My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands Read online

  We landed in San Francisco and were driven to the W Hotel, where everyone working on the show was staying. We usually traveled with four or five producers, the director, and a couple of location scouts.

  The three days went by pretty uneventfully due to fourteen-hour workdays.

  On the last day we finished shooting early, at around five in the afternoon, so we met up with everybody at the hotel bar in the W. Everyone wanted to go out to dinner for our last night, but I was exhausted and told Shoniqua we should skip it.

  Until this job, I had never experienced fourteen-hour workdays and my body was starting to shut down. Not only did I have a terrible work ethic mentally, it seemed my body was on the same page. I told everyone I was going to pass on dinner, when our producer Jeff informed me that one of his friends who lived in San Francisco was coming by to pick us up.

  "He's good-looking, Chelsea," he said. "He's an attorney for the government, he's got a house and a boat, I think you'd like him. We'll all go to dinner."

  I love how people list material items to get you interested in a person. I was just about to ask if Jeff's friend also had a bicycle but didn't have the energy.

  "I'm too tired," I told Jeff. "I have no personality."

  "Well, bitch, that's what I'm here for," Shoniqua jumped in. "Chelsea, I think we should go. I'm tired too, but this could be worth it." That's the kind of friend Shoniqua is.

  I shook my head, unconvinced.

  "Listen, I got a husband, so it's up to you, but I would hate to see you miss an opportunity to get some booty. Especially from someone who sounds like marriage material."

  The idea that our Neanderthal producer Jeff could actually have a friend who would be considered marriage material was about as likely as Paris Hilton winning a spelling bee. The conversations Jeff usually had involved two main topics: sex with animals and family pornography. Tonight, he had somehow steered the conversation to the new phenomenon of asshole bleaching when I excused myself to the ladies' room. I had eaten way too much during the last couple of days and had neglected to do any sort of exercise. I needed to see firsthand what kind of damage I had done to my midsection. I went into the bathroom, stood in front of a full-length mirror, and lifted up my shirt.

  Good God. I looked like I was carrying a small baby. Not full term, just three or four months. Then I turned to the side for a second look. Clearly, I was well into my second trimester. I started going over baby names in my head. I liked the name Lucifer, but only for a girl. My stomach was in the beginning stages of overlapping my jeans--a few more days of this and I could apply for my plumber's license. I have a body like a Latin American; when I gain weight it distributes itself evenly, but only from the waist up. I turned back to face the mirror head-on. I looked like two sticks with a baked potato on top. "Ugh," I said aloud.

  A woman exited one of the stalls and I asked her if she had ever seen anything like this.

  "Are you getting your period?" she asked.

  "I hope so," I said.

  "Well, it's probably just water weight," she told me.

  I knew it wasn't water weight because not only do I make it a personal rule never to drink water straight, I could actually see the outline of the cheeseburger I had eaten earlier that day. I made a mental note to get my hands on a Soloflex immediately upon my return to Los Angeles.

  I went back to the bar and told Shoniqua that I was fat and therefore not in the mood to meet my prospective husband. "Another time," I said

  That's when Carter walked in. I took one look at him and announced, "We're coming."

  The first thing I liked about Carter was that he was wearing a suit. I love a man in a suit. Especially without the jacket. It reminds me of after-work cocktails at expensive restaurants. Living in Los Angeles for eight years and seeing men walk around in sweat suits and open-toed sandals in the middle of the afternoon will really make you respect a man with a job.

  Carter was adorable, about six feet tall and absolutely charming. He kissed us all hello and escorted the six of us out to his Yukon. I also like men with big cars. As we gathered in the backseat, Shoniqua pushed her index finger hard into my leg and said, "See, I fucking told you. It's a good thing you have me, cuz none of your white friends would go to bat for you like this."

  We went to dinner at some Americanized Mexican restaurant and I tried to maneuver myself to sit directly across from him but somehow managed to sit in between two people I didn't even know were coming to dinner. But Shoniqua sat next to him, so I knew I was covered.

  My dinner experience consisted of molesting a pair of enchiladas while listening to one of the local production assistants we hired tell me about finding her birth parents. I am always fascinated by adoption stories, but for different reasons than most. I am convinced my sister Sloane was adopted, and I have gone to great lengths to try and prove it. So far, I've been unsuccessful. The closest I came was when I hired an online attorney, who charged twenty-five dollars per e-mail and assured me there was a strong chance my blue-eyed, fair-skinned sister was of Creole descent.

  After dinner we went back to the hotel bar for more drinks. Two of the people in our group excused themselves for the night, so our group had dwindled to five. Carter and I sat next to each other in overstuffed club chairs while the others were on the couch facing us. I was just finishing up my conversation with the production assistant when suddenly I heard the words "conspiracy theory."

  There are two topics I enjoy even more than adoption: conspiracy theories and Jennifer Lopez. I turned my head so fast that my contact fell out.

  Carter was discussing Kennedy's assassination. I bided my time and at the exact perfect moment interceded with, "Kennedy, Schmennedy, let's talk about Biggie Smalls and Tupac. That's where some real shit went down."

  There were a couple of seconds of awkward silence before Shoniqua broke it for me. "Now you know you got that fucking right, Chelsea. Let's talk about it!"

  Thanks to my segue, our group enjoyed a roundtable discussion, where everyone put their two cents in with regard to all three assassinations. This wasn't the first time I'd been able to bring people together and it was definitely something to think about. Maybe one day I would lead a committee for people who were unemployed but weren't looking to get back in the workforce.

  Shoniqua said she was tired and going to bed. I gave her a look that said, "Don't go." She leaned down to kiss me good night and whispered, "It's on, he's into you. I fucking told his ass."

  As soon as she left, Carter and I zoomed in on each other. While we were talking to the other guys with us, he kept putting his hand on my leg. I returned his affection with hard slaps to his back whenever anyone said anything funny.

  I asked him about his job and he told me he prosecuted terrorists.

  "Really?" I asked. "Do you work closely with President Bush?"

  "I've met with him before, but mostly I work with his advisers."

  "Does everyone just kind of sit around and make fun of him when he leaves the room, or is that kind of thing done on the quiet tip?"

  He smiled and said, "No, I've never seen anyone make fun of him, but there are definite moments where looks are exchanged."

  "Wait a second. Are you a Republican?"

  "I'm registered as a Republican, but I don't always vote that way."

  "Interesting," I said, "very interesting."

  I immediately had fantasies of marrying Carter and spending my free time with Colin Powell and Donald Rumsfeld at the Pentagon bar, where I would grill them about how they could be so opposed to stem-cell research yet not put a ban on the handlebar mustache.

  I would convince them that gay couples deserved every benefit that the three of us were fortunate enough to have.

  I would also talk to them about my 401 (k) that I never started and see if they could somehow cut me a deal. There are so many issues I would lobby for in Washington, and I would make sure that everyone in my community was heard. I'd be like the new Jackie O, except wilder and