Today marks a special day.  This is my 100th post here at What The Expletive, and in honor of it, and myself, I am dedicating this post to my comedic idol, my gurrrrl Chelsea Handler.  It is perfect because yesterday, her 4th book, Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me, hit the shelves.  There was one thing on my priority list yesterday, and it was to get myself a copy.  It was lunch time when I finally had a chance to escape the house. My kids were starving and being selfish as usual, but I had to put my foot down.  I said, Sorry kiddos, mommy’s got bigger and better things to do than make you a grilled cheese sandwich.  So I called in my nanny, who happens to look like a German Shepard and answers to the name “Hannah”, showed her the proper way to handle the stovetop, turned on The View to keep the kids entertained, and booked it to the nearest Barnes and Noble.

I was excited it was a Tuesday because that meant ballet lessons, which meant I would have an hour and a half of uninterrupted reading time while I waited for my 6-year-old to practice her plies and rondeshondveaz or whatever they’re called. None of the other mothers who sit in the waiting area are talkers, which is perfect, because neither am I.  I avoid social interactions with people whom I have nothing in common with at all costs, mostly because I don’t like having to pretend like I care about what they are saying.  There is a reason we don’t hang out on the weekends and I’d like to keep it that way.  I sat down and opened up my crisp copy of Lies, and didn’t even make it past the inside jacket cover before I could feel the heave of impending laughter building in my gut.  I think I let out a little snort because one of the mother’s snapped her head in my direction, scanned the cover of my book, and then looked at me in disapproval.  Later on I returned the favor by reading the first page of the chapter entitled Pap Smears and Punctuation Marks to her 10 year old daughter while she made a trip to the bathroom.

I was halfway through the second chapter at the point where Chelsea convinces her friend to give herself an “examination” after worrying her about the possible mis-use of her vibrator when I realized I was making quite a big scene. The book itself was hilarious enough alone, but sitting in a quiet room trying not to laugh made it funnier.  So I began laughing harder, and that led to hiccups, tears, knee slaps, foot stomps and finally resulted in me running off to the bathroom for a second time as I was holding my vagina so I wouldn’t pee my pants, which of course I ended up doing anyway.  When I came back, the woman sitting next to me had moved her chair to the opposite end of the room.

I settled back in my slightly damp chair and opened my book up to start the third chapter.  I hadn’t even made it past the first paragraph when somehow, my own life got more exciting than the pot brownie Heather McDonald was eating. What could it be, you ask?  What exciting thing could have happened in a ballet studio, which up to this point, had been more dull than playing chess with a hooker?  A fight happened, that’s what.  Not a physical one, but even better, a verbal one.

One of these mothers is around my age and has ear raped me a few times in the past until I finally had to tell her that both of my ear drums were ruptured and I probably wouldn’t be able to properly communicate with anyone until I and everyone else I knew learned how to sign.  She was trying to do alphabet flashcards with her 2-year-old, who wasn’t having it and looked like he just wanted to be left alone to chew on the leg of the chair I was sitting on.  Out of nowhere, her boyfriend or husband or drug dealer or whatever he is, flew through the door, sat in the seat directly between her and I, and began cussing her out.  Now, I always knew there was something not right with this guy.  He’s been sunburned for three years and has pupil’s the size of pinheads 80% of the time.  I was instantly shocked, not because of the words that were flying out of his mouth, but because he was wearing clean pants.  After that initial shock wore off, I realized the things he was saying were not meant for our ears.  I heard the words “lies,” “whore,” “not her real father” when I knew things were about to get ugly. However, all the girl said was “stop, you’re making a scene” and “please leave” a few times. The guy ranted for a couple more minutes, slung a few more cuss words her way, then grabbed their 2-year-old who was licking the wall and left.  For the next five minutes, not one person in the room said a thing.  Normally not unusual for us, but considering the situation, I thought I’d better say something.  ”Um…are you okay?” I asked.  The girl, who had her head hung and looked like she was about to cry, slowly lifted up her head, met her eyes with mine and said…

“Oh, so now you want to f**king talk to me?”

And so…back to Chelsea I went.

*Here’s to 100 more useless, ridiculous posts, whether you like it or not!  Thank you all for reading~ BL