Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea Read online

  “Good luck with everything,” I yelled as she walked away without saying “thank you.”

  I retrieved my eye shades from my purse, reclined my seat, and fell into a light slumber until I heard the car door open and saw my father grabbing one of my books out of the Barnes & Noble box. “Make it out to Quan,” he barked, and handed me a Sharpie.

  He took the book and walked back over to the Asian man and his son. They looked over with big smiles and waved. Then the man took some money out of his pocket, handed it to my dad, and got into the Mustang while his son got into the Honda and drove away.

  “How much did he pay for the car?” I asked as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You must be a good-luck charm, love,” he said, patting my leg and then taking out a wad of cash. “Nice guy for an Oriental—had to negotiate a little bit, but he ended up buying the car after all. And he bought a book!”

  “How much did he pay for the car?” I asked as I moved my leg away from his hand.

  “Asking price was $2,235. I gave it to him for $2,225. But I made $5 on the book. Charged him twenty bucks for that. I paid fifteen bucks for it at Barnes and Noble,” he said, as if I didn’t know how much my own book cost.

  “Let’s take the girls out to dinner and celebrate,” he said. “Call your mother and tell her to meet us for dinner.”

  “She said she was taking a nap,” I replied.

  “She’ll be up by now, and call that Mormon sister of yours. She won’t turn down a meal. And don’t miss the goddamned light!” he yelled as we approached an intersection with a yellow light.

  “Goddammit, Chelsea!” he screamed when I did the unthinkable and decelerated instead of stepping on the gas and gunning it through a major intersection in a minivan at ninety miles an hour. “This light is a disaster. We could be here for hours.” Then he opened his passenger-side door, got out of the car, turned his back to me, and peed in the middle of the street.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Big Red

  After sleeping around for the better part of my twenties, it somehow occurred to me that I wasn’t giving everyone a fair shot. There were men I’d encounter who I wouldn’t think twice about having sex with based on their appearance alone. I knew that if I ever had a chance at becoming a respectable ambassador for countries such as Uganda, Kazakhstan, or the Tropic of Cancer, I would really have to be more of an egalitarian. I had slept with a handful of black boys in my late teens, and knew that I would have to open my borders even further in order to be taken seriously by any third-world government. It was time for a redhead.

  Along with the 97 percent of women who can see, I have never been a fan of redheaded men. First of all, I am unclear as to why they are called redheads when, for the most part, their hair is bright orange. Obviously, bright orange–head doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way, but in all honesty, it should either be “orange-head” or “Hawaiian Punch–head.”

  For a woman, being a redhead is a completely acceptable trait. Oftentimes it can be extremely attractive. Conversely, being a redheaded man is pretty much a lose-lose situation. It’s incredibly hard to take redheaded men seriously, never mind think of them in any sort of sexual capacity. Obviously, it’s not their fault that they were born with red hair. However, it is their responsibility to change that hair color once they have access to a convenience store or supermarket. It’s one thing to have a harelip, or even a leg that’s a couple of inches shorter than the other, but if you’re a man with red hair and don’t opt to do everything in your power to alter that, then obviously you’re not serious about experiencing all life has to offer.

  My theory on the redheaded race is that they have no positive role models paving the way for them. It’s not like Ronald McDonald or Carrot Top have really helped their cause. Who are they supposed to model themselves after? Danny Bonaduce?

  I did not set out to find a redhead; I was fortunate enough to have one come my way. My manager, Dave, had called to tell me a screenwriter he knew was coming to see me do stand-up. He was interested in basing a character on me in his new film. My manager didn’t mention that this guy had red hair, which I think would be a fairly reasonable thing to mention, especially if his hair took up more square footage than a Mini Cooper.

  His name was Austin, and he introduced himself to me after I performed at a bar on Sunset that has since changed names four times over. Austin was about six-two with a completely beautiful body. He was really muscular—and not in a ripped, infomercial kind of way. He was built, but softer. I liked his body instantly. His head was a completely different story. “How,” I wanted to ask, “could you think that a bright orange Afro was acceptable?” It looked like he had gone bobbing for apples in a barrel filled with Fanta orange soda.

  Despite his appearance, he was seemingly coherent as we made introductions and then took a seat at the bar. I kept waiting for him to stutter or have a bout of Tourette’s—something to back up his decision to leave the house in what could have very well been a clown’s wig. But there were no such symptoms. He was perfectly normal, bright, and chivalrous. He pulled out a bar stool for me, asked me what I wanted to drink, and ordered.

  He was cute in a way. And the more I talked to him, the more I found him attractive for having enough confidence to walk around with a lid like that.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I have some very serious shortcomings of my own. I know that I have a tendency to drink heavily at night. I know that my body, specifically my midsection, has trouble staying where I put it, and I also know that I am pretty much useless when it comes to TiVo or anything involving road maps. I’ve learned that on both of those fronts, it’s just better not to get involved. But most important, I know that I don’t want anyone to ever look at me and think, What the fuck happened to her hair?

  Austin and I proceeded to knock back a couple of Ketel One and grapefruit juices, which happened to be my drink of the moment. Someone told me that grapefruit was a great detoxifier and I decided I wanted to start cleaning out my liver while I was having a cocktail. I liked that Austin didn’t just order a beer of some sort, or, God forbid, wine. There’s nothing more annoying than a man ordering wine at a bar when you’re not eating.

  Doesn’t everybody know that wine is supposed to go with food? I’ve never in my life finished a long day of work and thought, Gee whiz, I can’t wait to get my hands on a bottle of lukewarm Cabernet. I have a bunch of girlfriends who love wine and I’ve never really been able to relate. I mean, yeah, maybe if you’re stranded on an island and the only other option is coconut milk. Or if it’s a really nice bottle of wine and you’re having a really nice meal. Other than that, I don’t see the point. I’d rather have water. And by the way, I’m not a huge fan of water, either.

  After our third drink I learned that Big Red knew people from my high school. That was certainly a red flag, considering I didn’t remember having any actual friends in high school. I had a couple of girlfriends, but no one who I thought would have anything positive to say about me. I didn’t really spend much time with anyone my own age during high school because I believed my true calling would be representing New Jersey in the U.S. Senate, and if that didn’t work out, I could always fall back on becoming an Olympic pole vaulter.

  I thought I was completely too cool for my classmates, and couldn’t comprehend how they could hang out at malls on the weekend. I much preferred spending romantic weekends in Hoboken with my twenty-one-year-old accountant boyfriend who would wine and dine me at T.G.I. Fridays. I had no involvement with any extracurricular activities at school, mostly because the one time I tried out for cheerleading I was summoned to the nurse’s office the next morning to be tested for scoliosis.

  Sometime after our fourth Ketel One and grapefruit, he mentioned that he was going after Shannen Doherty to play the lead in his movie and was finding her extremely difficult to deal with. “Yeah, no kidding,” I told him. “Everyone knows that.”

  By the way he reacted, you would have th