentally" knocked over the change jar, pocketed most of the money when I wasn't looking, and said she had to go to the bathroom and would be right back. She did not return. I ended up having to cart the table, chairs, signs, and pitchers on our red wagon solo down the very long dirt road back to the house. I later found out that Chelsea had hightailed it with our money into town on her banana-seat bike and treated herself to a b.u.t.tered bagel and a c.o.ke and then blew the rest of the dough at the arcade. You might think that no parent would have allowed their seven-year-old to ride into town alone on a bike and hang out. Well, with my parents it was pretty much a free-for-all, and it was 1982 and things were pretty loosey-goosey on the Vineyard. We hitchhiked all the time and it was no big deal. We never would have dreamed of doing this back in New Jersey, but for some reason, on the Vineyard, it was okay.

When she got back, I yelled at Chelsea and told my parents what she had done. Chelsea said lemonade stands were for chumps and the real money was in babysitting.

"h.e.l.lo, who is going to let us babysit? We are way too young," I replied.

"Listen, Shana, if you lost your goody-two-shoes looks, we could easily get you up to age fourteen. I could pa.s.s for ten. I'll say I'm your a.s.sistant, and we'll split the profits sixty/forty. Sixty for me, since it's my idea." Chelsea had already inherited some of my used-car-dealer father's warped reasoning, and it was maddening to deal with.

"Maybe in a few years, girls, not just yet," my mother wisely chimed in. "Stick with the lemonade stand for now."

We had three older teenage brothers, and when we were up on the Vineyard, they got to sleep in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The bas.e.m.e.nt was the cool place to be. It had a separate entrance, its own bathroom, and a little fridge. It was like a clubhouse. My brothers' names were painted on the walls, and there was thick s.h.a.ggy carpeting and bunk beds everywhere. My brothers had a stereo and a million records and were usually playing Cat Stevens, Neil Young, or the Grateful Dead. There were even a couple of bongs down there, but we didn't know what they were at the time. At least, I I didn't. Mom told us they were microscopes. She was completely clueless about drugs. didn't. Mom told us they were microscopes. She was completely clueless about drugs.

Our brothers had jobs during the summer, so they were often gone during the day. Chelsea and I would go down there and snoop around when we got bored. One day I found a rubber snake in my brothers' stuff. Chelsea was and always has been petrified of snakes. She could not even see one on TV without crying hysterically. At the time, I'd had a rough few days of Chelsea's shenanigans, and I wanted revenge. For weeks she had been daring me to drive an old two-door Datsun around our dirt road while my mother took her daily nap. It was a beater car that my dad left on the island year round. Chelsea had kept egging me on, calling me Goody Two-shoes and saying I was a giant sissy and that she would get her driver's license before I did. I was sick of her teasing and finally drove the car just to shut her up, but of course, I dented the door on a big tree branch in the process. My father came up to the island the next day and went off on me, as Chelsea smiled devilishly behind him.

Before bedtime that night I took the rubber snake I had found earlier in my brothers' room and put it under Chelsea's pillow. She climbed into bed, snuggled in, felt the snake, then saw it and went apes.h.i.+t. Bloodcurdling screams could be heard up to a mile away. She was absolutely hysterical and practically having a seizure while hyperventilating at the same time. I had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. This wasn't good. I hadn't really thought this one through.

I was screaming, "It's just a toy, it's fake, it's fake, okay?!" I could hear footsteps approaching quickly and they sounded ominous. I tried to cover Chelsea's mouth so no one would hear her. She kicked me in the coslopus, wrestled me off her, and literally slid down the stairs and into the main living room, with her a.s.s bouncing off each step. My mother was already rounding the corner when I got to the bottom step. I looked up just in time to see my mom's hand reach out and slap me across the face. She didn't even ask what had happened; she could tell from Chelsea's reaction that it had to have been something bad.

Chelsea was yelling, "Sn... sn... sna... ke!!" She sounded like the girl in Jaws Jaws yelling, "Shark," but worse. It was the only time my mother had ever hit me. Until that day, my parents smacked Chelsea all the time, but they had never hit me. I think they felt sorry for me, and I appreciated their pity. yelling, "Shark," but worse. It was the only time my mother had ever hit me. Until that day, my parents smacked Chelsea all the time, but they had never hit me. I think they felt sorry for me, and I appreciated their pity.

For many weeks following the snake incident I had rocks, dirt, or sand under my own pillow to welcome me each night.

Once Chelsea was a full-fledged teenager, our relations.h.i.+p hit new lows. She thought I was a band geek pansy and about as exciting as a sixty-year-old librarian. I thought she was a possessed and troubled degenerate on the fast track to trouble. We had absolutely nothing in common. I was very easily embarra.s.sed, so she would yell "Bertha" at me in public and make everyone stop and look at us. It was horrifying, and basically the only time she spoke to me aside from swearing at me. She thought it was hysterical, and loved to see me squirm. We just couldn't stand each other, and we even went through a couple of years when we didn't speak to each other at all. She also raised h.e.l.l with my parents.

The completion of her bat mitzvah was a miracle in itself. My brothers all had wagers with one another on whether it was actually going to take place. Most kids prepare for a couple of years. Chelsea regularly skipped her sessions with the cantor and rabbi. They had never in all their years at the temple worked with a child like her before. She regularly swore at them, she was always defiant, never prepared, and repeatedly said she wasn't going to practice until a week before the ceremony. At one point, she slammed down the Torah and exclaimed that all this was practically child abuse, because she wasn't ready to commit to having a bat mitzvah and wasn't even sure she wanted to be a Jew. It wasn't pretty, but in the end she somehow managed to pull it off without making any mistakes. This, of course, drove me insane, as I was silently hoping she would embarra.s.s herself the way she had embarra.s.sed me so many times, but on a bigger scale. Pure schadenfreude. Google it.

It wasn't until I was twenty-four that I became determined to repair my relations.h.i.+p with Chelsea. I was single, living on my own in Seattle, and working as a registered nurse. I really wanted to take a trip to Hawaii, and I wanted Chelsea to come with me. Admittedly, I was a bit of a late bloomer, but I was finally ready to sow my wild oats. I thought maybe this trip would be a fresh start for Chelsea and me. We would rebuild our sisterly foundation on a big adventure-just the two of us.

I very excitedly called her up. "Chelsea!" I said, bursting at the seams. "Let's go to Hawaii for a few days. I will pay for everything. It'll be a blast, and I am sure you could use a few days off." At the time, Chelsea was living in LA with our aunt and uncle, nine cousins, and six animals in a three-bedroom bungalow. She was waiting tables and auditioning in Hollywood.

My proposition was met with a long silence on the other end of the line. "Can I think about it and call you back?" she asked.

"Chelsea, really? You won't go with me on vacation to Hawaii?"

"Shana, no offense, but you are not my idea of a good time."

"I know, but I'm more fun now, and I promise we won't fight. I'll even promise to drink with you." I had never been a big drinker, and Chelsea considered nondrinkers very untrustworthy.

Finally, she said, "Well, as much as going on a trip with you seems like watching paint dry, I could really use a break. Hawaii sounds pretty good actually. But you'd better cool it, Shana. Your enthusiasm is a little alarming. We are not planning a honeymoon here or going on a bunch of gay tours. I just want to chill out and relax. And drink."

"Okay, okay," I said. Chelsea probably had no intention of doing anything other than getting a borderline amazing tan and hooking up with a semi-hot Samoan dude, but I would try to wear her down. "Chelsea, we can't go all the way to Hawaii and not even go to a luau. It would be sacrilegious." I reminded her: "The drinks will be free-flowing, it's only a couple of hours, and don't forget, I'm picking up the tab for the whole trip."

About six weeks later we took a red-eye flight to Hawaii. On the way, I made friends with my seatmate; she and I talked the whole way there. I knew Chelsea was farting, and I told her to knock it off. Near the end of the flight I got my new friend's phone number, but when I went to the bathroom, Chelsea ripped it up.

"What the h.e.l.l did you do that for?" I said.

"Well," Chelsea said, "two reasons, really. Number one, you didn't shut the f.u.c.k up the entire flight. It's a red-eye, but thanks to you I didn't get any sleep. And number two is for accusing me of farting on a flight. Shame on you, Debbie. Shame on you."

We stepped out of the airport and hailed a taxi. In Oahu, or any tropical destination for that matter, any hotel worth squat is on the beach. I know that now. Back then, however, I thought near near the beach was good enough, right? Plus I would save a few bucks. As our taxi started heading away from the beach, Chelsea yelled, "What is happening? We are in Hawaii, I just spent what seemed like four years on a plane, and now the beach is disappearing. Shana! What is going on? Where the h.e.l.l are we staying?" she screamed. the beach was good enough, right? Plus I would save a few bucks. As our taxi started heading away from the beach, Chelsea yelled, "What is happening? We are in Hawaii, I just spent what seemed like four years on a plane, and now the beach is disappearing. Shana! What is going on? Where the h.e.l.l are we staying?" she screamed.

"Oh... well, I got a great deal at this place in town. It's just a half mile walk to the beach."

"Oh, that sounds fabulous," she mumbled.

We pulled up to the Grand Hotel (not so grand) and I hit the driver with my big tip (not). Later Chelsea lit into me about the standards and practices of tipping. Since she'd joined the service industry as a waitress in LA, tipping had become a very sensitive issue for her. My low tip evidently was unacceptable and not to be repeated. To this day, you are not to argue with Chelsea when she hands you a ridiculous amount of money to give to a waitress, hotel employee, or concierge at a hotel. I'm not rich, and I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about pocketing some of the money she's instructed me to hand out to people on islands we will never see again.

After getting a few hours of sleep, I suggested we check out the hotel pool. We headed up to the cement rooftop pool and made a quick U-turn. It was not a pretty picture: a bunch of beer-bellied, bald, leering a.s.sholes in the Jacuzzi and a pool of questionable water color. Upon seeing all this, Chelsea decided to take the reins on our daily plans. She told me we were hoofing it to Waikiki Beach and to put on my walking shoes. I wasn't much for exercise or exerting any kind of physical energy, but I agreed, only after she told me my bathing suit looked a little too snug in the rear. Her exact words were "Your a.s.s looks like Delta Burke trying to crawl through a tennis racket."

After much complaining on my part and both of us sweating like pigs carrying our c.r.a.p to the beach in ninety-plus-degree heat, we finally arrived. Chelsea scoped out a decent-looking hotel on the beach with a great pool and a guest population that appeared to be under forty. "Shana, let's find our spot. Don't worry, we'll blend right in," she a.s.sured me.

"I really don't know about this, Chelsea," I said.

I grabbed two chaise lounges close to the pool, and we set up shop and caught some rays. We got pretty hungry and figured we should try to order some food. I picked out a few items on the menu, and Chelsea signaled the waiter to give him our order.

He asked for our room number and she blurted out, "Twelve twenty-one." I, a rotten liar, felt uncomfortable. The waiter looked at the two of us suspiciously but finally walked away.

"Shana, what's the matter with you? Just go with the flow."

Our food arrived, and a short time later the waiter came back and said that there must be some mistake with our room number. "I am going to have to see your room key, miss."

"Oh, I am so sorry, there must be a misunderstanding. Maybe I got the number backward or something." Chelsea rifled through her bag, as though she were looking for the key. I was shaking in my flip-flops and not being much of a wing woman. Chelsea was going to have to handle this solo. "You know what? I can't believe it, but I think I lost it swimming at the beach earlier. How about if we just pay in cash?"

"This pool and bar are for hotel guests only, miss," the waiter said.

"Are you accusing us of cras.h.i.+ng this pool?" Chelsea said. "I mean, really, I find that very offensive. I am going to have to talk to the manager about the awful treatment we are receiving here." She probably could have pulled this off, but I had blown our cover. Tears started to well up in my eyes, and Chelsea looked at me with horror.

"Are you seriously crying?"

"I'll be right back," the waiter said and left.

"Okay, Shana, let's. .h.i.t it. Grab your s.h.i.+t and nonchalantly walk to the beach," Chelsea whispered. Over my shoulder I could see our waiter with two large security guards on either side of him heading toward our spot. They were both ridiculously overweight, so I wasn't worried about outrunning them, but I wasn't fast enough for Chelsea. "Step it up! They are onto us!" They started running after us, but we were able to lose them fairly quickly.

That was too much excitement for me already, but when you're with Chelsea, there's always more to come. We found a nice spot on the beach, and Chelsea said we were both looking pretty pale and should forgo the sunscreen to get a jump on our tans. She also forced me to join her in having a pina colada, which resulted in our quickly falling asleep for a few hours. We spent the next two days holed up in our c.r.a.ppy hotel room treating extremely severe cases of sunburn. We were in agony and were ridiculously red. Chelsea rationed off a few Percocet she had been saving for a rainy day and we watched a marathon of Lifetime movies until we reemerged.

Day four was, much to my sister's dismay, luau time. Chelsea was b.i.t.c.hing about it all day, but I had already paid for it and wasn't about to let her forget that. Besides, I had a feeling I was going to meet Prince Charming there.

When we boarded the bus, though, it appeared as if we had just been admitted to a nursing home.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?" Chelsea said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What kind of luau is this? There isn't a single person on this bus under seventy. Shana, you signed us up for a senior citizens' luau? You are such a moron. I will never go anywhere with you ever again, do you understand me? And good f.u.c.king luck finding your soul mate."

After she calmed down a bit, she decided to have a little fun and make me pay. She put her arm around my shoulder and struck up a conversation with the ladies across the aisle. "Hi y'all! I'm Fannie and this here is Bertha, my lesbian lover. We are just so doggone happy to be going on this trip. Are you two ladies together, too? This is the lesbian luau, right?"

I knew I was turning different shades of fuchsia because my red was all used up.

All night long, Chelsea told anyone who would listen stories about how we'd met and what our hobbies were. The stories were absolutely ludicrous, and every time she said "Bertha," I stiffened up. She told one couple that we'd met at the Junior Olympics when we were both on the young women's high dive team. She interspersed all of this banter with a quick kiss on my lips, and whenever I refused, she pinched me severely under the table. I am sure it was pretty rewarding for her to see me so unnerved.

I didn't think she could keep up this charade, but as the night wore on she was clearly getting into it; I noticed her lesbian accent was improving greatly. She had gathered quite a crowd around her for her description of our "African safari" trip the year before to visit a special lesbian animal reserve. The highlight of that fake trip was her saving my life. I was supposedly picked up in the trunk of a lesbian elephant. The elephant wouldn't put me down, and started to trot off with me, while I screamed and cried. Everyone in the luau group was staring at me incredulously. Then Chelsea topped it off with "I just had to save her any way I could. Bertha was my soul mate, and so I ran after that elephant and launched a gourd at its a.s.s, and that was that. Bertha tumbled to the ground like a house of cards." The tale was just preposterous, and as per usual, I was at a total loss for words. Chelsea was so good at telling the story that these people actually believed her. Many came up to me afterward and expressed how lucky I was to have Fannie in my life.

On the bus ride home she said, "Payback's a b.i.t.c.h, isn't it, Bertha?"

Chelsea at the luau. She was twenty-one in this photo but looks forty-five. She does really look like a lesbian in those pants. Chelsea at the luau. She was twenty-one in this photo but looks forty-five. She does really look like a lesbian in those pants.

But I wasn't ready to give up on my vacation yet. I still wanted to hit Hanauma Bay, a supposed prime snorkeling spot. When we got there I noticed that almost everyone on the beach was j.a.panese and armed with a snorkel and a camera. People were staring at us and taking photos, and then they started coming toward us one by one, asking if Chelsea would be in a picture with them. This was long before Chelsea was on TV or had written a book, so naturally I was confused by the attention they were giving her.

"What the f.u.c.k?" Chelsea said.

"Don't you see, Chelsea? They think you're Pamela Anderson. You're blonde and you're wearing a red bathing suit. They love Baywatch Baywatch in j.a.pan." in j.a.pan."

The situation was completely ridiculous, and Chelsea really got a kick out of it. She decided to go with the flow, as people started shoving me out of the way to get close to her. Chelsea was really getting into it, posing for photos and actually signing Pam Anderson autographs for people. Most of them just spoke j.a.panese, but one lady said she worked for a newspaper and wanted to know if "Pam" would answer a few questions.

"Sure, why not?" Chelsea said with a smile.

"What are you doing here in Oahu, Pam?" the lady asked.

"Well, actually I am here doing some research for Baywatch. Baywatch. We were thinking about doing a Christmas special in Hawaii on a great beach like this. I am here with my a.s.sistant to see if this really will fit with our idea for the show. Unfortunately, we have to get back in a couple of days to finish this season's finale. No more questions, please, I feel a bit tired. Thank you, thank you." We were thinking about doing a Christmas special in Hawaii on a great beach like this. I am here with my a.s.sistant to see if this really will fit with our idea for the show. Unfortunately, we have to get back in a couple of days to finish this season's finale. No more questions, please, I feel a bit tired. Thank you, thank you."

"You really are unbelievable, you know that?" I said. "You might get sued for doing what you just did."

"Oh please, get a grip, Shana!" Chelsea said, laughing. "It was funny, and good practice actually, as I plan to become a great actress one day, so you'd better get used to it."

The only thing left to make the trip complete was the flight back home, during which I got airsick and unloaded my lunch in my airsickness bag, on my shorts, and on Chelsea's new skirt.

The bonding vacation didn't turn out exactly as I had planned, and I was pretty sure Chelsea would not consider traveling with me again anytime soon. I consoled myself with a memory from when I was in the sixth grade and she was in the first. The neighborhood bully decided to target me one day for the factory-reject corduroys my parents had sprung for. Chelsea marched over to this big kid without any hesitation, got right in his face as best she could, being only six and a half years old, and said, "Listen up, fat a.s.s. I have two things to tell you. One, you'd better leave my sister alone or I'm gonna break your dog's neck, and two, I hope you choke on a Twinkie."

Whether she felt disdain for me or not, Chelsea always had my back, and a pretty big set of b.a.l.l.s-which is true to this day. She still reminds me of what a buzz kill I am, and still has me listed in her phone as "Debbie Downer," but once Chelsea started making money, she became much easier for me to get along with. After that luau, she has never stopped kissing me hard on the lips, and always in inappropriate situations. The only thing that's changed is that I've stopped fighting it.