Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 7

GUESS WHO'S COMING TO THE OFFICE Chelsea has never, for the life of her, understood what my wife, Shannon, could possibly find attractive about me-a pasty, red-haired, nerdy Jew. Nonetheless, her disapproval of our nuptials, strictly on an aesthetic basis, didn't stop her from attending our wedding in June 2008.

A drunk Heather McDonald and her husband, Peter; me; Ted; Sue Murphy; Chelsea; and Johnny. A drunk Heather McDonald and her husband, Peter; me; Ted; Sue Murphy; Chelsea; and Johnny.

It was a beautiful summer evening as I wed the love of my life in Beverly Hills. At the end of the evening, Chelsea approached me and handed over an envelope containing a very generous check. She never said what we should use the money for, but my best guess was that she probably wanted us to put it toward adopting a child in hopes of our avoiding procreation, thus altogether eliminating the possibility of a child coming out looking like a mini version of me.

We, on the other hand, applied the whole thing to our lavish honeymoon. Shannon and I had planned a ten-day trip to the gorgeous seaside town of Positano, Italy, and the island of Santorini in Greece. We'd spared no expense, opting to stay at the nicest of hotels, eat the best of foods, and go on whatever excursion we desired.

Ten days with your new bride and away from work seems idyllic, but I think the honeymoon is really an old-fas.h.i.+oned phenomenon. I haven't cross-referenced this, because I hate research, but it obviously dates back to the days when couples didn't know each other at all and women were still virgins when they got married. Basically, honeymoons, in my mind, were created so newlyweds could get emotionally and physically acquainted with their life partner.

However, Shannon and I had been together for six-plus years. We had been living together for two years, already had a healthy s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p, and knew everything there was to know about each other. Needless to say, no matter how exotic the locale or romantic the setting, after ten days alone, two people run out of things to do and s.h.i.+t to say.

We were so desperate for conversation with other people that we were siding up at restaurants with couples we would never never have a.s.sociated with back home. I'm talking uber-Jews from New York and elderly widows from Florida. We became so anxious and delusional that we were even exchanging phone numbers, as if we were actually going to visit these a-holes back at home. have a.s.sociated with back home. I'm talking uber-Jews from New York and elderly widows from Florida. We became so anxious and delusional that we were even exchanging phone numbers, as if we were actually going to visit these a-holes back at home.

I became so jaded at points in the vacation that I thought about checking my e-mail. Before we left for the trip, I had made a promise to myself and, most important, to Shannon, that I wouldn't check my work e-mail during our honeymoon. I was going to focus on her and total relaxation-that was it.

I made it through Italy okay, mostly because my fat face was too busy buried in a plate of pasta twenty-four hours a day to think about anything else, but by the final few days in Greece, I was bored. Sure, we were at a beautiful resort, but it was nothing but sunlight. I can't stand the sun; it gave me melanoma once, so now I avoid it at all costs. In fact, when we sat by the gorgeous, peaceful infinity pool overlooking the deep blue sea, all tranquility at the resort was rudely disrupted every twenty minutes by one of the pool boys coming over to our chaise lounge and rotating my umbrella-by physically sc.r.a.ping the base of it across the pool deck. This was done to ensure that not one ounce of my skin was ever exposed to the sun. The other guests would look over, I would nod and give an apologetic wave, and Shannon would scold me. It was, however, great service.

Even in total shade, there is only so much sitting out I can do. I get restless and fidgety. Yes, the view was spectacular and my wife was-and is-gorgeous, and it was such a special place... blah, blah, blah. But I was f.u.c.king bored. And that's when I made the fatal mistake of checking my work e-mail on my iPhone.

After a few insignificant e-mails-most of which were from Chelsea and included photos of coworkers in compromising positions-I saw a message from an E! network publicist, John, with the subject line: Time Magazine Shoot.

Our show had been on the air for roughly a year and Chelsea was starting to get some big-time press. Naturally I a.s.sumed that John's message was just an informative e-mail about a Chelsea article and the accompanying photo shoot that would take place in our offices. Basically, these e-mails are code for "Stay the f.u.c.k out of the way."

Instead, this was what I read.

HEY ALL:THE PHOTOGRAPHER FROM TIME TIME MAGAZINE WILL BE AT YOUR OFFICE AT 11AM TO PHOTOGRAPH ALL OF THE WRITERS. IF THERE ARE ANY PROBLEMS, LET ME KNOW ASAP. MAGAZINE WILL BE AT YOUR OFFICE AT 11AM TO PHOTOGRAPH ALL OF THE WRITERS. IF THERE ARE ANY PROBLEMS, LET ME KNOW ASAP.BEST,JOHN.

My heart dropped and my face turned pale. Yeah, I have a f.u.c.kin' problem... I wasn't going to be there! Shannon saw my look of horror and asked what was wrong.

"They're doing a Time Time magazine photo shoot of all the magazine photo shoot of all the Chelsea Lately Chelsea Lately writers." writers."

"That's great. So why do you look like s.h.i.+t?"

"Because it's on Friday and we don't get back to the States until Sunday."

I don't think of myself as a vain person per se, but there are a few things I like, and "credit" is one of them. The thought of being left out of a story about the people "behind Chelsea" in an international publication was too much to bear. Other than Tom, I had been with Chelsea the longest out of all of them. I deserved to be there! Immediately my mind began racing, wondering how I would answer all of the nagging questions from family and friends. "Why aren't you in the big article about Chelsea's writers, Brad? Does she not like you? Are you really even a writer for her? Are you a liar? Can you still get me tickets to a taping of the show?"

For a moment, rationality prevailed. "Okay, Brad," I a.s.sured myself, "there's no way this is true. Technically, since we're not covered by the Writers Guild of America there is no way that E! would allow a whole story to run about 'writers' on their network. Plus, it's Time Time magazine. Why would they want to run a story about the writers on a stupid basic cable show? They haven't even run a story about Chelsea. h.e.l.l, the writers couldn't even get a story in magazine. Why would they want to run a story about the writers on a stupid basic cable show? They haven't even run a story about Chelsea. h.e.l.l, the writers couldn't even get a story in Highlights Highlights magazine. Why would magazine. Why would Time Time run one?" run one?"

I took a few deep breaths, allowed the pool boy to rotate my umbrella, and tried to relax. I couldn't.

I turned to Shannon. "If this is a joke, why would John Rizzotti have cc'd all of the big executives at E!? He can't be bothering all of them with pranks like this. Plus, I made it very clear before I left that I wasn't checking my work e-mail, so if this is a prank, they wouldn't have sent it to my work e-mail. This has to be real!"

I immediately pounded out an e-mail to Chelsea and Tom.

CHELSEA & TOM:WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH THE TIME PHOTO SHOOT? THERE'S NO WAY THEY CAN SHOOT IT ANOTHER DAY?

Tom replied.

NOPE. SORRY. YOU'LL JUST BE LEFT OUT. WE'LL TRY AND MAKE SURE THEY AT LEAST MENTION YOUR NAME IN THE ARTICLE.

"Try and make sure"? What the h.e.l.l? How dare they? I had worked my a.s.s off for Chelsea and all I could get out of them was a "we'll try"?

All of my instincts told me that this was a lie, a total hoax. But my instincts had also once told me that Sugar Ray was a great band with staying power. So, clearly my instincts weren't always spot on.

I was obsessed. I couldn't believe this was happening. Suddenly I became the worst person in the world to be with.

"I want to go home. This honeymoon sucks. I knew it was too long. I told you," I said to Shannon as my pool umbrella was being rotated yet again.

Now Shannon was p.i.s.sed, and for two very valid reasons. One, the anxiety it was causing me was ruining her honeymoon-the operative word being her her. Two, we were in paradise and I was now being a complete a.s.shole.

I had to get to the bottom of it, but if it were a hoax, I knew Chelsea and Tom wouldn't crack that quickly. I had to go to another source. I went to the weakest, most guilt-ridden person I knew: Johnny Kansas. If I tugged on his heartstrings hard enough and played up how emotionally distraught I was, he'd break down and tell me it was all a lie.

JOHNNY, YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON I CAN TRUST. THIS IS RUINING MY ENTIRE HONEYMOON. IS THIS TIME TIME MAGAZINE SHOOT REAL? MAGAZINE SHOOT REAL?

Little did I know, Chelsea was one step ahead of me. She had already descended upon Johnny, knowing full well that I would try to exploit his weakness in my quest for the truth. Like a terrorist holding an AK-47 to the blindfolded head of her hostage, Chelsea had forced Johnny to go along with it.

He responded: Yes.

Recognizing that he could be monitored, I waited a few minutes and wrote again.

JOHNNY, THIS IS RUINING EVERYTHING. IT'S THE LAST DAY OF MY HONEYMOON AND SHANNON IS p.i.s.sED. PLEASE TELL ME THE TRUTH. I KNOW I CAN TRUST YOU. DON'T BETRAY THAT.

Johnny's an easy one to break. All you have to do is question his trust and loyalty, and he instantly squawks. But this time there was no immediate response, only radio silence. My heart sank, my head swelled, and my twitches ignited. I waited five minutes and checked again. Nothing. Beads of sweat, entirely unrelated to the heat, began to form. I was not sure what was happening to me physically, but I could only imagine that this was the beginning of a severe anxiety attack. And on a tranquil pool deck in Greece was not where I wanted to lose my s.h.i.+t. I had to do something.

"That's it, we're heading home early," I announced. Shannon freaked, but I told her that she and I had, in theory, a lifetime together but "This may be my only shot for Time Time magazine." As she continued to yell at me, I snapped, "Fine, you can stay here and I'll head home early." This marriage was clearly getting off on the right foot. magazine." As she continued to yell at me, I snapped, "Fine, you can stay here and I'll head home early." This marriage was clearly getting off on the right foot.

I hustled my a.s.s up to the hotel's business center, plopped down at a desk, and used the phone to call the airline. We had originally booked first cla.s.s, but the only available seats were in economy, and the fee to downgrade was almost a thousand dollars-not to mention our having to forfeit the final night at the hotel, for which we'd already paid. "f.u.c.k it," I said. "Advertisers pay millions to be in Time Time magazine. I can afford to pay eighteen hundred dollars to be in magazine. I can afford to pay eighteen hundred dollars to be in Time. Time."

The tickets home were changed-Shannon was coming back early with me whether she liked it or not. And she was definitely not going to like it... especially since we were now both in economy-and I put her in the middle seat. h.e.l.l, I was hating the thought of travelling sixteen hours in coach, too, but I was focusing on the greater good: a Time Time magazine photo spread. magazine photo spread.

Having made the change, I felt better but understood that this was not the ideal way to end a honeymoon. From champagne to s.h.i.+t. I was still not sure how to tell Shannon that we needed to go pack up immediately. So I didn't. When I returned to the pool, I p.u.s.s.yfooted around the issue, telling her that I'd "looked into changing the tickets, but didn't actually make the change." Even "looking into" got me in trouble.

She was p.i.s.sed off and started crying. She couldn't believe that I would even consider going back early. I began to realize I would be in deep s.h.i.+t when it came time to tell her that I hadn't just "considered" it; we were were going home early. At that moment, I fully accepted that I might have to resort to drugging her and dragging her a.s.s to the airport. going home early. At that moment, I fully accepted that I might have to resort to drugging her and dragging her a.s.s to the airport.

"They're just f.u.c.king with you and you're stupid enough to fall for it!" she yelled before storming off.

I yelled after her, "But what if they're not?! I have to be in Time Time magazine, Shannon!" I decided to hang back a bit and let her cool off. At least I hoped she was going to cool off. magazine, Shannon!" I decided to hang back a bit and let her cool off. At least I hoped she was going to cool off.

Needless to say, the pool boys hadn't been by to rotate my umbrella recently-they wanted no part of our marital problems. I got up and glared at the nearest pool boy as I struggled to rotate the umbrella myself. Then I slinked back down into the deck chair and checked my e-mail again. There was a message from Johnny.

Too timid to defy Chelsea outright, he responded to my last pleading e-mail as best he could without actually revealing anything. But like death row inmates sending coded messages, I understood the subtext of his e-mail.

BRAD, THERE IS NO REASON TO LET THIS RUIN YOUR HONEYMOON.

Oh s.h.i.+t. Just then I realized that the whole thing had been a lie-an awful, tumultuous Chelsea Handler lie that had sought to drive me crazy and disrupt my blissful, once-in-a-lifetime (I think) honeymoon. I was now out $1,800, my wife was p.i.s.sed at me, and worst of all, there would be no Time Time magazine shoot. magazine shoot.

How would I reveal this to Shannon? She'd been right and I'd been wrong. Not only would I pay the immediate consequences, but for the rest of our marriage I knew that she would lord this over me, never missing the chance to remind me who was right and who was dead wrong.

It was going to be bad enough when I told her that it was all a lie. I couldn't top it off with "Oh, and we are actually going home a day early... and we're in economy... and it cost us eighteen hundred dollars." It would have been too traumatic for her. And she would have wasted no time insisting that, as punishment, I buy her an eighteen-hundred-dollar Chloe purse. Somehow my losing money means I always have to spend the equivalent on her. I've never been certain of her logic there.

I returned to the business center to change our flights back to the original itinerary. Good news: we could switch back for a very slight fee. Bad news: there was only one seat left in first cla.s.s. Relieved just to be back on the initial flight, I accepted and decided to worry later about explaining to Shannon why she was flying economy and I was still in first.

With the matter resolved and our love restored, Shannon and I wrapped up the honeymoon as intended.

Checking in at the airport on the day of our departure, we received our boarding pa.s.ses and Shannon wondered why we weren't sitting together. Still attempting to cover my tracks, I stupidly decided to sternly ask the ticket agent, "Sir, why are we both both not sitting in first cla.s.s as our itinerary states? There has to be an error." not sitting in first cla.s.s as our itinerary states? There has to be an error."

Not appreciating my tone, the all-business ticket agent wasted no time in looking at the monitor and explaining ever so bluntly, "Because our records show that you changed your flight, and when you changed it back there was only one first-cla.s.s seat remaining." He looked at Shannon and said, "Your husband bought you a ticket in coach, Mrs. Wollack. Enjoy your long flight and enjoy your marriage to him."

Shannon glared at me. The jig was up. I offered a sheepish grin, and she simply said, "You're an idiot." Then she took my first-cla.s.s ticket and handed me hers. That's why I married her: she knows me so well.

As Shannon settled into her plush first-cla.s.s seat with a mimosa, I lumbered back to the forty-eighth row of the plane, climbed over two smelly Greeks, and a.s.sumed my seat in the dead center seat of the middle row. Even worse? The smelly Greek to my left was reading-wait for it-Time magazine. Clearly that was someone's way of saying, "In your face, a.s.shole." magazine. Clearly that was someone's way of saying, "In your face, a.s.shole."

While I forgave Chelsea soon after, Shannon did not forgive as easily. My first day back at the office, I received the following e-mail from her.

TELL THEM THAT WE WANT THE $1,000 BACK FROM THE NIGHT/DAY THEY RUINED AT ONE OF THE BEST HOTELS IN THE WORLD. I COULD BUY A NEW PURSE WITH THAT MONEY.

Considering that Chelsea had helped fund half the trip with her wedding gift, I wasn't going to ask her to pay us back, but I did appreciate that Shannon, my wonderful new bride, clearly had her purse-buying priorities straight.

Chelsea Handler has caused me extreme turmoil, angst, fear, and thousands of dollars in psychiatry bills that aren't covered by my insurance. However, in the end, I've realized what this all means: if Chelsea takes the time and energy out of her insanely hectic life and goes to extraordinary lengths to screw yours up royally, leaving you utterly humiliated and degraded, then you'll know you're good to go. She clearly loves you.

My dad, Chelsea, and me in Tahoe. You can see Chelsea's enthusiasm in hanging out with my family. My dad, Chelsea, and me in Tahoe. You can see Chelsea's enthusiasm in hanging out with my family.

Chelsea, for everything you've done, thank you and... f.u.c.k off.

I want to go on record that Shannon is a very close friend of mine, and I would never have allowed Brad to return from their honeymoon early. I would have come clean had I known that Brad was egomaniacal enough to shortchange his bride on her honeymoon for a picture in a magazine. He is a sad, sad clown. My apologies to Shannon exclusively. I want to go on record that Shannon is a very close friend of mine, and I would never have allowed Brad to return from their honeymoon early. I would have come clean had I known that Brad was egomaniacal enough to shortchange his bride on her honeymoon for a picture in a magazine. He is a sad, sad clown. My apologies to Shannon exclusively.-Chelsea

Shannon and Chelsea in Turks and Caicos without me. Chelsea says she prefers not to see my body on her vacations. Shannon and Chelsea in Turks and Caicos without me. Chelsea says she prefers not to see my body on her vacations.

Chapter Six.

Dial Tone, a Chelsea Specialty AMBER MAZZOLA.

Chelsea and me in London on her very first book tour. Chelsea and me in London on her very first book tour.

Chelsea Handler is a dirty f.u.c.king liar. But what most people don't know is she respects honesty and loyalty more than anything. That is, if it's on her terms. But she's okay with lying if it's for a joke because for her, laughter trumps all.

My friends.h.i.+p with Chelsea started ten years ago, when she was one of the stars of the hidden camera show Girls Behaving Badly. Girls Behaving Badly. She would offer happy endings at car washes, sit in shopping carts yelling at pa.s.sersby, drink vodka and sodas at bars while wearing a pregnancy suit, and test out makeup artists for her "newborn," to name a few stunts. I was the girl who jumped out of a cardboard box, camera in hand, in the middle of Ventura Boulevard, screaming, "You've just been pranked by She would offer happy endings at car washes, sit in shopping carts yelling at pa.s.sersby, drink vodka and sodas at bars while wearing a pregnancy suit, and test out makeup artists for her "newborn," to name a few stunts. I was the girl who jumped out of a cardboard box, camera in hand, in the middle of Ventura Boulevard, screaming, "You've just been pranked by Girls Behaving Badly Girls Behaving Badly!" We were quite a pair.

Back then, Chelsea was paid to lie. Now she does it as a hobby.

"Sarah" is the pseudonym Chelsea gave me in her three books. The anonymity was a nice touch, until she decided to blow my cover on Jay Leno when she referred to her friend Amber who took off her s.h.i.+rt in the London restaurant Dining in the Dark. Immediately after, I got dozens of text messages from people I hadn't heard from in years, people I wasn't that interested in hearing from.

"That was you you? Did you really really take your top off at a restaurant?" take your top off at a restaurant?"

Everyone knows Chelsea is a liar, so I just chalked it up to that. "Oh, come on! Do you really think I would take my top off? Of course not!" Chelsea's reputation comes in handy.

Sometimes, very rarely, she lies for the right reasons, if that's at all possible.

When I was going through a horrible breakup that would make most women curl into a ball and never leave the house, Chelsea had a rough time.

"It's okay, Chelsea," I would say to console her, handing her a tissue. "Everything happens for a reason."

"I know. It just sucks," she would say in between crocodile tears.

"I know. I know it does."

This was my my breakup, but for some reason, Chelsea was taking it way worse than I was. One night, while we were at her aunt and uncle's house in Bel Air drinking vodka and eating more than a pound of Costco-size brie, the usual Sunday staple at the Burkes', a hot guy came over to pick up Chelsea. Chelsea got a little weird and tried to hurry the guy out of there, saying he was her accountant and she had to go do her taxes. breakup, but for some reason, Chelsea was taking it way worse than I was. One night, while we were at her aunt and uncle's house in Bel Air drinking vodka and eating more than a pound of Costco-size brie, the usual Sunday staple at the Burkes', a hot guy came over to pick up Chelsea. Chelsea got a little weird and tried to hurry the guy out of there, saying he was her accountant and she had to go do her taxes.

I didn't question the tax session with a hot guy on a Sunday evening in July. Why would I have? Who would lie about doing taxes? As soon as Chelsea left, her aunt informed me that the guy was a date, someone Chelsea had met on Mys.p.a.ce (yes, Mys.p.a.ce) and didn't want to tell me about because she thought it would hurt my feelings, what with my breakup. Truth is, Chelsea needed this rebound to get over my ex more than I did. I had been encouraging her to start dating again for weeks.

At 2:00 AM AM, Chelsea came over to my dad's house (I had moved in with him after the breakup) and crawled into bed with me, to make sure I didn't spend the night alone or wake up alone. She was very persistent about this, and for months she had slept in my childhood room, in my canopy bed draped in Paper White linens, with my glow in the dark solar system overhead and the Laura Ashley flower-print border wrapped around the room.

One morning, I woke up to sunlight pouring in through my bedroom window, heating up the room like a sauna. Chelsea was lying above the sheets buck naked except for her underwear. Her tank top, which had started the evening on her body, was tied around her eyes like a bandana to s.h.i.+eld her from the light.

"Um...?" I couldn't help but laugh. She looked ridiculous.

"f.u.c.k off. It's ninety degrees in here! How can you sleep like this?" Chelsea asked.

"I dunno. I'm used to it."

"Well, you're going to have to start sleeping at my place."

My seventy-five-year-old father is always freezing. In ninety-degree weather, he sports a long-sleeve s.h.i.+rt and pants. There's no way he'd let me sleep with the air on. I tried it once. The minute he heard it, he shut it off immediately.

That night, I started sleeping at Chelsea's apartment, which was a whole different experience. Air-conditioning on full blast, curtains as dark as a hotel room in Vegas, and eye shades. Regardless, the company was nice, and Chelsea was right-it would have sucked to go to bed and wake up alone. While promoting her first book, My Horizontal Life, My Horizontal Life, she flew from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to San Francisco and then back to Los Angeles all in one day just to make sure I wasn't alone. she flew from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to San Francisco and then back to Los Angeles all in one day just to make sure I wasn't alone.

I think what got me through the breakup was the fact that I had to be strong-for Chelsea. This brief period may have been the only time in our friends.h.i.+p when Chelsea didn't f.u.c.k with me. But the moment she heard me talking about other boys and dating again, she was back at it.

Let me explain something before you think I'm just another one of those gullible idiots duped by Chelsea. As an only child, I didn't grow up playing practical jokes on siblings. My biggest lies involved why I was late for curfew. I am an amateur; Chelsea is a professional. And what makes her so good is not only her commitment to the lie, but a deadly combination of speed and creativity. When you're grilling her for the truth, she has already thought of the next answer before you even have the question. Plenty of times I've smelled such an answer coming from a mile away and called her out for being full of s.h.i.+t, but there has been a time or two when I've fallen prey to one of her lies.