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Image via celebrity781.blogspot

It’s no secret that I had a short-lived love-affair with Chelsea Handler. Shhhh. Please keep it under wraps. If you told her that I considered it “love,” she’d be pulling up to my house in a white limo, with a short skirt and a bi-curious bumper sticker for me. There’s something about her; I just really like her looks her books, and her humor.

If you’re new to this blog, I wrote a post last month about wanting to read one of Handler’s books so bad, I was about to wet myself. You can read that post here.

The wait for the book “Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea,” was incredibly agonizing, and I really did need a change of pants. Straight up dirty style. Fortunately, my loving husband noticed me in my sopping wet-pants mess, and he ran out and bought me the darn book for Valentine’s day. (This beats all other Valentine’s days, especially the baby-daddy-proposal-drama one. Read it here.) You see that, Quintin? I peed on myself in anticipation of a library book, and it was STILL a better Valentine’s day than when you proposed to me. Boo-ya.

While I was waiting for the library book “Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea,” I checked out “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang,” and bought myself “My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands.”

Essentially, I read her books backwards, in the opposite order that they were written (and intended to be read).

I liked “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang” the best. Could it be that it was like a blind date with Chelsea herself?
Knots clotted my throat as I stood on the front porch stoop, knocking on the door. Flowers in hand, Binaca sprayed, she opened the front door. I fell in love. She must have starved herself for a week. She was skinny, and H-O-T!

Jamal, her "nail technician".

She took phone calls and texts all through dinner, and said she had to duck out early to meet with Jamal, who she swore up and down was her nail technician, nothing more. At first, I ignored her promiscuity. I thought it was a phase she’d quickly grow out of, much like a baby disliking peas. Everyone starts to like peas at some point, right?

By the second date, “My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands,” I was growing a little wary of Chelsea and her straight up whorish ways. I wanted to be the only one for her; her true love. She made it clear that there were others. Many others. She picked some doozies of men over me. Unfair. I was still interested, but was leaning toward wanting to be chased, rather than chasing. Chelsea doesn’t chase. Period.

Image via VanityFair

She had a thing for midgets...

Our third date, “Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea.” was the last straw. I had to drink my way through the book date. “Bartender, Vodka, double, extra lemon.”
Instead of me picking her up at her house, she stood on the street corner, strung out on who knows what. Fortunately our timing was in sync, or she very well might have disappeared into someone else’s life/car/bed for the evening. I slowed the car, and rolled down the passenger window.

“Chelsea? Is that you?” I asked, confused. Her tank top was inside-out, lipstick was smeared, both bra straps slung down on her shoulders. Her head hung low, and she was leaning to one side like a cholo.

As she glanced in my direction, I realized I was sick of her, and sped off quickly, throwing her book out the window at her. I can’t believe I brought her book with me on the third date. I should have done it on the second; but had finally gotten the balls to ask for her autograph, and a love note addressed to me. The book didn’t hit her in the head, like I’d wished. Instead, it made a “thwap” sound, and skidded in the road. Not quite the “Caitlin Caitlin Bang Bang” I wanted to end with.

– – –

That was three weeks ago, and I still long for Chelsea. I long for her liberating humor, the way she pokes fun of her family members, the lies she tells everyone, and the stories she makes up. I think about texting her messages like, “I miss you crazy mad xoxo <3” and “Chelsea, take me back!!! PLZ!!!”

I wish I could be just like her, except… a married, committed, STD-free kinda girl.

Adios, Chelsea. It was good while it lasted.

Image vis Stupidcelebrities.net