Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me Part 9

I couldn't believe this. Were our clothes really going to make a difference with all the weight on the boat? Sounded like we needed to eliminate a person or two. But I didn't want to make a scene, so I quietly kneeled down and unzipped my first bag. Chelsea took my other suitcase and started to pull stuff out by the handful. My heart raced a little faster as I saw all my hard folding work go down the tubes.

"These have got to go!" she said as she picked up a pair of flip-flops.

"What? They weigh nothing!"

"Well, something's gotta go."

I was becoming increasingly agitated as I took more stuff out of my bag: shoes, makeup, bathing suits, every charger known to man. There was a heaping pile growing higher and higher next to my suitcase. "What the h.e.l.l do I do with all this?"

When I turned around to look at Chelsea, she was laughing uncontrollably. She was bright red and could barely breathe. "Throw it overboard" she said, holding her coslopus for dear life.

"I'm glad you think this is funny!"

I was so annoyed. I looked over at Ivory, who was also laughing. Was this all a big joke? "No way. Are you guys f.u.c.king serious?"

Laughter started to erupt around the boat. Everyone was laughing at me, including the captain.

"You guys suck!" I looked toward Hannah. "You too?"

She nodded her head, laughing with the rest of them.

I couldn't believe it. Were Zoughi and I the only ones told this lie? The entire boat knew? Even the captain? And the Persian with the hairier back than Zoughi's? That was just so embarra.s.sing.

How had I let it get so far? It wasn't like I couldn't take a joke. I could. But I felt stupid and I hated feeling stupid. I silently refolded my clothes, p.i.s.sed.

So there I sat for the entire boat trip with two oversize pieces of luggage by my side. Anytime someone walked by, they smirked. Needless to say, Chelsea's arm was no longer in a sling. She snapped a picture of me flanked by the two large suitcases. Instantly it was up on Twitter. I figured there was no getting out of that one.

Just then, I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh as well. This really was a ridiculous situation. Plus, it's hard for me to stay mad at Chelsea. I'm the idiot who'd believed her.

There was no time to be angry. The boat had anch.o.r.ed at a sandbar near Norman's Cay, and everyone was jumping off the boat and swimming in the crystal blue waters, having fun. I wanted in on that action. Good thing I had my suitcase and ample bathing suit options.

When we got back to the hotel, which was not submerged underwater, we all went to the casino. I was not going to risk leaving early this time and be the a.s.shole again.

Going to a casino with Chelsea is a unique experience. The vodka is flowing and so are the chips. Luckily, I was playing with Chelsea's chips and not my own. We planted ourselves at one blackjack table, right next to a loud-mouthed Israeli and his four equally annoying sons, who were betting five-hundred-dollar hands. The father was flirting with Chelsea hard core and had no idea who she was. But his four kids knew, and they were mortified by their dad. A situation like this really highlights one of the many differences between Chelsea and the rest of us. Most of us, when confronted with a drunk Israeli at a blackjack table, will either ignore him or ask to be left alone, but not Chelsea. Chelsea engages. An hour at that table and she knew everything there was to know about this guy, and he knew nothing truthful about her.

As the night wore on, she grew tired of her games with the Israeli and was ready to be done gambling. This meant going "all in," because to her, exchanging chips back to cash is a ha.s.sle. She looked up at the dealer, pushed all her chips toward him, and said, "Take this. I want to go to my room." He politely got blackjack and took them all away.

At 4:00 AM AM, we continued the party up in Chelsea's room. The other Persian whipped out a box of cigarettes, which looked appealing to everyone in our s.h.i.+tfaced condition. But no one had a lighter. Chelsea promptly called room service to solve the problem.

"Hi, this is Chel-say-ya," she enunciated slowly. For whatever reason, Chelsea has a tendency to disguise her voice when she calls room service. "Can you please bring up some matches?" she asked.

We were in a nonsmoking hotel, so the person on the other line was clearly suspicious.

"I don't want to smoke," Chelsea a.s.sured the person, with the phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. "I'd like to take a bath and light some candles."

The person on the other end wasn't falling for it.

"Okay, fine. I need to get some matches for my book club that's about to start," she said.

The whole room was laughing.

"Yes, we're about to start From Pieces to Weight, From Pieces to Weight, a 50 Cent thriller, and I need to get in the right mood." a 50 Cent thriller, and I need to get in the right mood."

I could hear the response on the other end of the phone: "I'm sorry, Miss Handler."

"Fine. I'll take chicken fingers."

Room service came shortly thereafter. There were no matches.

By almost 5:30 AM AM, the party had started to unwind and Chelsea had retreated to her bedroom after a chicken finger, so I thought it was safe to leave. After all, Chelsea was harmless when she was sleeping. Plus we had a car picking us up in a couple hours to take us to the airport.

The trip back was another long day of traveling. I kept thinking about the poor fools back at the hotel who would fall prey to Chelsea's voodoo. All in all, Zoughi and I made it through the trip relatively unscathed.

When we walked in the door to our apartment, there were about a dozen flower arrangements scattered throughout the living room. I had no idea what they were for.

I started to read the cards: "Congrats you guys!" "So happy for you." "You deserve it."

Most of them were from family members and close friends, so I figured they were for our engagement-until I came across a card that read, "Can't wait to be an auntie!"

"Auntie? Maybe these are for the wrong apartment."

The doorbell rang. Another delivery.

"Hi, this is for a Zoo-wa-"

"Zoughi," I interjected.

"Yeah, can you sign here?"

This one read, "Zoughi, hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything."

I didn't get it. Sympathy and congratulations?

I turned on my BlackBerry, and text messages started pouring in. Clearly I had to Sherlock Holmes this situation. There was a series of texts from Zoughi's brother, Farshad. I called him.

"Oh, my G.o.d," he said upon hearing my voice. "Are you okay? How are you feeling? How's my brother doing?"

"Good, we just got home."

"Cool. Have you told anyone in the family yet?"

"No, we literally just got in. Feel free to spread the word."

"Does my brother know?"

"Know what?"

"About the e-mail you sent earlier."

Farshad then forwarded me an e-mail that I had supposedly written to my soon-to-be brother-in-law. It read: I JUST TOOK A PREGNANCY TEST. I'M PREGNANT AND I'M NOT KIDDING. I'M ON MY WAY HOME.

Just then, it all made sense. Chelsea was continuing to f.u.c.k with me. From three thousand miles away. Impressive.

"Oh, my G.o.d, Zoughi, where is my iPad?"

"I don't know. You packed it."

I texted Chelsea. "Hey, did I leave my iPad there?"

No response for a few minutes. Then: "You're a hot mess."

And there was my answer. I had left my iPad in Chelsea's room in the Bahamas and she had randomly e-mailed a bunch of people from my address book. Since Chelsea is electronically challenged, I was surprised she'd figured out how to use the iPad to begin with.

She'd created a real s.h.i.+t storm in my conservative, Catholic family, who now thought the reason I was getting married was because I was pregnant. For weeks everyone was talking about my shotgun wedding and how I needed to buy a new wedding dress that would flatter a pregnant belly. This, of course, was hilarious to Chelsea.

It wasn't until everyone came back from the Bahamas that the sympathy cards for Zoughi started to make sense as well.

When I was at dinner with Ivory one night, she asked, "So how's Zoughi doing?"

"He's good. Back to work."

"Well, that's good. Does he need surgery?"

"For what?"

"His knee!"

Ivory could see by the look on my face that I had no idea what she was talking about. "Chelsea told us what happened," she said, giggling.

"Well, why don't you tell me me what happened, since apparently I have no idea what you're talking about." what happened, since apparently I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Chelsea said that when he fell, he busted his knee."

"He didn't fall!"

"She said that night you left early, you and Zoughi had taken peyote and you guys were rolling-"

"Peyote?"

"Yeah. I thought it was weird, but she said there had been a resurgence in Middle Easterners using peyote."

"Uh-huh." I couldn't wait to hear what line of bulls.h.i.+t was coming next.

"And that you guys had crazy s.e.x and Zoughi fell off the bed and broke his knee."

"From the peyote?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Ivory, peyote is for Native American Indians. Zoughi is f.u.c.king Persian. How do you think we would even get peyote in the Bahamas?"

"She said that Zoughi always travels with it. Like a ritual. Oh, my G.o.d, I can't believe I am so stupid. What is wrong with all of us? Chelsea begged me not to tell you that I knew about the peyote."

"And what else?" I asked her.

"And the reason you left early was because Zoughi had to be airlifted back to the mainland and then taken immediately to an American hospital because of his insurance or something. I guess he's with an HMO?"

I just sat there staring at Ivory.

"None of this is true, is it?" she asked.

"No! We came back early to make it in time for Tanya's New Year's Eve party!"

"So Zoughi's knee is fine?"

"Yes, his knee is fine. It's like we're dealing with a seven-year-old with Chelsea."

"A seven-year-old with really big t.i.ts and a lot of money," Ivory reminded me.

"This is true."

Unbelievable. Chelsea had used my e-mail to screw me and my fiance in our circle of friends and family. Now I had to put out a lot of fires: convince my family that I wasn't pregnant and that my marriage to Zoughi was not a shotgun wedding. And to top it off, I had to convince my friends that I didn't have a drug problem or kinky s.e.x issues and that Zoughi's knee was just fine. Zoughi, however, thought the knee thing was funny and started limping when we were out with friends. Of course, Chelsea turned the limp into a prosthetic leg in her book Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang. Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang.

I called Chelsea later to tell her I knew about everything. "Nice work," I said.

"You are so dumb," she said, before hanging up on me.

Actually I was smart enough to realize one thing. If Chelsea doesn't f.u.c.k with you, she doesn't care. And it's easy to see why I keep coming back for more. She's spontaneous and compa.s.sionate. She favors individuality. She roots for the underdog, and her loyalty never wavers, not even for the sake of a joke. She is truly a friend.

But I'll tell you this. If that b.i.t.c.h ever learns how to use Facebook, we are all f.u.c.ked!

I would like to go on the record and say that Amber is currently pregnant, so in essence, anything I was "lying" about was simply me telling the future. As with many psychics, my facts are right but my timing can be off. I would like to go on the record and say that Amber is currently pregnant, so in essence, anything I was "lying" about was simply me telling the future. As with many psychics, my facts are right but my timing can be off.As far as Zoughi's knee injury goes, there is still time for that.Love,Chelsea

Chelsea and me at my real wedding. Chelsea and me at my real wedding.

Chapter Seven.

Go Lakers JOSH WOLF.